Fingers-crossed I'm a good enough writer that this chapter will tug on your feels ^^'
Also, I added a story picture, which you can hopefully see...

Anyway, hope you enjoy :)

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If America had to the list things he did the most on a monthly basis, he was pretty sure dying would come into the top ten.

It wasn't like he meant to keep getting killed! The world was just a dangerous place. How was he supposed to know that you were meant to take the cling-film off of oven pizzas before you cooked and ate them? Or that you were meant to use special vegetable oil instead of chip fat in those organic cars. Or that bears really didn't like being poked by sticks!

Being hit by a car was a new one though. He was usually pretty good when it came to roads, even busy ones in the middle of Christmas season, and so was very surprised to find himself being throw up in the air with England screaming his name.

He was so glad he'd woken up though. How depressing would it have been if he died and his last thought was 'I need to buy more Twinkies'?*

He'd woken up in a hospital bed. Not that he minded, he just thought it was odd as the whole room was completely empty apart from this weird old guy about ten or so beds away who was staring out the window and sighing. The oddest thing was that there was no-one around. Like, no-one. He'd have thought some of the other nations would have come to see him or something. Canada was usually there when he got put in hospital, or that creepy-ass Russia, or England...

That reminded him. England. What had happened to him? Or better yet, why had he even been in America in the first place? Usually, when he was mad at him (which was a lot,) he would refuse to leave Britain and just mope around, or spend time at that stupid France's house.

Oh well, he could apologise later. England was super-mad at him before, but if America had been hurt... He chuckled. It meant he was totally off the hook. He bet England was freaking out right now. He always did when America got hurt. He was such a worry-wort. He still didn't understand that they were countries. They couldn't die, yet he insisted on fussing over America every time he injured himself.

Everything was good now, though. He was awake and alive again, and now he could finally get more Twinkies!

But not right now. He was really tired for some reason. He guessed it might have something to do with the weird tube stuck into his arm that he couldn't feel for some reason. Maybe he was super-tolerant to pain now! That would be cool.

He decided to sleep. The Twinkies could wait. It wasn't like they were going anywhere.**

...xXx...

He woke up again to find a teary-eyed England by his bedside, clutching his hand and sobbing quietly. "England!" He grinned, sitting up and twisting to face him. "Woah! You look terrible!" England's hair was all matted, his clothes were wrinkled and he had weird blonde stubble that made him look like a high-class hobo, or a drunkard. But it was more than that. He looked tired, his face was drawn and pallid and his entire body seemed to droop. Sure, he was crying, but it was like he had been crying for weeks.

"Hey, dude, cheer up! I'm here now!"

His hand was really sore for some reason, like it was being gripped really hard or something. "H-Hey, England?" He started waving his hands frantically in front of his lovers face, praying for some kind of response. But there was a nothing. Just quiet sobs as England buried his face in one of his hands and clung on America's with the other.

"C'mon, dude." He started panicking, his voice rising in pitch as it broke. "T-This isn't funny."

"I don't care that you cheated on me with that blonde whore." England rasped, his voice hoarse and gristly. England squeezed his hand tighter and Alfred was sure his fingers were going to break. It hurt that much. "I forgive you. I forgive you for everything, so please... Just wake up..."

"E-England?" he gave a pained laugh. "What's goin' on?" And then he noticed it. It had been niggling him out of the corner of his eye, but he was too focused on England to fully see it.

Both of America's hands were busy trying to get his attention, so who's hand was England holding?

"I love you." England gave a choked sob, clenching America's hand.

"England!" He screamed, terrified. "England! Look at me!"

But no matter how much he called out it was no use. For weeks on end he kept shouting at England whenever he wasn't sleeping. Screaming his name, singing the only four words of the British national anthem he knew, reciting food jingles until he swore his throat would wear out but England just wouldn't listen.

He had come to terms with the fact he was spirit pretty quickly, and gotten over it even faster. He didn't care that he was ghost, a ghoul, whatever, he just needed England to notice him. It was also obvious that he couldn't move more than five feet from his body, as he was left calling desperately after England when he tried to follow him from the room, frightened he would never return.

It was hardest when England would start whispering to him, relieving stories of their time together and saying over and over how much he loved Alfred. Even when America wrapped his arms around England's sobbing form, trying to comfort him, there was no reaction.

Nothing America was doing was working and it was killing him, but he refused to give up. They were soul mates! They had loved each other for as long as they could both remember, be it familial love, when England smothered him with affection, or later on their lives, when it was America's turn to adore him in return. There was no way a little thing like death could stop America reaching England, he just needed to find a way to get him to notice he was there.

During the third week, America had worked hard on his telekinetic skills. If the dudes in Paranormal Activity could do it, why not him? For three days he had stared at England's book mark, a folded drawing that he had given England as a present when he was still a boy, trying to make it move. He almost started crying in relief when it finally shifted ever so slightly, over-joyed that he would be able to at least let Arthur know he was there. That was until England returned and pulled shut the window behind America's bed, commenting on how it was almost as cold as Alaska, causing them both to break down, America clinging to the feeling in his hand like it was his only lifeline.

After that, the days just seemed to drift on by. America would sleep and awaken to find England, more worn out than ever, and the occasional nation coming to say something to either him or England.

He wasn't sure how long it had been, as he kept sleeping for longer periods of time now, only waking when England was around and ignoring anything any of the other two said. He was growing more and more depressed as he saw England grow weaker, ignoring everything else and focusing his whole being on the task of sitting at Alfred's bedside and waiting for him to wake up.

One day, maybe a week or two after Alfred had 'moved' the paper, he awoke to find group-upon-group of nations filing into the hospital room and crowding around his bedside. They all kept flicking nervous glances at his physical self (he refused to call it his 'body' - it sounded far too morbid) and at each other, none of them really sure how to act.

Germany stood at the foot of his bed, Italy by his side, and addressed the nations. "I know we all want America to wake up, but it's been a month now and -"

"No! Don't!" America shouted out, floating around their heads, desperately trying to get just one of the nations attention.

"We need to do something. We can't risk it happening to one of us!" Austria said, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Don't give up! Please!"

"What if someone discovers his body, and us?" Japan asked out of curiosity. Dread and panic filled him as he looked down at them discussing him like he was an object.

"I'm not dead! Stop treating me like I'm gone!" He gritted his teeth, trying to hold back the tears. "I'm the hero, remember?" His voice started to crack as he stared at each and every one of their faces. They were people he had grown up with, who he worked and who he had made life-long bonds with and they were all abandoning him. "I'll wake up." He started sobbing, knowing none of them apart from his lover ever believed he was coming back. "I promise I'll wake up, so please... Just..." He couldn't hold back the tears. This was finally it. He was going to be forgotten, left alone to rot in an empty hospital while his people suffered due to his own carelessness. "Guys... please..." He sobbed, his hope crumbling. "Please...Stop it..."

"It's fine. The hospital will be purchased in one of our names. We can keep him here as long as we need."

"DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE!" He screamed with everything he had, but it was no use.

He gave after that, floating above his body and watching them with silent tears as they all began to leave, most of them coming forward and saying something to him. He said his own goodbyes too, even crying for the nations he didn't even know existed. They knew him enough to forget him, that was all that was important.

They were down to the last five nations. Only five more people to remember him and then he would be nothing, with his only company being the crazy old man at the bottom of the room who he couldn't even talk to, and not just because he was a spirit.

"Gil." Spain turned to the Prussian, asking softly. "You coming?"

"Just give me a minute. I want to say my goodbyes in private." Alfred numbly watched them interact, hurt by how England had done nothing to try to convince them not to abandon him.

"Come on, Artie." Scotland grabbed his brother's shoulder and took him away.

Seeing Arthur being led out the room was the hardest. A fresh waves of tears came over him and he could barely call out a goodbye, letting a choked sob drown him as he tried to call England's name.

And then there was Prussia. America barely knew him, so ignored the albino as he stared after England, willing him to turn around just once more and see him, for him to come back and never leave him ever again.

That was it. It was over, done. He would never see another one of them. It was like they had set up a funeral service before murdering him, letting him experience all the love they had for him while knowing he was going to die. And it wasn't just because they couldn't see him, no. It was also because they let him go.

Why couldn't they just believe that he would live on?

And the person he was left to say his final goodbye to? Prussia. Germany's stupid brother, who wasn't even a nation anymore. Great. He though sarcastically as he continued to sob, too wrapped up in his own miserable to notice the Prussian wasn't looking at his physical self. Just great.

...xXx...

"Hey, do ya still think, after all that..." Prussia said quietly as the last of the nations filed out. Turning, his arms still folded, he looked up above Americas bed, grinning as he met a pair of very shocked, blue tear-stained eyes, "that he still hates you?"

*Yeah, I decided that Alfred's coma is the reason Twinkies vanished...
**Oh, the irony...