Hello my dear, all-too-kind readers! :D I've had this idea in my head for months, and I've only now gotten to the point of having it figured out enough to start writing it! Just… just a warning… This story is going to be sad. I think it might have a happy ending, but… I'm not completely sure right now. I'll try, but… but it's definitely going to be depressing. We'll get through it together! :D

So, I really hope that you like it! Enjoy, and please review!

x-x-x-x-x

"I hate you, dammit! I hate you!"

The words were spat from America's lips, his blue eyes furious and dark. He was taking ragged breaths from the argument that he and England were in, his light brown hair mussed and on end, his shoulders stiff and set at sharp angles. Not even a shred of remorse from the words said was apparent in his features, his fists balled up, his face determined.

England stood opposite of him, his face reddened from anger. He stood rigid, his expression confused as if the words were having a hard time processing in his mind. As it seemed that America's declaration of hatred finally processed through his brain, his face became a deeper shade of red. At first it seemed to be of rage, but as a rim of tears began to form it became apparent what the true cause of it was. His shoulders quaked slightly as he spoke. "Is that so?" he asked quietly. "Then would I be correct in assuming I should leave?"

For a fraction of a moment, America paused, looking as if he wanted to correct himself, wanted to apologize. But in a flash, anger returned to him. "You're a real fucking genius, aren't you?" he hissed. Violently, he pointed to the door, his blue eyes growing ever darker. "Go ahead. Get out. I can't stand looking at you anymore anyway. Do me a favor and get out of here before I vomit."

England stood still for a moment, his eyes slightly widening as they searched America's face as if looking for anything that said he didn't mean what he was saying. But America's features were absolute. The silence was deafening as he stood there for a while longer, as if hoping that the situation would reverse itself, as if everything could be settled. But both knew better than that.

"Fine," England spat. "I can't stand your voice any longer either." Before the American could say anything back, England turned abruptly and walked to the door. America didn't watch as the door opened and was slammed closed moments later. As the seconds ticked by, America was expecting the guilt to start flooding in like it always did after fights. But as he stood there, nothing came. He was so angry at that stupid idiot! Why did he always have to fight and try to make America in the wrong! America plopped down on his couch, gritting his teeth together. He wasn't wrong. If England didn't want to admit it, that was his own damn problem!

He wasn't going to apologize. He didn't have to if he was right.

Trying to calm himself down, he got back up with a growl and started walking in circles around his house. This had been one of the worst fights they'd ever had. But as he continued to walk around, he kept on becoming more surprised by how instant regret was not coming to him. A harsh smile crossed his lips. He wasn't going to apologize. If anyone had to, it was definitely going to be England. He just had to wait for the other to realize this.

Not knowing what else to do with his time, he retreated to his room to take a shower. He had nothing to worry about, seeing as he was in the right.

England, however, was having a much harder time with this. He had left America's house and had gotten to his car. For a while, he had been absolutely numb, almost as if his brain wasn't able to comprehend what had just happened. But all at once, it finally hit him. He pressed his forehead against the steering wheel as disgusting tears rolled down his face. He had been told to leave. America had said that he hated him, that he was ugly. Such horrible words hadn't been said to him in centuries. He had thought that they would never be said to him again, now that he was in a relationship with America. But instead, the words that had haunted him his whole life had come from his lover's mouth.

Taking deep breaths to try to calm himself, England stared forward into nothingness. He felt his heart in more pain than he thought imaginable, and knew instantly that he had nothing to apologize for. The words that America had said flashed through his head over and over again, every time feeling like he was being stabbed in the chest. He had no idea how America could say such horrid things to him. He wiped away his tears and he finally turned on his car and roughly put it into gear.

No, he had absolutely nothing to apologize for. As always, America was the one who was at fault. And he wasn't going to talk to him until America finally realized this.

Unable to stop himself, he looked down to his left hand, his eyes resting on the ring placed on his finger. Another blast of pain went through him, forcing him to blink away more tears. His lover—his damn fiancé—had just forced him out of the house. Anger flashed through him then, making his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. If America didn't learn to grow up and admit he was wrong, then this wasn't going to work. He had to realize this.

Keeping his eyes on the road, England pulled out his phone and when to his speed dial. He was going home. And he wasn't coming back until America apologized.

The number was dialed, and England put the phone to his ear. It rang a few times, but finally someone answered. "Good evening, Mister Kirkland," his receptionist answered, the man's British accent immediately making England feel sick with how much he missed his homeland. "What can I do for you, Sir?"

"I need a plane from New York to London," England answered, trying to keep his voice even, not wanting or needing someone to ask what was wrong. He just wanted to leave and try to forget any of this had happened.

The receptionist paused, the silence sounding thoughtful. England had met the man before, and knew that he could often sense when something was wrong. But thankfully, he also seemed to catch on that England didn't want to talk about what had happened. "When do you wish for it to be ready, Sir?"

"I'm heading to the airport right now," England answered. "Just get one prepared for me as soon as possible." He paused, then quickly added, "Please."

Another pause from his receptionist, but then he answered, "Right away, Sir." Good-byes were exchanged, then England hung up and threw the phone into the much too empty seat next to him. He already knew what he was going to do once he got home—walk in to his house, pull out his alcohol, and then drink until he could barely remember his own name. He needed to just forget everything, even if it was only for a few hours. He couldn't stand to live in reality for much longer.

He just hoped that everything would return to normal. Though, with America being as just stubborn as he himself was, he didn't get his hopes up too high.

x-x-x-x-x

"Right away, Sir."

The man listened to the conversation as it ended, hearing the click as one side hung up. He kept the earpiece next to his head as he listened to make sure nothing else was said, then placed it back down as it became evident that the conversation was over. Silently, he stood up from his seat, a small smile growing on his face. Finally, England was coming back. While he had been in America, with the Patriot Act and other such security nuisances, it would have been too risky to act. But now, after so long, he was coming home by himself.

Calmly, the man walked into his kitchen, humming a little tune to himself, listening to his own rhythmic steps against the tile below him. He looked to his counter as if looking for something very specific. His eyes wandered slowly, looking thoughtful and cautious. The smile on his lips grew as he reached his hand out, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of his butcher knife. The job wasn't going to be pretty or clean.

But it would be fun.

Oh, how he couldn't wait to see England when he got back in Europe. How he couldn't wait to greet him once he got home, maybe even chase him into a corner. Then, and only then—when the man who was always so strong and holier-than-thou, was full of fright and maybe even pleading—would he attack. He had to hold back a laugh at the very thought of his face as pain, anger and confusion shot across his features, then his skin becoming covered with his own blood as the knife plunged into him time and time again.

Weapon chosen, he left his kitchen and grabbed his keys. He had to be there in time to welcome England home, didn't he?

x-x-x-x-x

America left the shower, his hair wet and hanging down in front of his eyes. As he had let the water pour down on him, the guilt that had for so long avoided him had finally hit him when he remembered the ring on his finger. He had growled and nearly punched the wall—he stopped himself just in time though when he remembered what had happened last time he had punched a wall; England had been pissed off beyond all belief at the gaping hole in the wall. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the phone, thinking about calling him and apologizing. But, even though he felt guilty about what had happened, he was still upset.

Why did England have to be so stubborn? Why couldn't he have just given up and just said America was right? Why did he always have to try to prove that he was right, no matter what the cost?

America nearly slapped himself when he realized that what he had just described was the exact thing he had just done.

Even though he wanted to apologize—even though he now knew he was wrong—he decided not to call. England would want time to vent. He was also pretty sure that if he called now, England wouldn't answer, or he would tell him to go fuck himself. He laid down as he told himself that calling now wouldn't do anything to help the situation. He would call in the morning, hopefully when both of them had had enough time to think everything over.

He had all the time in the world to apologize.

Now calm about the decision he'd made, America close his eyes as he slowed his breathing. Everything would be fine in the morning.

x-x-x-x-x

England sat on the plane, watching as it flew over the Atlantic Ocean. From where he was, thousands of feet above it, it looked almost smooth, as if it was calm and motionless. But England, from his many years of pirating and being on ships on the sea, knew better. From far away, it would look serene, peaceful, maybe even trustworthy. But once you got in it, it would throw you back and forth, try to rip you to shreds, try to utterly destroy you. A sad smirk crossed his lips as he watched the water below him, clenching his right hand into a fist. The ocean was much like love, wasn't it? When looking at it from afar, it looked beautiful, wonderful, easy. But once you were in it, it became a roller coaster of emotions, throwing you to and fro, making you lose your bearings, making you reconsider everything you thought you understood and wondering, "Is it even worth the effort?"

At the moment, England didn't think that it was his effort anymore to try.

His mind thought back to when he and America had first met. He had been just a small boy, perfectly innocent and kind. England had been abused his whole life, used and hated by everyone he met. But when he had met America, that had changed. The boy loved him, followed him incessantly, and trusted him with everything he had. For a while, England had thought he had finally found someone who could love him unconditionally, who would always be there for him.

But 1776 proved to him that, like everyone else, America wanted nothing to do with him.

It had taken England so long to heal, so long to become normal again. He had had to bury himself in conquering, in battle, in anything to keep his mind off America. He couldn't bear to be without him. He had made little contact with him for a little over a century. But then the World Wars had brought them back together. With the Special Relationship, Churchill had forced England to be with America much more than he had wanted. But as the years had passed, America had become much different from when he was a small child. He still had that air of invincibility, that personality full of self-confidence. But he had become a good man. England could help but begin to fall for him.

And somehow, America had returned those feelings. They had become good friends at first, talking to each other when they were at meetings. Then they had started seeing each other after meetings. It had slowly progressed to where they had begun dating. They had had their fair share of problems before, but it had never been more than they could handle. After a few decades of simply dating, suddenly America had come late to a meeting and, in front of all of the countries of the world, asked for his hand in marriage. England remembered that day, and how many emotions had run through him at once. He had been scared, uncertain, even doubtful. But all of those feelings had been drowned out as he nearly felt his heart burst with happiness and unbelievable hope. He had smiled as he said "Yes, Alfred," and had the ring slipped on his finger. He, for once in his life, had hope that something in his life would finally go well.

But as always, he had been foolish to think that life would prove to be kind to him. He pressed his face against the cold window to ward off his tears.

He should have stopped trying to be happy a long time ago. It wasn't worth the effort any more. He glanced down at his watch to see that it was 9:30 PM New York time. He did the math in his head to determine that it was 2:30 in London right now. The flight was six hours long, meaning that he'd be home by 8:30 in the morning. He groaned as he realized that when he got home, it would already be morning. He closed his eyes as he let sleep take him over. For at least a few hours, he could escape reality. The only way left to keep his sanity now was to pretend that reality no longer existed.

As his consciousness slipped away, he just wished that things could go back to normal. But he knew better than to hope for such a hopeless wish that was never going to come true.

x-x-x-x-x

England always bragged about his former pirating days and how he was a force to be reckoned with. He always made himself sound so fierce and cunning and malicious. But as the man had watched England age through the centuries, the man had become docile, kinder, weaker. He had also become far more trusting than he had before, though he still came off rude to people.

But as the man crept around England's doorway, he smiled at how trusting and how oblivious England had become over the years. Unbeknownst to the Briton, he had been watched for quite some time now. Not that anyone had ever looked for this man. He had always kept hidden quite well, never being noticed—until it was too late that was. Still wandering around, the man suddenly smiled as he remembered a detail from when he had been watching the Brit one day. He backed up as he leaned over and gripped the corner of the doormat before the front door. The smile on his lips grew wider as he saw the glinting key show itself under some dust. He picked it up and placed it in the keyhole.

England should have known to be more cautious than this.

Not that he minded of course. This just made his plan even smoother than he had already been expecting it to be. Slowly he turned the handle, pushed the door forward and welcomed himself in.

He couldn't wait to see England when he got home. He was sure that the man could use some company.

x-x-x-x-x

Everything seemed to be a tired blur around England as he slowly walked down the street to his home. As usual, rain was pounding down from the sky, making his hair plaster itself to his face, his clothes becoming cold and heavy. But even as he got slowly chilled, he couldn't feel it. He ignored it. He ignored all feelings, emotional and physical. He planned to make himself even number with alcohol, hoping to make everything disappear. Maybe everything would be better after a few drinks. He looked down at his ring again, pain shooting through him once more. How could this have happened? Why couldn't things just resolve themselves?

Why did the people he love always have to hurt him?

Giving out a long sigh, he shoved his hand inside of his pocket, fishing for his keys. After a moment, he pulled them out and roughly shoved his house key into the keyhole and opened the door. He stepped in and closed the door behind him, not bothering to wipe his feet or take off his soaked coat. It took too much effort, and at this moment, he didn't care that much about keeping his house tidy. Not caring about much of anything anymore, he walked into his house, heading straight for his kitchen. He needed alcohol.

Making his head feel like splitting open, his shoes squeaked loudly against the tile floor. He glared down at his shoes as if his poisonous look would make the shoes think twice about making such foul sounds. But as he continued to walk, the squeaks seemed to become louder and louder. He balled up his fists, trying to keep himself from punching something. He took in a breath, holding it as he tried to relax. The last thing he needed was something to fix because of a surge of anger. He was about to release it when he suddenly felt a presence in the room.

He wasn't able to turn around to inspect it before he felt something cold press against his throat.

"Hello, England."

England stayed completely still, his body going rigid as all movement ceased. He let his eyes peer down, only to see a gloved hand holding a large knife, sharp edge pressed against his throat. His ears hurt from the strain as he listened for any clues as to figure out who this was. England knew that voice. He knew it.

"Yes?" he answered calmly, trying to keep his breath level, even as his heart rate increased drastically.

The man behind him chuckled slightly, making England shiver involuntarily. "You're surprisingly calm for someone who could die with the flick of a wrist." As if to prove his point, he twitched his wrist almost infinitesimally, making England flinch as he felt the blade dig ever so slightly into the sensitive flesh of his throat. He grit his teeth, determined not to give a single noise. That's all this person wanted—a reaction.

"What do you want?" England said, surprising himself with how calm he sounded. His eyes flicked around silently, looking for something to use as a weapon. This person may have broken into his house, but he certainly wasn't going to let them scare him.

His calm slightly faltered as the man behind him chuckled. "You want to know what I want?" he asked softly, his breath hitting his ear. "I have a knife to your throat, and you're wondering what I want?" Against his will, a small gasp escaped England as the knife slid against his skin, feeling a small trickle of blood make its way down his throat. "I want to kill you, England."

Not able to think of anything else, England rammed his elbow back, feeling it crash into the man's ribs, feeling a definite snap as the man gasped and cursed in a foreign language. The knife slid from his throat, England holding back a cry as it sliced the skin. For a moment, he was horrified that it had succeeded in slitting his throat; but as he continued to breathe and carefully fingered the wound, he figured that it had cut deep enough to hurt like hell, but shallow enough to not hit anything vital. He turned to face the man.

But he turned around just in time to be stabbed in the chest.

It was a real shot of luck for the opposite man; somehow the angle and placement had made the blade able to slip gracefully between his ribs, plunging deep into his chest cavity. For a moment, everything froze, England unable to make anything out; not pain, not sound, not sight. Then everything came crashing back as he hacked up blood, feeling his muscles clench painfully around the blade. The knife was suddenly torn from his body, forcing England to release a small cry of pain as it ripped him apart even more. The knife then found itself sheathed in England's stomach, a blood soaked scream escaping England from the pain. After the knife was again removed, it hit him again. And again. And again. Finally England lost count of how many times it had impaled him as his vision started fading, the only thing he was able to hear being his own cries of pain.

Everything stopped. Nothing made sense, nothing was real, nothing existed. All England was aware of was the tile of his floor against his back, and feeling cold. He was cold, yet covered with warmth at the same time. His eyelids were heavy, but he forced them open, the simple action causing excruciating pain. Above him he saw his assailant. His murderer.

His murderer who he immediately recognized.

"You," England choked, his voice so faint, he could barely hear it himself.

Even as his vision continued to fade, he could see the smile on the other's face. That smile that once irritated him; that smile that now brought him fear.

"Good-bye, England," he chirped, his smile widening as he licked the blood—England's blood—off of his knife. "I'd usually finish you off, but I think that dying in a pool of your own blood would be well suited for you—that's what you did with so many others, isn't it?" Finally, the man turned away. England was unable to say anything as the man left him there, left him unable to do anything but lay there defenselessly.

He heard the sound of the door close, and everything went silent. All England could hear was his ragged breaths and the sound of his heart beat only becoming slower and slower.

He was going to die.

He was dying.

He was over.

Summoning all the strength left within his body, England dragged himself forward, tears trailing down his face from the pain and effort. Blood was trailed across the floor behind him from his several gaping wounds, and every few seconds England had to stop as he choked and heaved up blood. For nearly twenty minutes, he slowly crawled across the floor of his house, one thing in mind the whole time.

He couldn't die.

He refused to die.

Goddammit, he wasn't going to die!

More blood caught in his windpipe as he hacked it up, his whole body shaking with the violent coughs that made his throat raw. But he wasn't going to give in. He had so much he still needed to do. So many things he still could do in the world.

He couldn't leave America. Not like this.

x-x-x-x-x

Even though it was early in the morning, France was humming happily as he whisked away at some eggs. He winked at himself in the mirror, flashing himself a smile as he continued to work on his breakfast. He was about to pour the beaten eggs into the pan on his stovetop when he heard his phone ringing. He ended his little tune, looking to the general direction of the phone in the other room. Part of him wanted to ignore it, seeing as he was busy at the moment. But then he decided that he wouldn't mind having a bit of a conversation with someone while he prepared his glorious food. He quickly set the bowl of eggs down on the counter and strolled over to the phone. Perhaps it was Spain complaining about how Romano didn't return his feelings. Or perhaps it was Prussia having a fit about "West" kicking him out of the house again. But as he looked down at his caller ID, he was a little startled.

Why was Angleterre calling him?

Smiling brightly, he answered the phone, "Bonjour, mon Angleterre!" he said, hoping he sounded just as annoying as ever to his friend. "What brings you calling me at this—"

"F-Francis…"

France immediately ended his greeting, a small chill going through him at England's voice. It was choked, strained and desperate. Another chill when through him as he realized that his human name had been used. England hadn't called him Francis for decades; maybe even centuries. "Angleterre?" he said cautiously, feeling his chest tighten slightly. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

"Francis," England rasped, his breaths horrifyingly audible. "Please… c…come here. I n-need help. I… God, it hurts. Please, fel—" His sentence was cut off as a horrible noise came through the phone. France froze as he realized that what he was hearing was England coughing. It sounded like screws or something metallic being thrown violently around in a blender. The coughs died out, and all that was left were sad choking sounds—sobbing sounds. "P-p…lease…" A few inaudible words were heard, but France didn't stay to try to decipher what he had said. Within three minutes, France left the house and was rushing to England's house.

x-x-x-x-x

Light forced its way through America's eyelids as he tried to close them tighter, letting out a groan as he tried to go back to sleep. He turned on his side to look at the clock, peering only through one eye to block out as much light as possible. He shot up though when he realized that he had slept in all the way until noon. He looked around the room, looking for England. Why the hell hadn't he woke him up? He did like to sleep in, but noon was way too late! He growled as he jumped out of bed to go look for the Brit and give him a piece of his mind. But then all of last night suddenly came back to him. He went from being angry to feeling like a piece of crap human who didn't deserve to live. He growled at himself as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He really had to apologize to England for all the crap he had said last night. He looked back at his bed, now feeling that it was too empty. He wondered how had he gotten to sleep, having his bed half empty.

He smiled though as he hoped that tonight, it would be full again. They had only been apart for fourteen hours, but he already missed his fiancé. He quickly rushed to the phone to apologize. He needed his Arthur by his side again. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to last much longer without the stuffy Brit's presence.

He dialed his number, walking around his house as he listened to the dial tone. He hoped that England wouldn't be too angry at him, and that he'd be willing to listen to him. He knew England could be stubborn, but he hoped that his heartfelt apology would fix everything.

The phone rang a few more times, but finally he heard the click as it was answered. "Bonjour?"

America cocked an eyebrow as he heard the French greeting and accent. What was France doing at England's house? A sudden surge of jealousy went through him as he thought of how England must have called him over for comfort or to vent to him. It wouldn't have been the first time.

Trying to keep calm and not cause a fight, America took in a quick breath and continued. "Hey, is Artie there? I needa talk to him."

There was a horrible pause on the other line, America unable to even hear a breath. America glared at the wall in front of him, trying to figure out the reasoning for the pause. "France?" he asked, tilting his head to the side as he listened for anything that might give him a clue as to what was going on.

"No one's told you?" France asked quietly, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

"Told me what?" America asked. Something wasn't right. "Dude, seriously, what's up?"

France paused again, America beginning to get a little annoyed. He was about to ask again when France finally spoke. "Mon dieu, America… I… I don't know if… How do I say it? Dieu…"

"Just spit it out!" America complained, sounding harsher than he meant to. But he was starting to go from being irritated to being freaked out. What was going on? Why couldn't France just say whatever it was?

France paused once again. America waited. Finally, France spoke. "Amérique … I'm so sorry. I… Arthur. He…" He paused again, and America was about to prod further when he finished the statement.

"Arthur was murdered last night. Alfred.. Arthur's dead."

x-x-x-x-x

If I hadn't been in public while I was writing this, I would have started crying. So don't think I did this happily. I hope that, even though it's depressing, you'll continue to read!

Please review!