America gently caressed the wilted sunflower with his bloody hands.
"Russia..."
Russia. His soulmate. He was dead.
And it hurt.
An emptiness in his chest that expanded into agony.
He remembered when Russia had died protecting him. Rage had drove him, and he seeked to destroy every single enemy in sight.
When he was finished, beaten and bloody, he kneeled by Russia, crying.
America had noticed, that after Russia had died, their precious sunflower started dying.
He smiled. He remembered tending to that flower.
It was a hot summer day in America, and Russia and America were in the woods.
They came across the most beautiful sunflower in the world. Taller than Russia himself, it had brilliant, lush golden petals and bright green leaves. The two started to take care of it, protecting it, sheltering it, treating it as if it were their child.
Tears started to flow freely out of America's eyes.
The sunflower that they coddled so gently was now withering. Dying.
"Ru... Si... A..." He whispered, his voice dry and cracked.
He slumped down.
"I... Love... You..."
And he fell to the ground.
Canada burst through some nearby foliage a few minutes later.
"Hey! Ameri..." He froze at the sight of his dead brother.
He smiled sadly. "Ha ha."
He raised the radio to his mouth.
"America is dead. I repeat, America is dead."
"He's by his and Russia's sunflower."