England and Bristol entered the house, smiling and poking fun at each other. England leaned in towards Bristol, and shook his soaking wet hair at her, laughing evilly.
"Oi! You prat!" Bristol laughed, pushing him away.
"Do you surrender?" England asked, smirking.
"Never!" she cried, shaking her umbrella at him.
"I think you should stop, my house is going to be drenched!" Ukraine cried, popping her head round the corner. She walked up to them both, wiping a few drops of water off her face and her knitted red jumper. A smile touched her lips, and she ruffled Bristol's hair playfully.
"Vhat's your name?" she asked, meeting her eyes.
"I'm Bristol, or Eliza-Jane Kirkland! I'm the best city in all of- mmph!" Bristol was cut off as England shoved his wet sock in her mouth.
"YOU DISGUSTIN' LI'L CRETIN! I'LL BLOODY MURDER YA!" she screeched, spitting out the sock angrily, throwing her fist wildly at Arthur's stomach and missing by a mile. She hit the wall and hissed in pain.
"Ok, vell, glad to meet you too!" Ukraine said warmly, stepping back a little. England grinned sheepishly at her, pushing his wet hair back and wiping his feet on the doormat.
"How in hell did you get that soaked?" she exclaimed, pulling off her jumper and forcing it over England's head. He pushed his arms into the armholes, glad for it's warmth.
"I er... I like the rain. A lot. And you don't have an umbrella." he said, making his way towards the living room. In there, he found America sat in a chair, playing Pokemon quietly. England took some dry clothes from his bag and changed quickly in the kitchen. And, surely nobody would notice if he borrowed France's socks. France had big feet and England had no socks. France wouldn't mind.
"In my dreams," he muttered, pulling them on.
"Good day to you, America!" England said, plopping down next to him. The little boy raised his head, blue eyes wide.
"Oh, morning Iggy!" he exclaimed excitedly, grinning from ear to ear. "Your hair is soaked, dude! And your hands are weally cold!" he said, hugging England around the waist. Arthur rubbed his back and smiled.
"It's not morning in Europe, Alfred." England laughed, ruffling America's ash blond hair fondly. "What are you doing?" he asked, peering over at his Gameboy screen.
"I'm playing Pokemon. I've been feeling kinda sick today, must be the weather at home." America said, scowling and giving a small cough. Arthur patted his back gently to make him stop, and stood up again.
"I'm going to make some tea. Do you want some hot chocolate?" England asked.
"Hot chocolate? Sure thing, dude! I love you so much right now!" America cried, blue eyes lighting up. He sneezed and rubbed his nose, and England had to stop himself from cooing at how sweet he was.
"Okay, you stay here then. Where are all the others?"
"Upstairs." he replied.
England walked off into the kitchen, beginning to boil the kettle, and America resumed his game. A few moments later, however, he stopped. Alfred lifted his head, staring into space. Something was wrong. A sudden pain shot through his head, and his Gameboy clattered onto the floor as he clutched it in agony.
"Why did that...?" America murmured, leaning down to pick up his game. He didn't feel things like that very often, and when he did, no good could come of it. It felt sort of like a-
"OW!" he hissed, as another pain shot through his head. It happened three times, before stopping. America slumped back against the sofa, staring blankly at the wall. He stayed like this for a full 20 minutes until the pains started again.
They made his body jerk around like a ragdoll, his arms flying to his chest as he felt invisible bullets lodge themselves into his body.
"Oh god," he whispered. He could hear it now, the gunshots ringing in his ears. He could hear the screams of children, not much older than him in this body. He could hear teachers rushing to defend their students, barricading themselves in storage rooms to save both themselves and their students.
The agonized screams of children who would never see another Christmas, another birthday. They would never be married, or have children of their own.
"STOP!" Alfred screamed, falling to his knees. He clutched his ears, trying to block out the sounds of the gunshots thousands of miles away, in Connecticut. He could feel the individual lives of over 20 people fading away, most of them sweet, innocent children.
"Please..." he begged, eyes screwed shut. He forced them open, and for just a second, he saw the children, crying, and he burst into tears.
"America!" England cried, running back in. The mugs fell to the ground and shattered, forgotten, and England ran to Alfred, clutching him to his chest and shielding him from the world. America sobbed into his former brother's chest, clutching at his clothing and hiding his face.
"He killed them," America choked.
"I know," Arthur murmured, holding him close, a tear sliding down his cheek.
May angels lead you in.
Hear you me my friends.
On sleepless roads the sleepless go.
May angels lead you in.
May angels lead you in.
May angels lead you in.
And if you were with me tonight,
I'd sing to you just one more time.
A song for a heart so big,
God wouldn't let it live.
May angels lead you in.
Hear you me my friends.
On sleepless roads the sleepless go.
May angels lead you in.
May angels lead you in.
I wish I were a better writer. I can't express my feelings well enough.
Rest in peace.