Dear America,
As this is the last chance to talk to you, please let me explain some things so that we can both move on without regrets.
I doubt what I am going to do will faze you in any way. You choose how to live your life and there is no room for me there.
Unfortunately
I still remember how you hurried to the docks to greet me when I came to visit you. I loved visiting you.
But you told me many times that you're not my little brother anymore. You choose yourself what you wanted. Just like all these years ago when you asked me if you could call me big brother. You can not imagine how happy that made me. But I guess nothing can last forever. I knew that you wanted to be a strong country, not my dependent colony. I knew it and yet it was so hard, too hard, to let you go.
Before you came into my life it was pretty much meaningless. Without any purpose other than letting England exist. I could not understand why it was always raining here. Now I know. It is raining again. And each 4 July there is a flood. Somewhere in England one or another river floods the nearby area just like alcohol floods my body. I would not be able to survive that day without it.
I don not think you needed a long time to understand why I had never shown up to even one of your birthday parties. I am sorry. I am busy drowning in whiskey then. If I actually went I feared I might have attempted to drown in The Thames afterwards.
But I can not hide it forever and today was my horizon line. You drew it at the World Meeting.
I know I can't cook.
I know I am snappy and tend to be harsh.
I know it's hard to be around me sometimes.
I know and I am sorry.
But you didn't have to point that out for everyone.
You - one of the few I let myself get close to.
You - my precious one.
Even France never did that. Even France who knows me for two millenniums never revealed every bit of his dangerous knowledge about me like you had. Never had he bared all my flaws so deeply and carelessly. I believe only a git like you could ever do something like that. Learn some manners, would you.
But that's not important now.
You probably wonder why I am even writing. If you ever read this, that is.
Let me explain then:
I love you.
My dear America, my beloved former little brother.
I still foolishly consider you family.
And I can't take it how easily it comes for you to hurt me. No matter what and where you always manage to bring me to my knees. Oh you don't know this. I'm a great actor.
It just got too hard recently. I tried for two centuries and then some more but I just can't. I seem unable to forget how lovely your smile shone when I came to visit you as my colony. And I can't help comparing it to the look you give me now. Like you are tired of seeing me and just want me to go away.
Like anyone else, on that matter.
I do see every gaze full of irritation, annoyance or hatred. Even my old colonies were too fed up with me to harbor any warm feelings towards me now.
You. Little Canada. Hong Kong. Australia. New Zealand. India.
I had such a big family. And now look - I spend every damn Christmas alone. Even my brothers and sister are too busy to come. I'm sure they all gather at Ireland's though they never invited me.
It's truly pathetic but I have all your presents storaged away from these 236 years. Even though I know you won't come I can't help buying them. I only thank heavens I stopped decorating the house and organizing a Christmas Tree and the whole party. It made me depressed to sit there alone. I remembered you and the rest as a tiny nations running around all flustered and happy, tugging on my trousers to ask if you'll get any presents. I would laugh and tell you that it depends on if you were good enough the whole year.
You were always good. More than enough. Having you I never felt alone like I had before; like I do now.
I believe that's everything I wanted to tell you before I go, but didn't have the courage to do so face to face. If you bothered to read this whole letter let me express my gratitude - I actually thought you'd give up sooner or later. I'm thoroughly impressed.
Now the only thing that's left to do:
Goodbye, America.
Yours truly
Arthur Kirkland
England
The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland
He wasn't proud of it. He could do better than this messy excuse of a letter, he knew it. But he just couldn't bring himself to care. Why should it bother him how his suicide note is composed. He'll be gone soon enough and no matter how it looks people will remember him how they saw him, not how the letter to Alfred looked like.
He was finally ready to go.
Arthur allowed himself a little smile. He was finally ready to let go and move on, making happy the whole world.
He picked the gun up, an old one he kept as a reminder of the Revolutionary War. The gun that he aimed at the Rebelliants but no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't fire it.
The time came to use it, finally.
Just as he put it to his temple though, the letter neatly folded on the bedside table, he was laying on his bed, relaxed; his phone rang.
He contemplated switching it off for a second but then he decided that he can wait a few minutes more.
'Hello?'
'Hi there, Iggy!'
It was America. How ironic, Britain thought. The main part of the reason he finally gave in to depression called him right before he went through with his suicide.
'America. What do I owe the pleasure?' It was so easy to talk to him now. England was collected and calm, unusually so. No trace left of his temperament.
'I just wanted to know if you're coming to my party, y'know! It's in a week already!' The young American yelled into the phone and Arthur had to pull it away from his ear for several inches.
'Ah, it's your birthday, isn't it? Unfortunately I can not go to visit you so let me wish you happy birthday now, Alfred. I wish you... to never be alone...' England said quietly.
'Whadda ya mean you can't go? You always say you have work on that day, come on dude!' America whined making England smile tenderly.
'I'm sorry, Alfred, but this time I really can not go. It's impossible.' He said softly.
'Okay have it your way, England!' America said upset and hung up. England smiled. He made Alfred upset. 'I'm sorry, Alfred. Don't worry though, I'll be gone soon enough.' He whispered before setting his phone down and picking his beautiful gun once again.
He then put it to his temple and took a shuddering breath.
So this was it.
He pulled the trigger.
/txtbreak/
Alfred was upset. Undeniably so. He just called England and the old man rejected his invitation to his birthday again. And this year he wanted to do something special, for England alone.
He wanted to become his brother once more.
This year America finally realized that being England's colony and England's brother is not the same thing. And, as he missed the Briton dearly, he wanted him to come to reunite and celebrate together.
And here that grumpy old man rejected his personal invitation!
But America was persistent. He always let Arthur do what he wanted but not this year, it was too important.
So, he grabbed his bomber jacket and swiftly left to the airport.
...
Arriving in England he was greeted with a light rain. Nothing new here but... something felt off. Something was not right.
Even more so he felt when he saw Arthur's brothers and sister on the step of his house.
'Hey there guys! Whaddaya doin' here?' Alfred greeted. The four older nations looked at him.
'Something's wrong with England.' Wales said.
'That I can feel...' Alfred muttered.
'Okay that's enough.' Scotland growled before kicking the door out of his way. He stepped inside the mansion. 'ENGLAND! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL!' He roared but only silence greeted him.
'Now I'm worried. Let's go look for him.' Northern Ireland said.
' 'Kay. I'll check upstairs.' America said before bolting up the staircase. He was really worried. The house he knew by heart had never felt so... empty and quiet. And he knew England was here, he never left before midday while he rose with the sun and it was barely 10.30 now.
His first check - the library.
'England? You here?' But the tall room was occupied only by books. So not here. Alfred closed the door behind him and decided to check the study room next.
But it was as empty as the previous one. 'Now don't tell me the old man is still asleep!'
Finally he arrived at the door to the master bedroom. He knocked once but only silence responded. He slowly turned the door knob. The doors were not closed.
The Hero of the world didn't know why but suddenly he felt anxiousness gnawing at his insides. He hesitantly pushed the door open.
And stopped dead in his tracks, the cry of horror died in his throat.
There England was.
He was laying on the bed looking calm and at ease his one arm laying beside him on the bed. The other clutched a beautiful pistol that looked like it was old enough to be used in Revolutionary war.
And the whole pillow under his messy head was dyed crimson.
He couldn't see the hole at first. It was the opposite side of the room.
'E-england? Arthur?' Came the timid voice. No response.
'ARTHUR!' America sobbed and fell to his knees beside the bed. Immidiately the four nations came running into the room with anxious 'What happened here! Alfred!' but as soon as they entered the room they froze in shock.
America was kneeling beside the bed where Arthur lay and sobbing his eyes out. And England...
... was dead.
First to recover was Scotland.
'Bloody fucking hell...' he whispered shakily coming up to the bed slowly and examining his brother's work. He took in the smile, his relaxed pose, the gun. He recognized it. Then he saw the letter that had Alfred F. Jones, The United States of America written on top in Arthur's beautiful handwriting. He took the letter and thrust it into Alfred's arms. 'North, take the kid out of here.'
Northern Ireland wept and took Alfred, who was still crying, out of the room and to the kitchen.
'We won't let him go like that, brother.' Ireland growled barely keeping the tears from spilling on his cheeks.
'Like hell we'd let him go!' Wales piped in. 'I'm going out to bring everything we'll need.'
'Hurry.' Scotland said.
The two brothers stood above Arthur's limp form contemplating his actions.
'We neglected him.' Ireland stated.
'We had.'
'You think it's our fault he t-... took his l-life?'
'It is... we need to bring him back. If he... he needs to come back...'
The words were quiet. Shaky. Tearstained voices. Constricted throats.
And that stupid smile on Arthur's face...
Wales burst through the door with all the supplies he could find. They pulled themselves together and prepared the scene, drawing complicated shapes on the floor, burning herbs, chanting spells in old, long forgotten languages. Finally they added their blood. Each crossed his heart with a sacrificial blade made of black crystal that bit into their skin greedily.
Performing the blackest and most dangerous magic that exists to bring their baby brother back to life.
North Ireland looked up at the ceiling.
'Looks like they beginned.' She whispered wiping her eyes only to be in vain as more tears soaked her face.
Alfred was sitting at the kitchen table, on his special spot where Arthur always sat him to make him breakfast. He was reading the letter that Arthur wrote to him and Scotland gave him.
And it made him want to go fetch the gun Arthur used and shoot his own self. It was his fault that England was like this. His fault that he felt like he wasn't needed and took his own life.
His fault Artie was dead.
How could he write that Alfred probably wouldn't be fazed by what he was doing! Of course he was! He loved that damned idiot!
The farther he got into the letter the harder he cried until he reached the end, the last goodbye, and that moment he collapsed clutching the letter to his chest where his heart ached with unbearable pain and regret.
Why did he never stop to think dammit! If he just stopped himself before he started spilling his memories of Arthur's soft, loving side that turned into confessing his weaknesses that could easily be used against him. He did this to such a proud nation England i- no. Was. The past tense.
Alfred curled up in the chair and howled, sobbing his heart out, crying like he never had before in his life.
He begged England to come back. To forgive him. Yelled at the photographs of himself and Arthur's other former colonies and his siblings.
There wasn't single one that involved the emerald eyed English nation himself though.
Northern Ireland tried to soothe him pointlessly but she too was rather in need of help than fit to give it.
Now their only hope were three brothers working upstairs.
/txtbreak/
Arthur was not happy. How could he be, all alone just in another place. He hoped he'll be able to move from the stupid limbo soon enough so that he could become a ghost. That would allow him to finally spend time with his family and watch over them, even if they'd never know about him.
Suddenly the gray-ish color of his surroundings was interrupted by a huge gash accompanied by loud crash. England watched anxiously wandering what the hell was going on before three men stepped out of the gash.
His brothers: Scotland, Wales and Republic of Ireland.
Arthur's eyes widened in disbelief and he could only stare as the older nations slowly took in their surroundings.
He tried his very best to blend in with the gray all around him and become invisible but it was too late.
'Arthur.' Scotland growled dangerously. 'What. The bloody hell. Had. You. Done?!' He roared making England cringe.
'Easy, Scott.' Wales interrupted. 'Arthur. Explain yourself.' He asked calmly though one could still hear the quiver in his voice.
Arthur just stood there shocked.
'Art, we do not have time for this. Just... aw heck this, just come with us and you'll do the explaining there. Besides, I'm sure my twin and that American kid would like to hear this as well.' The Irish man stated.
'What... are you talking about?'
The Scottish man clenched his fists.
'Okay, I'm done. Listen here and listen good, lad, because I'm not repeating this. You commited suicide.' He spat the words like poison looking Arthur deep in the eyes. 'You shot your own self you bloody idiot. We all felt something's wrong with you so we arrived to check. Turns out your American kid had the same idea. He found you lying on the bed, cluthing a bloody gun pressed to your head, saw all this blood, and that sick smile on your face and broke down cometely. North took him downstairs to give us time and space and him time to read your letter. I heard his howls, Arthur, he was crying and begging for you to come back. We gathered everything we needed to come here and come back with you and performed the magic.' Scotland ranted making England uneasy and shocked. What? Someone was crying for him? Impossible. But Scotland never lied, why would he start now?
'We used the sacrificial knife.' Wales interrupted Scotland. Arthur's eyes widened. His brothers made him promise to never ever use the cursed blade or it will cause pain he never wants to feel. Not only physical pain at that.
So they must really want to bring him back...! But why? 'Why...' He whispered shocked.
'Because we can't let our bloody brother die like that!' The Scotsman hollered though the edge in his voice clearly showed his desperation.
Arthur was just too shocked to comprehend what was going on right now.
'Here, look at this.' Ireland took the crystal blade and slid it through his palm creating a gash, making England cringe.
Their surroundings changed from gray to Arthur's kitchen and the youngest Kirkland saw his sister and... America?!
England gasped at the sight. Northern Ireland was sobbing and patting the howling and crying blonde on the back.
Alfred was a mess. He was curled on his special chair and clutching the letter to his chest. England could hear the choked pleas and curses thrown at him between each cry. 'E-england! Ig-gy! W-what... the h-hell! How... how c-could ya! ... Come back y-ya fucking IDIOT!... I'm s-so sor-ry just... come BACK!'
'See?' Wales said quietly. 'We all want you back. Don't leave. Stay with us. We... we neglected you but if you come back I swear to you we'll always be there for you! You're too important for us to lose you. Please!' He said extending his hand to England.
Arthur stared at his brothers before his eyes welled up with tears. He slowly lifted his hand and hesitantly placed it in Wales'.
His brother sighed with relief and enclosed his hand around England's. Ireland grabbed his other hand and they quickly pulled him through the gate that Scotland was now fighting to keep opened.
The next thing the English nation knew - he opened his eyes and cursed colorfully at the excruciating pain splitting his head.
What responded him were three victorious shouts.
/txtbreak/
England spent next week in his bed, not allowed to move.
After bringing his soul back from the dead Scotland needed to be stopped from hitting him. Hard. He was thrown out of the bedroom and needed to agree he's not fit to be near Arthur so he staggered downstairs to the crying nations in the kitchen.
Upon seeing him with a bloody cross over his heart North Ireland leapt up to him. 'Did it work? Please, please tell me it worked!' She shouted desperately at him.
Scotland came to America and shook him to stop his crying. When Alfred finally looked at him he grinned tiredly and said
'Stop this pitiful crying, lad. He's back.'
America stared at him for a full ten seconds, hiccupping once, before bolting from his chair and up the stairs to Arthur's bedroom. Once there he threw the door open, ran to the bed and firmly attached himself to England's body.
England screamed with pain that caused to his head and Ireland and Wales carefully took the hyperactive blond off of him.
Then they were all treated by Northern Ireland and happily bothered Arthur through the week and then even more when he was deemed okay to sit up and walk on his own.
Alfred cancelled his birthday party this year only to throw another one to celebrate England's returning to health and brought him to tears with begging him to be his brother again so that they can be both happy.
Certain nations that were close to England worried when he did not show up on the meetings, instead his Irish sister filled in for him. Only them did the family tell what had happened and soon England was put through enduring the fuss all of his former children/brothers and France made around him though they never spilled anything to the rest of the world. England IS a proud nation.
He was also extremely happy.
His house had never been this full of life, never had every room had it's chosen occupant and never had it been so loud. It did not help him with his headache but he didn't even bother to hide his delight, even more so when he was able to leave the bed.
Also, needless to say, after confiscating his beautiful gun everyone had a long and sincere talk, or more like they used everything they could from threats to puppy eyes and bribery to get Arthur to talk. He was extremely embarrassed and unwilling but they were determined and too many for him to win.
So, red-faced and angry he spilled everything for the eleven nations to hear.
Then he had to run for his life or he'd be suffocated in all their regret and apologies. The "softer" countries were crying. He felt immensely guilty his actions being the cause of, for example, Canada or New Zealand's tears. The others were bravely trying to keep looking tough. Australia's lip was quivering. France was, for once, being very serious. Too serious for Arthur's liking. He was looking grave and unbearably guilty and sad.
They promised to never neglect him anymore.
"Well, that we will see..." England thought to himself with a smile. They were having a family dinner. And he was not even allowed inside the kitchen! But, strangely, he was okay with that. He still thought that they just didn't know what's tasty when it knocked them on the heads but once he peeked inside to check how much of his precious room was going to be in need of renovation and seeing all the ruckus going there he decided the living room's armchair beside the fireplace was much more comfortable.
He sighed with contentment and closed his eyes knowing that when he opens them again he'll not be alone.
/txtbreak/
This... is a late-night idea but I wrote it in school. So yeah. Uhm... I'd be very happy if you could leave me review please!
Thank you for reading this crap.
Lately I'm kind of obsessed with the idea of England being depressed since America's Revolutionary war (necessary but totally un-awesome for the nations...) so... this happened. But I couldn't just let him die, I love him too much for that and I don't like killing anyone in general. Also I think his brothers aren't all jerks and know magic too so it worked. At least I hope so... Did it?
Hetalia does not belong to me. It belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz.