Author's Note: LISTEN, this is not the usual author. I am one of her good friends, Nile. She said I could use her account to post this because I am applying for a writers school, but I have to have a demonstration of my work, so the Author(her name is Alice, just to let you guys know if you didn't already) said I could post one of my stories on here for y'all to read and COMMENT on how I can make it BETTER. Seriously, let the criticism begin, I need to perfect it!

Another thing, the characters are America and England, but AU and I changed their last names so I could use it for an application, they said I could do that. So yeah! Please, please, PLEASE comment and HELP me make it better, just don't be plain rude.

Thanks sooooo much, Nile~

Goodnight… I'll see you tomorrow.

The seemingly endless blood river slowly came to a halt, the British retreated and the Americans followed in suit, taking their wounded along with them. Alfred James trudged through the ankle deep mucky swamp water, his hand covering a small gash on his side where a bayonet had sliced through his coat and nipped his skin. The crimson liquid slipped through his fingers and stained his military uniform, though he hardly minded. He reminded himself why he was fighting; one year ago British soldiers had mercilessly killed unarmed American men, thus starting the Revolutionary war. His gun hung limply in his spare hand, the butt of it dragging through the mud. His mind wandered off to someone, a Brit, his best friend, Arthur Trancy. Alfred could simply not grasp why Arthur had joined the Brit's side, but that no longer mattered to Alfred. The only thing that mattered was that his only friend was now aiming to kill him and Alfred knew he could never do the same. He could never hurt Arthur, no matter how much he may have wanted to. Alfred's honey blond hair tumbled down in front of his sea blue eyes as he bowed his head, covering his damp eyes. 'Why… Why us? Why me and Artie?' He wondered, refusing to let the tears come. He sniffled once and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, remembering where he was.

Alfred fought the tears threatening to spill over his cheeks as he remembered the men he had killed, and all the blood that was now tattooed on his pale and shaking hands. His mind roamed back to all the families he had ruined, all the children and mothers he had made sob. He bit his lips in frustration at the lack to control his thoughts. He sighed and pushed the cruel thoughts out of his mind as he neared the large old oak stump, an American flag protruding from the middle of it telling him he would soon be at the encampment.

Alfred finally made it back to the camp, collapsing on a wretched smelling cot the second he had the chance to. The American leaned his beaten up musket up against the foot of the bed, forcing his eyelids shut as he tried his best to find sleep, knowing that soon more battles would follow the one that had just ceased. Sleep slowly came, dreams following closely behind.

It was of him and Arthur.

The days were slowly shortening, the dying leaves fell from the trees and spun through the air, lightly landing on the dead grass and coating the earth in light Autumn colors. Alfred James sat in an ankle deep pile of the leaves, his knees pulled into his chest, his eyes staring down at the bright dogwood leaves scattered around his feet. His messy honey blond hair dangled in front of his eyes, covering a black bruise painted across his right eye. His arms were wrapped tightly around his knees and his black framed glasses lay scattered five feet away, a large crack evident in one of the lenses. His father had hit him, again.

He watched as the shadows of the leaves dancing above him changed, the sun poking different parts of the shade each time a tree branch moved and allowed the sun to shine through.

"Hello." He snapped his head up to see a boy, maybe 12 or 13, not much older than Alfred himself. Alfred pulled his knees closer to his chest, wondering what the boy wanted. Alfred noticed the boy's bright emerald eyes boring into him and remembered his words.

"Hey." Alfred replied, slightly wary of the Brit.

"What happened?" The British accent in his voice was clear.

"Huh?" Alfred wondered what the boy wanted.

"Your eye, I was wondering what happened." The boys wheat blond hair was a complete mess, some of the strands hanging longer than the others and giving off the idea that a five year old had cut it with safety scissors.

"Oh nothin' really, just an accident." Alfred lied.

"That bruise looks nothing like anything an accident could have caused." The British child said surely, his proper tone making Alfred wonder if the boy was from a royal family. "However I do not believe you would tell a stranger such personal information." He concluded, the Brit took a few steps forward and offering his hand for the American to shake. "Arthur, Arthur Trancy." Alfred looked up at the boy uncertainly, slightly afraid to show the boy his hand, Arthur would surely see the knife marks. The wheat blond haired boy stood there, his hand remaining poised in the air.

"Alfred James." Alfred raised his hand, ignoring the shocked look he received about the long and slightly deep marks running parallel across the palm of his hand. Arthur recovered from his shaken faze and quickly taking the boys hand in his own, shaking it and sitting down next to him.

The two boys talked for hours, mainly about Arthur. He was the son of a high up noble, and had met the queen three times. He was forced to take manors class and learn to play the violin. He had an exceedingly strong sense of nationalism for England, and always snuck out of his house when he had spare time to be outside. Finally the sun began to set and both boys began to shiver from the chilling weather. They went their separate ways, promising each other to come back the next day. And they did.

Alfred opened his eyes slowly, propping himself up on one elbow, the memory still playing in his mind. He remembered the cheerful and carefree Brit, and wished for the thousandth time he could have his best friend back. But the war had pried the two away from each other. "Artie…" He mumbled, even more of the childhood memories flooding into his head and replaying before his very eyes.

He looked down at his hands, which were balled up into fists in the thin material of the grungy blanket that had somehow been draped over him. He stood up quickly, wincing at the sharp pain in his side. He looked down to see the small slash of a bayonets doing. He remembered exactly how he had acquired the wound. During the midst of the previous battle he could have sworn he saw a head of wheat blond hair and the flash of emerald green eyes on the battlefield and had turned away from his opponent for a split second, which had earned him a painful wound on his side. And of course, the person he had caught a glimpse of was not his Arthur.

He entered the small infirmary, looking down sadly with his sapphire eyes at the wounded or dying men. He walked along the head of the cots, searching the men's eyes and wondering if Arthur had been smart enough to put on an Americans coat and be brought here. After another five minutes of his ears being filled with the agony infested moans he walked out of the tent hastily, almost breaking into a sprint, his breath was light and shaky. He stopped when he was out of earshot of the tent, letting the rain falling from the sky drench him completely. The cooling droplets soaked him thoroughly; plastering his hair to his face and making his thin and tattered clothes stick to his well muscled frame. He tilted his face back and his eyes closed, letting the rain hit his face and trail down his cheeks. He listened to the sounds of the world; the small splash rain made while contacting a puddle, men marching in the murky mud, and the sound of his own slow and deep breathing.

His thoughts were interrupted by an earsplitting bang. His eyes snapped open, his shoulders tensed, and his head whipped back and forth. He finally bolted from his original spot as he sprinted back to his cot and retrieving his weapon, which was left leaning up against his bed.

"Men, the British are advancing! Fight, this is war, this is what we are here for! We will be free from the British Empire!" A booming voice emitted from the old and rusty speakers hanging from poles all over the camp. The healthy and able men all shouted in approval, cheers of, "Down with the bloody Brits!" and, "We want our independence Britain!" could be heard throughout the crowd's mighty roar. Everybody ran to the battlefield, shouting and grinning like maniacs. Alfred followed at a slower pace, just focusing on staying alive.

The first shot was fired by the redcoats, one of the frontline men crumpled to the grass and remained still, blood pooling around him and soaking the man's white shirt with the crimson blood. Soon enough the dropping bodies couldn't have been counted, countless fell from each side. Alfred held up his end, raising up his gun and shooting at the nearest redcoat he was. The man shouted in agony and sunk to his knees, staring down at the bloody mess right over his chest. With one last pale glimpse of who killed him he fell forward, dead.

Alfred hardly took a second look at the man as he made his way to the front lines, his eyes searching for a certain Brit. He felt his stomach drop when Arthur was nowhere in the crowd. Alfred was sure he had checked the entire crowd, even through the bullets flying through the air and the men falling right and left. He was SURE he had seen everybody. Alfred began to wonder if Arthur was already dead; the thought filled his mind with dread. His train of thought holding the dread and fear was stopped dead in its tracks as Alfred felt a bullet penetrate his stomach, sinking into his gut.

He cried out and sunk to his knees, quickly dropping his weapon and holding a hand over the wound tightly. He kneeled for what seemed like an eternity, panting at the excruciating pain that exploded in his stomach. He finally felt the slightest let up of pain and thought about getting up, thinking that maybe he was alright, then remembered something he had once heard a doctor say.

"Sometimes injured men try to get up, insisting they are fine. No. That is what the word 'injured' is for." Alfred had once thought the words were nothing but foolishness but now realized the importance of them. He allowed the words to guide him, as he slowly crawled out of the mess of trampling feet. He felt a bit of blood dribble out of the corner of his mouth and he let out a shaky sigh, knowing this meant the bullet had hit his stomach, and that it was all over. It's all over, this will kill me. I am going to die. He thought, feeling strangely at ease with the words.

The pain in his stomach was scream worthy, he bit his lip so forcefully another thin line of the crimson liquid dribbled down his chin and dripped into the grass below him. His vision began to blur, making the thicket of feet become nothing more than lines, then he then saw something that made his heart skip a beat. Wheat blond hair and a pair of pain filled emerald green eyes. Alfred found himself staring into the very eyes he had hoped to see for three years now, since he was 18. Arthur Trancy sat before him, with a hand over his chest and blood dripping through his fingers, pain was written across his face. Alfred could hardly believe his eyes.

"A-Artie…" Alfred whispered, his lower lip quivering and tears threatening to spill onto his cheeks yet again as he saw the poor state of his best friend. Arthur looked up at him, a mix of shock and fear in his wide eyes.

"…Alfred…" Came the weak reply from the Brits lips.

"God Artie…" Alfred said slowly, feeling intense pain in his stomach but ignoring it completely, "We're a mess, aren't we?" Alfred ventured to say.

"A-Alfred, I think I am d-dying." Arthur's words could barely be heard over the roar of the battle going on feet behind them. "I-I think I'm…" He couldn't finish his sentence; he suddenly bent over, coughing painfully. Alfred ignored his pain and rapidly blurring vision once more, desperately crawling closer to his friend and placing a hand on his shaking shoulder. Alfred finally let the tears slide down his cheeks when he saw Arthur coughing up blood.

Alfred's attention was forced off of Arthur when he himself felt a series of coughs arise. He bent over and choked slightly on his own blood coming out of his mouth; tears were still streaming out of his sapphire blue eyes at the intense pain that struck his chest each time he coughed. The coughing subsided after a moment and the frail Brit leaned up against his friend, all of the fighting and differences forgotten.

Arthur's eyes slowly slid shut; Alfred jumped and shook him slightly.

"N-No Artie, no closing your eyes and d-dying on me." Alfred silently whispered, all of his tears gone. There were none left in him. Arthur tried his best to keep his eyes open, wanting to be with his best and only friend for a little bit longer.

"Alfred, I… I'm so tired." Arthur whispered, his head lolling to the side. Alfred knew if he fell asleep, he would never wake up.

"P-Please Artie… Don't leave me here, not here." Alfred begged, resisting the crawling tiredness inside of himself with every ounce of energy he had left.

"Alfred… Y-You're so…persistent… Just let me sleep." Arthur mumbled, not able to hold on to his life line any longer. He let his eyelids fall again as he leaned back over, resting on the Americans shoulder and curling his fingers up in the thin material of Alfred's jacket

"Arthur, no, p-please. I've missed out on too many days with you. You can't die now." Alfred said, wrapping his arms around the smaller Brit and pulling him in for a hug, trying to hold the Brit's soul in him.

"Goodnight…. I'll see you tomorrow Alfred." Arthur whispered with the smallest of smiles appearing on his blood stained lips before his emerald eyes lost the small shine that once stood there, his shoulders lost the tensed feeling, and finally; his soul flew away. Alfred hugged his friend tightly and closing his eyes as well. Goodnight Arthur. The American thought. This time he did not resist the blurring vision, or his eyelids closing as well as he fell over on his back, his only concern was making sure Arthur was lying next to him. He looked up at the gray clouds hanging above him through barely open eyes. He glanced over to the battle being fought a few feet away from him, realizing he was no longer a soldier, but a corpse in the way of battle, and he couldn't have cared less.

Alfred looked up slowly and a small smile appeared on his face as he saw the Brit staring down at him kindly from the sky through an opening in the dense clouds. He offered his hand for Alfred to take and come with him. Alfred didn't react for a moment, taking in the sight of his best friend, a small halo hung over his head and his emerald eyes sparkled like they had years ago, filled to the brim with happiness. Alfred had never seen the man so at peace, so happy. The dying American took one last weak glimpse around the bloodied battlefield and looked back up to where the clouds were still parted; he outstretched his hand weakly, reaching up for the clouds.

Arthur smiled softly and took Alfred's hand weak and bloodied hand. The American felt the pain disparate from his chest and the sadness of losing Arthur left when he was guided up to the heavenly place, finally reunited with his best friend.

Nile's Note: Yep so that's it! Thank you Alice for letting me use your account. Please everyone, help me make it perfect, seriously, even spelling errors, they take off for that crap.

Bye!~~~