WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONSISTS OF BLOOD AND SOME GORE. IF THIS WILL BOTHER YOU, I SUGGEST NOT READING. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

"My eyes have adjusted to dark and so is my heart
The weight of the world has covered me
I'm in over my head
Am I living or dead?
Can anyone hear me calling out?

I'm calling out
. . . . . . . . . .

I built this house on the shore
All I wanted was more
But I felt the sand start shifting
I saw the cracks in the walls
I painted over them all
I tried my best to just ignore

I can't ignore

Finally breaking, so where are you now?
It's been such a long time
But I've tried to live without
I'm suffocating I need you to breathe
So reach down and pull me up
Pull me up before I am buried beneath

I thought I was climbing out
But it's dragging me down
What's hidden here with me
Thought I was alone
But it pulls me deeper now
I can't escape"

~Buried Beneath – RED

The weeks coming passed rather slowly. Very slowly indeed. A meeting was held by Kiku for the strong and loyal friends of Alfred in order to see what they could do for the American people. All three of them went: Arthur, Francis, and Mathew. However, during the whole discussion, Arthur didn't say one word. He sat there, blank and unexpressed, not one noise coming from him. In fact, he looked like he might have been partly dead.

Francis and Mathew had watched over the Englishman only until the meeting passed. After that, they took their leave; hoping that Arthur would have enough sense to take care of himself. Francis had his doubts about it though. Arthur was much more depressed then he had ever been; and he had been in many states of depression before. But this one. . . This one was just plain old nasty; one Arthur probably would take the longest time recovering from. The next few years were going to be hell, Francis just knew it.

The months passed slowly from June to July. It rained more than usual in England during those days. Did it have something to do with how Arthur felt? Maybe it did. . . But the chances were slim. Weather very rarely relied on the emotions of the country themselves.

For the past few weeks, Arthur had been unable to do much of anything. He felt like crying constantly, but he wouldn't let himself. He wouldn't. Hadn't he cried enough? Hadn't he already cried all his tears? Hadn't he? His mind said yes, but his heart said otherwise. No matter how many times he lied to himself and said it didn't matter, he still felt as though his whole world had crumbled; as if there was nothing left in the whole universe but him.

The days became longer and longer, each one getting darker and darker. A month had already come and gone since Alfred's death, and everyday Arthur grew deeper and deeper into depression. Would he have seen Alfred again by now? Wouldn't he have at least called? By now he would be going on and on about how much more amazing his birthday would have been this year. . .

His birthday. . .

Arthur shot up from his bed at the remembrance of Alfred's birthday. He had been laying there since yesterday afternoon, with no will or want to remove himself from it. Lately, this happened sometimes for days on end; where Arthur would only force himself to get up and return a call to his boss if mandatory. Other than that, he just laid there for no reason; thinking only of the death that had happened not too long ago. Sleep also overtook him for hours. Hours. He had no want to do anything, he only wanted to sleep. To forget about all that had happened. That's all he wanted.

But Alfred's birthday. . . His birthday, God damn it! His first birthday in almost two hundred and forty years where he wouldn't be bouncing around, shouting, cheering, and/or dragging people to attend. The first time in so long where he wouldn't be pleading for Arthur to come. It was the first time when Arthur wasn't thinking of this date as the day Alfred left him; but rather the fact that he would never be able to fix his mistakes and celebrate it with him again.

Arthur threw his feet over the side of the bed and jumped down, flying out of the room and down the stairs. Stumbling into his kitchen, he took a glance at the calendar that hung from the wall. July Fourth. . .

It was raining. . .

"July. . ." Arthur mumbled to himself, his hand shaking as it pointed to today's date, "Fourth. . . How. . . He's not. . ." He brought his hand to his face, covering his eyes and as he began to cry, "He's not here. . . This doesn't. . . Feel right. . . How. . . Can it. . ?" He stumbled back a ways, bumping into the counter and knocking a few things off. He then proceeded to fall the floor; holding his knees tightly to his chest, "It's not right. . . It's not right! Alfred. . . Alfred. . . I. . . Why. . . Aren't you here. . ? Why, damn it. . ? Why?"

"Iggy!" Alfred shouted, throwing open Arthur's hotel room door.

"Holy shit!" the Brit gasped, almost falling out of his hotel room chair, "What the bloody hell is your issue? Don't you know how to knock?"

"Knocking?" Alfred cocked his head, now looking down at the Englishman in his chair, "What's that?" he laughed.

Arthur rolled his eyes, shaking his head and he sighed, "What do you want?"

The American held out his hand, a letter addressed to Arthur in his fine grip, "For you!" he grinned.

Raising an eyebrow, Arthur took the letter from him and read it. After he finished reading, he looked up at the teenager's bright, grinning face. Alfred was obviously excited and waiting for a good reply from the Brit.

Arthur let out a sigh, "How many times have I told you this, Alfred?"

"Um. . ." Alfred's blue eyes fell to the floor, "I dunno. . . A lot?"

"Yes. A lot. I do not see why you do not get this by now. I will not come to your stupid party. I think it's absolutely ridiculous. A birthday party! We're countries, Alfred. We don't have 'birthdays'."

"But it's gonna be really cool this year!" Alfred cheered, "We're even gonna set off the fireworks from my roof!"

"Ha!" Arthur let out a shout, "And I will not be surprised if you blow yourself up! I will not be the one to help you, either. I won't care. I will not pick up the pieces of your body and try to put them back together like a bloody puzzle, because you were a bloody moron who decided he would shoot fireworks off on his house."

Alfred stayed silent for a moment, his eyes wandering to the floor numerous times. He wanted Arthur to come, but. . . Arthur. . . He didn't know what to say to convince him that he really wanted him to come. . . That he really did want him there. That he wanted to hang around with him more often.

"There's gonna be cake too! Seriously dude, if you don't come, you'll be missing out on a lot!" his smile now looked slightly forced.

"Alfred, I am not coming. End of story. Go away and don't bother me about it again," he didn't take another glance at Alfred and got back to work.

"Okay. I'd still love to see you there, Iggy!" Alfred's voice slightly quivered as he left the room.

Arthur watched him leave from the corner of his eye. Yes, he did notice the change in Alfred voice. . . But. . . He was too scared to take any action. . . He was too weak. . .

Arthur let out a long moan, holding his head in his hands, "Alfred! I'm so sorry, damn it! I'm such a fool! Oh, God! Why was I so stupid? You just. . . How could I have hurt you like that? You just wanted me to come to your stupid party! God, why didn't I see that? You. . . You just. . . Why did I hurt you. . ? Oh, God, I'm so sorry. . . I'm so sorry. . ."

One of his arms went limp, his fingers brushing against an object that had been knocked off the counter. He took it in his hand, a sharp stinging flowing through his palm. What was this? What. . . His tired, emerald eyes took a glance down at it. A knife. Of course. How convenient. Very convenient. . . With not much thought on it, Arthur's grip on the knife tightened as he brought it up to his eyes. What was he about to do? Why. . . Did he want to do this. . ? He didn't understand, and even if he told himself that it was a stupid idea, his arms did not listen.

A sudden pain crossed his wrist. Again, again, and again. Drops of dark red blood began to trickle down his arm, running down to his elbow and dripping onto his clothes and floor. Over and over he did it, his mind telling him to stop; but at the same time, telling him it would make up for the things he did and did not say. . .

'Why did Alfred have to die. . ?'

'He was innocent. . . Innocent, damn it. . .'

'He was strong. . . He was strong. . .'

'Can I change this. . ?'

'Can I make up for a death wrongly served. . ?'

'What if I died. . ? What if I was dead. . ?'

'Could. . . Could I see him again. . ?'

'Would. . . Would he be there. . ? In death. . ?'

'Can I hold him again. . ? Tell him all the things I regret saying. . ?'

'Can I. . ?'

'In death. . ?'

The knife slid from his hand, dropping and landing with a soft crash on the kitchen tile. Arthur proceeded to jump up with no hesitation. He ran at top speed, forgetting about the blood that was trickling down his arm, causing blood to trail behind him. He made a quick turn, and with a sudden opening of the basement door the sound resonated as feet pounded down the stairs. The Englishman slammed his hands down on the back desk as he began to dig through the different bottles and spell books he had. He almost tore the room apart. Tore it apart. Papers went flying everywhere, bottles were tipped over, and books were thrown all over the place.

As quickly as he began, he stopped. A bottle full of some type of dark orange liquid was firmly in his grasp, and he stared at it with great intent. Once he had it, he ran back up the stairs to his kitchen, tripping slightly because of how fast he was going. When he got there, he drank the liquid and picked up the knife. If he was going to die, then shouldn't his death be worse than Alfred's. . ? Alfred didn't deserve death. . . At least Arthur had done things that deserved it. He deserved it; a worse death than Alfred. Yes. A worse death. . . And so, he would make himself hurt before death came to greet him.

Almost all logic had left him. He only thought of pain, of death; of Alfred, of killing himself. He only thought of the ways he could hurt himself in order to make it worse than Alfred's death. It needed to be worse. He couldn't just die. . . He couldn't. Yes. . . Seeing Alfred was top priority in this, but he wouldn't be able to rest knowing that he had not had worse, because Alfred didn't deserve death like he did.

The knife cut across the skin on his arm, cutting it open as if it was a dissection specimen. The pain was immense. Good. It needed to be. It needed to be. The liquid began working, doing its job. Arthur's insides began to feel as though they were on fire, and blood began to build up in his throat. No matter how bad the pain got, he continued to dissect his arm. Skin first, then muscle, then. . . Nerves. Once he hit these, his arm wouldn't work anymore. Though the muscle had been thick, extremely thick; he had not completely cut it open by the time his insides were exploding.

Coughing, he forgot about cutting himself for a moment. Blood flew from his mouth, running down his chin and onto the counter and floors. His arm, too, was covered in blood, a sheet of red clothing the tables and cabinets. Suddenly, his body went limp. Arthur began to fall to the floor, the knife in his hand slicing partly through his wrist; leaving it half cut away from his body. His body lay on the floor; blood flowing from his wounds, surrounding him. He wasn't conscious any more. Not at all. As a country, he was a dead as he could be; his organs ripped apart from the inside out.

The date was the Fourth of July. . .

It was raining. . .

"Angelterre?"

Francis slowly opened the Brit's front door; trying his best to hold his umbrella above him. He looked around the entryway and scooted in. It was amazing how he had managed to find where Arthur hid his house key so quickly. Today's date being the Fourth of July and all, Francis found it necessary to check up on the Englishman; and boy, could have know any better.

"Angelterre?" he said, almost singing as he walked closer to the kitchen, "Angelterre, where are you?"

The red pool of liquid on the floor caught his attention. His eyes widened in fear, and he stood there in shock for a moment; not even knowing what he should think. It was a pool of blood! What was he supposed to do? Act like it wad normal? No, in fact, after only a few seconds, Francis bolted forward; running to the kitchen as fast as he could.

"Angelterre!" Francis screamed, rounding the kitchen island to see what was bleeding. As soon as his eyes laid sight of Arthur's dead body, his stomach twisted and caused him to gag. He covered his mouth quickly and turned to the sink, emptying his stomach. For the longest time he couldn't stop gagging, and every time he glanced down at Arthur it just made it worse.

It took him a few minutes to regain himself, and yet a few more to prepare himself for the sight. Francis took a deep breath and held it for a while; trying his best to calm him stomach down. He honestly couldn't believe that Arthur had done this to himself. What was he thinking. . ? What could have gone through his head. . ? Why did he do that. . ? He knew he couldn't die that easily!

Shaking his head, Francis took a quick look at the Brit's arm and wrist, then up at the house entryway to get his mind off it. Thank God he knew how to sew; that way he would be able to get by without having to bring Arthur to the hospital. He could sew up his wounds himself. Though he may not be a professional surgeon, he knew what to do for a country with similar wounds. And so, he would help Arthur the best he could and hope that he would wake up soon.

Before he began working on Arthur though, he made sure to put him in a good spot. On the counter was not a good idea; because when the Englishman woke up and found himself, blood stained and weak on top his counter, he may have a fit. More rather, Francis set him on the couch; placing Arthur's arm on a table he moved over. It took him a while, for he was sure to be careful about all the stitches he made. This was skin, a body, not a piece of clothing that he could easily rip the seams out of. Once he was finished, he quietly left Arthur there and hoped for his consciousness.

As Francis waited a thought passed through his head. Why did Arthur have to try to kill himself? If he hadn't, maybe they could have celebrated Alfred's birthday together. Even so, they could celebrate when he woke up; but both of them knew that it wouldn't be the same without Alfred there.

Dark, warm colors blurred and mixed while Arthur tried to open his eyes; squinting and blinking at the light. The brightness burned his eyes; and he quickly tried to rub them, halting when a sharp, massive pain flew down his arm. He groaned and left his arm where it was; not attempting to move it again. God, did it hurt. What did he –

He glanced at his wounds, noticing the stitches located on his wrist and forearm. Oh, yeah. . . That's what he did. . . Arthur sighed and did his best to sit up; taking a few minutes to do so. Damn it, if only it worked. . . He would have been able to see Alfred again. . . Damn it! Damn it! The Englishman bit his lip, forcing his tears back once more. Why. . . Why did he have to be immortal? It was a stupid curse. . . Why couldn't he just die? Why couldn't he see Alfred? Why. . ?

Arthur moaned and forced himself to his feet; trying his best not to move his arm or wrist too much. Slowly, he made his way out of the living room. A few thoughts crossed his mind as well.

'Who the bloody hell is here? These wounds didn't sew themselves up on their own! I bet it's that damn frog. Who the bloody hell does he think he is; spying on me whenever he pleases? It's like he feels the need to invade my personal life all the time!'

Just that moment, Arthur had succeeded in getting to the hallway; but his feet had gotten tangled below him and he stumbled, letting out a gasp as a burning sensation coated his arm.

"Angleterre!" a voice yelled from behind him.

Arthur glanced back, his face twisting in anger when he saw the Frenchman "Leave me alone, you fucking wanker!"

"Angleterre. . ." Francis said sadly, concern lacing his voice, "Are you. . . Okay?"

"Why the bloody hell wouldn't I be?" Arthur yelled, glaring daggers at the Frenchman.

Francis looked to the floor. "I'm worried about you, Angleterre. . ." he looked back up at the Englishman, "Why did you try to commit suicide?"

The emerald-eyed man stood silent for a moment, refusing to speak. Why should he tell him? Why did he have to know? Why couldn't he be left alone in his thoughts? Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone?

"Angleterre!"

"Why the bloody hell should I tell you?" Arthur said bluntly, beginning to walk down the hall. He wrist began throbbing, and suddenly Arthur tripped and let out a yipe. With great effort, the Brit quickly forced himself up against the wall; using it as a support to hold himself up. He closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths.

"Angleterre!" Francis shouted, coming up behind him, "Be careful!"

"Don't touch me, you bloody frog!" Arthur screamed, his eyes filled with anger and hatred.

Francis backed off; though he fully noticed that that hatred was a cover up. A cover up. 'Damn it Arthur. Why do you keep hiding your feelings like this? It's not going to help you. . . Damn it, you stupid asshole!'

The two stood there in silence for a few more minutes, until the silence finally over whelmed them. There was something strange about this. . . What was it. . ? Why were they both just standing there like idiots?

"Arthur," Francis finally spoke up; the name catching the Englishman's attention, "Why did you do it? Why did you try to kill yourself? What were you thinking?"

Arthur sighed and turned around, "Why the bloody hell do I have to tell you?"

"Because-!" Francis yelled, "You raised him for Christ's sake! I know you miss him! You won't let it go! You're still depressed about the whole thing! I know you! This is because of that! You miss him! That's why! Don't tell me it's not!"

The Brit quickly bit his lip and looked away, "So what if it is? What if I miss him?" He abruptly turned to Francis again, "What does it matter to you?"

"It matters because I'm scared for you!" Francis screamed, "I'm worried about you, damn it!"

"Worried about me?" Arthur screamed back, "Worried? Why the fuck are you worried?"

"Damn it, Arthur! Do you have to make me admit it?"

"Admit what?"

Francis let out an annoyed shout, "Gahh! Oh mon Dieu, Arthur! Pourquoi etes-tu fou? Je suis ton ami, ne vois-tu pas! Je me soucie de vous! Je suis préoccupé par vous! (Oh my God, Arthur! Why the hell are you such an idiot? I'm your friend, damn it! I care about you! I'm worried about you!)"

Arthur gritted his teeth, "Inquiet? Vous étiez inquiets? Pourquoi n'essayez-vous pas été à ma place? Je admite, ça me manque, merde! Et vous savez quoi? Je ne veux pas vivre sans elle! (Worried? You're worried? Why don't you try being in my place? I admit it, I miss him, damn it! And you know what? I don't want to live without him!)"

Blue eyes stared harshly back at Arthur, but neither of them said another word. After a few minutes, the Brit sighed and turned around yet again; beginning to walk away. He took the long way to his kitchen, stopping by the counter that was next to the sliding glass door. That counter was where he stored his cigarettes, and he would smoke a few here and there. Funny thing was, he smoked, but he would never allow himself to do so in doors.

He took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter; then proceeded to walk out onto his back porch. The sound of birds, the pitter pat of water droplets left over from the rain, the rustling of trees. . . All such sounds he knew well. . . And yet the sight of the forest that stretched out in front of him was clouded by the fog that was rolling in.

Arthur let out a sigh as he lit his cigarette. Francis had a good reason to be worried. . . He did, and Arthur wasn't going to try to force himself to believe otherwise. That would be stupid. He wasn't an idiot who wouldn't even admit to himself that he had issues, was having issues, and was depressed as hell. God damn it, he couldn't even drag himself out of bed some days, or even eat! And thank God Francis didn't notice that at least. . . That he had lost weight. . . He would be even more worried, and Arthur just wanted people to leave him alone.

The minutes passed, and Arthur's pack of cigarettes grew smaller. How many had he smoked by now? He didn't know; he wasn't paying attention. Thoughts about the situation crawled through is mind. Yes, he did miss Alfred. . . There was no denying that. He missed him so much. . . So damn much. . . And damn it, Francis! He just wanted to see him again! To see him once more! Once more. . . Why not just once more. . ? Was that too much to ask. . ?

Arthur bit his lip and whimpered. Damn it, why did he have to keep himself from crying constantly? He always felt so dead. . . So. . . Alone. . . Locked in complete nothingness. His heart ached to the point where he felt like it would explode any minute; and all he wanted was to die. . . Because if he died, wouldn't all this pain go away? Wouldn't he be happy again? Wouldn't he be able to see Alfred again? Wouldn't he. . ?

To see Alfred again. . . Oh God, how he longed to see him again. To hold him, comfort him, laugh with him. . . Why did this happen? Why was Alfred gone? Why did Arthur now have to live without him? Why? Why, damn it? Why, Alfred? He constantly felt like crying, like doing nothing, like dying! Why did he have to feel this way? Why was he such an idiot?

"Angleterre?"

The sudden voice made Arthur jump, though only a little. He turned to look at the Frenchman while lighting another cigarette. His green-eyed glare was cold and sad; not much hatred in the mass pool of emotions now. Just sorrow and emptiness. . .

Francis had the glass door slightly opened, and stood in between that porch and kitchen, "Angleterre-"

"In or out, Frog!" Arthur yelled, cutting him off.

"Oh. . ." Francis quickly scooted outside and slid the door closed, "Angleterre. . ." he took notice of Arthur's eyes. There was no reason to hurt him farther right now; shouldn't he try to lighten the mood instead? "I. . . Je ne savais pas tu parles Français!(I didn't know you spoke French!)"

Arthur's eyes got wide and a few seconds later he gritted his teeth, "Frog! What does it matter if I speak French? It's a stupid, ugly language!"

"Oh hon hon~!" Francis laughed and moved closer to the Brit; now only a few feet away, "Mais tu le parle, non?(But you speak it, no?)"

"Don't get so bloody full of yourself!" Arthur shouted, taking a few steps back, "I only know it because your stupid Normans felt the need to take over!"

Francis raised an eyebrow and coughed, "But didn't you ask them to help. . ?"

Arthur grimaced, "Fuck you, France. Fuck you."

The Frenchman chuckled and stepped away; not willing to force himself to act flamboyant at the moment. It was a common way to act for him, flamboyant; but this was not a situation he felt like acting as so in. . . Not at all. It was not in him to act as such. Francis looked over at Arthur, who he noticed began smoking again. He seemed to be in his own little world; where thoughts of Alfred were probably filling it to the brink.

"Angleterre?" he spoke up, sadness glimmering off his eyes. The Brit glanced at him from the corner of his eye, "It's. . . It is only two days after Amérique's birthday. . ."

"What about it?" Arthur said quickly, his voice choking from the forcefulness he said it with.

"Well. . ." Francis began, talking slowly, "he is not here to celebrate it. . . I thought maybe it would be a nice idea. . . To celebrate it for him. . ."

"What?" Arthur turned to face him; leaning up against the porch railing as his eyes began to water, "Why. . ?"

"Because. . . Even though he's not here. . . It doesn't seem right to act like things are normal on that day. . . Don't you think he would be happy that we're celebrating it, even when he's not here? Wouldn't he be happy to see you celebrating for him?"

Arthur let out a sigh and began to walk to the sliding door. "I'm sorry, France. . . I'm going to have to pass on this. . . Thank you anyways. . ." he walked inside and shut the door, leaving Francis outside alone.

Finally got around to updating. It's been a while. I tend to forget sometimes. So, I know this chapter involved. . . quite a bit of blood, and some slight gore. Yeah, I have a habit of putting stuff like this in my fics at points. Anyone who read Decending Darkness should know that I have an issue with writing blood and gore. :'D That was what made up that fic pretty much, which is why its rated M. But, since this is the only chapter with this much blood in it for this fic, rating it T made since to me.

Anyways~ This fic will be LONG. Once I hit fourteen chapters thats only going to be half of it! However, thats also where all the really depressive things end. From there it switches. And of course you won't know the plot twist unless you stick to it! ;D Haha.

Thank you so much for the reviews guys! I really apreshiate it! I love, love, love hearing what you all think! I wish I was better at replying to reviews, so I shall reply to all you loyal readers here~

A Crying Reviewer - Thank you so much for the review! Aww, yeah, its a pretty tragic fic, isn't it? But no worries! You wont be crying the whole time! Just a lot of it atm... Haha. :'D I will for sure keep writing! Thank you again! Also, awesome for liking Josh!

Nerdygal-lol - Why, thank you! I'm glad you loved it so much! Bringing you to tears was my job! -shot- As you can tell, I have updated, so thank you again! I will keep doing so, and hopefully next time I don't forget. lol

sol jones - Awww, well, sometimes reading depressive stories is good? Its usually just a preference~ I like them too and tend to read them more often. Ahh, we're just odd like that I guess. But, this won't be depressing the whole time! I assure you! 8D It'll will just be that way for a while. . . Thank you for reviewing!

GoodnessCoconuts - Mattie? You be accusing himmmm? D': Haha, good choice, but I am afraid you are wrong my dear! I wouldn't be able to write an evil!Mattie. He's to cute and innocent. *O* Well, maybe not all the time, but you know.

crying like there's no 2morrow - Oh my, really? Well then, this is more depressing than I thought! Maybe this was my goal... -evil grin- I'm glad you are liking it, even though it is rather depressing... lol Haha, happy endingggg? Wutttttt? Who said anything about a happy endingggggg? -shifty eyes- Hemmm... I want your thoughts! How do you think this could end well? 8DDD (It does end well and happy, just to be clear~ I want to hear what you think though! :3 )

moonshadow2012 - Whoa! Loyal reader here I can tell! Thank you so much for 3 reviews! Ahahaha, that makes me feel special! I'm glad its kept your interest so far! I shall keep updating~ I just hope what I have written doesn't get to weird for some people. . . :'D

MikkiHasACookieForYou - I'm sorry! D': Ugh, I don't mean to depress you! Well, eh. . . Heheh. . . But, I'm sorta glad you can't stop reading, makes me feel like I'm a good writer~ Even if it is quite sad. I shall continue! Mwahah. ;D

Jokerharley - Your whole night? Nooooooo! I didn't mean to! Really! Forgive meeeeeee! OTL Amazing, huh? Well, thank you I guess! =)

Luigified531 - Two reviews? Thank you so much! 8D Nukes are probably a good way to go for bombings, huh? I was more so thinking that a few nukes were used here and there for this, and then other usual bombs as well. . . Nukes are hard to get ahold of. : / Thank God. lol I'd be tariffed if this really happened! And lucky you, small town. . . Ah, I used to live in one. I swear since mine is a bigger city it would be one of the first to go. DARN YOU CITIES. FAH. Thank you for doing the ratios! I didn't even do that myself. :'D I probably should have myself. . . lol

All of you, again I would like to thank you! It makes my day when I get reviews! Even if I don't reply right away, I still read them and they make me smile~ Thank you so much!

Also, again, this story does NOT focus on WHO killed Alfred. Its Alfred and Arthur's relationship, and how Arthur deals with his death. If you want to know who killed Alfred, it was a terrorist group. That is all I know. I haven't planned anymore of it out because I wasn't planning on focusing on it, nor was I thinking that people would think that was the main topic... Terrorists guys! Terrorists! They're the most obvious choice! xD And... IT WAS NOT CANADA. D: You'll see that later he has issues of his own. . . I was trying to make him the strong one in the beginning because he was the only one who didn't see him die.