The chill of the winter breeze froze him to his bones, his aviator jacket unable to block the entire chill. Dark and gloomy clouds muffled the world, promising a new snow to cover the muddy slush on the ground. Goosebumps pricked his arms, though whether from the weather or from his predicament, he didn't know.
Despair had enveloped him as he saw her standing beside another. She had chosen Russia over him. He grit his teeth to keep his tears from breaching over his eyelids. He loved her, and had shown nothing but kindness, yet she still didn't trust him. Even now, her eyes were cold towards him.
"Belarus," he pleaded under his breath, knowing that even if he called out to her, it would fall on deaf ears. His hand reluctantly moved to the pistol strapped to his hip. He didn't wish for this, he didn't want to fight her, but he'd have no choice if this was her final answer.
He heard the crunch of snow as his ally, Switzerland, came to stand beside him. The blonde man's presence gave him his resolve back, too much had been lost in this war to stop now.
Time froze as he whipped out his gun and fired the first bullet of the battle that would end it. An all-encompassing boom sounded as the gunpowder propelled the bullet outwards. He barely noticed Switzerland leap into action beside him. Russia deftly jerked his bloody pipe, and the bullet ricocheted with a sharp ping.
The larger man ran to cover the distance and force the fight into his favor as a close range one. Russia dodged two more bullets before he reached America. Once there, he swung the hardy pipe down in an arc.
America dodged backwards, slipping on the slush. Seizing the chance, Russia brought his weapon around again in one swift motion, hitting America straight on the side of his head.
The impact knocked the country to the side, unconscious. Blood flowed freely from the nasty gash on his temple, coloring the snow crimson.
He was awake by the time Russia had kicked him onto his back, and slammed his heavily booted foot onto his chest. Dazed and gasping for air through a fog of pain, America stared up at the grinning face of the country that stole her from him. Slowly, Russia raised his pipe with both hands, and brought it down for the killing strike.
Broken-heartedness at her betrayal, fear of his incoming death, depression that he had to suffer all of this, and acceptance of the peace that would welcome him afterwards flashed through America in a matter of split seconds. Then, he heard it, a small, feminine gasp of pain. How could he call himself a hero if he couldn't even save the country he loved?
Renewed vigor mixed with adrenaline as he raised his hand just in time to catch the lead pipe. The metal thunk was accentuated by his grunt of pain. Russia had put a lot of power into that swing, and America had felt his wrist break.
Ignoring the pain, he punched Russia's leg to knock it off of his chest, and pushed himself out from under him, sliding on the wet snow. Jumping up behind his back, America did a round house kick, having to jump up to reach the bigger countries head, dazing him long enough for him to snatch up his gun.
Russia slowly turned around, only to have the gun at point blank in his face. His ever present grin vanished as he stared defiantly into America's blue eyes.
"Even if you pull the trigger, I will rise again," he threatened in his thick accent. "And when I do, she'll become a part of me."
Incomprehensible anger enveloped America, and he pulled the trigger. Russia fell to the ground in a splatter of blood.
America turned, a triumphant grin on his face. It was over, with Russia gone, she would finally, finally pick me. As his eyes found her, and his joy evaporated. She was on the ground, her dainty hands grasping at a bullet wound in her stomach, blood flowing freely from between her fingers as her breath came in gasps. Her knife was nowhere to be seen. Their eyes met, blue clashed with gray. Her eyes shone with remorse, hatred, pain, sadness, and, above all, loneliness.
In the corner of his eye, America saw Switzerland take aim with his rifle, ready to finish his own battle.
"No, wait!" America yelled, reaching out to stop him, but he was too far, and it was too late.
In that moment, time picked itself up, only for Belarus to fall backwards, a hole in her chest. America ran over, and held her with his good hand as she began to cough up blood, unable to breathe.
"Belarus," America cried now, pressing his head to hers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He rocked back and forth, sharing her pain as he watched the life drain from her eyes.