So, for a few months I have wanted to write a tribute to 9/11 with Hetalia characters. I had tried before, but I just couldn't get it right. It all truth, I was scared to write about it, being such a touchy and painful subject. I don't mean to offend anyone by this, but I feel like I need to do this, to just let it out.
Please be kind with your reviews—this is a hard thing to write about. This is for the thousands of people who were murdered that day, and I truly hope I gave them the honor and respect that they deserve.
x-x-x-x-x
America fidgeted in his seat as he looked at the clock, willing for it to go faster. He really was trying to listen to what England had to say, but his coffee had finally set, the caffeine rushing through his veins, begging for activity to burn it off. They had about twenty minutes until their decided break, and he really couldn't wait to get up and walk around. He looked up at England again to see he was still talking, but felt England glare back at him, obviously sensing his restlessness. He sent a quick apology—he didn't mean to be so energetic! It wasn't his fault that he had to drink coffee to stay up during these insanely early meetings!
England finally concluded as he went back to his seat next to America. He flashed England a smile that he only returned with a scowl. "You did a good job!" America said.
An angry huff escaped him. "Did you even retain a single word that I said?"
America thought for a moment, trying to pick out one of his main points. "Uh, taxes, right?" he weakly guessed.
England smacked him on the shoulder, his look becoming only more agitated. "Git," he said. "I was speaking about the euro. Idiot."
America gave a shy laugh as he scratched his head, embarrassed. "Heh, sorry dude," he said as he looked at the clock again. It was 8:45. Fifteen more minutes and he'd be able to get up and walk around. Maybe he could take England off somewhere and "apologize." He was about to turn to England to suggest this when he felt a horrible pain shoot through his chest. He gasped as he gripped the right side of his chest just under his clavicle, his eyes widening in shock.
"America?" He could feel England's eyes on him, but he didn't turn to look at him. Air refused to go through his throat as he tried and failed to calm himself. Was he finally having a heart attack that England had always warned him about? Suddenly, it was as if the whole world was on mute as America felt something warm and wet hit his hand. Shaking, he took his hand away and stared at his red palm.
"W-What?" America croaked, feeling something catch in his throat. As if from far away, he heard England yell something as he coughed up blood. He covered his mouth as he felt the liquid seep through his fingers.
Hands grabbed him by the shoulders, America too dazed to try to figure out who the hands belonged to. Images flashed before his eyes—fire, people screaming, people dying. A horrible noise rang in his ears, making him feel like his head was going to split open. He felt himself fall to the ground, his knees coming up to his chest as he felt his lungs begging for air. As he felt himself suffocating, he realized the piercing noise he had been hearing was his own screams. He cut off his scream as he gasped for breath, still clutching his chest. Oh God oh God oh God, he was crying in his head, his breaths ragged. What the hell was happening?
"Damn it, America!" he suddenly heard England scream above him. Weakly, he turned his head to see England's huge green eyes, his face pale with fright. His hands were gripping America by his clothing, seeing as America had been moving around too much for him to grab on to much else. "What's going on?" England asked desperately, his shoulders visibly quivering. "What's happening?"
Not thinking, America grabbed one of England's hands, pulling it close to him. "I—I…" he choked, still struggling to breathe correctly. "I don't know. I don't—" He cringed as he saw England's hand becoming tainted with his blood. He let go of it, but England didn't move his hand away.
"Is there a television anywhere?" England called out, his voice strained. "Come on, there has to be a bleeding television somewhere!" America heard everyone rushing about as he felt his wound radiating with pain. He tried to muffle his complaints, but it hurt so damn bad. He whimpered as he clenched his fists, trying to keep control of himself. He hurt so bad. He wanted it to stop, he wanted the pain to stop! England's now bloodied hand rested on his head, lightly stroking his hair. "Shh," England said, his voice tight. "It's okay, we're going to fix this. It's going to be okay."
"Mother of God." America pried his eyes open at the sound of Germany's stunned voice. They must have rolled the television in, seeing as he hadn't noticed it before. The whole room went silent as everyone saw the image of the huge building that was spilling out horrible black smoke. Another jolt of pain went through America as he saw it, closing his eyes tightly once again. The news anchor was talking about how they were speculating how this might have been an accident, but America just knew that wasn't what had happened. The sky was clear as glass! America was a pilot, and he knew that no pilot would crash into a building on accident in such beautiful weather unless it was intentional.
Intentional. That's what this was. It was no accident. This had been done on purpose. He was being attacked.
"God, make it stop," America sobbed, clenching his eyes shut so tightly he was beginning to see colors behind his lids. "Please, God, make it stop."
America could feel England's hands shaking, though England's voice stayed even. "We're going to find out what's happened," he comforted. "We're going to—what is—? Oh God—!"
America was about to ask what was wrong when he felt it. Another scream ripped through his lungs as searing pain re-entered his chest, more blood pouring out of his body. He felt like he was being torn apart as more images shot through his head. His people—innocent people—screaming, running, burning, dying. His people were being crashed into buildings, being slaughtered. More blood caught itself in his throat as he began to violently hack it up, tears escaping his eyes. "Make it stop!" he screamed, his body contorted in pain.
He let out a final scream as he felt himself lose consciousness.
x-x-x-x-x
England stared horrified at America's suddenly limp body. In all of the years that he had known America, through all of the trials and horrible things he had seen him go through, even during the Revolutionary War, he had never seen him in such a horrible state as this. And it had been centuries since he had seen America actually cry like this. Even after Pearl Harbor, America was able to keep his head up high as he fought back. But now he was on the ground, unconscious, covered with his own blood. It suddenly occurred to England just how much blood there was—how much was still leaving his body. He then realized that something had to be done.
"Bandages!" he shouted, his sight shooting up to the wide eyes scattered around the room. "Get bandages! He's bleeding too much! He needs treatment—move!" He screamed the last word, finally setting the other countries into motion. "France!" he shouted, making the golden haired country jump. "France, help me carry him, he needs to be put on an actual bed." France hesitated for a moment, obviously still in shock about what was occurring, but quickly complied as he came forward. "G-grab him under his arm," England said, grimacing as he swung America's left arm over his shoulder. He wanted to die as he heard America gasp in pain from the movement, but he knew he couldn't just leave him on the floor. He needed to be put in an appropriate spot to rest. England glared at France, giving him a sign to do as he was told. Nervously, France put America's other arm over his shoulder as they carefully began to carry him. "Where's a bed?" he called out, looking around the room. "Is there a bed? Anything?"
Germany came to his side, pointing through the door way out to the hall. "Go down through there," he said, struggling to show England where to go as a horrified Italy clung desperately to his arm. "Fourth door to the left is the sick room. Beds should be in there."
England nodded to Germany, thankful for the help. Slowly, he and France were able to carry America down the hall and to the room that Germany had indicated. There were, in fact, beds in the room, though none of them were dressed. But England didn't care right now. They laid America on the closest bed, America making a horrible gasping noise as his body flattened out against it.
The two rested for a moment, trying to regain their strength from carrying the injured American. However, this was not able to calm England down whatsoever. "What the hell is happening?" England asked suddenly, his breaths coming in gasps. "Oh God, what is happening?"
The room was silent as they stood there, shock really beginning to set in. Someone was attacking America, someone was murdering his people. With the way America sometimes acted—his habit of getting into others' business or his overwhelming personality—England had often teased him about how he needed to watch his back. But he felt sick as he looked down at the bleeding American, the red splotch on his suit only growing larger. A buzzing noise entered England's head, sending his head reeling. God, he could have done something to prevent this. He didn't know what he could have done, didn't know what could have been done differently—he didn't know, but he knew, just knew he should have done something to prevent this! The buzzing noise got louder, and England was about to scream. Suddenly, the buzzing became words.
"England, please move!" England's head jolted up, surprised by the new voice in the room. Beside him was Canada, his dark blue eyes filled with concern. England was confused as to why Canada was for once being forceful until he saw the bandages that were piled in his arms. He took a clumsy step back, moving so that Canada could get to America. "Thank you," Canada said softly as he set down all of the wrap bandages on the bed next to America. England watched him as he looked over America, Canada's face going paler. "England," he said quietly, looked up at him. "America's wounds will need cleaning. Could you grab some towels and water for me?"
Before England could respond, a land was laid on his shoulder. "I'll do it, Canada," France said, a sound of fondness in his voice. "Let's not part America and England for right now." Canada gave an understanding nod as France removed his hand from England's shoulder and left the room. For once grateful to France, England stood there, not once removing his eyes from America. He needed to stay next to him, no matter what. America needed him.
"These need to go," Canada said softly as he slid his hand under America's shoulders to lift him up. Canada looked back at England silently, and England immediately understood his silent request. He went to the head of the bed and held America up as Canada removed his bomber jacket, placing it at the foot of the bed. Carefully, his suit coat and dress shirt were also removed, this being harder seeing as the buttons had become slippery and the cloth heavy with blood. England stared silently as he felt something catch in his throat, America's shirt being removed. His skin was smeared with red, blood still oozing from the horrible wounds. They were next to each other just under America's right collarbone, and extremely distinct. They looked like deep stab wounds going at a downward angle. England cringed when he realized that the hits must have gotten his lungs—that's why he was coughing up blood. He felt sick—was America able to breathe? Was he struggling? Was he going to die—
The sudden thought made England freeze rigidly. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. What if America was killed? What if he had to stand here and watch him die? He felt Canada look up at him as he began to shake, the thought making him feel physically ill. "England?" Canada asked softly, his voice full of concern. Before England could reply, England ran to where he knew the bathroom to be, making it just in time to vomit in privacy.
Oh God, he couldn't just sit there and watch America die. There had to be something that he could do to help, but he knew that there was little. What could he possibly do? Planes were crashing into buildings, and the only way to stop planes that were on a suicide mission was to blow them out of the sky. But England knew he couldn't do that—thousands of planes must have been in the air over America by now, filled with thousands of innocent people. In an attack like this, innocent people were going to die no matter what anyone did. England cursed at himself, gasping for air as he gripped the edges of the sink before him. America was hurting, and nothing could be done.
His stomach now empty, he washed off his face, trying to cool down his skin. He needed to calm himself. In these kinds of situations, the worst thing that a person could do was fall into panic. Roughly drying off his face, he took large gasps of air as he tried to settle himself down as much as was possible. Knowing he wasn't going to be much better than he was now, he then exited the washroom and, stumbling, found his way back to the sick room.
France had returned by now, a bowl of water on a small table that had been pulled up next to the bed. Most of the blood had been cleaned off of America's body, leaving his skin sickly pale. His chest was rising and falling at a painfully slow rate, his breaths ragged. England walked silently up to the bed, standing there mutely. France looked up at him for a moment and then pulled up a chair. He patted it lightly to tell England to take a seat. Nodding slightly, he sat down on the chair, his body feeling heavy. Canada was wrapping bandages around America's shoulder, covering the wounds. Canada's eyes were focused with a determination England had never witnessed before. When he actually noticed his existence, Canada was always calm and collected, and didn't seem to mind it when people didn't acknowledge him. But now he was the center of attention and he didn't seem to care as he focused on the task at hand.
Suddenly, America began coughing, his fists clenching. England forced himself to stay still, knowing that jumping up wasn't going to help anything. Slowly, America's eyes flickered open, his blue eyes looking tired. He let out a low groan as his hand began to wander toward his wounds, but Canada blocked his hand with his own. "Don't, brother," Canada said, his brows furrowed. "Don't move. Your wounds were finally closing."
"C-Canada," America murmured, his voice low and gravelly. He tried to reach for his wounds again, but Canada once again hit his hand away. "What's going on?" he asked, seeming to give up.
"The Twin Towers were hit," Canada explained as he continued to wrap bandages around him. "They're trying to get people out so they can put out the fires."
America sat still for a moment, his eyes staring off at nothing in particular. England felt a horrible pain eating at him as he saw his empty eyes, staring not at something in the room, but the thoughts flying behind his eyes in his mind. America seemed relatively calm, but he knew what a mask looked like—America was in a panic, and with good reason.
"Trying to get people out," America muttered, his voice chillingly quiet. The room remained silent for a few moments as America seemed to mull over this information. However, his face suddenly contorted as he gasped for air, making everyone jump. "They can't get them out!" America cried, pushing himself halfway up. The movement caused a horrible cry to escape him, but he didn't stop moving. "They're stuck! In the top of the building! They're stuck! They're stuck!" Canada tried to hold him down, but America was struggling too hard. England jumped up to help as America kept yelling out, "Oh God, they're stuck! They can't get out! They're dying! They're—!" England shoved down on America's struggling form, looking to see if France was about to help as well. However, the Frenchman was nowhere to be seen. England was about to start screaming for the coward to come back and help as fell forward, America suddenly becoming limp again. England pushed himself back up to see what had happened. Did he get hit again? His eyes saw America's frozen face, his blue eyes wide in terror. Tears escaped his eyes as he tightly shut them.
"America?" England said, reaching for him. But he also froze as America spoke once again.
"Damn it," America sobbed, tears trailing down his face. "Th-they're jumping. Oh God, they're jumping out." England stared at him, his green eyes wide. He knew from many wars and attacks passed that a country could feel it when their people were suffering. England had been able to feel it when the Omagh bombing had happened in 1998, feeling the twenty-nine people die. But as he looked at was happening to America right now, he knew that he had to be feeling hundreds of his people dying. America let out another cry of agony that wasn't just physical. "It hurts!" he cried, fists clenching so hard they were turning white. "Make it stop, make it stop! Stop!"
England couldn't take it anymore. He threw his arms around America, ignoring the complaints and warnings being given by Canada. Holding him close, he tried to comfort him, tried to make the pain go away. He hated seeing him like this, hated seeing him hurt this badly. "It's okay," he said, knowing full well that it wasn't. "It's okay. We're going to fix this. Calm down, it's okay."
America kept on gasping for air, but his body slowly relaxed as he seemed to catch his breath. England felt his hand lay on his back as America shivered with pain. "Arthur," he said, surprising England by using his human name. "Arthur. I'm so scared."
England held him close as he stroked his hair. "We'll fix this, Alfred," he said, hoping with all of his strength that he would be able to help make things right again. "We'll fix this."
Once America had calmed down some, England released him from the embrace, looking him over once again to make sure that he was stable. Tenderly, America smiled up at him. He opened his mouth to say something when his face suddenly went pale again. England jumped as another scream escaped him, skittering pathetically away from America. America clutched his chest over his heart, more blood visible between his fingers. England felt himself blanch.
He had been hit again.
x-x-x-x-x
America saw another flash of orange, saw fire, saw people being crushed and incinerated. A scream ripped through his body, the pain becoming worse and worse. He felt more tears streaming down his face as he tried to understand why someone would do this. Why would someone want to hurt him like this? Why would someone want to hurt anyone like this? It was pain that America could have never even begun to imagine, the burning so painful it was nearly impossible to describe. It felt like someone had stabbed him with a knife and just kept on twisting it mercilessly inside the wound. He wanted to pass out again, wanted to lose all feeling in his body, wanted to die.
The door burst open, America barely aware of it in his utter pain. "The Pentagon was just hit," a German voice yelled, making the room burst into sudden chaos. America could hear England yelling something, but the pain made it too difficult to decipher what was being said. The Pentagon had been hit. First the World Trade Centers, and now this. A sudden panic overcame him as he found it harder and harder to breathe.
"They're gonna hit the capital," he gasped, clenching his head as he felt like his head was going to split open. "They're going for important buildings, so they're gonna hit the capital. Oh God, they're gonna destroy the capital!" Destroying a nation's capital was the most devastating thing anyone could ever do to a country. Destroy a nation's capital, and their very core is obliterated. America had been lucky enough to survive this already in 1814, but there was a huge difference between the capital being burnt down and the capital being hit by a plane. Nothing would be left if a plane hit it—he could very well die if this happened.
The room went quiet as everyone in it realized that the capital was in extreme danger. "The planes," England said softly. "The planes. They need to come down. All of them, they need to come down now!"
"That's impossible," America said weakly. "By now there are thousands in the air. We can't just make them come down."
Within the time it took America to blink, England was suddenly in his face, making him painfully jump. "They. Are. Coming. Down," he hissed, his face the most determined he had ever seen. "Unless you want to lay there and die, all the planes are going to land. I don't care how many there are, they are all going to land."
"I'll take them in," Canada said suddenly, making both England and America turn their heads. "I'll take all I can away from the capital. I'll take in as many as I can." He got up and headed for the door. "I'm going to call Mexico and tell him what's going on. Don't worry, we'll take care of the planes." With that, Canada rushed out of the door, his rapid footsteps audible from the room.
America felt so grateful for Canada right then, more grateful than he could have ever explained with mere words alone. But with that gratefulness, a horrible guilt filled his stomach. He felt someone taking care of the fresh wound, but the pain only became worse. "This is all my fault," he murmured, draping an arm over his eyes.
The hands that had been working with the bandages stopped, and America could feel eyes piercing him. "This is not your fault," England's voice said. "You are being attacked wrongly. You didn't ask for—"
"Yes I did!" America cried, clenching eyes his shut. "I'm such an idiot! I've been messing with people, and I've finally been given punishment. I mean, look at the way I treat my own brother! He's doing all he can to take care of me, and I barely notice that he even exists!" He felt more tears escape his eyes, his chest filled with pain. "I deserve this."
His arm was ripped from his face, making him gasp with sudden pain. England looked at him, his green eyes aflame. "Don't you dare just give up like this," he growled, sending a small jolt down his spine. "No one deserves this, you idiot, especially you! You bring hope to the world; you provide the hope of freedom that other countries can only dream of! They are doing this to weaken you, so don't you dare let them!"
All America could do was stare at England, shocked by his words. He was usually so pessimistic and unkind to America, always irritated with what and how he did things. Yet here he was now, telling him not to give up. More tears escaped his eyes, but he quickly wiped them away. "Okay," he said, doing his best to shove all of the regret from his past out of mind. "I won't give in. They won't win. I'll make sure of it."
For a moment, England continued staring at him, not uttering a single word. He then silently continued to bandage his wounds. "You're a hero to the world, America," he said, keeping his eyes focused on what he was doing. "Remember that."
America stared at England, once again surprised by his words. "You sure you're okay, England?" America asked, a smile crossing weakly crossing his face. "It's kind of weirding me out that you're being this nice."
England just glanced at him with a glare, but a small smile was on his lips as well. "I figure I can continue being rude to you once we have this all figured out. Once the fires and such are taken care of in the Towers and the Pentagon, believe me, I'll get back to being my old self."
"That's good," America said, gathering enough strength to smirk. "A nice England is like dividing by zero—it just doesn't work."
England looked like he was going to make a snide comeback when Canada re-entered the room. "Mexico said he would take planes in too," he announced. "Planes are beginning to land, they're trying to do it as fast as possible."
"Thank you, Canada," England said, giving a slight nod as he continued to treat America's newest wound. "I really appreciate it. Thank you."
"Canada!" Everyone in the room, even America himself jumped as he yelled his brother's name. Canada looked concerned, as if he thought he had done something wrong—which made America feel even worse. Had he ever even shown any affection or appreciation for him before now? "Canada, I'm so sorry!" America said desperately. "I'm sorry I'm such a horrible brother! I really am! Thank you so much for everything! I'm sorry I never pay attention to you, and I don't deserve to have you as a brother, and I'm—"
"It's okay," Canada said, a quivering smile on his face. "Don't worry about that now. Worry about getting better. Everything else can wait, just get better."
America smiled, knowing he really didn't deserve Canada as a brother. He really had to do something for him once all of this was fixed.
The tenderness of the situation suddenly crumbled as America felt a horrible shifting in his earlier wounds. He gasped, gripping the wounds as if he could stop the pain, could hold himself together. Sudden screams cried out in his head as he felt the wound reopen, becoming worse than he thought could be possible. He joined in with the screams as he felt a pain like someone had reached into his wounds and tore them open farther. People screaming, falling, falling, falling.
Then the screaming just stopped.
x-x-x-x-x
Why was this happening? Why would someone be so angry as to make someone go through this? What kind of sick person thought that this was at all acceptable? England could do nothing but question as America screamed, his old wounds reopening, now worse than ever. Commotion could be heard going on where the conference had been held—it seemed so long ago that they had just been here, not doing anything out of the ordinary. England ran to the door, trying to figure out what in God's name had just happened. A panicked Italy burst out of the conference room, tears streaming down his face.
"What happened?" England yelled, making the small Italian jump. "What's going on? What's happening?"
"V-v-ve," Italy stammered, choking on his tears. "I-it fell! It fell down! The t-tower! I-it's gone!"
England froze, the words bouncing around in his head, not making sense. Fell down? No, that couldn't be possible. A building of that size—how could it have fallen? It simply wasn't possible. Needing to see for himself, he rushed past Italy and into the conference room. Everyone was gathered around the television, barely even looking at England as he came in. No one was speaking, all staring at the screen. Some were crying, others just paralyzed. Even Russia sat silent, his eyes looking actually fearful and concerned. Finally, England looked at the screen, feeling his stomach clench. Where two towers had once stood, now only one remained, a horrible thick gray cloud of destruction surrounding it. Screams could be heard as innocent bystanders ran for their lives, and the news anchors had gone silent, only the occasional "Oh God" to be heard. England felt his legs shaking, amazed that he was still standing. "No," he whispered, staring at the television. "No. How could this…?"
Another painful cry could be heard from the sick room, tearing England apart. Everyone's eyes shot up, landing on England. No one said a word, but their expressions spoke for them: Is he dying? Will he live? When is this going to end? Why is this happening? Unable to face those faces any longer, England quickly turned around and ran back to the sick room.
As soon as England entered the room, another horrendous scream escaped America, yet another new wound bleeding out. This time, it was on the right side of his waist, blood trailing down his side. Canada looked horrified, shocked by both the reopened and new wounds. England wanted to start screaming himself as the situation continued to unfold, becoming worse and worse. When was this going to end? When were the attacks going to be over? When was America going to be safe again?
"Oh God!" America cried out, tears trailing down his face. "They all died! They tried to stop it! They all died, God dammit!"
England rushed up to him, his eyes shooting back and forth, trying to take in the whole situation. "What happened?" England yelled, not able to contain his panic. "What just happened? What did they hit?"
America choked on his sobs, trying to speak. "Th-they… the plane w-was h-hijacked! They tried t-to stop it! They broke in and t-tried to stop them! B-but they couldn't get c-control! Th-they tried to save everyone b-but… they crashed! Oh God, they crashed, and they all died! They're all dead!"
England took in the information, still so confused. "What did they hit?" he asked again.
"N-n-nothing!" America sobbed. "They stopped th-the plane from hitting the c-capital! B-but they couldn't s-save the plane! England, they couldn't stop them! They all died! They tried so hard, but they all died anyway! God, it hurts!"
Finally, England understood: one of the flights that had been meant to hit a building had somehow been taken back by America's people. Probably not wanting them to win, the hijackers crashed the plane. America had just felt his people give up their lives for him. This was already a horrible pain for a country to bear when people died for them in a war; but when innocent people were just senselessly murdered, it was completely different. They were just minding their own business and ended up at the wrong place at the wrong time. They hadn't even put themselves in the line of fire—they were just murdered for no reason. It was a pain that was incomprehensible.
As America continued to sob, Canada seemed to snap out of his shock. He immediately went into action as he began treating the fresh wound. England stepped back and let him work, unable to say anything—what was there to say? I'm sorry? There was absolutely nothing he could say to make the situation better. For all he knew, there was another plane in the air about to strike. Where would he be hit next? California? Texas? Were they still after the capitol? He had no idea what was going on, and could do nothing to stop those who were hurting America. He felt absolutely worthless.
"What happened?" The question forced England to bring himself out of his worrying, looking up at Canada. He was still working on America's wounds, but he was looking at him intently, waiting for an answer.
"One of the towers," England said, cringing at how weak he sounded. "One of them collapsed. It's gone. Completely gone."
Canada paused for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening. He then began wrapping America's wounds faster. "Oh no," Canada said under his breath. "No, no, no, that's bad. That's really bad."
"Well, of course it's bad!" England said rudely without thinking. He quickly regretted it though; being rude wasn't going to help anyone.
He was about to apologize for his rudeness when Canada shot a look at him, making England jump slightly—Canada never got angry. "Those towers are built similarly," he said, his eyes angry and concerned. "They're called the Twin Towers for a reason. Don't you get what that means? If one falls, the other one probably will too."
"They're stuck."
Both Canada and England returned their attention to America. "What?" Canada asked, returning his hands to taking care of his wounds.
"In the tower," America murmured, his eyes struggling to stay open. "They're scared. They're so scared. They saw the tower go down, and they're scared. They can't get out. The stairs are cut off, and the elevators don't work. They know they're… they're not going to make it out." He closed his eyes, tears slipping down his face. "They're not even hoping anymore. They're trying to decide whether just to wait it out or just jump. They know it's all going to end the same. They're just waiting. They're…"
England lightly shushed him, brushing America's hair out of his sweaty face. "Calm down," he said quietly, trying himself to remain calm. "They're going to do all they can, America. We have to hope for them." But he knew his words weren't of much use. America knew better than he did what was happening. Seeing him like this was utterly terrifying. He was always so happy, so upbeat, so optimistic. But now, he had no hope, no witty comments to lift the mood. All he could to was lay there in pain. It was the most painful thing England had ever seen in his existence.
More shouts could be heard from the conference room as America jumped, barely able to contain another cry of pain. More tears escaped his eyes as the second wound reopened, but he for once didn't scream. England childishly thought for one second that maybe this didn't hurt as much, but quickly came to the correct conclusion—he was just too tired to scream anymore. Not able to stop himself, England ran over to the conference room to see what had happened. He thought that maybe just part of the remaining tower had collapsed, that maybe some of it was left to salvage. However, as he reached the room to stare at the television, all of his naïve hope was crushed. Where the two towers had once stood, there was nothing but smoke and dust. Nothing was left. Nothing but twisted debris and rubble.
It was gone. Everything was gone.
x-x-x-x-x
By the time that England had returned to the room, America was unconscious again. Everyone sat in wait, keeping their eyes on the television. What was going to happen next? Were there still rogue planes in the air? Was America still under attack? But as time continued to crawl by at what seemed an excruciatingly slow pace, a bittersweet relief came over them—it was over.
Or, at least for now it was. Looking at all that was left to be done—the searches, the putting out of fires, the removal of the debris—England knew that this truly wasn't going to be over for a long time. With that and the emotional trauma and the scars that would be left behind, it was going to take years for everything to be anywhere close to right again.
He didn't know how long it had been since everything had occurred when Canada came and found him where he had been huddled against a wall, feeling himself go numb. No one had tried to talk to him, knowing that he wanted to be alone. All of the other countries also were in pain, not only from watching the events, bust also feeling it for themselves. A huge majority of those who had been murdered during the attacks were Americans. But on the flights and in the World Trade Centers, people from countries all over the world had been caught in the tragedy. Every country now had their own pain to deal with.
England knew he had been huddled in his small corner of safety for a few hours, but he couldn't be sure of the exact time he'd spent there by himself. Canada's words barely registered, nothing making much sense anymore. It took a few moments to understand what Canada had said—America was awake. He wanted to see him.
"How long has it been?" England asked, honestly concerned about how much time had passed. How long had he just been sitting here, unable to do anything?
Canada's expression was a sad one—one of understanding. He must have been feeling the same pain as England, not being able to help America as much as he desperately wanted. "He's been asleep for about a day. He finally just woke up." England sat there for a few moments, taking the new information in—a day. He had been sitting alone and in pain for a day? It seemed completely unreal. He felt Canada's eyes on him, and quickly got himself up, his body complaining from the movement. America wanted to see him—and England needed to see him too.
Not sure of how he got there, England found himself in the sick room, staring at America lying on the bed, his chest rising and falling slowly. His bloody wounds were hidden from view now, but England knew they still had to be horribly painful. America's blue eyes drifted in his direction, his face defeated. It made England's heart feel like it was shattering.
"I'm here," England said weakly, slowly walking towards his bedside. Each step he took, he felt like his legs would give out. How could this have happened? Why did this have to happen? What was the reasoning behind it? Finally, he sat down next to America on a seat, looking down at him, not sure of what else to do. What could he ever do to help him now?
It seemed like an eternity passed as America and England just kept eye contact, unable to say anything. But even in the silence, they were able to understand everything that wasn't said; the pain, the sorrow, the confusion, the anger. Finally, America spoke.
"I'm sorry," he said weakly, his blue eyes quivering. "I'm sorry that I failed."
The words made absolutely no sense. "What?" England asked as he just stared at him, trying to figure out what he had just said. Why was he apologizing? He was the one who had been attacked, the one who had almost been killed. He had no reason to be apologizing to anyone. "No. Why are you sorry?"
America didn't say anything as he turned his head so he could look up at the blank ceiling. "I failed as a hero," he said quietly, his face void of emotions. "I could have done something. I could have saved people. But instead, I just stayed here. I stayed here and did nothing. I failed everyone. I'm such a horrible person."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What?" England repeated, staring at him. "America, you were injured! You were horribly injured! There was nothing you could have done!"
"Wrong." The single word made England stop, not able to think of anything else to say. What was he wrong about? "I remember being told that people were planning to attack us. I remember not taking it seriously. I said that they couldn't hurt us, they we didn't need to worry about it right now. This is why this happened. Because I'm an idiot. Because I thought that I was invincible. I'm not. And because of me, all of those innocent people…"
"You didn't do this!" England interjected. "You didn't cause this! This isn't your fault! Those people died because they were murdered, not because—"
"Two thousand, nine hundred and seventy-seven." England's throat caught, feeling his body going cold. "That's how many people died today. 2977. All of them were innocent, not doing anything besides work. They didn't deserve this. They weren't doing anything, just their normal things. They were innocent people that were crashed into buildings. Innocent people trapped in buildings that had to decide whether they wanted to suffocate or jump to their deaths. Innocent people murdered all because people can't just agree. Innocent people killed because I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it!" America's mask finally broke as tears poured down his face, his body shaking. "They're dead because of me. It's my fault. My fault. I was supposed to be a hero, and I failed them all. I failed everyone. I'm not a hero. A hero could never let this happen."
A string of words continued to escape him, but they became mangled by his sobs, his body quivering. His words literally hurt, their pain palpable. England had no idea what to do; how would he ever be able to comfort him now? He had such a horrible loss, such a horrible pain, just simple words would never be able to help. Not knowing what else to do, he moved himself to America's side and embraced him, trying to still his shaking body. "I'm sorry," England choked, for the first time realizing that he, too, was crying. "I'm so sorry, America. Please, I'm so sorry."
They stayed like that for what felt like such a long time, tears meeting tears as America, after a huge struggle on his part, was able to regain his composure. England returned to his chair, but America held onto his hand as if it was a lifeline. At any other time, England would be irritated with this, but not now. If this was what America needed, then England would give it to him. So many of America's words still irked him so. How could he ever think that this was all his fault? Everyone made mistakes, but never had he made one that was worthy of this.
"America," he said quietly, carefully. "You may have not been able to stop what happened today, but that doesn't mean that you aren't a hero." America looked like he was about to argue, but England gave a quick squeeze to his hand. "Please, hear me out." America looked like he still wanted to argue his point, but he complied as he laid his head back down. "Everyone fails at one point, that's a given. Greece fell, Rome fell. Hell, even the British Empire fell. Everyone will fall at some point in their life. Even heroes. But do you know what makes a hero?"
America continued to stare up at the ceiling, his face once again blank. "A hero is someone who protects people," he answered. "A hero protects those he loves. A hero doesn't let people down."
Slowly, England nodded. "Yes, those things do describe a hero," he said. "But this is what I think truly makes a hero. A hero is someone who stands. A hero is someone who—even after being hated, after being attacked, after being shoved to the ground and utterly defeated—after all of this, a hero is someone who defies everyone who hates them and stands back up." England looked into America's eyes as he watched the words seem to sink in. For a while, America's eyes remained dull and lifeless. But it was suddenly as if a switch had been pulled as the words seemed to hit home for America. His eyes, once empty and hopeless, were full of fire. "America," England said, staring into those blue eyes, daring him to argue with him now. "Now that you've been shoved to the ground, kicked and spat on, what are you going to do? Are you going to stay on the ground and give in? Or are you going to be the man—the hero—I know and stand?"
The flames became stronger in his eyes, his face more determined than England had ever seen before. "Stand," America proclaimed. "I'm gonna stand. And I'm going to help those who I can now. And whoever did this to me—to my people—I'm going to find them, and I'm going to make them pay." For the first time in what seemed like years, America smiled. "Because I'm a hero."
England gave a weary smile of his own. "Whoever did this to you will have to watch out for the both of us. Consider me a part of the war too."
Almost looking surprised at this, America widened his smile. "Gladly." For once, America looked peaceful as he closed his eyes. They both knew that the path lying before them was going to be a long and hard one, holding hatred and sorrow and criticism. But it was going to be a road worth taking—the right road. "England," America said, not opening his eyes, his voice sounding so tired. "Can you sing me something?"
A little surprised by the request, England simply nodded. "What did you want me to sing? Anything in particular?"
"Anything," America hummed, fading off to sleep. England smiled at him, trying to think of a song that could calm them. However, he felt tears enter his eyes as a song came to mind. He took a moment as thought over whether it was appropriate or not, but then realized that there had never been a better time for it. His breath slightly hitching in his throat, he began to sing the words.
"Oh say can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming;
Who's broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there:
Oh say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?"
By the end of the song, America had fallen asleep, tears streaming down his face. His hand finally loosened its grip of England's, letting him take his hand back to wipe away his own tears. Never again did he want to see America this hurt ever again. He was going to stand by America no matter what, and make sure to do whatever he could to make sure that no such tragedy ever occurred again.
He swore this on his honor.
x-x-x-x-x
Ten years later
x-x-x-x-x
The sound of the water flowing from the memorials before him soothed America's nerves as he took deep breath after deep breath. The water was to represent the tears shed for those who had been so tragically lost ten years ago, America still not sure how new ones had not yet been shed today. After so many years, he had perfected his mask, making it easy for him to hide from people just how much he hurt; how much he always hurt. Even on good days, his wounds where the towers used to stand still throbbed, proving to be a constant reminder that things were never going to be the same, no matter how much work they did. No matter how much building they did, no matter how many memorials were created, nothing could be done to bring back all those who were gone. Nothing could be done to make America ever feel completely safe again. It had taken America months for him to even set foot on a plane, let alone look at one. After he had been able to convince himself that they were safe, he had never even been able to pilot once since. Just looking at the cockpit brought back flashes of crashing, burning, screaming. Even after ten years, his scars still felt fresh.
A hand laid itself on his shoulder, making him flinch. Too fast, he turned to see who his potential attacker was this time. Who's attacking now? Is it happening again? However, he turned only to see a startled England. America froze, feeling stupid for his jumpiness. He just laughed it off as he weakly waved at the island nation. "Hey, England," he said apologetically. "Sorry, you kinda startled me."
England nodded in understanding, walking up to stand at his side. "I apologize," he said. "I should have announced myself. I should have known you'd be more... cautious today."
America once again shrugged it off. "Aw, it's okay. I'm always just nervous around this time... Y'know?" Whenever this time of the year came around, not only would America's scars hurt far worse than usual, but he would always be scared out of his mind. So many times he had heard that Afghanistan wanted to remind America about all he had done, how he deserved to watch his people die, on one of the anniversaries. A loud noise, someone looking out of place, or God forbid plane at a slightly low altitude: everything would make him suspicious. He couldn't trust anyone. Especially with how his boss had been acting recently.
"I understand," England said knowingly. "I am too. I always worry that I'll miss something. I always worry that I won't be able to do enough to help."
America offered a weak smile. "Yeah. Me too. Me too."
The crowd around them silenced as the annual memorial started. America stared on, listening as all of the names of those who were lost were read, feeling each person as they were recognized. It was impossible to think that it was ten years ago that all of America had changed; that the whole world had changed. As the pain in his heart grew, so did his resolve. His eyes fell on the pools with names engraved around them, naming all of those who were lost. Each name only gave him another reason to keep standing, to keep fighting against those who wanted to remove him from the world. He was never going to give up, and was never going to let them win. He had too much to fight for to give up.
He had hope. He had the ability to dream. He had freedom.
No. He would never give up.
x-x-x-x-x
This took so long for me to write... so long. Many nights I went to bed and would begin crying because of all the research I had to go through, all of the things I learned and relearned. I honestly hope that I was able to give the respect deserved by those who so tragically had their lives taken away from them. Please review.