The world has ended – gone up in smoke and flames, burned to the bare rocks around them – but England still considers himself a gentleman. There is no place for fine porcelain teacups and elegant embroidery in this new, harsh reality, but England prides himself on being polite, kind, and one that people in need turn to.

He wonders what the gentlemanly thing to do when he opens the rough wooden door America made from driftwood found on a beach and a starving boy, ribs protruding from his skin, covered in mud and dripping rainwater, stumbles in, tripping on the mat and crashing down onto the floor.

He doesn't realize the identity of his guest until he's latched onto his trouser leg and started sobbing, and cold fear dawns on England, racing through his veins and numbing him straight down to his core, when he realizes he's never seen Norway cry before. He can't make out what Norway is saying through his blubbering and the shudders that make his shoulders tremble so hard that it seems like Norway will shake himself to pieces, but England snatches the towel hanging on the coat hanger next to the door (America left his things in the oddest places) and kneels next to him, gently wiping away the muck.

"Norway," he says softly, scrubbing gingerly at the grime on his cheeks and trying to stop him from pitching forward, "What is it?"

Norway gasps for air, choking on his hysterics. His eyes are red from weeping. There's dark blood trickling out of sores on the sides and bottoms of his feet over old wounds, shoes worn down to shreds, toes missing. His clothes are torn, and scratches trail up and down his arms.

"Denmark is gone," he manages to say, shuddering as the words are ripped from him, and he gasps again, hunching forward, arms wrapping around his skeletal stomach. England has to grab him by the shoulders and force him back up to a sitting position. Norway's breaths are so short and hurried that England must wonder how it is that he is getting enough air.

He isn't; after a moment of England trying to pry more information out of him, Norway's eyes suddenly roll back in his head, revealing the popped veins in his eyes and the dull pink where there should be white, and he crumples into England, leaving trails of mud along the lines of England's best jacket and trouser. His breathing slows, but continually hitches – even in a dead faint, Norway's grief is overwhelming him.

England slouches back against the stone wall, cradling Norway to him, and wonders what he is suppose to do.

...

He hauls Norway to the old sofa France found on the edge of what once upon a time was London and what England himself fixed up with new fabrics, stolen from the ruins of homes scattered across his fallen city. He drops his fellow Nation onto the tattered couch, shoves a floppy pillow under his filthy head and covers him as best he can with a ratty blanket, before he races to fetch the others.

He tears through the little village they've built up in the years since the war has ended. Small stone houses, tiny, straggling vegetable and herb gardens, a school house where England himself teaches the children of this war-torn village history and literature during the winter months. America should be there now, guiding the children through the wonders of the universe and the atoms, but England doesn't need him for this, much as he would like to burst in there and throw himself in America's arms, let him be the hero and take care of everything, figure out what is wrong with Norway and where Denmark has gone. No, England needs to go to the woodshop.

He dashes past families, past men and woman going about their day – making clothes, gardening, trading vegetables for freshly slaughtered beef and pork. They don't look at him when he runs by – they know what he is, and while they are grateful to him and his fellow Nations for their help in the disaster after the War That Destroyed Everything, their existence and their age makes them all uncomfortable, so they don't actively seek out their company.

Sweden and Prussia are on their break when he finally reaches the woodshop – they sit on the front step, munching on thick sandwiches made of a poor quality bread and talking quietly about their latest projects. They don't look up until England skids to a stop in front of him, feet catching on the gravel of the root and almost tipping over, overbalanced. He would have fallen, had Sweden's hand not shot out to steady his elbow. England brushes it away, bends over, and hacks, spitting into the bushes lining the walls of the woodshop.

Concern darkens the mischief in Prussia's eyes; England only comes to the woodshop when there's a problem. "What's going on?" he asks, rising half to his feet, dropping his sandwich as he reaches out to grasp England's shoulder.

England hacks again, shakes his head, and shoves Prussia's hand off his shoulder. "Norway," he gasps out, pushing his sweaty bangs out of his face.

Sweden's eyebrows knit together. He removes his cracked glasses and cleans them on the hem of his faded football jersey – they'd found it in what once upon a time had been a shopping mall. "Norway's up in Scandinavia," he mumbles gruffly. "With Denmark."

England shakes his head, and reaches out a hand to steady himself against the splintering wood of the shop's door. "No he isn't," he manages, massaging his chest, trying to get rid of the knots built up there, "He's in my house. Bloody, sobbing...something about Denmark."

Sweden's lips thin. Prussia glances worriedly at his business partner – he knows, behind Sweden's dislike of Denmark, there is also a twisted sort of concern and affection. Sweden will pummel Denmark into the ground, but will hurt anyone who attempts to do the same.

"What's wrong with Denmark now?" Sweden grumbles, getting slowly to his feet, body stiff and joint aching.

England shrugs. "All I got out of Norway was that Denmark's gone. He fainted, so I put him on my sofa under a blanket and came to get you." Sweden nods, tersely, and strides off in the direction of England's home, hands stiff at his sides. "The door's open; you won't need to beat it down!" England calls after him, and then he collapses to sit on the stone step. Prussia hesitates, stares at Sweden's retreating back as he disappears behind the corner of a house, and then settles himself down next to England.

"Do you remember that group that came trading here four months back, from where Latvia used to be?" he asks quietly, locking his fingers together and resting them on top of his knees. England shoves his hair away from his face and nods, wiping the sweat away from his eyes. "They mentioned...um, not really sure how to phrase this, but there's this group of people that blame us for the war."

"Wait, you mean, like, Germany? Germany wasn't one of the main instigators, best as I can recall."

"No! No no no. Not me and West. Us." Prussia gestures at himself, then England, and then waves his hand in the general direction of the village, the home they've built from scratch, pulled together with blood and tears and far too much loss. "Us," he repeats, "The Nations."

England looks indignant. "We had almost no real political power!" he says fiercely, combing his hands through his too-long hair, anxious, angry. "Bloody hell...what the hell. Do they think we wanted that war? We lost just as much as any human."

Prussia shrugs, and tries not to remember what he lost, in the War that Destroyed Everything. He reaches down, picks up his sandwich, brushes the dirt off it and takes a bite, ignoring England's reprimanding "tisk" and glare. "It was only rumors, so I didn't think much of it at the time. Didn't ask for more details." He scowls as he chews. "That was stupid of me."

England snorts and puts his head in his hands. "I don't want more fighting," he says wearily. Prussia glances at him as he takes another bite of his sandwich, then goes back to staring out what remains of once proud London. They've cleaned up much of it – most of the rubble went to building the village, and most of what could be salvaged, they have. But there are still old walls, crumbling and ancient, covered in creeping mosses and vines.

"Me neither," he says, dropping his gaze to his sandwich. He hurls the rest of it into the thick bushes across the road from them, and they don't speak, wondering what will come, what shall be learned, when Norway wakes.


Author's Note

...And this is so late xD Anyone still remember this?

Unedited; just wrote it in half an hour. Corrections are much appreciated.