A/N: I live! It's been awhile, yes? :D Moving on. This is a 9/11 story, since I felt the need to write takes us through a 9/11 memorial day with America. It's a one-shot, will probably make you tear up a little bit, and is short. And it has nothing really bad, so enjoy? Yup.
Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Emotional Scars
On a crisp autumn morning in September, the personification of America walked steadily along the New York Boardwalk. It was chiller than he was used to, so his hands were in his pockets. But the day showed promise; the sky was a glossy blue, with no cloud in the sky. Not a single breeze blew through Nantucket. Perfect weather, almost.
Just like that day…
America loved New York. The city was always bustling, always alive with its single hum that only large cities had. It was especially sweet to the blond. He had watched the city grow over the decades. It was one of his proudest achievements. The American population had expanded so vastly so quickly. It amazed him.
A vendor across the street was selling flowers, and not just cheap tulips found in every convenience store, but blooming, bursting bouquets blossoming with carnations, sunflowers, and roses. Double-checking the road for any signs of worse traffic (because in New York, there wasn't an absence of traffic, just more or less of it) he hightailed it across the asphalt. "Good morning," he told the florist.
"'Morning, Mr. Jones. And how are you this lovely day?" the florist was middle-aged sporting a salt-and-pepper moustache and thinning hair, but Alfred had known him for ages.
"Good, Carson. Flowers are looking nice." He smiled at them.
"Sure are, Mr. Jones, sure are. How about some?"
"Oh, Carson, ya' know I wouldn't use them for anything."
"I think you would." Carson smiled knowingly, crow's feet forming on the corners of his eyes.
Alfred sighed. Of he would use them. On this particular day…
He gave the man a ten. "You can keep the change, Carson."
"Oh what would I do without you, Mr. Jones?" Carson winked, choosing a blooming bouquet definitely worth more than ten dollars. "Good luck, Mr. Jones."
"You too!" Alfred smiled back at him, already walking away. Only one destination in mind.
Suddenly he stopped walking. People around him began to bump into him, but he couldn't do anything about it. The images swiftly flooded his mind.
"There are unofficial reports of over 2,000 dead, and 13,000 missing. It has been confirmed that this was indeed a terrorist attack. Officials advise that if you are in the Greater Manhattan area to stay inside at all costs, only taking action if local law enforcement says so…"
A surging pain overwhelmed his body, he couldn't find resolve, just the fact that somewhere, out there, New York was burning.
He shook his head, the memories fading. Dammit, were they already coming early? They normally don't start until later. He had to make it home before they came again, lest he put himself, and everyone around him, at risk.
He walked more briskly to his destination, a newfound notion setting his pace. The sidewalks grew more crowded with every second, though, and it seemed like he traveled a foot a minute. Twenty minutes later he reached it.
The monument was already flowing with people showing their respect, some laying flowers, some crying, some simply staring in awe at the deep memorial where two towers once stood. They were beautiful, the memorials. He always thought they were. He fought hard for the idea, practically begged for Congress to agree, and who couldn't? It was all a part of them now.
America sighed. He stared at the flowers in his hand.
His eyes shut tight for a moment.
"America! America! Are you alright? Listen to me. Everything's going to be okay, you're fine, alright? You're fine!" England's voice whispered in his ear, but it sounded so far away. It was all too much, the incredible pain, the internal panic from billions of people shifting inside of him. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes.
"Alfred! Alfred please! Say something! Talk to me!" But he was already gone, whisking away into a world between consciences, where the hurt momentarily dulled…
Alfred snapped his eyes opened. He needed to hurry, before it happened again.
He always purchased the bouquet in his hands every year for this particular reason. Slowly he went up to the first name he saw. John A. Okgnowskil, flight 11. He gently grabbed a rose and placed it lightly on the bold letters. Next one. Patrick Sullivan. A sunflower there.
He placed a flower on every name he could, thanking each individual for what they gave up. They were a part of him. They always would be.
When America ran out of peace offerings, he closed his eyes for moment, honoring all those he could not. He couldn't help but feel guilty, but for what?
His head pounded. They were coming, the memories. The flashbacks. He needed to get back to his apartment, now.
The walk back was agonizing. Every step felt like a blow to his temples. The sidewalk and the people were starting to grow blurry. He could already hear it, the screams, the smoke…
"Just one more block," he muttered to himself as he pushed through the crowd. "Please."
He made it, but barely.
Alfred fumbled for the keys and managed to get it in the lock, pushing open the door and slamming it behind him. Damn, they were coming, they were here…
Flashes of people crying, rubble falling, planes crashing. He fell to the floor, shut his eyes tightly, screaming at nothing.
"Stop! Just stop!" He wailed, hands over his ears in a fruitless attempt to mute the things in his head. People falling, children dying, fire engulfing the world in eternal flames that burned the back of his neck, where two small scars were.
He curled up into the fetal position and whirled into a living nightmare.
..~xThisIsAPageBreakx~..
He knew when America did not answer his phone exactly what was happening.
It always happened to countries, especially so recent. He probably should've just let America get through it on his own, like all other nations had to.
But England had raised the child. He could not stand idle while he knew his Alfred suffered. It didn't take so long to get to him either. Just a few hours, tops.
After hailing a taxi and telling him to step on it, he found himself at America's New York residence. He went into the apartment complex, took the stairs to the very top floor.
England heard the sound of glass shattering and knew who it was.
The door was unlocked, thank God, and he pushed it open.
Another staccato burst of breaking glass, coming from the kitchen. England closed the door behind him and cautiously approached the source of the noise.
America. There he was. Grabbing plates from his cabinet and throwing them against the wall. Tears flowed freely from his face and one of his hands was bleeding, but he took no notice.
"America…" England sighed, sorry that he had to see America at such a state.
America noticed the Brit's presence for the first time and suddenly threw a plate at him. England ducked as the saucer hit right where his head had been a moment before. "Just get out, England! Get out!" he shouted at him.
England shook his head. "Alfred—"
"No, go!"America cried. "I can't save you too! I can't save you! Go!"
England wasn't sure what he was talking about but he took a step forward. "Shh. It's okay, Alfred. Don't worry." He held his hands up, afraid that the American might throw another dish. Two more steps to reach him.
"No! I can't save you! I'm not a hero! No, Arthur!" Alfred screamed.
Arthur nodded, almost reduced to tears himself. He could hardly bear to see America like this, so detached. One more step…
"I don't need your protection, Alfred." He spoke softly. "It's okay." He reached up to touch Alfred's face.
Alfred stared into Arthur's eyes, and Arthur knew he wasn't there. He was somewhere else at the moment, living a different scene from his past, suffering through emotional scars. Arthur closed the space between them and pulled him into a hug.
They both wobbled onto their knees, and just like that, Alfred was crying, crying into England's shoulder, sobbing the same thing over and over. "I couldn't save them. I couldn't save them."
"Shh."England whispered, stroking his hair. "You're still a hero to me." And suddenly he was crying too, wishing more than anything to make the pain go away, like when Alfred was young and a little kiss on a scraped knee would make everything better.
"I'm sorry," Alfred wept.
England took a shaky breath. "Me too."
A/N: Short story is short. Please review, favorite, your know the drill. And please, if you are American, never forget the emotional scars of that day, and honor all those who fell with the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001.