The door to the cell closed. America's back against its frame, mind racing yet at a standstill all at once. His heart was beating abnormally; these feelings washing over him were so new that he wasn't sure what to make of them. He could still feel the ghost of England in his arms and even the kiss they shared, and just thinking about it all being inspired by England, of all people, brought chills to America's body. He tried, and failed, to cover his ever warming cheeks. Did he really just get married to England? It didn't feel like it at all – except the kiss. He wouldn't kiss England under any other circumstances than a wedding or an incredibly drunk party. Maybe that's all this was: one giant, alcohol-filled party with cross dressing, tights, churches, and weddings.

He wished.

His hand ran through his hair and he stared up at a mosaic in the window in thought. Now what would he do? He was married, whether he felt like he was or not, so did he have to set up a honeymoon? He hoped not. God, he hoped not. What about England? Would he just go home and sit there until he saw it fit to arrange another meeting? And dammit, why weren't hamburgers invented back in 1303? A hand fell to his stomach which growled ferociously. America grunted and leaned away from the door, his blue eyes closed as he mulled over his plans. But there was one problem: he didn't have any.

His arms folded over his chest and he stared out, boredom seething from his body. He recalled how if he ever got like this at home, he would simply grab a video game and play it until someone called him or he found something else to do. That was out of the question now; how would he play one without the console and TV needed? But on particularly nice days, he would snatch himself a plane and go for a flight. He made it so he never had a destination, but that was half the fun in the endeavor. He couldn't exactly do that with the world at war, of course. The threat of enemy attack was still very real in his and his people's minds.

In fact, the idea wasn't half bad. "Might as well give it a swing," he grumbled with a shrug, standing back up. He didn't exactly have a plane to fly around the skies of Verona, but he could always use his legs. Besides, flying wasn't the point. Maybe a destination was waiting for him out there. America pushed open the door to the cell, turned back to look where the wedding had been, and hesitantly left.

People were walking around with or without a destination, but it didn't matter. America mingled into the crowd, not noticed by anyone and yet noticed by all. It was almost like being Canada - if Canada was the son of a prominent figure in Verona, that is. Of course he wasn't, that 'honor' was America's. Alfred wished he had pockets to put his free hands, or at least a soda or burger to hold in them. With a huff, he molded furthermore into a crowd and followed them as they walked in their rags towards wherever they were or weren't going. This crowd was nothing like his most populous cities or even the small cities, but they were still people. They didn't matter to him, however. Only one person seemed to, anymore.

And thus the thoughts of Arthur returned. Perfect, he thought in dismay, set myself up there. Now England was, once again, on his mind. This time, he didn't try to desperately change the subject. He had been trying to block all the images and memories of England from his mind until that point, but now he knew that trying to stop it was a vain attempt. He walked, expression neutral, as he thought over what the British man he was coming to think of as a wife was doing. I wonder if this is how Sweden thinks of Finland, he pondered. The frightening Nordic looked to the smaller, gentler-looking Finn as his wife. Were these thoughts what he went through? Another problem: the Nordics weren't actually married. Technically, they weren't either, but technicalities seemed to not matter anymore.

He wished he knew someone in Verona, someone he could run to and follow around and bother. Usually, that person was England, who he had found was not at all fond of being followed while being shouted at over and over again, 'England! England!' But he couldn't exactly be seen with the other, so that wasn't an option.

Alfred turned a corner and noticed three figures in the middle of a square. Behind one of them was a small mob of others, standing out of what he would assume was an argument. A fight! Awesome! He smiled brightly and decided to hunker down and watch the drama unfold. Or, at least, he would have, had his legs not decided to move him right into the center of the argument. Wait, what? he mentally asked, his brows raising. Gah! No, Romeo, stop! Stop! Before he could actually vocalize his protests, one of the men smirked and turned to face him as he approached. "Well, peace be with you, sir: here comes my man," he said, indicating from the person he spoke to and then to America.

Alfred blinked as he came to a stop and laid eyes on this person. He had to bite down the urge to tell whoever this was that he wasn't his 'man'. Something about him made America wary, and he kept a careful eye on him. He felt familiar but also distant, like he was an old friend – or foe. His lips became a thin line as one name came to mind, one name that Alfred didn't know but Romeo knew all too well: Tybalt.

"Romeo," the jet-haired Capulet sighed while approaching him, "the hate I bear thee can afford no better term than this." Without much warning, he whipped his hand down to his belt and withdrew a slender, long rapier and pointed it threateningly at the taken back American. "Thou art a villain."

Jones' heartbeat suddenly skyrocketed. If ever he wished he had his gun, it was now. England once tried to teach him fencing, although it didn't turn out like either wanted it do. (He had ended up pinned to a tree by his pants.) The closest to sword fighting he knew was how to do battle with a bayonet-covered rifle. He didn't have one with him but found his eyes temptingly tracing a rapier of his own. His hand twitched towards the weapon, which seemed to please Tybalt, but at the last moment his hand dropped and America sighed. He would have loved nothing more than to prove that he was a hero and could defend himself against this man, yet something held him back. But what was it?

America turned his head to crane at Tybalt, who glared at him. The other two stared at him as well, and he stole a glance to them, recognizing them as Mercury and Benny V. He smiled slightly, then looked back to Tybalt, addressing him. "Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee doth much excuse the appertaining rage," he said quietly. Jones had no idea what Romeo was ranting about, but he decided to let him speak. "To such a greeting: villain am I none, therefore farewell." His short stay in the fray was no longer lived, and he turned to walk back away. "I see thou knowest me not." Well said, Romeo, America thought somewhat sarcastically. He seemed to have stalled that Tybalt guy in his blood-bent path, although America only understood one or two parts of his little monologue.

Had Alfred not been turned around, he would have seen the rage on Tybalt's face twisting and forming. He did, however, hear the storming footsteps and turned in time to see a rapier swinging at his face. "Wh-" He had hardly the time to defend himself - if any time at all - and instead tripped himself trying to back up. The blade sliced his cheek and America tried to scramble back to his feet. Tybalt advanced, sword pointing at the fallen America. What's this guy got against me? He knew he had no grudge against him, directly, but Romeo instead, but, again, this was no time for technicalities. He was facing a sword and had neither the knowledge of how, nor the willpower to defend himself. As much of a hero as he was, he was facing a Kryptonite he hadn't seen coming.

The Capulet's anger was showing now. "Boy," Tybalt growled lowly, "this shall not excuse the injuries that thou hast done me!" He swung the sword so that America's other cheek was sliced and took a few steps back, madness growing by the moment. "Turn and draw!" He grit his teeth and paced back and forth, watching America shakingly stand.

Oh, what he wouldn't give to deck him in the face and show this guy who he was messing with! America's hatred towards both Tybalt and Romeo was rising by every passing second, the urge to ignore Romeo's hold and kill this man rising as well. His stomach twisted and churned as he ignored the twin drops of blood oozing down his face. Blue eyes tried to glare at Tybalt; he tried to shoot one of his little-known but feared stares at the man, the stare that froze countries in their tracks and made them never want to fight him again. But instead he ended up with a pleading expression, Romeo's persona taking hold once more. "I never injured thee," he murmured, "and so, good Capulet, which name I tender as dearly as mine own ..."

His hand reached, pulled the rapier out and for a moment America could see himself charging at the other. But the sword was thrown to the ground and he sighed deeply. "... be satisfied," he quit, still looking with a pleading firmness. He was really surrendering? Him, of all people? He could hear the scoffs of the other countries, even if this wasn't his will to do so.

Everyone seemed just as shocked as Alfred was at Romeo. "O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!" Mercutio whispered. America understood the line - it wasn't that confusing - and couldn't agree more.

Tybalt seemed displeased as well. He didn't seem intent on giving up so easily. Gripping his sword tighter, he settled for running after America, who was walking away, and forcefully threw him to the ground. He steered back to stab the American, but he managed to slide away so all the sword stabbed was the ground. With a grunt, Tybalt yanked the sword out and turned it in his hand so he held the slim blade. He caught up to America and stopped him in his path, turned and butted him roughly in the stomach with the rapier's thick hilt.

America fell on his back, the wind knocked out of him and a cough shooting a bit of blood from his mouth. He felt his body unable to move as Tybalt landed swift kicks to his side and sliced almost teasingly at his stomach and parts of his arms. Alfred's eyes were shut and he flailed as madly as he could to try and get the attacker off of him, nothing but the thought of shooting this man in his mind. Why, why couldn't he have had his gun? Why did Romeo have to surrender? It didn't matter to America if this person was his "kin" or not; he wanted to kick his ass! But England, for some reason, rose to his mind, and the thought of hurting someone that England, or at least Juliet, favored was somewhat painful now. The blade tip sliced deep into his temple, blood now flowing down to his eye, and he reached up to try and grab the blade and stop it from its pendulistic swinging, but he found nothing but air.

"Tybalt, you ratcatcher," America heard Mercutio growl, and Tybalt hollered in pain soon afterword. "Will you walk?" Blue eyes opened to see the sword on the ground and Tybalt's wrist in Mercutio's strong hold. He blinked in surprised, dazed from the attack and shaking from the feeling of surrender. The blood on his face and the few cuts on his arm and stomach flowed freely, the pain of his side causing him to hiss and wince when he tried to stand too quickly.

Tybalt seemed to laugh as he swung his way out of Mercutio's grip and took a punch at him. "What wouldst thou have with me?" he asked wildly as the other caught his hand. He tore himself free and backed up, glaring at the friend of his foe.

Smiling wryly as his character always did, he took a charge at Tybalt and called, "Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives!" Tybalt caught Mercutio's charge and threw him against the wall. People had started to gather, staring at the dueling enemies. Punches were blown since rapiers were out of hand and hollers were being yelled. America was still trying to get his footing, Romeo seemingly still in a stupor at the attack he had received. His blue eyes watched and, for some reason, he felt that this was nearly as bad as watching his boys fighting Japan's soldiers and dying as well. Instinct told America that something was going to happen soon, something bad.

Romeo, however, didn't know and managed to tackle his way between the two and holding Mercutio behind him. He turned to look at his struggling friend and hissed, "Forbear this outrage, good Mercutio!" The other paused and glanced at Romeo, who once again had the pleading look in his eyes. America, as he looked into Mercutio's eyes, felt like he was an old friend, someone he knew very well and could tell anything to. He had liked him from when they last had a brush-in; he couldn't understand what he was saying, as was the case with most of the cast, but his tone had made America laugh.

The look Mercutio gave ended and twisted surprise, and America looked back to see Tybalt having grabbed one of the fallen rapiers lunging at the two. Still holding onto Mercutio, America took two steps, stumbling slightly, to try to avoid the sword from entering his flesh. The plan worked as he felt the sword brush past him, his side unharmed.

But a scream from behind made America realize his mistake.

He couldn't hear anything but Mercutio's scream, and couldn't feel anything but his friend's blood staining his shirt and then Mercutio falling. America turned around and caught him in time, Benvolio crying out and sprinting over as well. Tybalt had taken off somewhere but America didn't care about him anymore. This man before him was bleeding and needed help, and he had the urge to find the nearest hospital and have someone help him. That's when he recalled that hospitals were nonexistent and that, unless a miracle occurred, he would die. America began to panic, his hands shaking as he took a hold of Mercutio's sweat-covered hand. "Art thou hurt?" Benvolio dared to ask. America almost wanted to turn and punch him for asking such a stupid question. Of course he was hurt, and it was his fault!

His fault ...

Mercutio gave a weak laugh and shook it off, his free hand covering his blood-drenched side as he whispered a reply. "Ay, ay, a scratch." He glanced to the few standbyers and grinned a cocky grin. "A scratch!" But Alfred had no intention on letting him soak in glory and blood from his wound. He stood the man up and helped him aside, acting as a crutch as Benvolio retrieved their fallen weapons.

A weak chuckle fell from the fallen man's lips. "Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man," Mercutio weakly joked, his face paling by the passing seconds. America swallowed and watched as his fallen friend turned his head back to the running Tybalt and his henchmen, then looked to Romeo and shouted to the two of them, "A plague o' both your houses!" His legs began to fail him, and America slowed his panicked walk down a bit to allow him to keep up. "Why the devil came you between us?" Mercutio asked quietly, shooting America a slight glare. "I was hurt under your arm."

I know. America bit his lip and had to look away. His was Romeo's friend, and he had been hurt because of him. What kind of friend was that? And what kind of hero was America for allowing this to happen? His hand clenched into a fist and he closed his eyes in his own pain. His blood had slowed but his side still ached, and the cuts began to sting. Or, maybe, this pain wasn't physical but because he had failed in his duties as a hero. He had failed miserably in this tale, and wanted nothing more than to run away from it all and go back to his time.

And he thought the wedding was bad. He took back all previous urges to leave. He had to leave now.

"A plague o' both your houses!" he cried again, his legs completely failing. His weight made America lose his grip and Mercutio fell, but he was caught once again in time. "They have made worms' meat of me," he murmured, his eyes closing. America shook his head, his eyes widening by the second.

No. No no no no no ...

Like an ominous wind through an empty tomb, Mercutio managed to choke out, "Your houses..." His tightly closed eyes relaxed and his hand fell from his side onto the ground, palm covered in blood that continued to spill from his wound. His head rolled slightly and hung, jaw slightly ajar. America could feel his heart slowing, slowing, slowing ...

Please; no, no, NO!

Then, the pulse was gone.

America could only stare down at the corpse of what was once Romeo's friend. Benvolio, from behind, sank to his knees and began to cry, his fist hitting the ground, monolouging his lament at the tragedy that had stolen their dear Mercutio. "O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead!" That's all he had to hear to seal the deal in America's mind. He said more, but he couldn't hear him. All America could comprehend was that he was dead. Just a minute ago, he was alive and joking, albeit morbidly, and he couldn't help but reminisce on the hundred and thousands of men who would be alive and joking with him, just as Mercutio had, and be dead the next. He'd seen it so many times that his soldier's deaths were something he forced, forced himself to get over. It was hard and painful to do, but he had to for the ones that were alive, for his people, for himself.

So, why was this death so hard?

Dead. America could feel himself talking in anger, obviously as Romeo, and he swore he felt tears mingling with the blood on his face. Dead. He felt himself standing up, but it was almost a numb feeling. Dead. A familiar voice - was it Tybalt? - from behind, one that made his fist clench and his heart speed up. Dead.

And the rest was a blur.

For the tense moments that passed, America couldn't feel or see anything. It was as if he had blacked out and some sort of demon had possessed his body to do something. He felt himself moving and that was it. The feeling wasn't even a feeling, more like a guess that he was in motion. He wasn't sure what he was doing, though. All he could do was wait and try to ignore the nagging voice in his mind that called him a failure of a hero. He had let a good man die, someone he could have, and should have, saved.

That suddenly became the last thing on his mind as he felt something on his hand. His once black vision came back and he found himself staring down at flesh. He blinked and for a moment believed that it was his own. But it was his hand that held the rapier, his hand that had dug the blade into the stomach of Tybalt, his hand that was becoming covered in blood, his hand that had felled Juliet's cousin.

So overcome with shock, America clutched the sword tighter and saw Tybalt stepping off the blade in vain. He fell back with struggling gasps and America stared at him then down at his now shaking hand. With a small cry, he threw the sword to the side like it was deadly to touch. He had killed people before, but it had almost always been from a distance with guns. That's why he preferred them; he didn't have to feel the enemy die. Now he had. Now his hand was covered in blood and his foe had fallen and was twitching, trying to cling onto life.

America was beginning to panic and his mind once again fell into a blur. He felt his body overheat, sweat mixing with the drying blood on his face and his legs shakingly taking him backwards. Benvolio was screaming at him while people all around were gasping, screaming, crying. Why hadn't he noticed them? Why were they blaming him? It was Romeo - Romeo!

Hyperventilating, he cried out, "O, I am fortune's fool!" His eyes tightly closed and his head faced the sky. Alfred's hands flew to his head and he held it, his heartrate skyrocketing. He heard Benvolio ask something - why he was staying, he would later guess - and America realized that he didn't know wh, except for his shock that he had just killed a man. He had killed men ever since his first war and was used to it by now. But this, this was something new. Never had he killed someone so close to his would-be lover. What would England do?

Oh God, what would England do?

Without thinking of a plan, America turned and shoved his way through the crowd, his legs moving as quickly as they could carry him, his eyes set on anywhere but there. His side hurt and his wounds began to open and bleed, blood dripping as he accelerated further. The headache he had now made it feel like the cut on his temple would split and crack his skull open in two. The words of people and the wind whistled in and out of his ears before he could comprehend anything. His blue eyes were wide with terror as he panted and carried on. People were starting to show up at the scene and he could hear voices calling him back, but he couldn't, he wouldn't, go back. Running away was something America had never done before.

But now, he had no choice.

"I can't believe I'm actually missing that git."

England had to listen to Juliet sing praises of her Romeo all throughout the day, and he swore to never watch, read, or hear another love story again after this affair. Now leaning against the window, her little ramble finished, England's hands were on his cheeks as they cooled from their warm state. Like he would ever want the heavens to cut America up in 'little stars' and all that rubbish. Shakespeare was a literary genius but this was far too cheesy for England to handle.

Shifting, he folded his arms against the sill and rested his chin as he knelt, staring out the window. He wondered if America had done it yet. While Juliet had been lovingly reciting psalms to her husband, England had nothing but the thought of a slain Tybalt on his mind. He was a pompous ass, and England never truly liked his character. Mercutio was annoying as well. But knowing how it would affect Romeo and Juliet made his stomach churn and nervousness wash over him. He knew he was bound to open the floodgates soon and cry torrents until America arrived to-

"Ugh," England groaned, his face reddening in embarrassment. He didn't want to consummate a marriage that wasn't even real - and he certainly didn't want to consummate it with America. America, of all people! He didn't want to know if he was a virgin or not, or if he even knew what consummating was. He just flat out didn't want to. It felt like steam was coming from his ears, and he buried his face in his arms to try and hide his embarrassment. He had no one to hide from but himself and the reality of his emotions.

All of this was fake. His romantic sayings were all pre-written; the kiss they shared was scripted; the embrace ... well, he couldn't say that was fake, since he was almost positive that a bear-hug like that was typical of America. But he was sick of how the storyline reminded him of his shameful feelings towards that stupid, immature, naive, perverted, alien-loving, completely oblivious moron. Furthermore, it more painfully reminded him that the two of them would never have a happily ever after, in the story or otherwise. He further hid his face, quiet falling over his room.

His melancholy melted when he heard footsteps down the hall that filled the area with some noise. He immediately knew who it was and Juliet reawoke in him, all previous sadness fading. He smiled and turned in excitement, letting in the somewhat sullen-looking Nurse who carried something in her hands. "Now, nurse, what news?" he asked with a smile, chiming in, "What hast thou there? the cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?" Juliet blushed gently at the idea and saw the Nurse nod, although she wasn't nearly as enthusiastic.

She threw the ropes down from the balcony and Juliet would have clapped in glee had she not finally caught on to the Nurse's mood. "Ay me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?" Juliet asked carefully, putting a hand on the Nurse's shoulder.

Turning suddenly, the Nurse's face became agonized and England took a step back in surprise. She gave a cry and held her hands to her face, misery in her shaking shoulders and sorrowed tone. "Ah, well-a-day! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!"

England suddenly felt like his world was crumbling in front of him before his very eyes.