I... I didn't want to do this...

I'm sorry...

I shall now go find some fluff to read. This update is just too sad. ;_;

"Alfred!" the young man called as he turned the knob, the door yielding to his touch. It creaked open slowly.

"Alfred?" Upon finding no sign of the house's occupant, he looked around. His shoes were there, so he was still in the house.

Matthew sighed and climbed up the staircase. He knocked twice on the first door on the right.

"Alfred."

He opened it.

"Mattie? Oh hey dude! Wassup?"

"Alfred, why are you playing video games today? Don't you know what day it is?"

"Hm? Was it some special holiday today? I don't recall… Oh hey, have you seen England lately? He's not replying to my letters." Alfred pouted.

Matthew felt a sinking feeling in his heart. He walked over to the desk in front of the window and turned to face the man in front of the gaming console.

"Alfred, it's the anniversary."

"Of what?"

Matthew sighed and turned around to face the desk, picking up a single sheet of paper covered with writing as he did so. He read it carefully, his expression unreadable, then replied.

"It's been a year… I was hoping you wouldn't do this. To me, to all of us, especially to him who you've forgotten. Or was it wished to forget?"

"Forget who? Am I doing something wrong?" Alfred grew concerned as to the strange behavior of his brother.

"And what's with the suit? Did I miss a World Conference or something?" he asked, glancing over to the calendar hung up on his wall, which was currently displaying the month of August, and a picture of a golden field of wheat with purple mountains in the background.

Matthew was silent as he took in the calendar and the contents of the sheet of paper.

"Dude? Are you okay?"

"It's fine, Alfred, just stay at home today. Oh, and the key's taped in that album of photos of you and Arthur from a while ago."

"Huh? What key? Key to what door? I had an album like that? How come I don't remember?" Alfred asked, confused by his brother's cryptic remarks.

"Nothing much, just a thought."

Matthew trooped downstairs and walked out the front door sedately. He walked to his car, slammed the door shut behind him, and sobbed.

"Oh, England, what am I supposed to do? Alfred doesn't remember anything, but he still does it."

"Alfred!"

He snores on, oblivious to the voice.

"Alfred, wake up, you idiot!"

He shakes his head a bit, and grumbles, ignoring the Englishman's voice.

"You git, get up before I go down to the kitchen and cook breakfast for you!"

Alfred springs up, horrified.

"No, don't, Iggy! Are you trying to kill me?"

There is no one in the room.

"Ugh, another dream… Iggy, you should come visit soon."

August 2012

Dear Arthur,

I've been stuck in my house, trying to evade those annoying World Meetings where they get nothing done. It's so boring… and you never speak to me, face to face. Why don't you, Iggy? I try calling your cell, but you don't pick up. France tells me you got a new phone number. Why didn't you tell me? Have I done something wrong?

I had another one of those dreams last night, Iggy, where I heard your voice in my dream but when I woke up you weren't there. Help me, Iggy, I think I'm going crazy. Maybe I'll start talking to your fairies. That's a scary thought.

Hey, hey, don't kill me! I'm just stating a universal truth!

I found that gray thing. It said a bunch of gibberish to me, so I kicked it out of my house. That thing looked like an ugly gray blob. Wait, scratch that, it was an ugly gray blob. It was so icky looking and seemed to be from a nightmare… something about a mansion.

Anyways, I'm still getting used to the idea that I'm America. AMERICA. Only the most awesome nation on the planet. And you're England. That's just… weird, man.

My brother's here to take me to some anniversary thing.

See you later,

America (IT STILL FEELS WEIRD TO SAY THAT XP)

We're sorry; we are unable to complete your call as dialed. Please check the number and dial again, or call your operator to help you.

The message ends.

"England, why don't you pick up?"

"America. America, wake up."

America grumbles unintelligibly.

"Go away, you stupid dream."

"But I'm not a dream." The voice, with a hint of an English accent.

"You're just another apparition sent into my dreams to torment me. I know England's on the other side of the ocean. You are just an illusion. Nothing will be there when I open my eyes."

"Alfred, open your eyes. Wake up, poppet." The voice is so hopeful, so familiar, so loving.

Blue eyes open.

Nothing.

"Hello, my name is Monica Beilschmidt, and I'm your therapist. You are Mr. Alfred Jones, am I correct?"

He nods.

"So, your file states that you have been in a car accident in May, caught double pneumonia in January and was hospitalized, and that just last year your significant other –"

"Yes, yes, no. Artie's just ignoring me because I was a git."

She raised one thin eyebrow and scribbled something down on a pad of paper.

"Go on, tell me about this 'Artie'."

"Well, I'm gay, which is obvious as Artie, his real name's Arthur but I like to call him Artie since it makes him mad, is a guy. I met him when I was really young, and he was my caretaker for the first few years of my life. We… had a falling out a few years ago, but we got back together two years ago, and… that's how it happened."

"So, Mr. Jones, do you have any idea why you are here today?"

"My brother told me to come visit you, and he scheduled an appointment so I felt bad for making him pay for it without me showing up, so yeah."

"Alfred, let me break this to you now. Arthur Kirkland is –"

"NO!"

She looked annoyed at being interrupted. "Alfred, denial is hardly –"

"Denial? Woman, I think you're being silly here."

And the door slammed behind him.

"Welcome back, Mr. Jones." The woman was professional, alert, tense even.

"I'll have you know that the only reason why I come back, Dr. Beilschmidt," this was spat out like an insult, "is because my brother asked me to. No other reason."

"Well then, let's continue from where we left off last week."

Alfred gave a quick jerk of the head, not indicating either his consent or dissent.

"Today we'll try something a little different. I want you to lie down on this couch and answer my questions with whatever first comes to mind."

He nodded.

"On Wednesday, August twenty-first, last year, what were you doing, Alfred?"

"Going to the movies with Artie."

"What did you do after that?"

"Had a nice dinner at a restaurant. Not a *cdonalds, since he'd complain."

"And why did you do this?"

Alfred hesistated.

"Come now, Mr. Jones, the truth."

"I-I was planning to propose to him."

"And what happened after you two left the restaurant?"

"We walked home together, then he got an urgent call from his boss saying that there was an emergency matter, so he had to leave."

"So you sent him to the airport?"

"Yes, and I saw him off."

"Now, Alfred, I'd like you to note any discrepancies in your story."

"There are no discrepancies in my story."

"Alfred, I'm just trying to make you understand that Arthur –"

"He's just ignoring me, and I'm not in denial, no matter what you say."

"Alfred, wait –"

But he was gone again.

You have: 1 unread email.

He clicks it open, hoping that it is one sent by England.

Instead, all he receives is a dry email reminding him that there is a World Conference next week.

He wants to scream.

"Hello –"

"Artie! Why won't you reply to my emails? I've been sending them for such a long time that they must have clogged up your inbox by now! You damn stuffy English dude."

He pretends not to have heard the rest of the voice mail greeting.

"Alfred, stop running away from the truth –"

"It's not true. It is not. I am not in denial."

"Well, thank you for your time today, Alfred. The next appointment… let's say, next Tuesday?"

"Sure."

"Alfred, it's me."

He hears the voice every night in his dreams. Green eyes float in and out of his nightmares, and he spends more time huddling in a trembling heap under the blankets than asleep.

When he is asleep, the nightmares catch him in their strangling grasp, and all he sees are a pair of green eyes and a bright light.

When he is awake, the shadows on the wall loom over him like monsters, ready to strangle him as soon as his eyelids slip closed.

He spends every night in this agonizing state of mind, neither awake nor asleep, waiting for the dawn (the hour before the sun rises is always the hardest. he sees green eyes on the shadows on his walls. every noise the house makes sends him into a state of panic. he cannot move).

And as the sun slips over the horizon, he allows his tired eyes to slip closed.

"I hear his voice every night now." he announces, sprawled over the couch he has become very familiar with over the past few weeks.

"Does it affect your sleep?"

"Yes."

"When else have you heard his voice?"

"When I call him and his voicemail answers. He never answers his phone anymore."

"Alfred, sit up."

Surprised by the sudden order, he sits up, dark bags evident to the struggles of his sleepless nights.

"Now, Alfred, come here." She clicks a link on her computer and it brings up a news article.

Immediately, he feels a sick, swooping sensation in his stomach as he reads the heading. And reads it again.

Then he polishes his glasses and reads it again.

He strides wordlessly out of the room. Dr. Beilschmidt stares sadly at his retreating back.

"I have to call England… have to call him… have to make sure that the news article was only a really bad joke."

We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.

He tries again.

And again.

And again.

Nothing changes.

He is dead, his brain whispers. He is dead and buried in the cold ground.

The door creaks slowly open, the hinges squeaky and unoiled. He cautiously enters the dusty room.

Pile upon pile of letters greet him. He picks one up with a hand that shakes like a leaf.

Dear Arthur,

I know this is a bad habit of mine, but I just can't stop wasting paper, killing trees, and writing letters to you.

It is the next sentence that makes his blood run cold.

I hope this can reach you up in heaven (isn't that where nations go as well?)

The world stops. He stops breathing, stops blinking, stops thinking. It is silent.

And the illusion shatters.

He crumples to the ground like a marionette with cut strings, no longer dancing to the tune of a melody only he could hear in his dreams.

The illusion is dispelled; the dream has ended.

"Dr. Beilschmidt, a Mr. Alfred Jones called in to cancel his next appointment. He says that he has realized the truth."

"Alfred."

"You're dead. Go away. Stop haunting me."

"Alfred."

The voice does not.

"Alfred, wake up. Stop crying."

"You're just an illusion. I will not listen, I will not listen!"

"Alfred!"

He opens his eyes.

Still nothing.

This update was hard... very hard for me to write. Emotionally, that is. Because this is not something I've experienced before... Well, leave a review as you leave to find some nice, sweet fluff.