This was my favorite chapter to write so far: it's refreshing to write from a new point of view, if only temporarily. Hetalia doesn't belong to me, and as always feel free to leave corrections and suggestions. The chapters before this one were written a long time ago, but past this point I'll mostly be writing the chapters as I post them, so if you have any ideas I could see about using them.

Chapter 6
Mistake me

France was not in a good mood. His world had been turned on its head. Everyone was either dead or lined up to the slaughter, and Italy was the butcher? It was unthinkable! To make things worse, when he'd tried to warn Allemagne over the phone, the stupid thing had cut out! Now, France had never really been friends with the German, but he wasn't as sadistic as to let him be trapped in his own house with the murderer. He'd feigned death when Italy had passed by, only daring to crack open an eye once he was long gone. The scene had been horrific! Both Hungary and Austria dead—murdered! By Italie.

France had done the only thing logical at that point: get out call for help and warn the world, but of course his phone just had to cut out, and it had taken long enough to get through to Germany in the first place! His mind had worked quickly, but rashly, and he had stumbled out into the night without any goal in mind. He had ended up spending the night in some field in the middle of nowhere. The next morning, he had done the next logical thing his brain had come up with. Go in person to warn the world! Naturally he had gone to Angleterre's house first, since he had long since discovered where England hid his keys, and he wasn't about to go to Germany's house, where Italy was probably hanging around. Things hadn't gone wrong right off the bat and he safely made it to England's house without delay. He had opened the door, which was strangely enough unlocked. That in itself made France wonder if he was too late to warn anyone, but voices drifted to his ears. Amerique was over?

"Dude, you cannot serious!" America's obnoxious voice was as loud as ever, filled with disbelief "Are we talking about the same France here?"

Ah, so they were talking about him! Even under the circumstances, France couldn't help but feel flattered. But then again, who wouldn't want to talk about him? He was about to call out to announce his presence and his reason behind barging into England's house, but the conversation suddenly caught his interest.

"Yes, America" England was obviously restraining himself from calling the younger nation names "I found a rose at the scene! It must have been him."

France blinked, rooted in place, but leaning forwards as though it would help him catch what they were talking about. They had found the bodies! Thank god, he'd been worried he would have to return to that horrible place to show it to them. This relaxed him slightly, but he kept attentive, and maybe even a bit weary.

"I—Wow, I can't believe it..." America breathed "France, the killer?" A long pause "Wow..."

Wait—what had they just said? They thought France was the killer? They thought he was a meurtrier? It was... Understandable. France stood there for a moment longer, unbreathing and unmoving. Then he turned around and fled into the dreary morning. Of course they did! They must have found the rose Italy had tried to kill him with. All covered in blood... Like a calling card. It was almost like he had signed his name in blood, like he had just confessed! Non... They really thought that he was the killer! That meant Italy was off the hook... He might have loved his petit frère, but he wasn't one to protect a killer! Italy could kill again, could be killing again as they spoke.

How is one supposed to react to news like being accused as a killer? Especially when they weren't? Was it that they were supposed to go into hiding to save themselves? Or was some noble confrontation with the killer to save everyone else's necks, perhaps at the cost of his own in order? It all felt surreal to France, especially when just a few moments ago he had been prepared to valiantly announce who the killer was, and get them taken down. He was ready to save lives, and now he was running for his own. The pouring rain had receded to a drizzle as he ran down the empty streets towards his own house. Of course, his own house was a ways away, and he ended up sitting down a bench at about the half way point and burying his head in his hands. Muttering to himself in French,

"Non, ce n'était pas supposé d'arriver" His voice sounded much smoother and more natural in his native language, but still it quaked with distress "Italie... Pourquoi as-tu fais cela?"

The people around him seemed to ignore him, passing by him with few glances. Some even bumped into him, neglecting to apologize before rushing off to whatever important meeting it was they were already late for. If the world now thought that France was the killer, how could he tell them the truth? They'd have no idea until he too turned up dead and they were all left wondering how they got it wrong. Who knew how many people Italy came into contact with each day, how many people were in danger! Who knew if he was just killing nations? For all France knew he could be killing innocent citizens on the side. Maybe he was behind the outbreak of shootings in Italy? All over the world for that matter. France couldn't even be sure how long he had been killing for! Maybe he had always been a cold-hearted killer, and had only recently worked up the courage to kill his family and friends.

His thoughts were growing bitterer by the moment, so he tried to shake them off with a flick of his hair, but the damp mess atop his head had not been washed since the incident and doing so only made him cringe. Maybe that's why people weren't looking at him; was he covered in blood? He wouldn't want to look at himself either if that was the case.

He was so terribly confused, and now that he was sitting alone with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company, the wondering had begun. Why was Italy killing? Surely not for fun! For as long as France had known him, he had been a sweet and innocent nation, a little dense and maybe even cowardly at times, but never cruel, never even condemning. Or, so had France thought. And the more France thought about it, the more his head hurt, so he opted to stop thinking altogether.

His mind apparently, had different plans, because it kept coming up ideas in the weight of the silence. Little ideas that grew into bigger ones, like snowballs rolling down a hill. It would start with maybe it wasn't Italy and would progress into some complex tale of deception and disguise until it no longer made sense. Morning turned to afternoon, and afternoon turned to evening until there was no one left to ignore him.

"Care to explain what you were doing in my house?" A bland and familiar voice yanked him from his thoughts with a slight gasp.

"A—Angleterre!" He stuttered, lifting his head to meet the accusing green gaze of the English nation "I—Uh..."

"Not only did I catch a glance of you as you fled, but you also left the bloody door open!" For a second France felt relieved: he was going to yell at him about letting the cold air in, not for murdering nations! He couldn't actually think France was the murderer...

"Hehe... Apologies, mon ami. It won't happen again!" If it had been a normal day, he probably would have started laughing his trademark laugh, but this was no normal day.

"You think I don't know about your identity?" England suddenly snapped after a long moment of silence while France's words hung in the air "You made it pretty obvious with that rose"

The French nation's eyes widened with fear, what was England going to do? He thought France was a killer! "Non!" He cried frantically, tears welling in the corners of his eyes "You misunderstand!"

"Like bloody hell I do" France heard a click and he jumped up, reaching out with a hand, trying to make England understand.

"You're wrong! It wasn't me! I swear it!" France pleaded, his words becoming a broken mix of French and English until it made no sense at all, because he knew what was coming. He'd been close enough to death to know it wasn't pleasant.

England lifted the sleek black handgun to France's forehead, unaware of the horrible mistake he was making in shooting down France like an animal. France had no words to remedy the situation, not thinking once to cry out the name of the true murderer. There was too much fear to think at all.

"Screw you" England spat. If only he had known before he pulled the trigger, everything could have turned out okay...

It wasn't my plan to kill him, I swear! It was a complete accident, but meh. Shit happens.