The Rain Always Falls Here Part 4: Good Night My Love
Allo Allo~! I'm back! :D As I have said to Phamenia—this is up before midnight (central time in the US anyways xD)! Yays! I hope yous likeys it! :DDDD
This story is relatively short, but sweet nevertheless! :D Well I hope anyway.
This chapter took FOREVER! And I couldn't figure out how to make it all go smoothly and not so complicated (as I did with the last chapter… =.= It's so damn hard to think when you're outta ideas…) plus trying to add more things to not make it seem like it was rushed… =.=
This was heavily motivated by Sleep Well My Angel by We Are The Fallen :D It's a beautiful song—go listen to it. :3
Sooo…! Without further ado—here is chapter 4.
Enjoy~!
It always looked as if it was always night time in The United Kingdom. The world seemed to be always dark.
Maybe it was the rain—yes it's the rain, which was yet another thing that always happens. It was always raining there. Damn rain...
The repetition of saying so became more than monotonous for America, becoming more than a headache that descends from the sky to him. Probably everyone would feel the same way if they went days on end with nothing, but falling water to stare at— nothing but never ending tears.
America's lungs screamed, forcing him to stop running and to take a breather. "Damn..." He huffed, "It's still so far..." Panting and taking in deeper breaths, America bends over placing his hands on his knees to relax his body.
The blue eyed nation had been running nonstop to reach Dead Man's Field, but the destination appeared to be growing farther and farther away the more he would run. His energy was running on low along with the hope he had somehow retained when he began his journey from the hotel.
"Make sure you bring Angleterre back alive."
America looks up still panting and gasping for more air whilst France's words play through his head over and over—America will get him back alive. As his eyes looked to the skies, he cringes at the rain landing on his face. No longer was it soothing as he initially thought.
England, for years that were far too many to keep track of, had been tormented by hurt and even more so after America had declared his independence.
For any real persons, they would have emotions to express these saddened feelings. Anyone would be crying if they were unhappy to an extent; or just kept it hidden well—keeping it bottled up it inside. People would, more or less, shed a tear or two now and then. There was no helping it.
England was like this and was always living every single one of his days in despair. He cried when no one was around. He hid it when in company by disguising it behind a misleading face, a mask if you will, to conceal his current stage, but his heart cried on the inside.
Maybe by putting on a fake smile, it will convince the world that he was alright. Or maybe it would convince himself that the smile is real and that he can influence himself that he's happy by doing just that, even though he didn't mean it.
Oh how his heart ached, oh how it wept... And no one was there to prevent them from tracing down his delicate light face—no one was there to stop them from going down.
He was alone he was hurt the most. Yet he still looked over America, trying his absolute best to make sure no harm comes to him before and after the Independence War. Sure there are times when England's actions and remarks are overreacted and harsh, but it was all for the idiot American's sake and he wouldn't let anybody get in his way of protecting him.
Although, as strong as he is, even England needs to be lent a hand. No one can do everything on their own—no one.
So here's the all time question: Why does it always rain here?
"It always rains here because... You're always crying." England's always crying... America noticed that his breathing became stable. He rises up from his current position—standing firm on his two feet.
"I can't stop now, I have to keep going! Dammit I'm America! I'm the frickin totally kickass HERO!" He begins running again. America's every thought was about Britain which helped him keep going.
Dead Man's Field wasn't far now. Even the storm knew he was going to make it, but if the tempest of rain, lightning, and thunder gather together, can they honestly say that England will be the same? Will Arthur make it also?
Dead Man's Field was straight ahead. America could see the barren wasteland from atop the hill that had formed from the path he had run on. Wind blew all around making howling noises through the cracks of the land.
"Finally!" He pants and gasps for air—somewhat tired, but filled with energy yet again.
"That took forever! I knew a totally awesome hero like me can make it! Now I can fucking kill Prussia!" America puts his hands on his hips and flashes a confident smile towards the field.
He then takes both his hands and cups it over his mouth to have it in a sort of megaphone like manner. "You hear that Prussia? America is here you bastard! And I will fucking kill you!"
America races towards Dead Man's Field recklessly, trying to find England and Prussia—assuming that the battle was still going on. He starts running across the field turning his head in all directions— searching for Britain.
"Hey England! Where are ya? Dude the hero's here to save the day!" America hollered out as he ran. Due to the redundant downpour of rain, it was a fact that the ground would be wet.
A little voice that sounded a lot like England's was yelling at the stupid American in the back of his mind, but he was too preoccupied and it sounded a whole lot like a lecture he heard many times a long while ago and he didn't want to rehear it. Something about water, ground, and slippery?
A couple of times America almost slipped from the little puddles on the ground. He soon started to listen to what his England sounding voice was trying to tell him, but alas, him being America he began to not listen, again—until he actually did slip and went down with a splash on his bottom.
"Ow ow ow ow! Fucking hell that really hurt!" America cried out in the impact of his began squirming in how much in really hurt and wriggled around in pain. He could have sworn that he heard the little voice say, 'Told you so ya git...'
Okay! Okay! I'm listening! I'll walk! With actually being serious this time about following directions, America stood back up and began walking through the field.
America keeps on searching and running around the field trying to find England—actually he wanted to find anyone at this point.
Ten minutes pass, then fifteen, then twenty—nothing.
A half an hour had gone by and America still hadn't found Britain—or anybody for that matter. "England! Where the hell are you?" Screamed America to the open, inhospitable surroundings.
He starts scanning the field to find any place that would seem like a good place to hide or to use as a shield from bullets.
As luck would have it, America spotted several rock slabs large enough for three or four people to hide behind it not too far off. America grins, keeping that location in mind, and starts looking around again.
His attention is caught at the sight of what appears to be some sort of paper blowing with the wind. It had come from the direction of the rock slabs.
America strides over to the drifting article to grab it—opening his hand to take a look of what he had captured.
It was a photo of him when he was younger in England's arms, both smiling. The photo itself was torn all around the sides and wrinkled. It was also singed, by the looks of the burnt parts—most likely caused by a bomb.
His eyes frantically turned back to the gathering of rocks and runs toward them— tightening his grip on the photo before shoving it into his back pocket.
Fuck! No! This can't be right! England can't be... America arrives to the gathering of rocks, immediately looking behind them. His eyes widen with his expression becoming dejected and his mouth slightly agape.
America whispers almost silently. "Dead..."
Right before him was England fatally wounded... Lying unmoving on the ground with his back against the rock and his head down. The wounded nation's uniform was torn all over his body revealing wide open gashes. Blood was pooled around him and continued to escape from the wounds.
America quickly goes to the fallen country and collapses to the ground next England, taking him into his arms. He anxiously looks down at him wide eyed with shock. "England! Dude wake up! Hey!"
He tries shaking England compellingly, but also being oh so careful, thinking it would miraculously awaken him and cause the startled Brit to thrash about and try to escape from America's grasp for being so rough on trying to wake him up or for England to insult him, to scold him for being out here with no umbrella again. America wanted something—anything! But 'something' was not what he received from Britain.
The younger country tries to adjust himself to get a look at the other's body, but starts to lose his balance. He uses a hand to hold on to England and the other to steady himself from behind—making contact with the Englishman's blood below them. America slowing turned his head—unwillingly looking down at the liquid. He shivers from the sight.
There's so much blood... You lost so much blood..! America groans from the churning feeling he was beginning to feel in his stomach.
Though America had seen a great deal of spilled blood throughout the years— some caused by his own hands and some greater than this—but it was England's blood that was on America. It was Arthur's blood that he was feeling in between his fingers..!
It was the only person he would never want to end up like this.
America shakes the feeling away and mentally slaps himself to focus on what's going on now.
Nervously, America lowers his head down to England's chest to hear for a heartbeat.
None was heard.
This alarmed America—everything was gradually turning him into a nervous wreck. He was struggling to keep his head in order.
Shit..! Okay... Maybe I can't hear anything because of this thickass uniform he's wearing and the damn rain..! So listening won't help...
He takes England's wrist to feel for a pulse.
... A slight beat was felt.
There was still a chance—England is still alive! But barely though, and America needed to act quickly.
The hasty American hurriedly, but carefully shifts England to a laying position to set the Brit's head on his lap. America then takes off his backpack and starts rummaging through the inside—he was hoping to find anything that could help England, but there was nothing that could be of use in this dire situation.
America started panicking—he had brought everything but the items needed to aid England. "Shit! Dammit there has to be something in here that'll help!" America kept fumbling through his bag—not knowing exactly what he wanted to find.
He stops looking through his pack—it was useless. It was to be expected that there was nothing helpful. America looks back down to England who was lying on his lap—taking him up to hold on to him once again, with his eyes shouting out denial and anxiousness while looking down at the unmoving country's color drained, blood stained face.
"Come on dude! England quit screwing with me!" America's lips form to a desperate smile. "I'll take you back to your place where I'll call all the best medical help you need and you'll be back to your boring tea-drinking self!
And I'll stay beside you when you're in your bed sleeping so no bastard comes to abduct you! No fucking way—not when America's around!
Then when you wake up in the morning and you see me asleep at your bedside you'll beat me on the head with a book and call me a git—yelling at me to get out right?" He chuckles nervously which soon faded away along with his forced smile.
America's chest tightens. His eyes began to feel hot and watery as he kept looking at the other. "You can't die! You're gonna still be alive right? Say it!" Of course—England didn't say a word. He didn't move at all.
"Hey England! It's raining and I have no fucking umbrella again! Come on call me an idiot! Call me a git! Call me a twat, an idiot, a wanker—even though I don't have a fucking idea what the hell a wanker is—just say something!"
He was getting mad. America's face felt hot and bothered by everything. "ANYTHING!" He yells out to the other nation.
Panting from the strain, America inhaled several deep breaths—trying to calm down as much as he can.
He bows his head and closes his eyes. "Say anything..." He says quietly more to himself than to England. After a short moment, America slowly opened them again to the sound of the wind whistling through the lifeless terrain.
The picture America had found and shoved in his back pocket of his jeans had slipped out, with the wind blowing the photo in plain view for America to see. He winces—the picture was painful to look at.
Looking back down at the seemingly lifeless nation, America tries to feel for a pulse again.
This time he felt nothing.
America solemnly lets go of the other's wrist and lifts him up to his body to close in the gap between them for a love filled, but broken embrace. America's arms were wrapped around the Englishman with his hand grasped the back of England's head.
Tears fall down America's face uncontrollably, sobbing for his fallen dearest.
"Arthur... I'm sorry..." His voice cracks, "I'm so, so sorry..." He chokes on the words. "This is my fault! MY DAMN FAULT!"
America shuts his eyes, burying his face into England's hair— holding him tighter. "I wasn't there for you when you needed it! After everything you did for me and I can't even do this one fucking thing for you! I couldn't save you from drowning..! Some hero I am! I can't even save the one person I fucking love!" His screaming sobs grew louder sending echoes through the field.
"I'M NO DAMN HERO!" America cries harder—holding England tighter. He wasn't willing to let go of the person most important to him.
He won't ever let go...
The rain pounded down continually on the two countries. America uses his body to try to shield England from the cruel rain, still holding Arthur— keeping him in his embrace.
Hours dragged on with the two countries keeping in the same position on the wet ground from rainwater mixing in with blood.
America hadn't stopped holding on to England. He wanted to hold him forever—to be with him forever. He had stopped crying an hour before, but to him it feels like it kept going. He could still feel them run down his face.
Or is it just the rain..? Was he just feeling the rain..? There's always rain...
America looks down sadly at the man in his arms with his swollen bloodshot eyes taking a hand and lightly caressing the side of England's face. The Englishman was cold to the touch. Small cuts were on Britain's cheeks—blemishing them with red.
America's sad expressionless face turned into a sad smile. "You're so beautiful... You still look so damn beautiful..." Tears involuntarily fall from the American's swollen eyes—hating how England's angelic face was scratched... Though he still looked like one.
He lowers his head to England's— touching their foreheads together, humming a familiar tune like he had done before. "Rain rain go away... Come again some other day..." America sang softly, choking on every word he was able to say without breaking down.
As the rain kept on going mercilessly down, America feels the drops pounding harder. Each one was digging into his back.
He growls and lifts his face with tears not stopping—glaring fiercely at the raining sky. "STOP FUCKING RAINING! CAN YOU GIVE HIM A BREAK FOR ONCE? HASN'T HE FUCKING SUFFERED ENOUGH? DAMMIT! LEAVE HIM ALONE!" America cries harder, closing his eyes and burying his face in England's soft hair.
"You probably hate me! You do hate me! I'm such an asshole! Why the hell would you put up with someone like me? Why the fucking hell would you do this for me?"
"..."
"... Idiot..."
America opens his eyes suddenly at the sound of a voice that was not his own. He lifts is head away from England's—lowering his arms to look down at the country below him.
England was smiling up at America with eyes half lidded. America could see they were bloodshot and swollen...
... But they were open..!
They sparkled…
They were beautiful…
He was beautiful...
...
He was alive..!
England takes a hand and places it on the side of America's face. "... I did this because I love you... Everything I did for you was because I love you..." Britain inhaled deeply.
The Brit took a look at the younger nation's glasses and clicked his tongue in disapproval, "Look at this..." England said rubbing the side of America's cheek with his thumb closely to his glasses. "Your lenses are cracked... Idiot." He repeated the insult teasingly, coating the words in a warm smile.
America hadn't noticed he had broken his glasses back at England's house—he had forgotten and that wasn't important. He still kept crying, raising his hand and puts it over England's that was on the side of his face, rubbing it gently.
"Why the hell do you have that picture..?" America said softly.
England chuckled a bit. The slight laugh hurt him, but he restrained showing it—he didn't want America to cry any more than he already had.
"It was the only one I had that was close enough to you holding me." England breathed in heavily—wincing at the movement. "But it looks more like me holding you since I was the one carrying you... " The wounded nation coughed out hard—blood came out from his mouth. He cried out in pain he felt everywhere. It was bad enough that his body hurt him from just breathing.
America panicked. "Arthur!" He still couldn't do anything. America began to carefully writhe out from underneath England to get up and get help.
England forced himself to grab a hold of the other's arms to prevent him from moving. "Alfred... I forbid you to go... Please just stay here..." He started to cry. "P-Please... just hold me..."
America started to cry from seeing the other so, though he tried his best to speak confidently. "Arthur I can't… I have to get you help!" He began to sob. "I-I didn't bring any damn thing that could help you! Arthur let me go!" America begged attempting to pull away from clutching hands, but couldn't bring himself to move. He looked desperately at England with sad sapphire eyes trying so hard to say that he has to go.
"No! I won't allow it!" England chokes on his words. "Don't leave me again! Not again!" He coughs out more blood causing him to shout out in pain. His closing wounds reopened causing even more of his blood to release from him.
"Gyaaah...! Aack!" Britain cried out as he clutched his sides where the wounds were opening—he had already lost too much blood before.
Another surge of pain went through England making him squirm and fidget causing him to bleed even more and faster.
"Arthur!" America cried out. He was scared, really scared—he was scared of losing England. He knew why Arthur didn't want him to leave and it made him just as sad, but it also made him mad at the other for not letting him go get help for what that damn Prussia did to him.
Prussia... America growled darkly. "That bastard..!" His anger began to rise.
"Hey America! What are you? A damn dog or something? What the hell is with the growling?" Was called out from somewhere near the two countries.
America growled again at the sound of the voice—he knew whose voice that was.
"Heh! Aw well shit! I think 'bitch' is a more fitting name for you than 'dog'!" Wicked laughter was heard—sounding to be coming closer. The person came in sight and stood just a few feet in front of England and America.
England had locked his eyes shut, obvious reflex from the agonized pain he was feeling, but opened one eye to see who was there. Both his eyes snap open. He tried his best to glare at the person.
In a strained but firm voice the Brit said, "Well speak of the devil..."
The two nations just stared at the one in front of them as the sound of rain raised the tension between nations—as the pitter patter of drops flooded all around them through the dark atmosphere.
"Prussia..." America growled the name out of his mouth. "Fucking bastard!"
The silver haired nation smirked at the two—resting his hands on his hips. He in return was also wounded very badly—a couple of gashes all around his body—but not as terrible as Arthur's. It looked like they didn't even bother him—because in truth, they didn't as long as he wasn't hit anymore.
There were so many things he wanted to scream out to Prussia—there were so many things he wanted to do to Prussia for hurting his Arthur! He wanted to beat the asshole deep into the ground far enough to meet face to face with the devil himself.
America wanted so badly to make the amused Prussian pay for what he did, but England was still laying on him and he didn't want to put him in anymore hurt than he already is, but he still had to do something. He knew that if he just sat there, Prussia would go for England and America couldn't let that happen. He won't let that happen again—not again!
Even though England refused for America to leave—he had to. America began to act quickly— before Arthur would notice what he was doing— by pulling out his M9 from his pack and hiding it in his coat pocket then grabbing the backpack itself. He lifted England's head gently and swiftly switched places with his backpack—having England to lie on his bag instead of his lap.
"Wait!" England called out—realizing what had happened. America had to ignore the other's calls—he got up and stood a few feet in front of the smirking nation.
America stood firmly with his hands clenched—glaring at Prussia, having determined blue eyes meet fiery red. "Prussia—I will fucking kill you for what you did to Arthur!" Without thinking he darted towards the Prussian with a fist in air—ready to punch Prussia's face in.
With the other being caught off guard America succeeded in doing so causing the other country to start falling backwards, but caught himself before he lost his balance. Prussia looked mischievously at America and laughed like a mad man as blood ran down his nose and the side of his mouth. He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand and looked at the blood with a sinister smile formed on his lips and flashing in his eyes.
"Hahaha! Is that all you got bitch?" Prussia retorted emphasizing 'bitch'. "My awesomeness got you beat! The proofs all at little, I'm-A-Lying-Asshole-Who-Hid-Extra-Arms-In-My-Outta-Date-Clothes, over there!" He yelled out pointing a finger to England who was staring angrily at Prussia.
America grabbed the other man's arm he was using to point at Arthur. "Leave him out of this! This is between you and me now! Not him! Got that?" He tightened his grip, digging his fingers into the other nation's arm until he broke through the uniform and into skin.
Prussia immediately takes his arm back as soon as he felt his skin puncture—having blood draw out. He grins while pulling up the sleeve to look at the American's mark. "Well then. I guess there's no other way to end this. Shame..."
He rolls his sleeve back down and looks at America mockingly. "I was hoping for this to be a civilized argument, but I guess that's not going to happen." He immediately jumps back a few feet from the other and takes out two handguns he had strapped behind him so the others wouldn't see and uses both hands to point the two at the American. "So let's settle this like men—shall we?"
England growled at the sight of his two handguns Prussia was holding in his hands. He had taken all of Arthur's weapons after the poor Englishman had reached his limit and collapsed against the stones at the end of their intense battle. With Prussia already badly wounded—along with England— he had retreated with England's weaponry and went back to his base to rest up—He knew America was coming.
The silver haired nation took notice at the vicious look from England and smirked to the side."Haha! Did cha miss these?" He said tilting both guns to inward then back out again, "Don't even try to take fucking awesome me on—especially in your pathetic condition!" Prussia laughs maniacally and sets each gun, making double clicking noises.
"I told you to leave him out of this you bastard!" America hissed, taking out his gun from his jacket pocket and pointing towards the laughing nation. "Or I will fucking blow your brains out!"
Prussia moves his attention back to the America, then the M9, and then back to America again. He snickers before bursting into mocking laughter yet again. He shifts his weight around side to side—trying to prevent himself from bending over in total hysteria, still holding up the weapons.
"Are you screwing with me? You think that's enough to kill me? That lying sonofabitch over there—" Prussia took advantage of this and aimed a gun towards England whilst the other was still pointed to America, "Shot me multiple times with his semi-auto and these exact handguns and even started off a fucking C4! If I weren't so awesome—and split before any real damage could happen— I would've blown up along with half of my troops! So don't tell me you can defeat me with just that piece of shit because I just survived hell!"
"You don't know what hell is! You think you lived through hell?" America had noticed when Prussia moved his gun position to be aimed to England—he tightened his hold on his own gun. "Arthur's been through hell and back in his whole fucking life—so don't tell me that you went through the same because. ..Idea!"
Prussia sniggered shaking his head, "Don't be a dumbass—Oh too late!" He chuckles a bit.
"Fuck off you bastard!" America took one step forwards, grasping tightly at his weapon and clutching his other into a fist.
Prussia's face changes entirely into seriousness and growls at the other. "Enough of this shit! I will make sure that one of you will die–today..!" He shot several bullets with both guns–aimed at England and the other at America.
America's reflexes immediately reacted—barely dodging a bullet, having it pass by him an inch from the side of his head and the others that were coming at him shot past his body parts, but hitting his jacket in many different places. He jerked around in fear of knowing that the other bullets were shot at Arthur.
"Arthur!"
England remained lying on the ground, his head resting on America's backpack with his eyes wide open in terror of the bullets—all had missed England by only a few inches. America sighed in relief—It didn't hit him…But it almost did..! Prussia wasn't that bad of a shot—he could easily make his target on the next try, but America wasn't going to let that happen.
America's moment of checking was set to his disadvantage for Prussia had run up to him to hit him with the handle of the handguns. Luckily Alfred reacted in time to jump to his side away from the strike.
Prussia growled and pointed the weapons at America once again forcing the other to stop in his tracks to not risk getting shot. America points his weapon in return and they were back where they had started in the beginning of this fight.
Alfred's eyes moved to the open patches of Prussia's uniform underneath his arms—blood was dripping down hitting the ground along with the water drops. He can't last long.
The American needed to stop Prussia at all costs—right now he needed to distract him, to catch him off guard just once! One chance is all America needs.
He turns his head back to the other nation with his gun still pointed at the Prussian. America suddenly darts to his side, running the direction away from England so he wouldn't be a part of this battle—hopefully Prussia will follow along and run after America.
But fuck! He didn't and instead Prussia childishly began trotting over towards the wounded England. America panicked, but kept a steady mind to think of a new plan—but his arms said otherwise and shot at Prussia several times, only five finding their target on the other nation's arm, thigh, and waist.
"Sh-shi—fuck..!" Prussia doubled over in pain that was added to his already wounded and sore body—he sure talks a whole deal, but that was all for show. "Dammit…!" He groaned in pain as he dropped the weapons and fell to one knee.
America—shocked at his involuntary action, but satisfied with the outcome—ran back to the other nations and stood defensively in front of England with Prussia down on one knee a couple of yards ahead.
The defending superpower lifted his M9 once again to point at the Prussian. This is it… He pulled the trigger and sent a bullet shooting to the other. Prussia brought his body back upright again just in time for the bullet to shoot through his chest—hitting the largest wound that didn't begin to close up causing insane amounts blood to gush out of him.
"Fuck…" Prussia swore and stood up with eyes-half lidded and began swaying dizzily due to the loss of blood. "Y-You can't kill m-me..! I-I'm fucking too awesome to die—and you know it..!" The nation fell forward and collapsed to the ground—blood began pooling around the body.
Minutes pass as England and America watched the other through pouring rain—Prussia hasn't moved.
Is this… the end..? Arthur is finally safe...
Arthur..!
America turns around and goes over to England. Getting down on his knees, America kneels near the Englishman's head and lifts the other man into his arms. He looks down at the wounded country with fear and love gleaming from his glassy blue eyes.
"Arthur… I have to get you help… If I move you your wounds will open back up and lose even more blood…" America looks at the other nation pleadingly. "Please… You need help… I don't want to lose you…" His voice hitched and tears begin to well up in his eyes.
England could see this and nods his head forcefully—it hurt him, his neck being in pain along with the rest of his body and America leaving again, but for once it wasn't the bad kind of leaving. "I-I understand… Do what you must…" England muttered, shifting his eyes to the side away from America's.
America nodded in return and started to get up, but was stopped by a hand holding onto the sleeve of his now ruined bomber jacket. He looked back at England who was looking back sadly, "Don't take too long… Please come back to me quickly…"
The tears that threatened America's eyes fell down his cheeks—he wiped them away with the back of his hand. Standing up straight and strong he looked down at England and flashed his famous smile. "Don't worry! I'll be back as soon as I ca—"
"America look out!" England suddenly cried out, pointing out to the field as he instantly gathered all the strength he had left to get up off the cold, wet, blood matted ground and got in front of the confused Alfred.
The American didn't know what hit him—or what didn't hit him. He couldn't comprehend what had just happened until he turned around to see England falling backwards into him. He caught the other nation before he hit the earth. America looked down at the country he caught in his arms and his eyes wide in horror of what he saw.
As England's head fell back and rested on America's chest, he could see a bullet shot hit straight at Arthur's heart.
America turns his head to the direction where the bullet had came from and saw Prussia still on his stomach on the ground with his head lifted slightly and an arm outstretched with one of the guns in his hand aimed towards America's own chest.
Prussia chuckled and cursed beneath his breath. "Well aw shit… I missed…" He laughs a little harder having it be strained. "But I got something out of it… I'm just… That…Awesome…" He last said then dropped his entire being back down—completely lifeless.
America's mouth opens to scream out, but nothing came out. He collapses to his knees and takes up England once again. The Englishman's eyes were closed and all color had drained from his body which became limp.
"Arthur! No oh God! Arthur! No please don't die! Don't die on me! Please don't leave me!" Tears fall uncontrollably fall from America's eyes.
"I love you so much! Please don't die! I can't take one damn second knowing that you're gone! Please—don't leave me! I'm sorry for all the stupid fucking things I do! I'll do better! I promise! Just please don't die!" America closes his eyes, unable to keep looking at the one who sacrificed himself for him, and continued to cry.
More time passes and America continues to cry with his eyes shut tightly, but opens them to the feel of a hand on the side of his face. "A-Arthur..?" America stuttered looking cautiously down at the other man.
England's breathing was shallow—very shallow. He gently rubs the side of America's cheek near his glasses. He chuckles lightly, "You're still in need of new lenses…Idiot…" England slowly brings his face up to America's and presses their lips together into a love-filled kiss.
America continues to cry while he brings England up closer to him and kisses him back passionately—his hand tenderly tracing the patterns of England's Independence War uniform—that war...
England breaks the kiss and smiles at America. He breathes in carefully and out slowly, "I do these things because I love you… I told you that and that's final. I will always love you… I'd give up my life just for you to be alright…" England's breathing becomes very thin and rests back down and moves his attention to the side, "Even if you wouldn't so the same… Even if you don't love me…"
America suddenly embraces England—surprising the Brit, but not from the pain of his wounds, America was careful not to hurt the other. "! Don't ever say that I don't—because I do! And don't you forget it!"
While still being in shock, tears start falling down from England's emerald eyes. He smiles warmly and hugs the other country back tightly no matter how much it hurt him because of his injuries.
"Git... Why would I want to forget that..?" England said softly. His hold around America became less and less firm. He rested his head on other's shoulder and hid his face at the crook of America's neck smelling everything that was his America—his Alfred.
"Alfred..?" England said weakly—his arms struggled to keep their hold around the other nation.
"Yeah Arthur..?" America choked as tears started to form at the bottom of his eyes—he knew what was going to happen, but couldn't stand the thought.
"I'm so tired..." England replied just as weak as before—he dug his face deeper into the American.
America began crying and held on to England closer and tighter to make up the embrace he hadn't given the Englishman in years. He chuckled sadly while he cried, "No... You can't right now... Alright..? You might die in your sleep..." He chuckled again sadly as he pointed out the obvious of a future event that was to come.
"But I'm so tired Alfred..." England said—barely audible to America's ears.
America sobbed harder and choked on his cries—he knew there was nothing that could be done now. This was it...
He held on to England even closer and tighter, using a hand to run through England's soft hair. He brought England down just a bit and placed gentle butterfly kisses at England's cheeks then a soft one at the other's lips.
America brought England back up into the embrace again and sobbed harder, "Arthur... I love you so much..." His voice hitched and held on tighter.
England chuckled softly, "I love you too... And I always will..." He yawns softly and very painfully, but didn't show it.
"Wake me up later okay..?"England asked quietly. He was lightheaded and every second was a struggle for him to breathe—with his heart barely beating.
He chuckled slightly with tears trailing down freely—rubbing the other's back, "Okay... But don't get mad at me when you wake up all cranky..." He chuckled sadly as tears kept fall down.
England nodded slightly, moving his head to rest on America's broad chest—Alfred felt so safe. He smiled into the American's body and whispered, "I love you... Good night Alfred..."
The elder's body went limp and unmoving—his smile still formed on his lips even as his body went lifeless.
America cries harder and brings up the other in a love-surrounded embrace for the last time that night to hold his beloved in his arms—there was nothing else for him to do, but as long as they both knew their love for each other… Then…
Then I guess it's alright…
He buries his face into England's silky hair. America chuckles heart wrenchingly—it was so sad... "I love you Arthur... Sleep well my angel..."
The rain crashed down as it descended from the ebony sky beating down on the two broken nations crying along with the American whispering sincere apologies to the country for his loss, but their words were meaningless and didn't do one bit of reconcilement to the weeping nation—let him grieve with his precious one…
"Sleep well..."
And there it is! Part 4 of The Rain Always Falls Here. Hope you enjoyed this little fic :D
There wasn't really much back story between Gilbert and Arthur in the first fight. While the C4 was counting down, Prussia ran off as far as he could along with his men—but some didn't make it of course and the bodies were taken away after Arthur passed out and had his weapons taken— just a fyi Arthur totally kicked ass when fighting (But I didnt put it up xD) our little birdy luver xD But Prussia totally ruled too :) Anyways since Prussia was already badly hurt n stuff the pain kinda built up along with the soreness of his body, so one bullet was enough to send his body a breakin down.
REVIEW DAMMIT! xD
But please review... :D
I'll see you in the next chapter of this fic! :DDD (Yus there is a next chappy xD)