A/N: Um hello. Soooooo I moved. This is late. Yeah. Hopefully now you all can rest easy? *drops this and runs*

Disclaimer: Nope. Nada. Nichts. Non. Nyet. Do not own Hetalia.

Early the next day Francis, Matthew, and Arthur met up with Michelle in her apartment. Michelle, who looked dreadful from lack of sleep, couldn't stop crying and blubbered through her tears and cigarettes to tell the whole story. She told them of Alfred's arrival, his anxiety of being thrown out, and then his abrupt suicide attempt. Of course, she left out the part about Alfred being kicked out since she figured they all knew already. The whole time the family listened intently, not daring to interrupt her.

However, when it came time to tell them of Alfred's fate, she simply couldn't go on.

Francis, who had tried to comfort her despite his own dread filling him, handed her more tissues. "What happened, Michelle? What happened to Alfred?" He asked urgently.

His sister shook her head and wept into the tissues.

Knots formed in the Frenchman's stomach. "Michelle!"

"He…He was in-n critical con-condition when he arrived here…"

Arthur took a sharp breath in and looked away.

Matthew paled and headed towards the hospital entrance. "We need to go see him then! Papa, Dad, come on!" He exclaimed, panic riding into his voice.

"You can't, Matt." Michelle protested weakly.

"Why not?! He's my brother! I need to see him! Why aren't we over there?! He could be dying."

"He's not…he's not dying."

"Oh thank goodness!'

"Alfred's past the stage of dying."

"WHAT?!" Arthur shouted suddenly, face white.

Michelle flinched and started to cry harder. "The doctor's couldn't save him - he was too far gone and his heart failed and they said he was starving himself a-and-d the car crash broke his ribs and spinal cord. If he would've lived, he would've been p-paralyzed. I'm sorry."

"I don't…I don't believe you. This is all some sort of trick – that's what it is! Some stupid trick you helped Alfred set up! I refuse to believe otherwise!"

Sudden anger welled in the islander's stomach. It boiled alongside the grief, and she wanted to punch the British man. How dare he? She thought. Alfred died and he still talks shit about him. HOW DARE HE?!

"Shut. Up." She hissed, wiping her tears.

"Don't you tell me to –"

"SHUT UP! YOU'RE A DOWNRIGHT MONSTER! I DON'T CARE IF SCOTT TRAUMATIZED YOU WHEN YOU WERE YOUNGER! I. DON'T. CARE! YOU ARE A MONSTER! I HATE YOU!"

"Michelle," Francis began nervously.

Michelle ignored her brother. Instead she walked right up to Arthur and slapped his face. A silence fell across the apartment and Matthew stifled a sob. The Brit's green eyes flashed dangerously as he held a hand to his stinging cheek. "You'll regret that," he growled.

"Just like you did when you kicked your hurting son out of the house?" The woman's voice trembled. "Do you regret that? Or how you constantly blamed him for every single thing you did wrong? Or how you used him like a scapegoat? DO YOU REGRET THAT?! You called Alfred an attention whore when he needed your help most. You belittled him constantly. You let your pride get in the way of your parenting and I hope it eats you inside. No, I hope it kills you inside just like you killed Alfred inside. I hope you feel guilty till the day you die!"

Francis' eyes watered as he looked at his husband. "You kicked Alfred out?" He whispered.

Arthur backed away, shaking.

Michelle turned to her brother. "You didn't know?"

The Frenchman didn't hear her. "You told me he ran away!" His voice shook as it rose.

"Well what the bloody hell did you want me to say?!" The Brit yelled back, his hands clenching into fists.

"You could have been honest with me! But no, you had to blame it all on Alfred!"

"He deserved it! He was –"

"DON'T YOU GET IT? ALFRED IS DEAD NOW. DEAD!"

"IT'S NOT MY FAULT HE RAN OUT INTO THE SODDING STREET!" Arthur's hands trembled as he tried to control himself. "IT'S NOT MY FAULT HE STARVED HIMSELF! IT'S NOT MY FAULT HIS HEART FAILED! WHY DO YOU INSIST ON BLAMING ME?"

Matthew watched his parents fight, quivering from fright. Amidst it all, he still couldn't wrap his head around what happened. No more Alfred. No one to talk to about Gilbert, no one to listen to his problems. Suddenly the Canadian's chest constricted. Oh god how selfish was he being? How selfish had he been? While his brother had been hurting – had been dying inside – what had he done? Gone off on his own problems and never asked about Alfred's, that's what. And after that parking lot incident, he had felt so ashamed to be in the same family; he had even purposely avoided the American because of it. He had even accepted the lie that his brother had told him about the cuts because he hadn't wanted to get too involved.

Oh. God.

Meanwhile, his parents were still fighting, their voices and actions escalating. But Matthew didn't hear or see them. Remorse ripped through him, tearing him apart. He should've been a better brother! He should've spent more time with Alfred! Now his brother was gone and there would be an empty room next to his and oh god he would never those familiar blue eyes again and suddenly he felt something empty inside of him and he wanted to scream and punch the walls and cry forever and ever because oh god his brother was gone and he couldn't do anything about it because it was too late.

A hand took his, and it was then that he realized that he had been crying. Violet-blue eyes met brown and he was pulled into another room. The shouting dimmed somewhat as the door closed. "Let it all out, Mathieu," his aunt said softly, hugging him. She smelled of cigarette smoke and day-old perfume. "Let it all out."

So he did. He cried and cried and wondered if Alfred had ever wanted a hug and cried harder when he realized that yes, his brother most likely did.

When he was done, the shouting had long ceased. The Canadian pulled away and wiped his face with his hands, smearing snot and tears. That was when he noticed how wet his aunt's shirt had become. "I-I-I'm sorry-y," he stuttered.

Aunt Michelle looked at him sadly. "What for?" She questioned.

"I ruined your shirt…"

"Oh Matt." Another, this time brief, hug followed. "Don't apologize. It's just a shirt."

"Is he really gone?"

"I'm sorry…"

"I'm such a shitty brother!" Matthew exclaimed, tears flying once more. "I could've helped him! I could've saved him! Become his hero at least! And I didn't! I watched him break. I watched him drown. I didn't do anything and –"

"Matthew, stop!" Michelle told him, clutching his shoulders. "It's not just your fault. You're not alone. It's everyone's fault for not taking the extra step."

"Even yours?"

A nod. "Even mine. I…I left him with that monster."

Somehow Matthew knew she was talking about Arthur.

A silence fell between them, neither knowing what more to say. The woman released her grip and leaned against the wall. Finally after what seemed like ages, Michelle opened the door and slipped out. Matthew followed behind her, and stopped when he rounded the corner. Francis was kneeling on the floor, in silent tears, with Michelle comforting him in soft French. Arthur was nowhere to be seen, but the teen felt that was for the better.

"Papa?"

Francis looked up. His face was ugly, blotched and red from crying for who knew how long. When he saw Matthew, he shook his head and cried harder. "Alfred," he wept. "Oh my god, Alfred.

Matthew bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. Michelle gave him a sad glance.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being such a horrible father. I'm sorry for playing favorites. I'm sorry for not stopping Arthur's abuse. I'm sorry for not saving -"

"No, Papa. Don't –"

"But can't you see? It's destroying me! All this guilt…it's too much. You shouldn't have gone through all that alone, Alf –"

"I'm not –"

"If only I'd been there for you –"

"I'm not Alfred!"

Matthew's shout echoed throughout the apartment. Recognition dawned on Francis' face and he buried his head in his hands. "Mon Dieu, I am a terrible papa," he whispered.

The Canadian went over and sat by the Frenchman, hugging him. He couldn't think of anything else to do.

"Do you want me to call the school?" Aunt Michelle offered sadly.

Francis nodded.

Arthur stormed into the hospital. The fact that Alfred was gone – he couldn't believe it until he had confirmation. He wouldn't believe it until then. Running up to the receptionist's desk, he frantically said, "I need to see a doctor!"

The receptionist gave him a long look. "Whaddya here for?" She inquired in a Brooklyn accent.

"My son Alfred was admitted here last night. Car crash incident."

The woman typed something into her computer. "Name?"

"Arthur Kirkland." He purposely left out the Bonnefoy part.

"Doctor's name?"

"I don't…I don't know…My sister-in-law never told me."

The receptionist looked up from the computer screen to give him an Are-You-Serious look. "Last name of patient?" She asked instead, still glaring.

"Jones."

"Funny that he has a different last name than you."

"He was adopted," Arthur growled out. Impatience rose within him; why wouldn't she just let him see the doctor?!

"Uh huh. Well, I've found who you're looking for, but he has been discharged already."

"What?! By whom?!"

"By no one, sir. Your son is dead. Says right here he died at 6:28 last night from heart failure."

The room grew cold as Arthur absorbed this information. No. No no no no no Alfred couldn't be dead. Yet there was solid evidence to prove otherwise. Remorse filled him, and he felt like he was drowning. I hope it eats you inside! Michelle's scream pierced through him. What had he done? What had he done?! Abused and terrorized and killed Alfred. Blamed and picked on and kicked Alfred out. Then on top of that, he had lied to his whole family about it.

"Sir?" The receptionist asked.

Arthur shook his head and walked out of the hospital, which felt ten times smaller. Outside, it was drizzling; and the man made his way out to his car. Getting in, he closed the door and leaned his head against the steering wheel. Ugly sobs racked through him, and for once he set aside his pride to cry. Oh god. He should've told Alfred he loved him. He shouldn't have ever hurt Alfred. He should've been a better parent.

You let your pride get in the way of your parenting.

Yes, yes he had. Because he just couldn't stand having an imperfect family.

And now that stain of imperfection would be there permanently.

It was almost as if Alfred was spiting him by doing so; but as soon as Arthur thought that, a new wave of guilt ripped through him. Alfred wasn't trying to spite him when he had committed suicide, he had just snapped. Usually Arthur would've seen suicide as a sign of cowardice, but this wasn't cowardice. This was simply his son trying to be strong for too long. It may have not looked like liked it, but it was. All that shit the teen had to deal with – from his own parents, to school, to his own self – and to deal with it for that long, that was strength.

Why couldn't Arthur have seen it sooner?

"Oh my god," the man choked out. "What have I done?"

The next day when Ivan went to school, he was met with a silent building. Confused, he walked up to Feliciano – who was in his homeroom class – and asked what had happened. But all Feliciano did was start to cry, which then led to a somber Ludwig taking him away. This confused the Russian even more.

"Attention all students," the principal's voice announced from the intercom. "Due to yesterday's tragic event, please go to your homeroom. All students to homeroom. Thank you."

As Ivan made his way to Mr. Chancy's room, he passed Natalya. Stopping her, he inquired, "What happened?"

Natalya smiled at him dreamily. "He's gone. About time too, he was pathetic." She answered.

Foreboding filled the taller teen. It was bad enough that Natalya had bullied Alfred; but if she was talking about what he thought she was talking about, then she was a downright sociopath. Wrenching his hand away from hers as if he'd been burned, he hurried to homeroom.

When he got there, Mr. Chancy looked as if he'd been crying. His eyes were red, and he looked torn. "Students," he started hoarsely. Ivan took his seat and listened intently. "Most of you know already, either from social media or through friends, that yesterday we have experienced a tragic loss. Your classmate Alfred F. Jones will no longer be with us. He died on Wednesday evening -"

"What?" Ivan exclaimed. "How?"

"That is only for the family to know. If they decide to share, then they will. But please, this is a most distressing time and it would only be appropriate for you all to support each other. There are extra counselors in the library today. So if any of you would like to go down there to talk, feel free to. The funeral will be on Monday…"

Somewhere in the back, a person got up and made his way out. Ivan didn't have to look back to know it was Feliciano. Biting back his own tears, he zoned out whatever his teacher had to say. So the whole time yesterday he had wondered where Alfred had been, and the answer was dead? Suicide, he thought. It had to have been suicide. Unless Natalya got to him.

The time back at the library flashed before him; the one where he had caught Alfred reading about calories and exercise. When he had confronted the other about it, the American had looked so afraid and hurt, his blue eyes had practically begged for help. And what had Ivan done? Nothing.

Skip forward a few weeks. Now Alfred was being bullied endlessly. Ivan had seen it all, had witnessed a few taunts even. Been a bystander. And what had he done? Nothing.

Skip forward again to today. Alfred was dead. And what had Ivan been doing the whole time? Nothing.

He should've gone to a counselor. He should've told someone. He should've done something. But he hadn't, and now this was his price.

Ivan got out of his seat abruptly, burying his head in his scarf. He needed to tell someone about this. His emotions were spinning out of control.

Mr. Chancy let him go.

The day of the funeral was sunny. To Matthew, it appeared as if the whole school had gathered to attend. He found he hated it. The school was where Alfred had been bullied and hurt, the students had no right to be there! Francis gave his hand a squeeze, and Matthew blinked back tears. He mustn't let his hateful emotions get in the way.

The service was a blur. Arthur was seated on his left, Francis on his right. Aunt Michelle sat on the other side of his papa, closest to the aisle. The pastor gave the sermon; someone gave the eulogy – one of his parents, he wasn't sure – and soon the coffin was put in the hearse.

The ride to the graveyard was still. Neither of his parents would look at each other, and Matthew knew it was because they were getting a divorce. They had told him on Sunday evening; and the teen felt as if there was nothing he could do.

Upon arriving to the graveyard, Gilbert gave him a hug. As did Yao, Kiku, Ludwig, and Feliciano. Ivan even went up to him to give his condolences. It was painful, but he trudged through.

The coffin was taken out of the hearse and carried to the six-foot-deep hole. Matthew tried not to fling himself on top of it and cry. The pastor said some more words, and the coffin containing Alfred was lowered. Arthur was crying, and Francis watched his son be put to rest sadly. Aunt Michelle threw black roses in, and Ivan threw a sunflower. It physically hurt to see it happen, and Matthew started to weep into Gilbert's chest.

When the burial was finished, everyone went their separate ways. But not Matthew. Instead, he went up to the mound and placed a single red notebook on top. "You were," he choked out. "You were my one and only brother. You were supposed to be my hero. You promised. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not being your hero.

"There's an empty room next to mine. I miss you. It hurts. Papa and Dad are getting a divorce, but that was to be expected. Their marriage was always strained to begin with.

"I'm sorry. I miss you. I love you. Please come back."

But Matthew knew his brother wasn't ever coming back. He wouldn't ever come back.

Because Alfred had died, and no one had saved him.