England has always known America well. He had seen him growing up, getting stronger, breaking free and then raising up to superpower. He didn't ever expect to see him fall.

Fall this hard.

It was cold night of November. England was sitting in his study, reading one his novels and sipping black tea from his favourite cup from dark green porcelain with mullein pattern. He was going to sleep soon, partly because of the comfy chair he was sitting in, partly because it was late and partly it was fault of yellow light from his lamp that he couldn't read properly. Yet he enjoyed those little moments of peace, when he could spend off his 'nation' part and just be...human.

Slowly turning pages of the novel, not even noticing what he was reading anymore, he drifted to not so peaceful sleep.

He was woken up by door bell ringing. He blinked sleepily and looked at the clock on the shelf. Who could it be this late? Wondering that, he slowly got up, slipping in his slippers and went to open the door. He shivered slightly when entering the cold hall, and look through the door peephole. Then he quickly opened the door.

''America, just what are you do-'' he started, but then somehow lost his voice when his former colony looked at him with such eyes. England would never forget that look, as it was craved deep into his memory.

''Can I come in?'' asked Northern country quietly, somehow...dryly. England would later tell himself he should have noticed something was off. Really off. America never asked for permission to enter, he just did.

And he had keys from England's house.

So he took him in, poured him some tea and scanned his fellow nation. He looked worn out. Bags under eyes, tired features. His glasses were smudged. His hair somehow greasy. And he was thinner, definitely much thinner.

''America, what's going on?'' he asked quietly, feeling the urge to help him. To be a hero at least this once.

''It's the end, England.'' He whispered softly. England noticed his hands were trembling, so without hesitation reached and held his hand in his own.

''What are you talking about? What end?''

''My end. I... I can't take it any longer.''

''America...''

England often wished he could say something better in that moment. Yet he couldn't. He watched America to stood up and examine his library, shelves filled with various books.

''I'm disappearing. Just like Roman Empire did. Like Antic Greece did. It's the end of my era.'' He said, and propped against the shelves to not fall on the ground. England quickly stood up and held him, putting him slowly to sit on the floor, in his own embrace.

''Shh...it's not that bad with you.'' He cooed in his ear quietly. America stayed quiet for a few minutes, before slowly raising his hand.

England gulped. It looked somehow,...transparent.

''A-america...'' he wanted to ask what was happening with other, how he could help, but the other stopped him.

''That's not my name.''

''What do you mean? You are America...''

America shook his head and took a deep breath, although that to England it seemed a little shallow. He grabbed America's hand, noticing just how cold it was. That shocked him. He always remember him being warm, smiling, sunny. Not this.

''That's not my name.''

After the American repeated it, England suddenly remembered the weird conversation he had with America once. About being someone, not something. He realized.

''What's your name then?''

He did not reply immediately, swallowing hard.

''I hoped you'd give me one...'' he whispered finally in weak voice. England was, must to say, surprised. When he thought about it later, he realized he hadn't had any idea back then, and if he knew, he'd think it more. But in that moment, quickly scanning over the books in his sight, and picking the name that seemed most suitable for nation...no, person in his arms.

''Alfred. You are Alfred.'' He said softly to his former charge. America –Alfred shifted more comfortably.

''Thank you...'' he said, just to be interrupted.

''Arthur.''

Alfred looked up to him weakly, with question in his eyes.

''My name is Arthur.'' He explained. He didn't know why he chose that name back then, but during days after he'd have realized it might be because of famous King Arthur. Or because it fit well with Alfred. Who knows.

''What were you reading?'' he asked quietly, holding onto England. The said man smiled.

'' Just some light novel before sleeping.''

''I see. Will you read it to me?''

And he read. He spoke quietly, taking deep breaths, articulating in his perfect British accent. He couldn't help but remember how he used to read stories to Am-Alfred when he was just a little colony. He couldn't help but remember all those times spent together. Remember past.

And he couldn't help but realize there was no future.

As he continued, flipping page by page, the weight on his body was becoming lighter and lighter.

And he read.

He didn't notice tears falling onto the paper until cold hand touched his cheek and wiped them away.

''Don't cry because of me...Artie.''

''Don't immediately make silly nicknames of my name.'' England chuckled.

Those were their last exchanged words.

Half an hour later United States of America vanished from the embrace of his beloved England, leaving him all alone sitting on the floor of his study, painful tears soaking into paper of the novel England later swore not to touch ever again.

He'd remember him still. Alfred, that is.

...

Whoa, I suck at endings. I really do.

Hope you don't hate it.