Hetalia-Haze Days
August 15th
A quick glance at his smart phone revealed the four blinking numbers: 12:28. The sun burned brightly over the park, hot enough to clear up all the clouds and heat up the swing he was sitting on.
"Ow, my butt." America grumbled, though he made no effort to move. He was expecting to meet up with England at 12:30 so he really didn't feel a need to do anything other than endure the heat for a few more minutes. Sweat dripped down his cheek as he tried to shield his eyes from the sun. It was starting to make him feel a little dizzy.
"America. Earth to America. Can you hear me?" A hand passed frenetically in front of his face. Startled, America turned to see England sitting in the swing next to him. "Still dreaming of the skies, I see."
"Nah, Iggy, it's just hot." A soft mew drew America's attention to Englands lap, where a cat with a dark coat of fur rested. "Dude" He began, gesturing agitatedly at the cat, "Aren't those bad luck?"
Caressing the cat, England heatedly replied, "Oh, stop with your superstitious nonsense."
America quirked a brow, "Oh, okay. Say, how's your unicorn friend doing?"
"He's fine. Thanks for- Hey!"
The rancorous laughter that burst out of him just resulted in America's British friend becoming even more flushed and incoherent as he tried to sputter a few insults at the man in the swing next to him.
After a while and a stomach rumble, they stood up to go to a nearby café America's coworkers in the White House had recommended. As they walked, England cheerfully continued caressing the cat he had found. America spared the two a glance and smiled. It wasn't often he could see his former guardian looking so content. Maybe he'd get him stuffed cat or something for his birthday.
Just as the traffic light turned from green to red, the feline suddenly jumped out of England's arms, running into the road in a blind panic. In a heartbeat, England ran after it. He didn't even see the truck coming until it was too late.
Blood painted the truck's front bright red, and the signs, and the asphalt. It heated up on the burning tar until the America nation could smell it in the air, mixing with the scent of England's favorite cologne. He rushed to the body, holding it in his arms as he screamed for someone, anyone to help.
A voice behind him whispered that he was dead. Dead.
August 14th
America opened his eyes to find himself back in his bed. What a weird dream, he thought, as he prepared for his day with England.
August 15th
A ticking clock on the wall revealed that it was a little after twelve. The cellphone he didn't remember placing beside him before he'd fallen asleep confirmed this. But whatever. Even nations can have nightmares, right?
Still, he couldn't shake the sense of terrible déjà vu he had as he spoke with England on the swings. Brow furrowed as they walked towards the crosswalk, unease twisted his guts in knots, until finally, just as he'd dreamt it, the cat jumped out of England's arms and into the street. He lunged forward, but America gripped his arm, and quietly asked him not to go.
"We'll find another way." He said.
Determined as he was not to let anything he'd dreamt of come to pass, America practically dragged England down the sidewalk, much to his chagrin.
"Honestly, America, I am not a child. You do not need to hold my hand-" A women's scream rent the air. In a heartbeat, America felt his body being thrown backwards as England moved forwards. Steel poles clattered to the ground, one of them pierced the small Englishman's torso, holding him high off the ground even as his precious blood began to coat the metal. A crowd gathered around the scene. Someone called 911.
America grinded his teeth to suppress a scream. He should've have been helping. He knew he should have been helping, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing but futilely reach out to him, saying sweet words like, "You'll make it through. You'll be all right. Because you're a nation."
Black gather at the edges of his sight. Someone pushed him to the ground. Through the tunnel his vision had become, England's lips were still visible. The rushing in his ears drowned out whatever England was trying to say, but he almost thought he could see the bloodied nation smiling.
August 15th
"America, you've been acting strangely for a while now." The Englishman struggled to run alongside the agitated American as he barked out directions. Even though the American loved food, he'd seemed to have completely disregarded the café he was supposed to take him to, simply saying that it was important.
Observing his former brother and friend with increasing concern, England noticed that he was being shepherded to the Lincoln Memorial, someplace America only went to when was troubled.
If he died by falling poles the second time, and by truck the first, then all America needed to do was take him someplace safe. Someplace where nothing could hurt him.
And if anyplace was safe, it was the Lincoln Memorial. That was what America thought before England tripped on the Georgia marble steps, cracking his head open like an egg on the steps of America's second favorite president.
August 15th
Ten years passed just like this. The searing heat of the summer day seemed to laugh at America as he tried over and over to prevent England's death.
Finally, he'd had enough.
Instead of trying to keep England from running in front of the truck, America ran in front, saving England and stopping the loop.
It was enough. He smiled as his blood painted England's face. It was enough.
...But something whispered that it wasn't.
August 14th
England looked at the time on his phone and sighed. "I failed you again, America."