WARNINGS: Descriptions of wounds/suicide, angst, ghosts
I have one more chapter for you after this, then I have another story itself planned as a sequel. The sequel will be MUCH brighter...

It had taken England a long time to stop the tears from falling. It took even longer for his body to stop shaking in distress. During that time, all he could do was cling helplessly to his former colony's shirt that was being soiled by his seemingly never-ending tears. He managed, through his pitiful sobs, to tell America that their young brother, the one they had seen grow from a child into a strong nation, was gone.

America had been devastated and caught off guard. It explained why even after England stopped crying he continued to hold America close. It felt like, to them both, if they moved away the other would disintegrate before their very eyes.

Despite the fact that sitting on England's cold kitchen floor wasn't exactly comfortable, nor was the way America was putting his crushed legs to sleep, America didn't have the heart to make the distressed nation move when he was in such desperate need of comfort. It hurt to see England cry that way, grasping the soft fabric of the younger nation's shirt as if it were his last lifeline. For once, America tried to be as understanding as he could manage.

And so they stayed seated on the floor for hours, until they both ached from being still for so long. By then England was too exhausted to move from crying and America was feeling like his heart was still crumbling away like an old, broken stone wall.

England's tight grip finally began to falter and his eyes drooped closed, a soft sound leaving his throat as he tried to gather the strength to climb to his feet. Carefully America got up, stretching his back out then slipping an arm under England's legs. Before the exhausted man could truly protest America wrapped his other arm around England's back and lifted him with ease.

He stepped over the bowl and spilled contents that had been knocked over when England had reached blindly for his keys. He kept England close as he moved through the house, and by the time he'd reached the older nation's bedroom, England was asleep against his chest. He carefully layed the exhausted man on his bed, pausing for a moment to gently move some of the blond stands of hair out of the closed green eyes before slipping out of the room.

The following morning, England awoke to the scent of pancakes and an almost silent house. He idly wondered why Canada would be at his house cooking breakfast and was just standing up when reality hit him hard. He crumpled to his knees, pushing back his emotions until he was simply sitting there shaking. He clutched the cover of his blanket and slowly stood, making his way out the door and down the hall, in search of America.

England found America asleep on the couch, his cheeks stained with tears and his hair as messy as England's own. What he wasn't expecting was to find France in his kitchen, flipping the last few pancakes before sliding them off his spatula onto an already tall stack.

England coughed lightly, making the other nation nearly drop the plate. Thankfully, he managed to recover.

"A-Angleterre?" France stuttered in surprise. He set the plate down and pulled England into a hug. "Amérique called me last night… He told me… Oh, no, please, Angleterre, do not cry. Shh, please don't cry."

A&A

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" America asked a few hours later, looking out the window of his car. Once they had eaten, the three countries had decided to head over to the United States, and then take his car for a drive down to the Canada's house. America wanted to see his brother one last time, and France wanted to see if Kumajiro was still alive, or if the polar bear had perished along with Canada. Not one of them were sure they wanted to see the damage, but they found themselves standing outside of the house Canada had called home.

"Non, but we're here."

"Alright," America said on a sigh, stepping up to the door once he had left his car. His stomach churned when he reached for the handle, seeing blood on the golden metal. Instead of using the handle he slammed his hip against the door. He stumbled forward for a moment as he entered but managed to keep his balance. He heard the rest of his 'family' enter after him. He glanced over his shoulder when he caught a glimpse of England stumbling and France steadying the island nation.

"England, maybe you should wait outside…" the Frenchman suggested gently. He sighed when his brother shook his head. They could all be so stubborn, he knew that fact greatly about himself, but this time they could all feel that England was making a mistake.

Even England could feel it as he caught sight of blood on the walls where Canada had obviously stumbled and pressed his palms against the wall for balance. The Northern country's jacket was discarded not far from the door, the white fur along the collar no longer pristine. France stooped down to gather the soft cloth into his arms as he passed it, neatly folding it to hide the stains of blood that made him regret eating at all.

As the three continued to move, they found that Canada had apparently fallen on more than once before that fatal phone call. Blood was smeared across the wooden flooring along with claw marks from Kumajiro.

England could almost see a 'ghost' of Canada stumbling along can tripping on his broken shoe, falling flat on his face and laying there for a minute before gathering his strength and getting back up with Kumajiro worriedly pacing around his feet. He followed the 'ghost' through the house, to where Canada had found the gun, paused to debate it, before fumbling for the phone, trying to tend to his wounds as he did so. His next stop was the base where the phone normally rested to pick it up, dialing England's number with slick hands as he tightened his grip on the gun.

England watched the fading image of the other nation break down just before he could almost hear himself ask in confusion who was calling him late at night. His heart sunk as Canada tried to fight the tears at being forgotten yet again. He watched the broken nation start to walk down the hall, feeling his own footsteps slow as he remembered what he would soon come across, mildly aware of the fact France and America were watching him with worried eyes. But he didn't tear his gaze away from the image he could only see.

He listened to Canada's hollow laugh though this time he only felt sinking dread instead of a cold chill. He watched Canada tap the end of the gun against the wall once. Twice. Again. And a last time. He saw Canada's lip curl into a bitter snarl when he objected to England's offer of going to his house. Canada began walking again.

England traced the other's footsteps and heard the same crash but dulled from the fact the rest of the house was truly still. His eyes widened when he saw that it had been Canada roughly shooing Kumajiro who then scurried off and knocked over a table by accident. France righted it when England glanced at it in terror.

Shivering and ill, England willed himself to follow Canada again. The other country suddenly leaned against the wall in agony with a soft whimper, cough, and groan. England had to remind himself that he was simply seeing things so he wouldn't rush to the side of something that was only an image his mind was creating. It left a prickling sick feeling that stuck in his throat as he watched Canada futilely attempt to wipe the blood away that was running onto his glasses from a wound to the head.

Canada pushed on, moving into another room and his voice began to fade, making England try to force away the image. Even as he pulled France to a stop when the older nation tried to continue, he strained to hear it. And hear it he did; the click of the safety being released and the gun being cocked. Tears choked him as he pushed himself to turn the corner.

'I-I'm sorry… T-tell A-America… I-I'll m-miss h-him…'

'Canada don't do it!' he heard himself scream through the phone just as he entered the room. His eyes fell on the ghost as he pulled the trigger, blood splattered across the white walls and he fell… landing in the exact same position as the man before him.

"Canada!" America's voice rang out, though England heard not a word. Instead he rushed over on rubber legs. He dropped to his knees beside the fallen form of their youngest brother, pulling the boy into his arms. His body shuddered at the way Canada's head lolled limply. The Canadian's blue eyes were mostly opened; staring blankly at some unknown point in the distance. His deathly pale skin was coated in red along with his hair.

There was blood everywhere…

And the gun was still in Canada's hand, his flag in his other.

Kumajiro mourning cried out Canada's name and shoved the nation's leg. He was coated in blood himself, from the gash that ran across his owner's temple which was rubbed against the white fur when Kumajiro made an attempt to stop the bleeding. Canada's skin was stained with red and purple from deep bruises along his cheeks, arms, and ankles. His eyes were marred by darker bruises from getting hit.

"Kumajiro, come away from him," France's sad voice broke through England's thoughts as the Frenchman carefully scooped up the polar bear who in turn squirmed helplessly to get away. France glanced at England once he felt the Briton's gaze rise to his face. All he could do was offer an attempt at a reassuring, kind smile that was ruined by the tears running down his cheeks.

Something just behind France made England's eyes widen slightly, gently allowing America to take his place before rising. He saw France speak but did not hear him, for his attention was elsewhere. He could have sworn he saw Canada's ghost give a gentle smile and heard the Canadian's soft voice.

'Tell France… I'll miss him…'