Name: The Long Goodbye
Summary: The future's a hard topic to discuss but what if the future had no hope? World War III with Alliance vs. Allies. UsUkUs. Implied Franada, GerIta, and Spamano
Genre: T Romance/Angst
Author's Note: I apologize for the randomness of this considering I'm in the middle of posting "Proms, Pubs, and Roommates" and should be working on that… . But I was watching a video and got this sudden idea. So if you want to see the video it's "Don't Mess With America" by Darkgreenpriestess on Youtube. And if you like my writing style then feel free to read my other story "Proms, Pubs, and Roommates." –shameful plug-
If you're wondering why the whole timeline is screwed up, this doesn't take place today. It's like a hundred years from now. So the war in Iraq is "over" and there's a World War III going on with the idea it's Allies (New America, Russia, and China) against the Alliance (United Kingdom, France, Germany, Japan, South Korea, Israel, and Austro-Hungary with Spain playing their favoring neutral).
So the normal stuff…. I don't own Hetalia and I DO NOT support the idea of another WW because that is just dumb. Okay, I've said what I need to. Enjoy =]
"You came."
The voice sent familiar chills up the older nation's spine. He turned to face the voice, only met with a canvas of black in the pier's lack of light.
"Of course I did, you bleeding git. I, unlike you, know how to keep a promise."
The words sounded cold even in Britain's ears.
Silence continued only broken by the sound of footsteps until the American was brought into the full light of the weak lamppost. He looked so familiar in his loose-fitting jeans and star-spangled hooded sweatshirt that—for a moment—Britain forgot they were enemies in the bloodiest war in history. For just a second, he wanted to run over and embrace the man he'd come to love and know so well. But the bitter cold metal of his handgun kept his movements in check; they weren't here to catch up.
"But I did keep my promise, Britain. I'm here ain't I?"
The older nation bit back his usual replies criticizing the country's grammar. When they won the war, there'd be a time and a place for such things.
"I suppose you are. You're late as usual, however."
A hollow sounding laugh came from the man only a few meters away.
"The hero always comes in at the last moment."
Britain's face curled into a sneer; the hero, huh? When was the last time America'd been anybody's hero? It seemed that all the country lived to do now was make others miserable and force them bow to his will. But, Britain supposed, in America's eyes America was still a hero. Hadn't Germany thought he was the hero too in the last world wars?
He rose up to his full height, trying to look as intimidating as his one-hundred seventy-five centimetre stance would allow. His green eyes blazed with a certain anger that only came when he meant business.
"I suppose you had a reason for calling me out into the middle of New York during a war besides killing me. Or are you trying to distract me? It won't work, you know. Germany and Japan's brigade are keeping an eye on Headquarters and everything else. You can't do anything stupid."
The American gave a sadistic smile; his blue eyes twinkled with the telltale signs of insanity. He moved closer, hands dug deep into his pockets with the twisted smile plastered to his face, "Who says I had any reason to see you other than just to see you?"
Gently he raised his hand in an attempt to brush his fingers against the Englishman's cheek, "I've missed you."
Britain reeled back from his touch as if America were on fire. His emerald eyes were wide and he looked scandalized. A burning sensation rose up in the back of his throat, stinging his eyes even. Now was not the time to cry, he told himself.
"You left me, America, I didn't leave you!" he spat.
The American looked at his hand thoughtfully as if he could see where his fingertips grazed on the older man's skin. He clenched his fist and buried it back into his pocket.
"I know. It must have been hard for you."
Britain curled his hands into fists, gripping onto the edge of the pier. "You have no idea what it was like, you slimy git. Do you know what it's like to wake up one morning without the person you fell asleep with by your side? To not hear from that person for a year because they've completely closed themselves off? Then the next thing you know, they've declared war on the world and blown up a whole damn country? You don't know what that's like, America! You don't know what it's like to watch everything you've ever cared for vanish into thin air! To watch your friends fall apart at the seams because the damn hero is being a coward! AND IT'S ALL YOUR BLEEDING FAULT!"
By the time he'd gotten to that point, he'd been screaming and tears were sliding down his face at an impeccable rate. He'd gripped the younger country by the shirt and started to yell in his face. By the time the words had run dry, he allowed himself to collapse onto the ground.
America stood there looking at the older country like he was an interesting painting rather than a former friend. He didn't even seem to register the fact he'd just been verbally attacked, he was even smiling quietly.
"But, Britain, it'll all be okay. You'll see," he reached down to tip the older man's chin up. "One day, we'll all be fine. This'll all just be a bad dream and you'll see I was right. They'll all see."
His blue eyes glassed over with a maniac expression and he started laughing at his own words, as if he'd made some type of clever joke. For awhile the whole area was filled with soft, insane laughter and bitter sobs.
Britain finally pulled his head back from the American's grip and it sort of clicked; America was gone. The America he'd raised, the America he'd warred with nearly three hundred years ago, the America he'd fought with for so long, and the American he'd fallen completely and senselessly in love with had vanished. He'd been replaced by a madman with a desire for power and for the world to bow down to him. In a sense, he'd become a more terrifying version of Russia.
"America," he looked up at his former boyfriend pleadingly, "You're wrong though. What happened to freedom? What happened to allowing people to have their own say in government? Do you remember that? Your rights? Damn it, America! What did you fight me for?"
He felt his resolve loosening and knew he was losing the argument. America's delirious smile still plastered to his face but now he was silent. He was absolutely still; the only thing moving was those deep blue eyes that shifted whenever Britain moved.
"I can't be wrong."
Britain gaped at him, "Yes, you can. And you are. America, you're wrong. It's not your job to control the world."
"But I'm the hero, Britain."
"No you're not," the Englishman spat. "A hero's job is to protect the world, not rule it. That's a dictator's job. You're not a dictator, are you?"
Britain rose to his feet and stared intently at the American, changing his tone into one he'd use if talking to someone with a lesser IQ. Like France.
Oh god... France...
The Frenchman hadn't been the same since America's attack on Canada. No country was allowed within Canadian borders and America blew apart anyone that tried to get in. It had torn the poor French bastard apart.
America looked at him curiously, not even bothering to answer the question. He just smiled down at Britain thoughtfully.
"America?"
The country in question hummed.
"Where is Canada?"
The question sent the American into a tizzy of laughter. For awhile Britain thought he'd finally cracked until the American answered, "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Britain felt his heart speed up and he looked pleadingly up at his former colony, "I would, actually. What happened to him?"
"Well, I don't want to talk about him," he decided, shaking his head like a stubborn toddler. "I wanna talk about us."
Britain opened his mouth to respond when America added thoughtfully, "Join me, Arthur."
The words wrenched a new hole in his already torn heart. Arthur. When was the last time he'd been called by that name? It'd been months, perhaps years. Everyone in the conference always went by country name; it was the norm during war. In a war, there was no time for casuals and relaxed conversation. Everyone was on alert to make sure they didn't become the next target.
Join him? It'd been a thought that had crossed his mind only a few times and each time it was answered with a resounding 'no.' America was wrong, Britain knew that. When was it right to blow up a country that "refused to cooperate?" Just because North Korea was difficult and, sometimes (okay all the time) unstable, didn't mean they needed to be annihilated. They'd been at a breaking point too and...
"I can protect you. I can make sure you're always safe. You used to tell me you never wanted to be alone; I can make sure you'll never be alone. I'll take good care of you, Britain. Please, join us."
His tone was that of a small child trying to convince his parent to give in and let him have a puppy. Britain closed his eyes tight, refusing to meet America's gaze.
"I can't. I have an obligation to the world," he stepped back away from the nation. "I have to be the hero now. You've given up your place and so I have to be there to fill it."
America advanced, cornering him against the pier. He pinned his arms on either side of the older nation, staring down into Britain's green eyes. His lips curled into a smile, the glint of insanity still very real in his face.
"We can be heroes together, Britain. You and I; we'll set the world right."
Britain looked down and away from America. His eyes watered but he wasn't going to cry this time; he was the hero now and heroes couldn't cry. The Old America had said so himself.
"What about your allies? They won't like that idea."
"I don't care about them," he confessed. "I only care about you. They're just there... Once this is all over with, we'll still be allies but you're the most important one."
The green-eyed man chanced a glance up at the American who was staring down at him with hope. "Then join us, America. They're nothing without you. Come be a real hero. With us."
America stepped back and away, crossing his arms tight over his chest, "Who's us?"
"There're several. South Korea, Israel, Germany, Japan, France—"
"What are you doing with that surrender-monkey bastard?" he snapped.
Britain raised an eyebrow, "Well, we've sort of gotten close after we lost both of our North American countries. He hasn't seen Canada since you put the borders up on him. How is Canada?" he tried again.
"What about Germany? I thought you hated him."
Britain pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling like he was conversing with a stubborn child rather than a full-grown nation. "That was nearly a hundred years ago. We've been peaceful. You helped us with that, remember? The United Nations? That was your idea."
America gave a derisive laugh almost like a cackle and walked away so his back was facing the Briton. "Once I'm in control we'll have the United Nations again. It'll be better because we won't have pests around to mess up the peace. I'll be in charge. It'll be great, you'll see."
A sudden chill filled the air and Britain could feel the uneasiness. "What do you mean by that?"
"Simple; America takes all. Russia and China are imbeciles if they think I'll let them rule once this is over. The only reason that they're on my side is cause they know I'm stronger than you all." He turned to cast a maddened look at Britain over his shoulder, "But don't worry, Arthur, I won't be a bad leader. Everyone will be free in a strict government."
Britain wasn't sure how to wrap his mind around that idea. Free? What was the American's idea of free now? At one point it was an admirable goal; liberty and justice for all. But now his idea had been twisted into a more severe version of communism.
"How do you plan on doing this?"
"Oh, that's easy. Join or die. It's not that hard! You'll come to my side because you care for your people. Even France and Germany will too. I made North Korea and Italy a good example, didn't I? Did you like what I did?"
The Englishman gaped at him, not sure how to answer. It was worse than when America had been a child. Then the approval he sought had been completely innocent. "Britain, do you like my painting?" "Did I do that right?" "Is this how you hold a gun?" Even as he got older, his search for approval had been nothing major. "Do you like that plan?" "Was it a bad idea?" "Are you enjoying it?" But standing before the madman the American had become, it was hard to even find words to express his feelings. America had just asked him if he liked him blowing up countries.
"Damn it, America, no I don't! You can't just eradicate other countries to "make an example." That's wrong. It's sick... It's twisted. It's... It's something that Russia would do. Do you remember when you used to hate Russia?"
The American grunted, "I still do."
"Then don't be like him, America."
"I'm not, Britain. I'm being better. I'm spreading democracy to the world!" he practically shouted.
Britain felt his last hope crumble into the dust as the American began to babble on further about his plans, how he was better than Russia and that everything would work itself out.
"Is that the only reason you called me here, America?"
He looked up and smiled, "Well, that and so you could be in the same place I am when you sign over to us. Come on, I've got documents back at my place. Give it a few hours and you'll be an ally like the rest of us."
The older nation started to panic, not sure how to react. "No, America, what part of 'no' don't you get? We're not allies anymore. We're enemies. I'm not going to join you. I refuse."
America gaped at the old man, sitting back down on an empty crate. The look on his face fell, akin to being slapped hard and slow tears threatened at his blue eyes. "But... Britain..."
"America, don't you dare give me that bullshit. I can't; I have a responsibility to the rest of the world. I'm supposed to stop you. That means... After this... The next time I see you..." The words caught in his throat but he pressed on. "The next time I see you, it's as your enemy, not your friend."
"But," America gave a bitter smile, "I thought we were more than that. Did none of those nights mean anything to you?"
Britain forced himself to stare into America's eyes and attempt to forget the memories. But those blue eyes brought back feelings he'd been trying to ignore for past several years. In his mind's eye, he could see the American smiling down at him as the two of them drifted to sleep. He could hear America whispering his real name in an attempt to wake him up. Then, of course, there was the look in America's eyes that mingled intricately between lust and love when they saw each other for the first time in a long time. He could even smell the bitter-sweet smell one associated with hard labour as he held the sleeping nation close after a passionate night.
"Are you kidding me? Those nights mean everything to me. They remind me I'm still a human with needs. They remind me that you're still you, somewhere in that head there's Alfred F. Jones—"
"But I am Alfred F. Jones!"
Britain snarled, "No. No, you're not. You're what's left of him after three decades of war with terrorists and finding yourself at a breaking point. Alfred wouldn't side with that 'Commie bastard' and he wouldn't leave his friends like this. He wouldn't have left us alone to deal with the problems of the Middle East. Because, guess what? As soon as they figured out you were just going to blow them apart if they came near you, they came after me and my people. I had to deal with the damn bastards for nearly twenty years before you finally got it through your head and came out of hiding. Then, of course, you went and blew up North Korea with a bunch of my men in it before trying to blow up Iraq. Because after you left, they came after me to return to my power as the head nation and solve their petty problems. My bosses loved the idea of being in control again but..."His voice caught slight before he continued. "I just wasn't ready for it. I'm still a little messed up after that whole Imperialistic Age. But after you went trigger happy, all of Europe and half of Asia wanted your head on a platter. But I stood up for you, making up lies about why you did it. Then you had to go and kill off Italy. You don't know what it took to get Germany and Spain to call off nuclear war for that."
Britain clenched his fists up and stared up at the sky, "Damn they were mad. It almost might have been worth it..."
"They're not dead, you know. They're with Canada."
The green-eyed man looked at him, "What?"
"I told you. I'm not a bad leader. Italy and Canada are together. They're part of New America."
Britain gave a derisive laugh; so that was what he called his new Empire. He'd heard rumours but until now he didn't believe it. The country consisted of Canada, the United States, Mexico, several minor countries in the Atlantic and apparently Italy now. Germany would be relieved to find out they were still alive, hell even Spain would be elated. It'd be a welcomed bit of good news in the midst of war.
"But they're going to take forever to get back to their former glory."
"You didn't take that long after the Bubonic Plague."
"America, you imbecile, not every single person was wiped out. You killed off almost everything of theirs," he answered heatedly. "But aren't you even listening? I've gone through hell and back just to keep peace."
America stared up at the Englishman thoughtfully, "Minor things. It'll all even out eventually."
It was the moment Britain lost it. If it hadn't been America, he might have shot him. But because it was, he stuck with the next best thing. The air was penetrated by a loud crack.
America was back on the pier ground, hand against his cheek and staring at Britain with a wounded expression. Under his fingertips his face was beginning to turn a violent shade of red.
"Damn. You. DAMN YOU TO HELL!" the Briton screamed.
America stood with his hand held over his head, eyes burning with tears.
"What is wrong with you, huh? Don't you even care anymore? America, I'm trying, I really am. I need you to figure this out; it's not a game. This isn't like when you were a kid and we played war. This is real, America, and people are going to get hurt. Now, either join us or I'm leaving."
America stared up at Britain, his hand still clutched to the side of his face. His blue eyes flashed with something like remorse and Britain could have sworn the old America was fighting through. But the maniac look returned to the man's eyes and he glared.
"I'm not backing down, old man, because I'm right."
"If you say so." Britain rose to his full height and nodded his head curtly, "Till we meet again then, America."
He was halfway down the pier when a firm hand curled onto his shoulder and spun him around. He stared haplessly into the American's eyes, completely caught off guard. Slow tears threatened in the blue eyes.
"Arthur, please don't go. I don't think I can live without you and I don't want to try."
The words might have been touching under different circumstances. Britain gave a small smile and placed a chaste kiss on the American's forehead.
"You did it for six decades. You can do it."
The words were bitter and cold, hiding the raw emotion that he felt on the inside. The Englishman weaselled out of the American's grip and continued walking. All was silent and then a loud blow, like cannon fire, filled the air. Britain fell to the ground from the force of something hard in his back.
His green eyes searched back to see America holding a revolver out with his finger still on the trigger.
"What the... What bloody..." the Briton panted.
America's face was curled into a twisted smile, "Like I said, Britain, if I can't have you..."
The magnitude of the situation washed over him and he realized what was going on. America had cracked and now he, Britain, had been shot. If he'd been shot correctly, he'd have maybe a few more minutes.
"What are you...?" he panted slightly, his breath a little laboured.
"Shush." The America started to walk towards him, his steps relaxed as if his comrade wasn't on the verge of death. "Don't talk. I don't want your last minutes to be painful."
"You damn moron," he hissed. "You shot me but I'm a country; I'm not going to die."
"Oh..." America looked sort of confused. "You're right. Guess I forgot about that. It'll be hours though before someone finds out. Don't move. I don't want to cause you anymore pain."
Britain was on the verge of hysterics, not exactly sure how to react. He didn't want to cause him pain? Which of them just got shot in the back?
"One day, Britain, you'll see I was right. Then we can put this behind us, right?" He smiled down at him, giving him a soft kiss on the forehead before beginning to walk away.
"Where the bloody hell are you going?"
"I have a meeting with the Allies to get to. Don't strain yourself too much."
The pier was filled with cries of an angry Brit and the footsteps of the American for the longest time. Ten minutes passed and the Brit finally stood up, massaging his back. Slowly he took off his overcoat and revealed a bulletproof vest he'd worn under the coat. Without much thought he took off the vest and looked at the neat hole the bullet had impressed.
"Looks like Germany was right for once..."
He put the vest back on and rubbed his back with his other hand, fishing out his cellular from his back pocket. Three rings then a throaty voice picked up on the other side.
"Angleterre?"
"Oui, my friend. I'm here."
"Oh dieu merci!Any good news?"
Britain took a deep breath before answering, "Canada is still alive." He heard the Frenchman release an intake of breath and a soft laughter that slowly turned into sobs. "I don't know about anything else but... Is Germany with you?"
"Non, Monsieur. He left for the night. But Spain is here and so is Japan."
The line was silent as he began to pick his way across the pier and towards the main road. He'd take a cab back to the airport and, if he was lucky, he'd be home before America realized something was wrong. Then they could plan strategy. It was all out war now.
"Tell Spain that Romano is still alive."
There was soft chatter on the other end of the line and Britain could distinctly hear Spain's victorious laughter followed by his own rejoicing in his Romantic tongue.
"And what of Veneziano?"
"He's still alive."
France started laughing and Britain could almost see the smile on the Frenchman's face. "Maybe you can start not sleeping in my bed again, France. I think I'd like my solitary back again."
"Negotiations didn't work?"
"No… I'll… I'll tell you all about then when I get back home." He noticed the bitter tone in his own voice. "I'll leave for Europe again tonight. Call in the group; we're going to have to start planning."
The other side of the line was dead until France answered that he'd do such. The conversation eventually broke off and Britain made his way off the pier and hailed a cab from the side of the road.
America stepped out of his line of sight, brushing back the tears that threatened. "He'll see one day, won't he?"
There was no response for awhile before a thickly accented voice agreed with him. "We head back into the conference, da? China wants to talk strategy if we are going to blow them up."
America started pointedly at the taillights as they faded into the distance, "I guess you're right, Russia."
As the two Allies headed back, America casted a longing look at the taillights. I'll prove I'm right one day, Arthur. Then everything will be okay and you'll love me again, I promise.
I know! I know! I'm supposed to be working on Proms, Pubs, and Roommates but I got distracted, okay? =/=
I should have the next part up soon considering I'm done with AP testing on Thursday –crowd goes wild- But until then, I apologize to my lovely little fans and humbly offer this up instead.
This will not be a story because I can't do that to my baby or my other baby –hugs America and England- This was written when I was in a bit of an angsty mood so… Hope you enjoyed it and you know the drill; Review if you feel so inclined and join me again soon for another story real soon =]
Until next time; keep it real and keep it fictioning ;]