"Ivan, please, you gotta come, I need you," Alfred sobbed into his phone.
"Amerika? What is happening there?"
"I - I just need you. . ."
"Alfred! Explain what is happening!"
"I - I can't do this anymore! Ivan, please, I can't, I can't. . ." he wailed.
"Hold on, I'll be there as fast as I can. Don't move. Don't do anything. I'll be there," Ivan said, trying to reassure the younger man.
"Okay. . ." he whispered in reply.
Alfred stared at the large shard of glass he was clutching. He held it so tightly that it bit into the flesh of his palm and stained the carpet with drops of his blood. His arms were marred by deep bloody gashes, painful words that mocked him and showed his pain. 'FAT' they screamed. STUPID. WORTHLESS. UNLOVED. He laughed bitterly as he looked at the biggest, the deepest, the most painful, the one that tore him apart inside. HERO.
Hero. America couldn't die and he knew that. The hero can't die. Yes, his body would die, but it would always regenerate in a few days or weeks. Nations are immortal, and almost all of them have tried to change that at some point (or multiple points) in their history.
He dragged the sharp glass across his skin, opening his flesh and causing more blood to spill onto the floor. He had no reason to live and too many reasons to die. Alfred slowly lifted his arm to his throat, his hand trembling as he pressed the shard against his pulse, feeling the beat of his life. The life he was going to end. He pressed harder until the glass pierced his skin. He pressed deeper yet, feeling the blood spurt out of him.
A pounding on the door startled him, making him drop the glass.
"Amerika?" came a Russian accented voice.
"Door's open," Alfred said.
Ivan stepped through the door and the first thing he saw was America laying on the floor surrounded by blood, his breathing shallow.
The Russian was horrified and rushed to Alfred's side, not caring about the blood staining his coat.
"Fredka?!"
Alfred partially opened his eyes and smiled weakly.
"Ivan. . . you came,"
"Da,"
Russia cradled Alfred's head in his lap, stroking the honey-blonde hair and knowing that, even with all his power of being the biggest nation in the world, there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent the imminent death of the younger country.
"Dorogoy," he whispered.
The life slowly poured out of America as blood spurted from his neck. Ivan held him, telling him everything would be okay and that he would never be alone, whispering sweet nothings in Russian to the dying man in his arms. Soon the light was gone from his eyes and his chest ceased to move with breath.
"Fredka?" the Russian said, squeezing the dead American's hand as the warmth of life slowly faded.
Tears spilled from his violet to land on Alfred's body, making tiny paths through the blood stains. Ivan wrapped his arms around Alfred's body and let out a wail, the likes of which he hadn't done in centuries and would never do again.