Happy birthday to Cahayafosc! This fic is my gift to her, since she loves depressing stories. This is my first time writing truly depressing stuff and I really hope she likes it! You're the best friend in the entire world, and you've been with me through thick and thin and have stayed patient throughout every one of my rants about life in general, and you were the one that showed me Hetalia in the first place, and that's caused so many great memories between us... I'm rambling. Happy birthday, and I hope you have a really great day :)

"In formation, gentlemen."

Arthur's voice cracked as he quietly ordered the formally dressed men into formation, watching them stand up straight and leaning their muskets against their shoulders, staring straight ahead with solemn expressions. He glanced over and saw the others doing the same, hearing Ivan's mumble of "V vashikh ryadakh," Yao's voice, thick with tears, yelling "Wèi xíngchéng!" and Francis' hushed "Avoir du respect pour ceux qui sont tombés." All of the Allies were here, except for the one man for whom they had gathered.

Alfred.

A lump hardened in the British man's throat as he thought of the hero-obsessed American who no longer stood among them. Instead he lay in a white casket placed before a group of chairs positioned in the courtyard, a large American flag wrapped around the case's lid. The man himself lay straight and orderly in the box, his hands folded and propped neatly on the chest of his uniform, eyes slid closed underneath his shined glasses, with a slight grimace still on his face from the cursed events that had taken place two days earlier. Arthur allowed his mind to focus solely on that memory, his eyes glazing over as he stood deep in thought.

No. No way. I refuse to believe this is happening.

Fire licked at the remains of Alfred's treasured New York City, blood staining every shattered piece of glass laying about on the streets, ash and dust coating every board ripped from the billboards. A lone flag lay in the midst of it all, burning slowly among the debris, the flames engulfing it in their welcoming arms. A pair of boots leapt over the flames, landing with a loud thump and clacking quickly over to where Alfred lay, the owner dropping down next to the nation with an agonized cry. "America!"

The nation in question smiled weakly up at Arthur. "H-hey, Engla-" he began, but then was overtaken by a violent fit of coughing, sending small droplets of blood showering onto the English man's face. He grimaced, raising a shaking hand and smearing the sticky fluid onto the back of it, and glanced back up at Arthur once more. "Sorry."

"No, no, it's quite alright, I just... we need to get you somewhere safe. What happened to you-?" he asked, examining the American's body. Various cuts and bruises littered his skin, but the real problem here, Arthur realized, was the gaping, shredded mess that was Alfred's abdomen. Strips of bloodied, ragged skin hung off of him, blood soaking his clothes and pooling up under him, and his face was red with fever, hair dripping with his sweat. "How bad is it, d'ya think?" America asked in a small voice, closing his eyes and laying back. England surveyed the grotesque wound once more, and cleared his throat.

"It's... it's fine, I can patch it up."

"Cut the bullcrap," Alfred said shortly, grabbing Arthur's wrist. For a severely injured nation, he still had incredible strength. "We both know I'm gonna go down." England shook his head quickly, ripping bits of America's shirt off with one hand as he rifled through his bag with the other, seeking out bandages and different medicines. America grabbed England's wrist again, and looked up at him, a look of mixed terror and solemnity in his eyes. "Iggy..." he said, using the age-old nickname that the Brit had acquired. "You and I both know I'm not getting through this."

Arthur shook his head again, and approached Alfred with the bandages. "Iggy. Stop it. It's not going to work." England bit his lip, moving in close with the bandages, and America hit his arm, the force of the blow still standing strong even in his weakened state. "Arthur Kirkland, you listen to me right now, you friggin' jerky limey! Stop it! You can't do anything for me! I'm not going to make it!" He screamed into the man's face, hot and furious tears rolling over his grimy cheeks. "I'm not going to make it," he repeated in a whisper after a moment of silence. Arthur sat back, willing himself not to burst into tears as he looked at Alfred. "What do you want me to do, then?" he whispered back, barely audible.

"Stay with me," Alfred cried, leaning into the British man. "Stay with me until the end." Arthur took the American man into his arms and cried with him, every sliver of pain and sorrow that he felt for Alfred built into each wracking sob. The Brit cried like a child for quite a long while before going silent, and looking down at the still man in his arms, panic and fear shooting through him as he did. "America...?" he asked, worry lacing his voice. He obtained no reply, and shook the man slightly. "America!" Still he made no movement or sound, and with a bitter sob England realized that he'd carried out his promise to Alfred. He threw his bag on the ground and grabbed his hair, pulling at it in a sorrow-induced rage. What would he do now that America was gone...

"England," a heavily accented voice cut into the memory, dragging Arthur back to reality in seconds. He blinked, seeing Russia in front of him, looking at him with an expression of curiosity. "Y-yes?" he replied, swallowing the lump at his throat and swiping at his eyes quickly. "It is time to do the burying," Ivan said, sadness creeping into his voice as he spoke. "We must line up in ranks, da?" England nodded, and rounded on his heel, walking behind the casket and standing tall in front of the other nations that had gathered for the morbid occasion. He cleared his throat, seeing the crowd of countries in front of him, and addressed them.

"Fellow nations, it is with great sorrow that we all gather here today to pay our respects to a fallen soldier, friend, and brother." he stopped, sucking in his breath, then continued. "Alfred Jones was a hero, a truly magnificent one at that. I bear great regret in telling you that he died in battle, due to his complex wounds and weakened state from the newest revolt his people celebrated. And it is with great sorrow that I say goodbye to this man, because he was talented, humorous... a bit of a nuisance at times, but all in all a good man." Arthur stopped, his voice cracking once again, and swallowed once more. "Goodbye, America; your feats will never b-be forgotten, and this serves as a lesson t-to us all that even in the f-face of adver- adversit-" he pressed a shaking palm into his face, a few hot tears escaping his eyes as his shoulders shook with grief. Francis stepped up and placed a comforting hand on the nation's back, ushering him to the side to stand with his ranks as he finished the speech. "Goodbye, notre chère Amérique; a hero has fallen, and that hero will be missed by all." He returned to his place in the ranks among Russia, China (who was openly bawling at this point), and England.

The military bands began to play their mournful renditions of America's national anthem, and as the casket was closed the flag was removed from the top of the box, and folded in the arms of a fellow soldier. As the anthem finished, all of the nations saluted their fallen comrade, and there was a moment of silence held for the man. Finally, the band began to softly play Taps, and the casket began to lower into the six foot hole. England began to hyperventilate, tears beginning to wash down his face as he whimpered slightly, trying desperately to stand tall and keep his saluting stance out of respect. The casket dropped into the hole, settled inside, and a general from America's army took the flag and presented it to England. The Brit nodded, rubbing furiously at his eyes, and took the flag, stowing it underneath his coat as he and all of the other British troops prepared their small pistols to fire.

3...

Tears still ran down England's cheeks as he gave an agonized sob, cocking his gun at an angle to shoot into the air, feeling lost and depressed and without reason. England stared at his gun as if seeing it for the first time, as a plan formed inside his mind. What was the point anymore? His best friend, the boy he'd raised, the man he'd even loved, was dead. Gone. Was never coming back. There was no point anymore if America wasn't on earth with him.

2...

The rest of the troops aimed at the ready as the American flag was raised high into the air for the last time, and England utilized his plan, his hands shaking violently along with his shoulders as he aimed high into the air, closing his eyes and letting the tears roll off of his face as he finalized his decision. He was right to do it; it wasn't as if he had a purpose anymore. There was nothing, absolutely nothing worth going on for. And besides... if he did this... he'd be with America again. That was the selling point.

1...

"At the ready?" the same general that had given England the flag asked the men, and satisfied with their stances, turned and aimed his own gun up at the sky. "Aim..."

"Fire."

A single early shot rang out as England turned the weapon to his own head, dropping to the floor. As he fell, in his final moments, he thought "America, I'm coming as quickly as I can," and felt the life leave his body as he swirled into darkness.

America, I'm here.