Juliet's heart was tearing in two. What was possibly worse was that even if he hated her, England could almost sympathize with her. It was how he felt during Civil Wars: one side of his country battling the other; brother versus brother, with his loyalty lying in both sides. Each Nation knew the feeling and each Nation could agree that it was the worst kind of battle. In England's eyes, every battle was the 'worst'. A path of self-destruction, however, could definitely top the battle chart as being bad.

But she wasn't suffering because of a war; she was suffering because her husband had just murdered one of her own kin. She made her choice clear: that she would stick with Romeo come what may. Nevertheless, the pain of losing her cousin was obvious in her torrent of tears. If he wasn't stuck as the character, he would have tried to help her. Her state of mind had left England with the consequences of hiding his face in his arms on the bed, crying and feeling like he could die at any moment. He must have looked like such a fool. He himself didn't give a personal damn if Tybalt died. He was a pompous ass who needed to turn the 'pride' dial down a few thousand notches. What got to him was that it was Romeo who killed him. Again, he didn't care for Romeo all that much, but it was the man stuck in Montague's position who worried him. He could only imagine how he was reacting to all of this. If he had a heartattack at the idea of holy matrimony, how he was handling this must have killed him.

Sniffling, England weakly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand as he turned to stare out towards the balcony. America would be climbing in soon, he would imagine, unless the git somehow managed to find a way to skip over the urge to see Juliet one last time. It wasn't like either of the lovers knew what would happen, but the Nurse had told Juliet that Romeo was a banished man. Banishment was, to them, a separation worse than death. England's heart clenched at the thought that this would be the last time he would be seeing America.

And what would America do when he saw him like this? He could already hear the American laughing at how stupid England looked. "He won't see," England whispered with a sniffle. Even in Juliet's emotional state of mine, he had control. He was still the United Kingdom, and he wouldn't allow any Romeo-personified Yank to make fun of him for shedding Juliet's tears. He was an empire, not part of a doomed relationship. If it took all his willpower, he'd try his best to compose himself in time for America's arrival.

Turning so his back was against the bedside, he drew his legs in close and rested his chin on his knees. "This is all bollocks," he murmured to no one, hiding his face as he did so. This entire situation was ridiculous. And he knew it had been coming, but getting married had taken up most of his attention. He had all but forgotten about the murder, consummating, comatose, and double suicide that took place in the story.

Well, he supposed that it wasn't called a tragedy for nothing. Maybe there was a bit of hope left. He closed his eyes, hidden from the world, for a moment. Right, and maybe Germany would drop dead and France would take a vow of chastity. 'When pigs fly,' Arthur thought in pessimism. It wasn't his job to be the naïve optimist. It was America's. Just by thinking of him and his optimistic outlook on life, England found himself silently missing him and wishing he would hurry up and get there. Even if his intention once he got there was less than pleasant, Alfred's company was what Arthur was truly longing for.

America decided that it was impossible to wipe sweaty hands on tights, having tried to no avail.

He was far enough away from the commotion to have allowed himself to continue at a slower pace, a speedwalk, while trying to get control of his thoughts. He looked back countless times and had jumped at the sign of any life that might want to take his own, although it ended up only being a cat that he nearly impaled. (He had quickly apologized to the poor feline, of course.)

As he walked, he stared at his sweaty, shaking hands and tried to find a logical explanation for how all of that happened in less than ten minutes. He shouldn't have been this shaken up. He hadn't done anything; it was all Romeo, wasn't it? This was all a part of the play, right? Alfred didn't know it by heart, but he was pretty sure that getting his best friend killed and slaying Juliet's cousin wouldn't be a part of Romeo's daily agenda had it not been pre-written. It was like fate was toying with Romeo and Juliet. Regretfully, he and England were the ones to suffer.

His stomach knotted at the thought of seeing England. He was sure that he was going to get chewed out, or worse. If he was this upset about what happened, how was Arthur taking it, being Juliet?

His eyes narrowed at the ground as he slowed his pace, knowing exactly where he was. Carefully, unlike the first time he had done it, he climbed over the orchard wall and hopped over. Thankfully, he had landed in such a way that he didn't twist his ankle, something he sighed over in relief, but now he had a bigger problem. He saw the ladder leading to Juliet's room, but would he have the guts to face the cousin of the man he just killed? Of course he would! He was America. But as he took the first step up the ladder, he immediately slid his leg out and scrambled to hide against the wall.

Okay. So, maybe he wouldn't.

"No, no, no," he told himself, shaking his head furiously. "I gotta see him. I gotta see England!" He took a deep breath and grasped the rope ladder once again, his face stern and serious as if he were about to take a plunge into the deep unknown. Whatever was going to happen next was not known to him. He just hoped that England's feelings weren't becoming intertwined with Juliet's, or he would never be forgiven for what Romeo had done. He refused to succumb to the nervous wave washing over him, telling him to turn and leave town without a goodbye. He closed his eyes and began to climb, his mind still racing, his heart still speeding, and yes, his palms still sweating.

Blue eyes watched as the balcony came closer and closer and the railing was within grasping range. He reached out and hoisted himself up. Apparently, though, he had hoisted himself up a bit too quickly, for he pushed himself up to the point where his torso tipped and his head collided with a cement floor of the balcony, legs kicking in the air and pain swirling through his temple. "Son of a bitch!" he whined. Clearly, it was 'beat up America' day in Verona, because this was his fourth or fifth injury of the day.

Although, the other wounds were delivered in a much more heroic manner.

England's head snapped up from its resting position as he heard the noise outside on the balcony. Slowly he stood, his nightgown flowing as he moved. (He had first resented the garment, but it really was quite comfortable, a fact he was determined to keep to himself.) He scowled, red-eyed, seeing the flailing legs outside fall to the side. America (who else would it be?) gave an 'oof' and started to stand, and England, for a moment, contemplated sending him off. He thought he didn't feel like seeing the American, knowing what was to happen in the next few moments. Thoughts and feelings were two different things, however. In secret truth, he was more than glad that they were able to see one another one last time.

'One last time.' England gazed down in melancholy, hardly noticing when the curtains parted and a limping America came in. "Geez, why can't these people have elevators here?" he murmured with a glare at the balcony. He looked away and saw England lost in his thoughts. America blinked and tilted his head. "Yoohoo?" His hand waved in front of his ally's face as he leaned down to try and look him in the eyes. "Anybody home?"

"Hm?" Arthur looked up absent-mindedly and scowled at America, smacking his hand to the side. "Knock it off, git! I was just…" His words melted away when he spotted red dripping down from a deep cut on America's temple. He wasn't fond of seeing America hurt in any universe, World War Two or not. He remembered seeing how beaten up he was after Pearl Harbor, and how every time he smiled, he had winced, and now looking at him … He wasn't nearly that badly injured, but in light of the circumstances, with America being his would-be lover, it tore him up inside.

"You're hurt," he murmured. In retrospect, he wished he could have thought of something a bit more original, but originality wouldn't save America from bleeding to death.

The American blinked and smiled slightly. "Duh, I got in a fight." The smile faltered as the fresh memories of the fray rushed back to him, but he shook it off and nodded. "I'm alright, promise."

"Sit," England commanded as he turned to grab a shallow bowl of water with a cloth inside.

America laughed in disbelief. "England, I'm alright! Sure, your balcony almost tried to kill me, but-"

"Sit, dammit!"

Huffing, America obliged and sat on the bed, pouting as he did so. He watched as England came around and knelt in front of him, gently dabbing at the wound with the cloth. "H-hey! What the Hell? That hurts!" he cried, pulling back with a glare. But England put a hand to his shoulder and held him forward with a 'tch', obviously not intending to argue with his childish outburst. America pursed his lips and remained quiet, wincing at moments when he dabbed too hard. He didn't vocalize his thoughts, but wondered why England was taking the time to even clean him up. Instead, he focused on watching Arthur, who glanced and met his gaze but always looked away with a scowl and a blush. It was only a few moments later that America realized something was off with him. "Hey, Iggy-"

"For the fiftieth time, don't call me that!"

"But, your eyes are kinda red," he interjected. America noticed England pause, like he had said something wrong, and he frowned slightly in response. "You alright?" England didn't reply and instead stood and threw the cloth into the bowl again. He watched as the shorter nation went and sat on the other side of the bed, his back to America. "What?" Alfred asked, a brow quirked. "All I asked was-"

"You git," England interrupted without looking back. "Of course I'm not alright!" He frowned deeply, brows furrowing and his face heating up as he finally turned to look at America. "Imagine if your husband murdered one of your cousins and …" His voice began to break slightly, and he took a shaking breath, his shoulders like tremors. "A – and, here you are, stuck as a hormonal, teenage girl, who doesn't know what to do about it!" England sagged his shoulders and turned away. He put his face in his hands. "Damn all of this," he whispered.

America kept his eyes on England and said nothing. He watched in confusion, then stood and walked to England's side of the bed and sat next to him. Before he could speak, England scooted towards the headpost and away from America, which surprised him, and he scowled slightly. "Gee, thanks," he mumbled quietly, pouting and looking in the other direction. He came over to help and he got shot down. "What's crawled up your a-"

"Don't you think about touching me," England snapped, interrupting him. The silence America didn't break indicated that he was confused, so Arthur hesitantly turned to see a baffled America staring at him. "That's why you're here, isn't it?" he grumbled, his blush increasing at the very idea. America didn't reply and instead tilted his head, much like he had when they first got caught in this situation. Perfect, he had no idea. Now he had to explain to the yank what was about to happen. With a groan, he stood up and held his head in exasperation. "You idiot, what happens after two people get married?"

"Their lives end?" America joked with a smile.

England wasn't in the mood for his (somewhat truthful) comedy. "No," he said all too slowly, like his patience was waning. "They go on a honeymoon, typically, and…" He watched America, waiting for him to interject the correct answer. He even waved his hand in gesture for him to continue. But America only watched like a child and England knew he didn't know what happened next. That, or it just wasn't coming to him. "Th – they …" He shifted uncomfortably, his arms wrapping around himself slightly as he cast his gaze to the ground to hide his red face. "Theyconsummatethemarriage," he rapidly spoke, eyes closing, not wanting to see America's face, which was surely horrified. He could only hope he knew what he meant, because he was in no mood to explain what sex was.

Five, four, three, two …

"Wait - WHAT?"

How he could have possibly understood the meaning of 'consummate' but not made the connection to marriage was unknown to England.

America began backing up on the bed and nearly falling off the other side, trying to escape. He stared wide-eyed at England in disbelief as if the Englishman had just proposed the worst idea ever thought up. Well, he had. No way was that going to be consensual. He swallowed and laughed nervously. "Y-you're funny, England! There's no way that we're gonna …" England remained silent. "We can't actually…" Again, there was no reply. The feeling he had when he first learned of Romeo and Juliet's marriage came back tenfold. So, the story had shifted from dramatic murder to sex in the course of a few hours? Shakespeare have to have been out of his mind.

Jolting from the bed, America began scrambling towards the balcony to leave before he and England did something they would both regret. However, he turned back and pointed a shaky finger at England. "No way, no way am I gonna do it with you!"

England stood as his ally moved. He scowled at America and stomped a foot, his cheeks warming up in both embarrassment and anger. "You think I'd want to make love to you, either? But that's why you're here!" America seemed to snap out of it and blinked, cautiously eying the upset nation before him. "That's why the ladder was down there; it's all a part of the story!" America glanced to the balcony and England could almost see the gears clicking into place in his companion's mind. His gaze went to the side, and he blinked back tears as he murmured, "That's not even the worst part."

America laughed sarcastically at this and turned to glare at England. "Go ahead and tell me what's worse than this, then!" His outraged comment turned to ash, however, when he saw England seeming to shrink. America's eyebrows rose in surprise and he wondered why he was behaving like that. His answer came immediately after when he heard England sniffle. He was trying to hide the fact that he was about to cry. America frowned at the unfamiliar and uncomfortable sight. He hadn't seen England cry for such a long time, aside from the times that the Englishman was wasted and sobbing at him. Even during the Blitz, England hadn't cried – or, at least, in front of America. But, for some reason, seeing him like this now was killing him inside. "W – wait a minute … Why're you crying?" he asked quietly, watching as England shook his head and glared at the ground.

"It isn't me who's crying, it - it's Juliet." England glanced up and quickly dashed a hand over his eyes. "Like I said before … her - her husband just murdered her cousin. You'd be upset, too."

America sighed. "Right." He shifted his weight and kicked the ground for a moment before looking up and asking, "So, what's worse than … you know, whatever's gonna happen next?"

"C – consummating, you mean."

"Ew, don't say it..."

England sighed and sat back down n his side of the bed and tried to collect his thoughts. Juliet and Romeo were unaware of it, but this was, truly, their last meeting. He knew that America was also unaware. He still couldn't believe the boy didn't remember the storyline, but he knew that Alfred's attention had to be elsewhere. He couldn't trudge around on the battlefield with Shakespeare's literature in hand, memorizing the four century year old text word-for-word. "As you know," he began after a long sigh, "Romeo is banished from Verona."

"I'm what?" he cried in dismay.

Maybe he should have asked if he was aware instead of simply assuming. 'Right,' England recollected, 'he wasn't around for that announcement.' "Yes; the Prince decided that Romeo is banished."

"Aw, man!" Alfred whined. That was the cherry on top of the 'kill your wife's cousin' cupcake.

England ignored his complaining as he normally did and continued while he still had sob-free speech. "Tomorrow morning, Romeo leaves for Mantua."

"'Man Twa'? Isn't that some kind of karate?"

"Pay attention!" England rolled his eyes at America's probable ADD and got back on topic. "A few moments after, Juliet's parents reveal that she's to marry Paris – you probably don't know him, but it doesn't matter. He's just a divvy anyway." England paused in his speech when he could have sworn that he saw America's face darken at the mentioning of Paris. Romeo knew him, true, but Alfred didn't. Still, his expression could have convinced him otherwise. "A – anyway. She refuses, and her parents tell her they'll disown her if she doesn't." Arthur cast his gaze sideways, glaring and blinking tears back. "They're bloody ridiculous," he whispered, unsure if it was him or Juliet speaking.

"She goes to Friar Laurence for help, and he gives her a potion of sorts that will put her into a death-like coma." England swallowed, his throat becoming dry. "She … she appears to be dead on the wedding day, and is buried in the tomb." America's attention was firmly on England, and it was obvious that he wasn't liking the sound this at all. "The Friar was to send someone to tell Romeo to retrieve her on the day she wakes up so that they may run away together, but that messenger is an incompetent dolt, so he sends someone else." England paused and tried to compose himself, since he was filling with sorrow again. "And … he has the wrong message to give to Romeo-"

America interrupted, his face slowly paling. "Does he tell Romeo that she's actually ... dead?"

England nodded slowly. "Ye – yes." He saw America's eyes widen and uncertainty flood his face. He felt like he was telling him a scary story and wished it wasn't all about to come true. "So," he continued, his tone hushing as he went on, "Romeo returns to Verona and buys poison, goes to the tomb, kills the mourning Paris, and sees Juliet in her comatose state." He swallowed again, his voice breaking as he watched America. As he explained all of this, Arthur imagined what it would look like, since he would be in a coma and wouldn't see any of it. "Romeo … Romeo says his goodbyes and … a – and he …" He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The words meant so much more when he was telling a prophecy to the person involved. "He commits suicide," he spoke barely above a whisper. He could almost feel America's heart skip a beat as his own had. "Juliet awakens moments later and sees him dead before her eyes. Sh - she takes up his dagger and … " He further closed his eyes, tightening them and trying to get the words out. For some reason, he couldn't. 'She kills herself as well,' he finished in his mind.

He knew America understood, because when he opened his eyes America sat down on the bed in disbelief, his knees having threatened to buckle from under him. He stared into his hands, looking as though he'd just stared Death in the face. He might as well have. "No … no way," he whispered. He held his head in his hands. "I can't kill myself," he murmured. He glanced up at England in desperation. "You – you can't either!" England had to look away from the desperate expression in those blue hues. Alfred stood back up and grabbed Arthur by the shoulders. "We can't!" he cried out. "We … this isn't going to happen. We have to … we have to stop it, England!"

"I don't think we can," England spoke sadly, gently grabbing America's wrists and removing his hands from his shoulders. He didn't want to look at America, because he felt like he had just crushed any hope that Alfred had. He grappled for some excuse, some possible shimmer of hope to offer to America. "But … but who knows, maybe by some miracle you're right," he replied weakly, obviously not believing himself. "Well, I'm not a girl, and Juliet is supposed to be. So, perhaps we won't … consummate the marriage at all." 'That'd be nice,' he thought morosely. "A – and, then, you won't kill yourself!" He thought about his idea for a moment, and then sighed. "Although … Juliet probably still would," he mumbled with a glare.

For once, it was America who was the rational – and pessimistic – one, despite its foreign feeling. "I... I don't know, England; I mean, we've already kissed and stuff. I think that gender doesn't really matter to him at this point." He sighed. America watched as England sat back down. The other nation still scooted away from him, which almost hurt America's feelings. He couldn't blame him, though. There was too much going on, not to mention that Romeo might start going touchy-feely on him whenever he felt it convenient. "I don't wanna die," he murmured miserably, "at least not now. Not by suicide, especially. What kind of hero kills himself, anyway?"

Again with the heroics. England normally would tire of America's insistence that he was a 'hero', but he couldn't help but agree slightly. No nation before had committed suicide, hero or not. England caught America's sad glance, and it nearly broke his heart. "I thought I'd die fighting some hard battle years from now. That, or a long time from now, and everyone would live peacefully."

England nodded in agreement, his eyes closing as he rested his head against the headpost. "I know," he agreed quietly.

Silence settled between them. England had just delivered their shared prophecy of sex and suicide, and neither wanted a part in it. America traced his finger on the bedsheet while England remained still. It was nearly as awkward as before the wedding, and America wished there was some way for them to avoid everything that was about to happen. He couldn't really kid himself any further, however. Alfred sighed softly, reaching and removing Texas to rub his temples. His eyes dared a weary glance at England, who was staring out ahead of him and wiping his eyes feebly. America hated seeing him like this. He especially didn't like being one of the reasons he was presently like he was, however unintentional his involvement was.

America glanced to the side to put Texas back, then shifted closer to England without Romeo's influence. The older country didn't budge, but he did look at America through the corners of his eyes. Alfred met his gaze and looked into his green eyes, seeing all the years of war and pain and suffering. For some reason, he felt like England had suffered something like this before, this heartbreak, but when, he couldn't place. Still, it wasn't like it mattered.

Alfred wasn't sure who made him do it, Romeo or his own accord, but he would just say Romeo for now. His arm wrapped around England's form and pulled him close, his embrace tender but firm. He could feel the other stiffen up against his side and try to move away, but he held him in place. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, not looking to see England's reaction.

Arthur took a moment to reply, and all he did was sigh and relax slightly in America's grip. They had hugged and kissed already so this was nothing, especially for what was surely in store. (He felt like France, thinking of that as much as he had been.) It wasn't even the embrace that made him pause, it was the apology shortly after. "It's not your fault," he grumbled miserably with a shrug. "And, even if it was, it would be just as m – much my fault." He sniffled and wiped his eyes, not daring to look at America. "This is all just … it's ridiculous." He briefly rested his cheek on Alfred's shoulder, taking some comfort in the contact. He could have laughed, imagining the two of them sitting like this back in 1942.

"Yeah," he agreed, not minding England at all. Neither moved for a few moments, until America glanced down at his partner. "But, I wasn't apologizin' about all of this." He captured England's stare and swallowed. He offered him a small, but sad, smile as he struggled with the words. "It's 'cause you're my closest ally, and we're supposed to protect each other, y'know?" England frowned at him in confusion, not knowing where all of this was originating from. America couldn't say he knew, either. "But the point is, I'm sorry 'cause ... 'cause, I don't think I can protect you now."

Arthur found himself staring at Alfred like he had been possessed, and that voice hadn't been his own. What happened to the stupid, loud, obnoxious American he knew? Romeo was affecting him in romantic ways, but this? He couldn't believe that he would influence something this serious. Arthur blinked as tears began to form in his emerald eyes. He then realized that this was America, not Romeo, talking. England swallowed as his throat dried and his cheeks heated up. 'Dammit all,' he thought in a whisper as he sniffled. That was all America was good for these days was making him cry. Being a teenage girl didn't help.

He mulled over any words that came to mind and to reply, but all ideas faded from his mind. Even if he had concretely decided how to reply to him, he wouldn't have been able to because America had cupped his cheek, leaned down and kissed him on the lips.

Oh no; no no no no, it had to have been Romeo. It had to be him. America would never, ever have added this bittersweet element to his words. He was too much of a git. But what if it was America? The thoughts were starting to drive him crazy, and England didn't know how to react. Juliet wasn't waking up when she should have been. She should have taken control and kissed her Romeo back, but she wasn't. Her timing was incredibly inconvenient, he heartbeat was skyrocketing, and suddenly his room was like a sauna. As the taller nation pulled away, England blinked his wide eyes and felt America's fingers stroking the tears away. He wanted Juliet to wake up. He wanted her to take control. He would willingly give her control if he could, because he didn't want to fall in love with this moment.

The two of them stared into one another's eyes for a few moments before Alfred leaned down and kissed Arthur again. This time, the green-eyed man closed his hues and kissed him in return, Juliet slowly encompassing his personality while England's conscious faded away. England's last thought still lingered on which person had kissed him. In the deepest, most denial-filled part of his heart, he found himself truly hoping it had been America.

His hands found their way around America's neck as the kiss continued until they both broke it for air. England - or, rather, Juliet - caught his breath while carefully eyed Romeo's chest. He put his hand against it, his fingers tracing over America's beating heart and his shirt. There were parts of his shirt and skin that had been sliced from Tybalt's sword, and his fingertips gently glided over the minor injuries. America's hand traced the collar of England's nightgown, both spellbound by the starstruck lovers. If they hadn't been, Alfred and Arthur would have immediately separated and probably parted ways without a goodbye.

"Juliet," America murmured in a low voice, capturing his lover's lips in a passionate kiss. Gently he lowered himself so he hovered over the smaller body laying on the bed, the curtains flowing slightly from the cold breeze outside. The moon was high in the pitch-black sky, and Romeo and Juliet's last night together had begun. And even if they were dormant as the characters stole away their bodies, America and England both knew that the morning would be theirs. However awkward it would be, tomorrow would come and go faster than either would be able to comprehend. America would be heading to a foreign city while leaving England behind to face the Capulet's wrath and a dilemma that would, ultimately, lead to both of them taking their lives if they didn't find a way out