"So, you wanted to make a difference?" Arthur sneered. "You wanted to change the world? You actually gave a damn? You should have thought about that before you destroyed half of my bloody nation, you spineless coward!"
Alfred, wide wide, apologetic eyes, whimpered mildly in response.
"I-I thought it was the right thing to do, Arthur, I didn't mean to-" he whined with upturned eyebrows. "I'm sorry, I really am! I'm so, so sorry!"
"You're sorry?" The emerald-eyed nation growled. His once lithe, lean, muscular body had been reduced to skin and bone; he was injured (fatally - London had been completely exterminated, he had no chance), broken and weak. A large majority of his nation's population had been killed - murdered - as a result of America's twisted, disfigured take on justice.
"Apologies won't fix me! They won't magically bring back my brothers - they're dead! They won't bring back Scotland or Wales or Northern Ireland! They won't bring back my bloody capital... I should be dead too and it's all your fault!" England screeched and screamed until his throat dried and his yells and shouts dissolved into mangled words, punctuated by splutters and fell to his knees, helplessly. America desperately tried to aid him, as some sort of token - a pathetic, worthless token of grief, of sorrow, of apology - but England thrashed and shoved violently in a defiant attempt to regain his shattered dignity and his broken pride, if not for himself, for the corpses of his people, for their spirits and energies.
"Kill me! Shoot me, stab me, drown me, burn me, beat me, hang me, choke me, freeze me, electrocute me; inject me with a lethal drug, just something! Something! Just don't let me live whilst you still walk the planet, scum!"
America felt tears slowly trail down his grimy, filthy cheeks at the traumatised man's words.
"There's no way I could kill you!" America strained his voice. "Never!"
"...You used to be so great," England rasped, indulging himself in a small, sad smile. He could taste nothing but the coppery tang of blood that seeped into his mouth and the acidic words that he spat with ill-intent. "You've done half of the job, lazy American. I guess I'll clean up your mess - there's no need for you to keep skeletons in your closet."
England forced his damaged body to lunge forwards. He tackled his weight into America's stomach, winded the nation and knocked him over, straddled his hips and, for a faint second or two, couldn't help but wonder how they'd ended like this - remorseful and dying, respectively.
His burnt and blistered hands, discoloured and swollen, reached for the small revolver strapped to the destructive nation. With practised ease, he pried the weapon from the taller man. In a single, sweeping movement, he pressed the barrel of the gun to his temple, smashed his torn lips against his abuser's, and pulled the trigger.
Bang.
With disbelieving eyes that shed a continuous flow of salty tears, America stole the revolver from England's dead body. The feel of unmoving fingers beneath his own digits was enough to shock him to his very core.
"England," he whispered lightly to the lifeless nation. "Arthur... if we somehow meet again..."
He copied the suicidal actions of the man before him. He pressed the cold metal to his temple and, with gentle touches, he molded his lips carefully to England's own.
"I'll protect you... I promise... I won't make the same mistake twice..." He croaked.
"I love you."
Bang.
An eerie silence flooded the scene, where two nations, both with blood pouring from the sides of their heads and bullets embedded into their brains, lay motionless, trapped in each other's tormenting embrace.