Sadness. That's all he could feel. His lovely Arthur had been taken by the terrible red hands of death. Alfred couldn't cope. He couldn't accept the inevitable fact that his best friend, the love of his life, was gone. He knew he was the stronger of their inseparable pair. But he didn't expect Arthur to go quite so easily.
It was the aftermath of World War Four, in the year 3021. After the war, surprisingly not many countries had perished. England and Austria had been the only ones. America didn't even care about the piano prodigy. He just wanted his England back.
He screamed and sobbed and put his head in his hands, because nothing, nothing, could bring back his green-eyed ally. Not just an ally. His partner. The one true love of his life. The other countries, after forming the Alliance of Peace, had tried to console him. It wasn't his fault. He didn't let England die. England wouldn't want him to live like this.
They didn't know what he'd want, Alfred thought bitterly. None of them knew what it was like to lose your soul mate. At that moment, he was truly broken, a shattered nation battered and bruised by the cruel thing that was life. And he didn't care anymore. Without his crutch, how was he to survive? It simply wasn't possible.
He would have given anything for the familiar taste of his friend's terrible scones right then. Anything and everything Arthur had ever done now was precious, the time spent much too little in the American's weeping eyes. How could this have happened?
One moment they were fighting together with smiles on their faces as they charged into battle with carelessness. The next, there was a last breath gasped, with an "I love you," and sightless eyes met his. There was blood everywhere and a red rage surrounding Alfred Jones.
What happened next changed the course of a losing war. A guttural scream had come from the country. Then, the enemy was suddenly down. No one knew exactly what had happened in that battle. No one but America.
He was responsible for the blows the countries had suffered. Those terrible deaths of the citizens, casualties of puppets. He had barely felt what he was doing. They were nothing but cardboard people. In his crazed mind nothing was real.
He sighed now. Nothing in the world was worth getting up and starting the day. Unless, of course, he could find some way to make the others feel the pain and sadness he was going through. Losing their other half was certainly the only way to avenge his amazing, perfect England.
A goal in mind, getting up was now just a little bit easier. He got dressed, choosing a black coat and pants with a dark maroon shirt. Perfect for the job he had in mind. He walked down the steps of his house into his kitchen. There he was hit by the memories of his friend. And there were too many to count. Too many to take on. He was carrying the sky itself, sitting on his shoulders. It was a cold burden to he needed to let it out. Doubled over in pain, he saw this:
England was standing over the stove, wearing a stupid chef's hat and humming. He looked up and noticed America was standing there in his pajamas. "Good morning!" He said cheerfully. Alfred walked to him and peeked over his shoulder. A strangely delicious smell had bathed the room. As soon as he looked he knew the smell was coming from the delicious-looking pancakes in Arthur's pan.
"I didn't know you could cook!" He said disbelievingly. The green-eyed boy turned around and looked him squarely in the eye.
"It's a special occasion. I learned for you!"
"But.. What's so special about today?" The American was confused. He received an exasperated glare from the other.
"Um, you know today is your birthday, right?"
Worry spread over the distressed country. Should he really go through with this? Couldn't there be another way? Then, he saw England's coat on the back of a chair. All his thoughts were quieted as he decided that this was necessary to achieve vengeance. He picked up the biggest knife on the rack and held it up to the wavering light. This would do.
A dark grin spread over his face. "I've always been the hero. Now, maybe I'm the bad guy..." His eyes regained a sparkle, though from malice or glee it was hard to tell. He would not fall victim to the plague of sadness. Instead, he would allow others to fall prey. He was a feral predator waiting for the chance to strike.
He decided his first stop would be Feli and Ludwig's house. The pair was practically attached at the hip, so it was no surprise when the Italian moved in with Ludwig. They were more often than not seen together, and both had survived the disastrous war. America got in the car, all the while thinking about his relationship to the two countries. Both of them had always been friendly to him, and Feliciano was somewhat of a little brother to Alfred. Germany was a country he respected. Alfred could relate to the strong man.
He pulled into their driveway and paused to think about what he was about to do (A/N: meaning I stopped to think 'bout if I actually want to do this or not). Should he cross this line, so darkly traced into the paths of all? Once he did it, it could never be undone.
A mask of fury crossed over his face, and a tempting voice sounded in his head. Come on... You know you want to. It can't be undone for England either, so why bother thinking about this? Nothing is worth being good for anymore.
He knew the voice was wrong, but he so wanted to succumb to sweet darkness. And succumb he did, as he pulled up the hood of his jacket to cover his face and rapped hard on the door. It was time.
