I'm not lying, denying, that I feel so much better…
Today was the day. He was finally going to clean out all of the useless shit in his supply closet, and maybe have a yard sell. He was confident that he could do it, he was a hero after all! … wasn't he? America's face contorted into a painful frown when his hand hovered over the door knob of the closet; afraid to move.
He grit his teeth tightly, eye brows knitting together. His heart gave off an involuntary pang and he felt the tears prick at his eyes when orbs of emerald peered back at him in his mind, but he willed himself forward and pushed the door open. The door creaked with the rapid movement, and one oceanic orb peeked out from under his closed eye that he wasn't sure when he had closed.
The room was dusty, and it stank of some unknown substance. It was dark too. He smiled to himself. "That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" he asked himself, but his heart betrayed his words and it played itself a tattoo against his rib cage. He gripped the cloth there. He was alright. He could do this. After he cleaned out all of his junk he would feel better, and he could finally stop living with this on his shoulder.
"Alright America, cleaning time! Now, where to start first?" His eyes darted across the dust laden room, lingering on an old looking trunk. He placed his hands on his hips and smirked. "That looks like a good place to start!" he leapt forward and threw the top open, digging a hand in.
His resolve was quickly shattered when picking up the item of clothing at the top, though. It was old and wrinkled and torn and it smelled too, but it was undoubtedly the same suit he had been given so long ago. When his voice started playing in his head he suddenly doubted his heroic ability in being able to finish cleaning his storage.
An ant crawled along the cloth and he found a new hatred for insects as he smashed it. He thought simply. 'How dare they?' and thumbed the breast pocket. It had been so long… he ran a hand through unruly brown tresses and set the suit in a corner. He supposed he could keep it… it still fit, after all. He reached down into the trunk again and pulled out a small box.
He opened it. Inside sat a row of wooden, hand painted army soldiers. He felt the pressure he put on the box form his tightly clenched fingers would surely dent the metal tin like box. Images danced in his mind. A memory of a younger him and an all to friendly British gentleman handing down the box with one hand, because the other one was broken.
"Wow, England, thanks!"
And he lost it right there. Tears pulled and spilled down his cheeks, heating the cooled flesh. The army men tumbled to the ground and rolled off into different directions when the box left his firm grip. He pulled off his glasses and desperately tried to halt the torrent of salt water.
He hiccupped against his palm and crumpled to his knees, hand resting against one soldier. He knew he couldn't this. Thoughts of the Revolutionary war played behind closed lids.
"I could never shoot you…"
He let the rest of the tears fall and held the soldier to his heart where it beat out its rhythm. If he said he was fine, if he said he could do this, he was lying. No matter what. He knew he would feel better for a long time.
…now that you're gone forever.
[A/N] We've all had to let go of a friend that we weren't ready to lose for any number of reasons, haven't we? It leaves an aching hole in the middle of your chest and it hurts worse than anything, and you wonder if you'll ever stop hurting. I myself had to let go of a friend very close to my heart and it still hurts to this day. It's not easy to let go, the close relationship of America and England proves this. So I dedicated this one-shot to everyone who felt that they let go to soon. Enjoy.