6

When they returned for him his eyes were still staring, up at nothing without taking in a drop of it. His hair was messy from the fight and the fall and the tips were reddened and hard from where it had fallen into his gun wound. His lips were slightly open and they could have sworn he was smiling, but none of them commented.

So many people were devastated by the death, so many more then the previous ones. Italy had gone quiet for the first time anyone could remember and Prussia had locked himself in his room, refusing all food and drink. The others were quieted as well. Canada had been invisible and Japan had been quiet, invisible in his own way, and neither death had affected the others quite so much. But now that Germany was dead… Without his commanding presence they felt at a loss. No more meetings took place after that, but they remained in the building for a reason no one knew. It seemed so empty and so much realer now.

England couldn't speak a word, not one. He had been there, been so close. He could have stopped it. He could have figured out that voice, he could have made an effort to uncover what was going on he could have he could have he could have. Oddly enough he felt so much more responsible for this death and connected to it then the others simply because he had been there. The guilt was unbearable.

Why hadn't he felt this way when his brother had died or when one of his friends had died? Instead the pain and suffering came crashing down when someone he had to admit he barely knew had been shot. But why? He already knew why. Because there was a chance and he could have taken it.

Now he sat in his room by the window, fingering the gun on his desk and thinking. The sun seemed too bright for such a day. "What happened?" he asked the sun. "Why was he killed?"

Another opportunistic killing. Germany must have gotten too close, maybe even figured it all out and when the killer got him alone Bang! With his own gun. That must have been the fight he'd heard, a fumble for the gun. A fight and shouts of realization come too late. He had had a chance.

England lifted the gun. He had found it on the landing above the German and taken it before the others could see. He realized it wouldn't save them from knowledge like Germany had wanted, but at least he could get his hands on it before anyone else did. With regrettable interest he studied it. It was entirely German made and England silently commended them on their craftsmanship. It was too bad the gun had worked so well.

There was a knock at the door and England fumbled the gun a bit before catching it and shoving it loudly into a drawer of the desk. "Who is it?" he called nervously.

"It's me," said whoever it was.

"Well that's helpful," England muttered to himself. Nevertheless he stood and went over to the door and opened it. "Oh, it's you," he said.

"Yeah," said America with a glance down the hall. "Have you seen France?" he asked with another glance.

England frowned. "Not recently," he muttered with some distaste. "I don't keep tabs on him."

"Sh*t."

"Why? What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, but I'm going to find out."

That said he turned and walked away, back down the hall to who-knew-where. England watched him go. Great, he thought. Now the frog is missing too.

He closed the door and retreated into his room. Rather than sit again he began to pace. The room was only so big however so he could only go a few steps in any direction before hitting a wall, bed or desk, but it helped him to think. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes to try and erase the images of the three dead nations. Blue-lipped Canada on the couch of his brother's house, mangled Japan at the bottom of an elevator shaft and smiling Germany on the floor of the stairwell.

Each one dead. Each one gone and never to come back again. And now France was gone too. Maybe dead, maybe not, but who could know right now?

And this all started with that one phone call, that one bloody phone call. If only he had been out, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe if he had just gone to the pub that night like he told his friends he couldn't.

Damn it.

.oOo.

America sat in his room, swallowing back tears and rubbing angrily at his eyes. Why did it have to go this way? Such drastic measures. He remembered the look on Frances face when he found out, when he walked away, forced him to do this.

His fingers worked quickly, burning on the course rope, but he couldn't feel it anymore. He couldn't feel anything. Not since his brother had died. Damn it, why did this have to be so hard?

Finally he gave up and sighed. It would do for his purposes and he looked on sadly. And in his lap he held a noose.

That's right, a noose. And here I am to ruin the mood. Yay!

If anyone can guess who the killer is I will give you a virtual cookie. Or pie. Pie is better.

Don't own Hetalia.