Guns are beautiful.

That's what was running through America's head has he cleaned his rifle. The scent of gun oil wafted through the room. It was strong and rancid smelling but America didn't mind. He liked the smell. He looked up for a moment. This was his armory. Sure, guns decorated his home here and there, but this... this was his sanctuary. Racks of firearms littered the walls, with a particularly special rifle locked in a glass case. This was a place where Alfred could drown in his own insanity, and no one could stop him. Not even Arthur.

He breathed in deep, the scent bringing up memories of wars and blood and chaos and America loved it. It was wonderful.

America loved war. He had come to accept that. He loved the look in the enemy's eyes as they realized they were dying. He loved that invincible feeling as their defenses fell. He loved than manic, insane laughter that would escape him. Some days, he thought he was immortal. But at the end of the day, when he saw his scarred body in the mirror, he knew better. He knew he wasn't immortal, and that's why he savored the gore.

America put his gun back together. Maybe he should go to he shooting range today. Canada liked to join him when he did; Matthew was an outdoorsy person who went hunting from time to time. Alfred loved his brother, but he knew he didn't understand, not really. Even UK didn't understand, and they were lovers. Wait, no, they weren't. Alfred didn't love him. Alfred loved war.

Maybe he should start a war.

That would be fun, America thought. That would be wrong! His conscious screamed, or that's what it would have screamed. His conscious died a long time ago, and Alfred was the one who killed it.

"Alfred," Arthur had said to him once, "This war isn't good for you. You're tearing yourself apart!"

America had ignored him. It didn't matter what he said. Who cared about England, anyway? Did Alfred?

He put his gun away and walked out, locking the door behind him. He pattered through his house, which wasn't really a house, but a mansion. He found himself in his room. When had he gotten here? He looked himself over in the mirror.

Dirty hair. Dead eyes. Paling skin. Alfred didn't recognize the person in the mirror. Would Arthur? America was getting a headache. He went to lay down, but passed out on the way there. Those fumes must have did something to his head. When America woke up, he was curled on the floor with cramps in his side. Mind hazy, he let his feet guide him to his armory. He didn't want to look in that mirror anymore.

Walking past the kitchen, he heard the phone ring. It's probably Arthur, who always called to bitch about this and that. Alfred stopped walking, put didn't pick it up. The phone stopped ringing, and Arthur recorded his message. America was only half listening. His former caretaker sounded... unusually reserved. He mentioned something about "obsession" and "war".

"...I don't want this, Alfred. Please, don't do this to me. I love you."

England hung up. America kept walking.

Into the gun room, find the gun, there it is. Load it, this was custom made, look at all the nice engravings, so beautiful. Guns are beautiful. My cheeks are wet, why are they wet. I don't love him. Look on the desk, at that picture, me and him, so happy. False happiness. I don't love him. I never, I never did anything to him, why would he say that. I don't love him. Press the gun to your head, that feels nice. Now pull the trigger.

America took in the gleaming silver and dull black and the scent of gun oil.

And then he was gone.

a/n: more batshit America lol. I don't really like the way I wrote this one. it could have been longer and better but meh. I might redo this someday. Feel free to review and flame, etcetc. ;3