America was late.

The World Meeting had started half an hour ago and Canada's brother was nowhere to be seen. He was not answering his phone either (It went right to voicemail.), making England mutter about lazy gits. Canada knew with utmost certainty that America was the furthest from being a "lazy git".

Often America worked too much. Living in a country where you could get fired for taking "too many" vacation days (though that was never the official reason given, naturally.) did that to a person. Rather than confront England, Canada let it go as he always did and wondered where his brother may be.

As Germany ran out of patience and shouted for them to begin, Canada slipped out of the room. The meeting was in the United States and only a short drive from one of America's houses. He could slip away and return with his brother no problem. No one would notice he had left.

Canada got into his car and drove off. America must have slept in. It happened occasionally. America would forget to set his alarm or put in the wrong date for the meeting. He forgot such things a lot lately.

Canada knew his brother was tired and a bit stressed (America tried to hide his lack of enthusiasm and the way his steps dragged but Canada had eyes.) but he chalked it up to the season. America loved autumn but despised winter. "Too cold!" he'd whine as he shivered under a pile of blankets. On some days it would take layers of sweaters and a promise of hot cocoa to get America to emerge from his cocoon.

Canada shook his head fondly. He and America got on each other's nerves at times but he dearly loved his brother. But America had been distant lately. They both were busy. As Canada pulled his key from his pocket and unlocked the door, he resolved to ask America if he wanted to do something together. They should have some fun before winter took hold.

The door creaked open and a few red leaves flew into the entrance. Canada shut the door and removed his boots. He did not want to track dirt through the house.

"Al!" he called. "It's time to wake up. You're late for the meeting."

There was no response. His brother must still be asleep.

Canada sighed and passed through the kitchen on his way to the stairs. He paused in front of the fridge. The calendar had the meeting on next week.

"You put the wrong date again." Canada grumbled.

He headed upstairs and towards America's bedroom. Before he could reach it, he saw the bathroom light was on.

"At least you're awake." Canada said. He pushed on the bathroom door. "Didn't you hear me-"

He saw his brother in the bathtub and screamed.


"911. What's your emergency?"

Hysterical breathing. "My brother! My brother is hurt!"

"How is he injured?"

"His arms- He- H-he-" Quiet sobs. "He cut his arms."

"I've sent an ambulance to your location. Do you know how to put pressure on the wounds?"

Shakily. " Y-Yeah..."

"The ambulance will arrive in one minute, sweetie. Is the door unlocked?"

Firmer. "Yeah."

Sirens.

Footsteps.

Steady orders, given calmly.

"Sir, I need you to stand back."

No response.

"Sir, you can move your hands."

He didn't move.

"Sir, please. We can't help him when-"

A gasp.

Blood-covered hands lifted. New hands took their place.

More orders. The blood-stained coat he'd used to stem the flow was tossed aside.

New pressure slowed the stream of red.

So much red. On the tub and the razor and Canada's hands and America's arms.

Everything blurred and before he knew it the paramedics whisked America away. Canada stumbled after, and slumped in the back of the ambulance. As the paramedics tried to save his brother and the sirens screamed to life, one question plagued his mind.

Why?

Why?

Why?


England stormed out of the World Meeting in a huff. The entire day had been wasted and nothing got done, as usual. Even without America's obnoxious presence, it had been absolutely unbearable. England had been placed next to France. France, who hurried after him at this moment with a smirk on his face.

"Leaving so soon, Angleterre?"

"I'm not in the mood, frog." England snapped. "I've had enough of your inane drivel already today."

France clasped a hand to his chest. "You wound me, Angleterre. Do you not care that your words cut deep?"

England scoffed. "As if anything could get through that thick skull of yours."

France beamed. "Was that a compliment?"

England's eye twitched.

France wisely changed the subject. "Speaking of thick skulls, did you notice Amerique was absent?"

"Of course I noticed." England snapped. "Everyone noticed. The bloody idiot was supposed to host the meeting but he didn't bother to show."

"I'm sure Amerique has his reasons." France said.

England shook his head skeptically. ""Reasons?" Laziness is more like it. You should see his desk. It's covered in late paperwork. Lazy git can't be bothered to do his bloody job."

France frowned. "He has been overworked as of late. Cut the boy some slack."

"He isn't a boy." England said coldly. "He's a nation. He needs to start acting like it."

France's phone rang. He checked the number and brightened, answering. "Matthieu! How nice of you to call. I missed you at the meeting-" France 's smile vanished. "What is wrong? Matthieu, speak slower. I cannot understand you."

Before England's eyes, France's face drained of color. His blue eyes glazed with shock and his features went slack.

"We're on our way." He said, tone clipped. He hung up and put his phone away with shaking hands. "We're going to the hospital."

England gasped. "Matthew? What happened to him?"

France looked at him with fear and pity in his eyes. "Matthew is not hurt. It's Alfred. He tried to commit suicide.

And England's comfortable view of the world shattered.


Canada was covered in blood. It was on his shoes and his pants and his sleeves and hands. He sat in a creaky plastic waiting room chair and stared at it, watching his red-stained fingers twitch.

Twitch.

Twitch.

"Mister Williams?"

Canada looked up. A kindly nurse stood in front of him with blue hospital scrubs in her hands. They were pale blue, not sky blue like America's once-lively eyes.

How could I not see? How could I let this happen? Did America ask for help and I missed it?

Unable to find answers, Canada distracted himself by scouring her face. He saw kindness there, and empathy. He dare not look deeper. He dare not check for sorrow or pity.

The nurse smiled kindly. "Would you like to use the washroom?"

Canada shook his head mutely.

The nurse's eyes softened. "I'll leave these here when you want to change." She said and placed the scrubs beside him.

They were blue. Not a blue like America's eyes. But Canada wished they were green, or cream, or any other color. Not red. There was so much red.

The door to the waiting room opened with a bang and France and England ran through. They spotted Canada immediately and England's skin blanched.

"Matthieu!" France embraced him, not caring about the blood on his clothes. "Are you all right?"

"I'm not hurt." Canada mumbled. "Al is." He belatedly realized the nurse had left.

France brushed a lock of hair away from Canada's face and cupped his tear-stained cheek. Canada did not remember crying. "What happened, Matthieu?"

Canada's eyes glazed. "I found him in the bathroom. He sliced his wrists." His voice cracked and his eyes burned. "Why would he do that? Why?"

France had no answers. "We will have to ask him when he wakes."

"If he makes it." Canada said tonelessly.

England's hands balled into fists.

The door to the emergency room opened and a doctor walked out. He spotted Canada and walked towards him.

"Matthew Williams?" He questioned.

Canada nodded numbly, unable to speak. France grasped his hand and squeezed his fingers.

The doctor smiled. "The blood transfusion was successful. Your brother pulled through. He's sleeping now and should wake soon. "

Canada could breathe again. He slumped in his chair, hand to his mouth to stifle his sobs. France rubbed his back. England glared at the wall stonily.

"When can we see him?" Canada asked once he regained some composure.

"Once he wakes up and the doctors speak with him you might be able to." the doctor said. He sat down so he was eye level with Canada. "Alfred hurt himself badly. He is going to need a lot of help in the near future."

"I'll be there for him." Canada said immediately.

"I trust you will." the doctor said. "But Alfred is in a very delicate place. There is a time for questions, but the time he wakes up is not it."

Canada's stomach twisted. "I understand." he whispered. He hesitated. "Can we wait in the room with him?"

The doctor scrutinized them (his eyes lingered on England) before shaking his head. "I do not think that is a good idea."

Canada flinched.

England's eyes narrowed.

The doctor raised a hand. "It may be better for all of you if you wait until he is awake."

Canada wanted to protest. Instead he nodded and accepted the doctor's advice. "Okay."

France put a hand on England's arm to keep him quiet. The doctor nodded and hurried to his next patient. Canada sat in the hard chair, and England and France sat at his sides.

For now, all they could do was wait.


America's nose itched. He tried to reach up and scratch it but his arm would not move. He frowned and wondered how someone encased his arms in cement while he slept. He tried to move them again and noted it was not cement. The substance had some give. It also hurt a bit.

A weight fell on his chest and crushed his heart into shards.

Hurt meant pain.

Pain meant life.

He was still alive.

America opened his eyes just to be sure. The white walls of a hospital greeted him. A doctor stood in the corner, looking at a clipboard.

America shut eyes that prickled with tears. He was in the hospital. Someone found him.

He had survived.

This wasn't supposed to happen. He was meant to die and that would be the end. He was not meant to be found too early and saved. He was meant to found too late and buried.

The doctor saw America was awake and hurried over. "Hello, Alfred." He said in the quiet tone people used around sick people. "My name is Doctor Greene. You're in the hospital."

America did not respond. He kept his gaze on the kitten poster on the wall that proclaimed "Hang in there!" It was strange. Why would they have a picture of a kitten in a noose? He blinked a realized the kitten was hanging by its paws on a tree branch.

"Do you remember what happened?" the doctor asked.

America's chest heaved as he took a shuddering breath. He remained silent. He kept his sight on the kitten.

"Alfred, could you look at me?" the doctor requested.

America forced himself to comply. The doctor's eyes were very green, just like England's. America dropped his gaze to his bandaged wrists. He couldn't swallow the lump in his throat.

"We are going to help you, Alfred." the doctor said.

Another shudder passed through America's body. No, no, no. This couldn't be happening. He was supposed to die so no one would waste their time with him anymore. Instead the doctor (and whoever found America) would try to fix him. They'd sort through the broken pieces and try to make them into a person again.

Shame rushed through America at the thought. He was such a selfish, attention-seeking git. Everyone else would be forced to deal with him because he couldn't even kill himself right. He couldn't do anything right.

"Who knows?" America didn't recognize his own voice. He should. It was quiet, broken, and weak just like him.

The doctor paused before answering. "You brothers Matthew and Arthur, and your friend Francis."

"Mattie found me?" America whispered because of course Canada did.

"Yes." the doctor confirmed.

America wished the shame could kill him. Of course it was Canada. His brother was kind and gentle and wonderful (unlike America) and he always checked on America even though his self-centered jerk of a brother did not deserve it. Canada would not let him die, even when he should.

"He was supposed to be in Toronto." America whispered.

The doctor shook his head. "You missed a meeting today. Your brother came to check on you."

America bit back a sob. Now he remembered. He put the meeting on the wrong day and so his entire schedule was skewed. Canada was not in Toronto. England was not in London. France was not in Paris. They were in New York for the World Meeting that was a short drive from America's home. He screwed up (he survived) because of a mistaken date.

The doctor eyed him over his clipboard with his bright green England-colored eyes. "Do you want to see them?"

America shook his head. "Leave me alone, please." he begged shakily.

"I can't do that, Alfred." the doctor said.

America returned to muteness. He had nothing else to say. He tugged hopelessly at the restraints around his wrists, barely feeling the slight pain in his wrists. They refused to yield and he laid his head on his pillow. Red-hot tears streamed down his temples and he ignored the doctor's questions on whether he was all right.

He was not all right.

He was supposed to be dead.

Why did I have to survive?