England led the other countries down the street, they followed him silently as they processed what his earlier words had meant. It had taken him over an hour—dammit—to realize why, exactly, America hadn't been in the meeting today.
And that had only been once he'd set eyes on the calender.
He felt a bit guilty, as his hot anger instantly faded away, making his chest feel empty. He'd stood up from his chair, Germany stopped speaking to the room. They'd stared at him. He was England, that polite bastard who's obsessed with tea. Interrupting anyone who wasn't America France or Prussia wasn't like him. So they asked him. He'd told them. He walked out of the room, and was slightly—only slightly—surprised when they followed him. All of them.
Canada and France were on his heels, followed by Prussia, Germany, Italy, Russia and Romano. Japan and China behind them, and Afghanistan followed in their shadows, wringing her hands with an anxious look on her face, her long maroon coat flapping wildly in the wind—hot, thick, almost choking. The day, so hot. They'd said the city was going through a heat-wave that morning on the news. Many of them were sweating buckets as they made their way toward the now famous memorial, without a word.
As they first stepped out onto the grass, they could barely see him. Standing straight as a rod, fists clenched to his sides, just barely hidden in the shadows of the tall stone that reached to the skies, names—thousands of them—scrawled neatly in rows, carved. The field around it held so many grave-like platforms, each dedicated to as name on the memorial.
They walked up behind him, China, Russia, France, Afghanistan and some other countries glancing over at him in concern, before they went right past and laid some bouquets they'd bought at the last minute near the memorial.
Britain waited, walking to stand next to his ex-colony and leaning over to set his own handful of flowers down at his feet. He straightened up, and turned, wrapping his arms around the stiff world superpower. America had tears gathered at the corner of his eyes, but they didn't fall this time.
It had been twelve years.
Soon, the rest of the world made it to them, and the countries who'd gotten flowers returned. They stared at the memorial silently, before looking over at America, who finally glanced at them. He gave them a tight smile, lifting a finger to his lips. They frowned.
"America-kun?" Japan tilted his head.
"Shhh," America hushed him, before reaching out his arms and lifting a finger, pointing over at another group of mourners who were gathered over at one of the smaller, more personal memorials.
"—and in class last week, I made my picture all blue, because that's your favorite color, Mommy said." a young child was saying, hands pressed up against the baked stone, not even noticing the heat due to the apparent excitement on his face. "I know you like birds, too, Mommy told me that Archimedes—he lives in my room now!—belonged to you first, before me. He's really good, and all his feathers are really shiny, even though Mommy said he was old. Anyway, I made sure that my picture from school was all blue, and had lots of birdies."
The other countries turned, curious, as they listened in silence. A young woman who was perhaps shortly approaching her mid-years stood off to the side, her hands clasped in front of her, both grasping tightly to a very worn-looking photo. Her bright green eyes, that were slightly edged with small crinkles from smiles watched the young child blather on. Her face held a small smile. A tiny little girl who only reached just below her wait, dressed in a purple and blue jumpsuit, clung her her legs, hiding behind her, staring silently at the boy who shared her very blond hair—which was up in pigtails.
"And in my last report card, Mommy was really happy, because I got all my grades straight As. She told me that I was really smart, do you think so too Daddy?"
They were startled out of their small daze as they realized just who the boy was talking to. Hungary sucked in a deep breath and reached over for Afghanistan, who was tearing up at the excited words the little boy was spewing.
"I hope you're proud of me Daddy. Oh, look!" The boy dashed over to the woman and bent down, exaggeratively low, coaxing the little girl out from behind her. He led the girl over to the memorial and squatted down with an arm around her tiny shoulders. "Look, Daddy! This is Aria, she's my sister. You haven't met her yet, since we live all the way in Maine now, and we couldn't come visit you for three whole years! Anyway, she's my sister. Our real daddy kind of ran away a long time ago, but Mommy said that shouldn't matter since we still had you as a Daddy. I tell Aria stories about you every night before bedtime, even though you went away a long time ago—before I was born! I hope you're proud of both of us!"
America gave them a larger smile, even if it was still shaky, and he pointed in another direction. They turned to see another small child peering down at a different memorial, a young adult standing behind them, hands on the little girl's shoulders. She looked to be about five.
"This is your grandpa, Misty." The young man was saying. He had a very pretty woman with long brown hair clinging to his arm. "I know he's not here right now, but I bet you he really would have loved you. I try every day to make him proud of me, and I think he is."
"Can I make him proud of me too, Daddy?" Misty asked in a quiet voice.
The man shared a look with the woman, before getting on his knees and wrapping his arms around the girl with a smile. "I think he'd like that a lot, sweetheart."
"You see?" America whispered, as the countries spotted many other small—or large—groups scattered around the grass. "They still remember. They don't forget."
They all stood their in silence, no one daring to speak as they listen to the calming sound of many voices saying different things, all to those who weren't their entirely. "I still hurts," America admitted, before his smile turned strong. "But... We'll make them proud."
