To all my dear readers:

I'm sorry for the delays on Maleficium and on Closets and Bookcases. Both stories are with my lovely beta, but both she and I have started college and she has not given me a time slot on when she will be done editing them. However, if she does not finish editing them by October I will upload them un-beta'ed.

The story itself is just me releasing Hetaoni feelings in the form of really sad USUK. I'm sorry. I hope you enjoy.

Britain, bloodied and cradling a broken arm, stumbled into a dark and empty room. His breathing haggard, he leaned against the cold, white wall.

It was useless. Italy was going to turn back time any minute now and yet, the island nation just felt like this was going to happen over and over and over again. They would always lose. Even with all their powers combined, they were never going to stop those monsters. They weren't strong enough. They couldn't protect everyone. Someone would always be lost.

This time it was Russia and China. Italy had cried that they had been so close and that he was so sure they would make it out this time. Germany and Prussia had to console him. Japan hadn't spoken since then.

Britain felt his chest heave and fell into a horrible coughing fit, tasting the disgusting metal in his mouth as he slipped down to the floor. He closed his eyes and took deep, calming breaths. No one was in a position to survive this round, he supposed.

None of this was supposed to happen.

He couldn't shake the horrible thought out of his mind. How can some strange monster kill a country? It didn't seem possible. It shouldn't be possible. And yet here he was, bleeding out on the wooden floor of this haunted mansion, waiting for it to start all over again for a different Britain in a different time.

"Lucky bastard," he mumbled bitterly, hearing footsteps running towards him. He honestly didn't care who or what it was anymore: he didn't have the magic or strength to fight them anyway. Britain closed his eyes, waiting for the darkness to take him away.

"Britain...?"

The island nations eyes shot open at the overly familiar voice just in time to see the speaker's face soften in relief. America stood in front of him, jacket torn and hair disheveled. He had a nasty bruise right below his left eye and as he moved to sit down, Britain could see an ugly gash running up the side of his leg. It was still bleeding.

Britain swallowed hard and looked away from the injured American.

"I can't die in peace, can I?" Britain joked, bitterly.

"Don't you ever say that," America snapped, too quickly. Their eyes met, ocean blue and emerald green, and Britain felt a throbbing pain in his chest. He tore his eyes away and stared at the floor.

"Why aren't you with the others?" he asked. America took a moment to reply.

"I wanted to be with you."

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not better company," Britain retorted, blinking rapidly as if that comment hadn't made his heart leap uncomfortably in his chest. Now was not the time. He smiled tartly despite himself and wondered if there ever would be a time.

"Can we please not fight right now?" the younger nation pleaded, their eyes meeting again for another fleeting moment. The American looked so tired, so strained. Britain can't remember if he had ever seen America look so old. This time, America looked away.

For a while they sat in silence, silently relishing the fact that they weren't alone and yet dreading the fact that this whole fiasco would just start all over again. That next time, maybe someone else will perish in their first encounter with the monster. Maybe Japan won't move fast enough. Maybe France and Canada won't solve puzzles fast enough. Maybe Prussia and Germany won't fix weapons efficiently enough. Maybe Britain will lose his magic too quickly and more lives will be lost. Britain felt his throat tighten. Maybe America will foolishly get himself killed trying to be a hero. He sniffed quietly and tried to wipe his betraying eyes on his dirty sleeve.

It was America who broke the silence.

"Britain..." he whispered, quietly staring at the older nation. Foolishly, Britain met his gaze.

"I'm sorry," was all Britain could croak out, his eyes stinging from threatening tears. Britain wanted to be left alone. He was fine keeping these emotions under lock and key. He was an expert at it. He had been fine ignoring the pain he had felt. All of the fear, all of the anguish, all of it had been hidden. He was fine.

It was only when America was near, when their eyes met, when America gave him that compassionate look, that his composure melted. He was left bare. So bare that even the oblivious American could see right through him. Britain broke their eye contact, hoping that America hadn't seen his emotions and yet knowing that he did. Britain closed his eyes tightly when he felt America's calloused and cold hand rest softly on his arm.

"Look at me," he whispered, squeezing gently. Britain took a deep breath, swallowed and complied. America stared directly at Britain and the island nation inadvertently shivered at how passionate the American's gaze was. "Regardless of what happens," he whispered, his voice giving off the same intensity as his eyes, "whatever time line I'm in, I will always protect you," Britain's eyes widened and America swallowed, determined, "Even if I die doing it."

"Don't you ever say that," Britain snapped, too quickly. America released his arm and Britain felt his heart ache at the loss of contact. He blinked rapidly, futilely trying to suppress his emotions as he looked away again. He couldn't do this. He couldn't face America. Not now. Not when they were about to forget this all ever happened. Not when they were about to restart because everything they did in this time line was useless. Not when they failed. Again.

Tears came, unbidden, and Britain had to bite his lower lip to suppress a sob. He wiped his eyes vigorously with his good arm, knowing it was useless but continuing anyway. He needed some semblance of how he was supposed to act. He was supposed to be a gentleman. Now he just felt like a child.

He could feel America watching him. He could see the younger blond's concerned and equally broken face out of the corner of his eye. Without warning, he felt an arm wrap around his shoulders and pull him into a tight embrace. Although he gasped quietly, Britain didn't protest. He returned the embrace wholeheartedly with his functioning arm, his face buried deeply into the crook of America's neck. America shuddered and gripped Britain tightly, as if they were the only two people alive. As if this moment was the only one that mattered.

"God, we're never getting out of here," Britain choked. America only gripped him tighter.

"We will," he whispered, his voice strained, "I promise."

And Britain hoped against hope that he was right.

I'M SO SORRY. Here is a tissue for all your feels. *hands tissue*

I don't know if I'm going to make this a series or not, so if you like incredibly sad fics set in Hetaoni just ask and I will write.

Thank you and have a wonderful day!