A/N: Something I had to write for Creative Writing class while on the topic of fanfiction. So I thought I'd do RusAme.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Obviously.

"You are my sunshine. My only sunshine…"

America leaned his head against the wooden doorframe. How could he possibly go in? After what had happened ten months ago, he couldn't. He just couldn't. He'd avoided this hallway, this set of doors, this door in particular, for a reason. America had found that after that one horrible day, he never wanted to step foot in the room again. Yet here he was, his hand grasping the doorknob, debating whether or not to go in.

You need this, a voice in his mind told him gently. It's been nearly a year. You need to get closure.

A lump swelled in the blonde's throat. No. No no no he did not need this. He did not need to step foot in a room full of bad memories. He did not need to be reminded what had happened.

You do. You really do, the voice whispered.

America's lip trembled as he slowly opened the door.

"You make me happy when skies are grey…"

It smelled like dust and old furniture with a hint of sunflowers. Everything had been left in its place since the last time America had been in here. Everything had aged.

The walls were still painted with sunflower fields, but were flaking in some parts. It made America's heart constrict. He remembered when he'd painted every single petal and every single ray of sunshine. How many hours it had taken and how many clothes he'd ruined. The American had done everything so that the Russian could have at least some happiness while he was bed-ridden. He even blasted music the other liked, when normally he'd groan and clutch his ears. Russian music wasn't exactly America's favorite thing in the world; but it was Russia's, and that was all that mattered at the time.

Had. It had been Russia's.

On the windowsill stood a forgotten vase. A dozen dead sunflowers wilted against the side, their petals on the white wood beneath. Old wounds opened up just seeing it, and instantly America turned his head away. Tears brimmed his eyes, making everything blurry. Angrily he wiped them away.

It wasn't even his vase. It had been a gift from Ukraine to Russia to get better. Obviously the bigger country hadn't, seeing as how he wasn't standing next to America. Or talking to America. Or kissing America.

It hurt so much. Too much.

"You'll never know, dear, how much I love you…"

In the back of the room, underneath the wide skylight, stood a rocking chair. Next to the rocking chair lay the bed. It was queen-sized and had thick, striped blankets with feather pillows. Its original purpose had been relative comfort while stargazing; but due to unfortunate events it later became a sick bed. Just looking at it made America want to vomit. How many hours had he lain there, either alone or with Russia, just looking at the stars? How many days had Russia lain there sick with a terminal illness? How many months had this very bed been vacated?

God it used to be the American's favorite place in the world. Blue eyes would light up upon seeing it and the blonde would jump onto the bed, happy without a care in the world. Later on Russia would join him, both lying on the soft mattress and marveling at the cosmos. They'd joke and argue and laugh over who truly got into space first. Or they'd recount stories about their own trips outside the world. Sometimes they would just lie in silence for a while before eventually one of them fell asleep.

Space always held a special place in their hearts.

Then Russia got sick. His people were revolting back in his home country, and he could feel every riot that occurred. At first he thought it was nothing; after all he was used to heavy revolutions. The fights would stop after a year or two, he was sure. The worst pain he got was a stomachache. It was, according to him, a trivial protest. Hardly worth his frame of mind to worry about.

It dragged on for a year. Then two. Then three. Four, five, six, seven. The revolution seemed to show no signs of stopping, and Russia was worried to death. America watched helplessly as his beloved grew weaker each passing month.

Soon the nuclear bombings occurred. America could remember when it had started so vividly, he wished he could forget it all.

The two were skating on a frozen lake by the American's house. It was an easy-going date, one that wasn't too strenuous for Russia. Snow danced between their laughs, violet eyes carefree for the first time in months. That made America happy. It was just after the American had told a joke that Russia bent over, clutching his stomach. Violet eyes leaked tears from pain. At first, the blue-eyed nation thought that he was laughing. He was proven wrong when the Slavic nation collapsed onto the ice.

"Russia!"

"Please don't take…"

America had carried the unconscious nation back to the house in his arms. Adrenaline fed him as he had burst through the door and zigzagged to their stargazing room. Carefully he had deposited Russia on the bed, putting the blanket over him to stop the Russian's shivering. Hurriedly, he called for an ambulance.

The paramedics arrived in less than a half hour, asking standard questions as they strapped up Russia. Name, date of birth, what had happened, etcetera. America had answered them all albeit in a rushed, frazzled manner. "Is he going to die?" He remembered asking.

The head paramedic glanced between the two. "Ivan," he answered, using Russia's civilian name, "will be fine for now. The doctors will diagnose more in depth what's wrong back at the hospital."

"I'm coming with."

All the older man had done was shrug.

So America had ridden in the back of the ambulance, holding Russia's cold hand. Fear had squirmed inside his stomach, tying it to knots. Something horrible must have happened in order for Russia to have collapsed like that. It wasn't until later that he found out exactly what.

When they had gotten to the hospital, the blue-eyed nation had been forced to the waiting room. Hours had passed before a nurse called his civilian name. "Jones, Alfred?"

Alfred had gotten up shakily, eyes blurry from lack of sleep. "Y-yes?" He had stuttered.

"The doctors would like to speak with you about Ivan."

"Is he all right?! Is Ivan okay?!"

"That's not for me to say."

As a result, America had walked with the nurse numbly throughout the hospital. Upon reaching the correct door – number 245 – he entered, immediately seeing doctors huddled around a bed. Russia, he had thought in relief. Maybe he'll be okay. Maybe it wasn't serious. Maybe -

The doctors had turned to Alfred as soon as the door closed; only for one of them to escort him back out in the hallway again. "You are Mr. Braginsky's partner Mr. Jones, yes?"

Alfred had nodded. "Is everything okay, sir? What's wrong with him?"

The doctor had shifted uncomfortably. His brown eyes were sympathetic, causing cold fear to grip Alfred's heart. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones. But from all the testing we have done along with a surgery, we have concluded that Mr. Braginsky is terminal. His body has gone on shutdown, so he won't have long."

"My sunshine away…"

After that it had only been a matter of months. Russia was confined to bed rest, which meant he couldn't travel back to his homeland. So America let him have the stargazing room all to himself. At first it wasn't so bad. The beige-haired nation mainly slept, fatigued from everything. He'd eat very little and talk very little and drink very little.

But he'd cry when he thought America couldn't hear.

He was wrong. America could hear him. He always did.

Upon hearing the news, Russia's sisters came to visit him. Belarus and Ukraine would often be regular guests in the American's home. They tried to cheer up their depressed brother with jokes and conversations and old stories. It had helped a bit; sometimes Russia would quirk a smile or laugh with them.

Meanwhile, television became unbearable to watch. CNN was chockfull of footage from Russian civilians fleeing their country. Plane crashes, bombings (regular this time, thank god), and massacres were reported. Experts and survivors were saying how Russia was no longer Russia. Brave souls who interviewed the revolutionists reported that the rebels wanted a new country to take shape; a "better" one than what Russia formerly was. "Russia's name," began one revolutionist, "is tainted with hundreds of years of bloodshed! It is corrupt! We must clean all evil from it! New country we will make!"

For the first time in forever, America had desperately hoped that the revolutionists wouldn't win.

"The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms…"

Eventually Belarus and Ukraine left after a month or two. Both gave their brother a kiss on the cheek, murmuring things in a foreign language. Ukraine, naturally, was weeping as she walked out the door; whereas Belarus just glared coldly at America. "You," she snarled, jabbing a finger into his chest, "better take good care of Russia. You make sure he is happy and healthy. Understood? Or I will cut you, you American pig."

Gulping, America nodded.

Satisfied, she huffed haughtily, turned, and walked out the front door, slamming it behind her. Letting out a sigh of relief, the American slid down the wall he had been previously leaning on, slightly thankful that Russia's crazy relatives were gone. He honestly didn't know how much longer he could stand them. Sure, they were nice enough nations; but between Ukraine's hormones, Belarus' ice glares, work, Russia's terminal illness, watching the news, getting minimal amounts of sleep, and being a good host, they both wore him down. A lot. And that was saying something.

America let out another sigh, taking in how silent the house was. Normally he couldn't stand the quiet, but this time it was nice. The whirring of the heater and the ticking of the clock were the only things that sounded. All else was still.

Sighing, he leaned his head against the wall. If only Russia were healthier. Then they could have some fun. They could go sledding or have a snowball fight while acting like they were half their age. Or they could go out on a date someplace. Maybe visit an amusement park; or even a National Park would be fun. Perhaps they could have just stayed home and done nothing but binge watch movies. And kiss. And cuddle. God there were so many options to do if Russia were healthier.

Suddenly a guilty feeling crashed over him for even thinking like that. Russia wouldn't ever get healthier so there was no point in fantasizing about it. Russia was going to die and all America was doing was sitting on the floor doing nothing but wishful thinking.

Gritting his teeth, the blonde stood up and stalked to his room, slamming it just as Belarus had done with the front door. Then he collapsed onto his bed, grabbed a pillow, and screamed into it. Just screamed until his throat went raw. Even then he didn't stop until he felt exhausted. Silent tears escaped from his blue eyes, and he wiped them away with shaking hands. It wasn't fair that Russia had to die. It wasn't fair it wasn't fair it wasn't fair.

The angry nation lay on his side, hugging the pillow to his chest. He couldn't even help the Russian! The revolutionists would nuke his homeland too if he tried to intervene. And that was simply a price he couldn't afford, what with the 316 million people he had to take into consideration. If he were nuked, that would leave thousands or millions dead, missing, injured, or homeless. God it was just so damn unfair.

"ARGH!" He shouted, sitting up and chucking the pillow across the room. He glared at it as he left his room.

Two minutes later he busted through the Russian's door. If the Slavic nation was going to die, then the North American nation wanted to get as much time as possible with him. "Russia dude," he started, "are you up?"

"Da," Russia replied, hoisting himself up so that he could see the American better. His violet eyes looked wary, no doubt having heard the previous commotion.

"Do you need anything? Food, water?"

"You sound like you are talking to prisoner."

America's cheek dusted pink from embarrassment and he ran a hand through his hair. "Haha, sorry about that." He apologized with a small laugh, walking over to stand by the bed.

A smile tugged its way onto Russia's face. "I would like some company."

"I think I can manage that. After all, I'm the hero!"

Before the Russian could think, he softly whispered, "If you are the hero, you can save everyone. You can save me."

Something constricted in America's chest. Guilt, regret, helplessness, despair. Whatever he felt must've shown on his face, for Russia slapped a hand over his faded lips. "Mne zhal'! I'm sorry!"

Shocked at the Russian's words, the American shook his head. His throat felt tight and his vision became blurry as he sank down on the rocking chair. Russia was right. If he was such a hero, he should be able to save people and nation's alike. But clearly he had already failed step one, because the one country he cared for most was sick and dying. And right in front of him.

It wasn't Russia who should be apologizing; it was America.

Taking off his glasses, he shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Russia."

"For what? Sunflower, what for?"

"I couldn't," his voice cracked, "I couldn't help you in time. I-I should've realized sooner –"

A hand touched his arm. And that was all it took for America to start crying. All of his pent up feelings from the last few months exploded into choked sobs. His shoulders quaked as he put his head in hands, fearing to see Russia's face.

Russia didn't say anything for the longest time. All he did was gently tug the sobbing nation onto the bed and hold him close. He rocked back and forth, running fingers through blonde locks in a vain attempt of comfort.

"I don't…I don't want you to go…" America cried, clutching the other's shirt tighter.

"I know, my sunflower. I know."

Eventually the superpower quieted down, hiccupping here and there. He was embarrassed for even breaking down like that. Heroes weren't supposed to cry. So he looked down as he pulled away from the bedridden nation, ashamed. "Sor-sorry," he mumbled.

Russia hummed sadly. "Stay the night," he proposed.

"W-what?"

"It's already six in the evening. Stay the night, Amerika."

Said nation let out a snort. "You make it seem li-like we live in two different houses."

"Nyet. Just rooms."

"Do you really want me to stay the night with you?"

"Da." Something shone in the Russian's violet eyes, like he knew something the American didn't.

Sniffing, America nodded. "I'll be right back," he promised, getting out of the bed to go get ready.

Ten minutes later and he really was back. Eyes less puffy and his face less blotchy now, he slipped under the covers, curling into Russia. Their legs intertwined as they snuggled together. The Slavic nation placed a kiss on the other's forehead, and America breathed in deeply. They didn't talk or fight or make a sound, but just listened to each other's heartbeats. It pained America that there wouldn't be any more of this in the future; so he soaked everything up like a sponge. Every movement, every breath. He wanted it committed to memory and stored up.

"Zvezda moya," Russia started softly, "I want you to do one thing."

America replied, "Hmm?"

"When you look at constellations think of me, da?"

"Sure thing, babe."

"Promise me, Amerika. Promise me you will."

Blue eyes met violet. One serious and one scared. "I promise." How could he not?

Relief shone in Russia's eyes and he hugged America closer. "Ya tebya lyublyu. I love you." He confessed.

"I love you too." America responded.

They stayed up for another few hours talking before both fell asleep hand in hand.

"When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken…"

The bed was cold when America awoke. Which was odd, since it had been fairly warm when he had drifted off. Blearily, he blinked his eyes open. The rocking chair blurred its way onto his visual radar. As did the sunflower field walls and wooden floor and the dresser. His glasses rested on top of the last one, so America gingerly moved to retrieve them, not wanting to wake Russia up. Once they were on, everything became clear again. "Thank you, Texas," the American murmured in undertone. He turned to check on Russia -

But the Russian wasn't there. The bed was empty.

Panic gripped America's heart. He tossed the blanket over the side of the bed, thinking the other must be hiding underneath. When that proved him wrong, he threw down the pillows. "Russia?!" He cried. "RUSSIA?!"

Maybe he decided to leave the bed. Maybe he was feeling restless. Maybe he's just in the bathroom or…or maybe this is all a dream that I'll wake up from, the American thought as he turned the bedroom upside down. Each minute made him more anxious and desperate. "YOU CAN'T LEAVE NOW," he screeched at the air. "YOU STILL HAVE A FEW MORE DAYS!"

Tears flying, he exited the room and sprinted to the television. Russia couldn't be gone. No no no he could not be gone. "…Just confirmed that the revolutionists have won," the anchorman was saying. "World leaders are expected to gather at –"

"No no NO!" America yelled, flicking to another channel.

"…The country of Russia has officially dissolved due to the revolutionists winning the –"

"…It has been established that the Russian Federation no longer exsi –"

"…Revolutionists are cheering at their victory –"

America turned the television off, pain roaring in his chest. Russia was gone. Russia was gone. Dead. Dissolved. Gone. America's hands shook as the knowledge seeped in. "He was just here yesterday," he choked out to no one. "He was…just here…I didn't get to say goodbye."

The nation collapsed onto the floor, weeping uncontrollably.

"And I hung my head and cried."

Now in the present, the American took one last sweeping look about the room. The painful memories still fresh in his mind, he whispered, "Bye, Russia."

Then he left, closing the door behind him. Closure was too painful for him.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
You make me happy when skies are grey.
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.
Please don't take my sunshine away."