To my faithful followers, please read the note at the bottom.

Chapter 12

He's dizzy and confused. His eyes are blinded and his head is pounding. There are too many lights burning him and too many things floating inside his head because all the rest of them are there too. It hurts and he wants to sleep again, sleep forever.

But he can't because the faces in front of him are too familiar. Not good.

His eyes open but are already open and he watches the too familiar faces and too familiar people. Something tells him something, but he can't hear and doesn't want to know. Does he know them? Did he know them? He didn't know that because part of him said yes and most of him screamed no.

They're calling him.

"Alfred?"

But he can't hear them. He can't recognize the oh-so-familiar name. Or maybe he does. But he tells himself that he doesn't because he can't. He can't, he can't, he can't- but maybe he d- can't.

So instead he asks, "Who's that?"

Canada was in shock. For the first time in nearly fifty years he sees his brother again. And that brother can't remember who he is.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

His brother… no… the man with those disturbingly blank eyes tilts head like the innocent child lost long ago and asks, "Who's that?"

Something inside him breaks, shattering his heart, tearing his soul. This was his fault, wasn't it? But it wasn't like he wanted it to happen, so… was it his fault? But where was the fault if it was his? Was he sorry for killing him, or bringing him back? Or did he die at all?

"Alfred," Canada- Matthew finds himself repeating, "You're Alfred."

"No," His brother says, confused and… wary- I'm sorry-don't do that again- it hurts so badly… for some reason, "I-I am…"

He trails off, seemingly confused. The blank eyes obtain a distant sort of curiosity in its weakest form. They could never have been the bright blue eyes that were the sky.

"No, I am… but you are… I'm not It, I'm not him… And you are…"

Lord, please remember me, Alfred. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I really didn't. I'm so sorry.

"…but you aren't either…"

None of them dare speak.

But he can still hear himself shatter.

England watches this all in shock. America, America was here he was alive. He was… alive… He wants to laugh and cry and hug him and scream at him- England never did get to say goodbye all those years ago. And he missed him so terribly afterwards.

"Alfred, lad, surely you remember us, at least?" He has to remember, England needs him to remember. Because pain was a hungry, greedy thing and guilt ever more so. This was the chance that he dreams about in the dark witching hours where light was non-existent and the demons ran free; he will not lose this chance. After all, it's not every day a previously thought dead friend and sibling comes back to life.

Please remember…

Alfred- because that just had to be him- looks at the English gentleman with the perturbing empty eyes, "Who? I am… I am… not…" At this his image flickers and briefly morphs into that of Canada's old assistant, "Peter?" His form flickers back to America's and then to one of a small girl with bouncy brown curls, "No, Amanda, maybe?" And then, once again, he was Alfred. But not.

"I don't know."

But to what question, lad? He wonders miserably, What question do you not know?

Germany watches the formerly dead nation with alarm in his formerly stoic face. This didn't compute; this couldn't process in his mental data base. He runs through his lists once more, this could not be right.

This Peter Adams, Samantha Vanpool, Amanda, whoever- isn't normal, isn't right, isn't fitting into his rule of norms. His rules, instructions, they keep him from going insane in this strange world. And this couldn't be right, this isn't fitting the rules-

America was dead, dead! Gone, vanished, killed. He was dead, he still should be dead.

But, then again, shouldn't Prussia be dead? Germany tried never to think too hard about him but… if he was still alive then that meant that-

Don't go Holy Ro-

Then maybe he was still alive. That little voice in the blocked part of his mind becomes slightly clearer. But if that boy wasn't dead then maybe he was… still alive? Or maybe…

Life had too many twists and turns and hidden falls, maybe rules couldn't define everything.

Maybe he- but know he doesn't know who he speaks of- is still alive.

His arms unconsciously wrap and tighten around Italy.

-love you more than anyone in the world.

Amerique, you are alive…

"Do you- do you not remember us, Alfred?" His little boy, Canada, pleads with the blond shape shifter. France wants to tell him to run, run far away because he recognizes something in the shape shifter's eyes.

It's America, or maybe it's Alfred, but it isn't either, his eyes are too dead and his voice is too empty. France recognizes this.

He's just a dead man being forced to live.

France wasn't always a pervert; he was intelligent, understanding, even whimsical occasionally. And, above everything else, he could read people. He was the country of love, after all. Love and hate were the strongest emotions, walking side by side in a twisted and curving path. They fed off each other while killing one another in their fiery, spiraling dance; yet, with all their connection and combinations, a fine, very fine, line rested in between, a separator of sorts. The separator that existed everywhere.

"But who are you?" The shape shifter whispers, eyes empty but filled with pain, "I don't remember you, and I- they don't know you…"

France can see it, he can read the fine line between Alfred's lost soul and closed mind.

It's denial.

But for what?

"But Big Sister," He cried in a childish voice, hugging himself with his own arms.

"I'm here, shush my brother, I'm still here," A melodious female voice comforts, akin to the birds who decide to sing during the golden mornings.

"But you're not!" The boy screamed thrashing in the hard ground of the woods, "You're not here!"

"I'm here, I love you," The female voice coos, "We all do."

He continues screaming, "But you're not, you're not!"

China withdraws from the trees he had been hiding behind, alarmed and even scared. He quickly leaves the woods and the boy, because there was no one else there. He hears the crying and screaming long after he is gone.

But now the boy with so many voices who had cried so far inside the woods was long dead, and the golden haired young man in front of him should have been. Yet he wasn't. Were they ever?

Seeing the dead was not a new experience for China, definitely not a normal one, but not a unique one.

China has lived such a long time, too long he would think in the dead of the night, and he's seen the living try to die and the dead come back to life. And in all the times he's seen it there was always a purpose, a reason behind it all.

And maybe he was slowly figuring out his.

Life was so bland without death, in all truths. And the boy in front of him wasn't dead, was never dead, just pretending when he really was.

It all made sense to the ancient nation, the immortal among immortals.

Italy looks on the scene with a type of detached confusion. Detached, distant, disconnected. He was usually so very detached from the world, so this interesting occurrence was even more interesting for dragging him back to this hellish Earth. Maybe Earth really was hell for all those who lacked life.

And his lips almost lift into a smile at the lifeless but breathing but not living man in front of him. It takes one to know one.

He watches with the stupid, vacant expression always on his face disappearing as he comes back into touch with reality for once. It feels strange not to be so far back in his mind, so trapped in his thoughts; he can't even say it was pleasant to return to reality because he's not here with him.

He's slipping back already…

Does he really even want to stay?

America… He seems to be alive. That was… good. Great even. If he is still alive and Prussia still is… does that mean that-

Don't go Holy Roman…

Take this Holy Roman Empire, and think of it as me!

Ever since the-

-loved you.

Farewell then, Ita-

We'll see-

-will! Really will!

No matter how many-

-years pass-

-always love you-

He feels his eyes begin to close and fog over again, but this time he forces them back open again to watch the being in front of him. America being alive would be an alarming and emotional thing for the other nations. England and Canada would be upset, no doubt about that and maybe, probably they would be guilty. Guilty of what he wasn't certain. The other nations were never welcoming of America, this would be distressing to them. And that was… cruel. It made him think.

Would anyone care if he suddenly died one day?

He doesn't know, but as strong arms envelop him and he's protected behind the strong, strong body of that tall blond man with blue, blue eyes who-

Isn't him.

He sighs and leans forward, slightly, into the warmth of the muscular back, taught with tension but warm with life.

At least someone would care.

Japan tries his hardest to maintain his expression of neutrality, but he is unable to. He can't while looking into the eyes of his lost friend. America's eyes are unseeing as he looks at them all, and Japan wants to flinch as the eyes merely pass over him.

The older nation was known among many for his reading the atmosphere, but what nobody except himself knew was that he could literally feel and see the atmosphere. He may have synesthesia; he was never quite sure and was too afraid to be tested, afraid of being singled he cannot deny that he sees the flickering light blue tension in the atmosphere currently was nearly tangible. Well, to the others. He could feel the course edges of it almost caressing him.

He knows that Canada's shaking and bluish green feeling of guilt was overwhelming him.

That England wants nothing more than to reach over and embrace his former friend and charge and those feelings swirled around in a clear red-orange tint, heated and fiery to touch.

That Germany and China is similarly alarmed, the spikes of the electric green emotion nearly identical though Germany seemed more confused and China confirming.

That France was thinking very deeply about something, he couldn't tell what, only that the red fog surrounding him was growing into a frenzied turmoil.

That Italy is probably confused, but Italy's emotions always confused him with their detached and seemingly… nostalgic… warm yellow haze.

And America… He could feel many different emotions coming off him, too many for one single person, yet they all seemed muffled by the hazy grayish web of… was that denial? He reaches slightly for it but the haze is freezing to his touch, warding him off. His hand recoils back.

As for Japan, Japan felt guilty and sorrowful about what had happened to America, no, Alfred. Japan had felt that it was in best interests for his people to stay away from America, but Kiku… Kiku had regretted it ever since. He knows he does by the dripping, slimy purple tint that covers his vision every time he watches a horror movie or plays a video game. He regrets that he turned his back on his friend in his time of desperate need.

So now he pleads to whoever this new Alfred may be,

Please forgive us, forgive me…

Nobody says anything, there's nothing to say. What could you say to a dead person? What could you say to a killer? What could you say if you can't remember who you are?

Of course, nobody voices these questions.

But the purple slime that he had come to learn was regret fills and oozes around him and the blue-green swirls of guilt accompany it. An ocean of despair.

Finally Italy speaks up from behind a suddenly protective Germany, "But, aren't you America?"

The blond man's brows furrowed, creasing his face. A look of confusions molds the features, "Oh, him? Isn't he dead?"

"Then you're Alfred," Italy cocks his head to the side and the yellow haze clears slightly.

Alfred's mouth opens to answer as Japan's eyes widens in alarm as he sees the gray haze of denial thickens around the feelings no one else can see.

No! Don't say any-

His head tilts to the side, mimicking Italy's and he speaks, "I think… I remember him… I'm not sure if he was ever alive…"

I do not own Hetalia.

First of all, thank you all for your reviews and comfort from the last chapter, you guys don't know how much it means to me. I promise I won't abandon this fic, it would be heart breaking to both my faithful followers as well as myself.

Another thing is that I was reviewing what I wrote when I realized something terrible. All these characters are OOC. They're pretty much OCs with the same names and appearances. I'm sorry, can we just all pretend it was because the world changed so much? Thank you, i'm really sorry.

I also realized that not only have I let all my headcanons out on this (did you read the Japan section?) but also developed a B-Plot (next paragraph). This is kinda awkward. I didn't really mean for it to happen like this. I just thought that since the America I'm writing isn't the bright, cheerful guy, maybe France isn't always a pervert and Italy may be depressed over the fate of HRE. I understand if you abandon this.

Once again, there are only two pairings in this fic. The first is HRExItaly and, because of my HRE=Germany headcanon, GermanyxItaly. I'm sorry if you don't like pairings. Usually if a fic develops a prominent pairing I'd drop it so feel free to drop this. If you haven't noticed it is the B-Plot.

Once again, this story isn't going exactly as planned and I didn't mean to develop any pairings. I beg of you to bear with me.