I just wanna huggle Canada. TT_TT

Warning: Violence, weapons, threats, character death, mention of rape, just some really sad stuff, y'all.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

Last Rose of Summer

Arthur stood on the cliffs of Dover, staring down into the turbulent waters below. On the horizon, a dark storm gathered, churning up the sea. The Briton felt so comforted by the sight, however gloomy it was. He missed the cliffs, and anything that reminded him of home was cause for happiness in his mind.

He walked toward the edge, intent on sitting on the wind-dried grass, but felt an urge to keep standing and keep walking. He went until he was at the very precipice of the cliffs, staring down at the water. It was strangely lulling, the waves and foam drawing him in…

And then he found with horror that he was falling, the slope of the cliff flying past him, blurring… the salty wind stinging his face and eyes. He found that he had no breath to scream, the wind swiping away his words, falling, falling…

When he hit the water, it felt like a million icy needles piercing his flesh. The breath was squeezed from his lungs, and Arthur flailed, scrambling for the surface. But no matter how much he swam, he could not reach it.

And then he looked down.

His former first mate, Christopher, once a bright and happy youth, was now a living corpse. His skin had the consistency of curdled milk, and it oozed off of his body with every sweeping current of water. His eyes were black and his smile was overly large.

"How nice to see you, captain," the boy said, grabbing Arthur's leg. "We feared you wouldn't join us… but we know you're a good captain. You pledged to go down with your ship, remember?"

Arthur nearly gasped as his leg was pulled. His arms hurriedly parted the water above him, but Christopher continued to tug him downward, and many more hands darted out of the ocean's black depths to latch onto his limbs, his former crew come to retrieve him, dragging him down, down, down, into cold, into Hell… Arthur felt as if his lungs would explode.

And Christopher's voice, distorted by death, echoed in his mind.

"A good captain always goes down with his ship, Arthur."

He sat bolt upright, clutching his chest and gasping in large amounts of air before falling back against the wall. He stared at the ceiling, panting, shaking, sweating despite the bitter cold.

"Bad dream?"

Arthur whipped his head around, heart hammering, to see Ivan observing him idly. The Briton tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.

"Y-yeah…" Arthur managed, though he was too stricken to say anything else.

That dream—it had felt so real. Like he couldn't breathe, like he was drowning. He could still feel his first mate's icy grip around his ankle…

Alfred shifted against him. The American was curled into him, sitting with his legs drawn up and head on Arthur's shoulder. The sight brought Arthur a bit of comfort, and he gave a small smile as Alfred lightly snored.

Kiku was awake also, and watching. His voice startled Arthur. "It is morning, and the rain has stopped. We should get going."

"Da," Ivan grunted as he stood, stretching a bit. "Wake Alfred up."

Arthur didn't want to leave. He didn't want to move. He wanted to stay here, holed away safely behind file cabinets, not wanting to return to the stark reality that was the Uprising. But he resigned himself, shaking Alfred awake. The American grumbled a bit before opening his eyes and asking groggily, "Morning already?"

"Yes," Arthur said. "We have to look for Francis."

Alfred sat up, stretching his arms, before remembering. "Mattie must be a wreck."

"Let us not linger, then." Ivan said, jumping the counter back into the store. The others followed, and then they were out in the sunlight, blinking for the harshness of it as it warmed their faces.

They walked around for a half an hour before spotting the school. It was placed away from downtown, which was where they had been originally looking. They stood before it, studying it curiously, before they crept up to the front doors and peered inside.

They saw no one… but they certainly heard somebody.

With that, Kiku said for them to follow him, to do exactly as he did. They obeyed, crouching when necessary, going slow, observing their surroundings with insurmountable scrutiny, as quiet as death. Then, they were by the cafeteria, where the group of criminals was gathered.

"Do we go in?" Alfred mouthed, anxious to shoot the fuckers.

Kiku peered in, noticing with relief that the men had piled their guns on a table in a far corner of the room. They were laughing and joking. It made Kiku sick.

He nodded to Alfred, seeing excitement light in Alfred's eyes before standing, leading them into the cafeteria.

The men were still laughing, not noticing their presence at first, and then one man's eyes went wide as he saw them. It wasn't long before all of them turned around to face them, in shock.

"Too cocky to fortify your entrances." Alfred said, glaring. He had his shotgun aimed at them. "Typical inmate. That's why only the Uprising freed you from prison, huh?"

A tall black man narrowed his eyes at them, his hands up, just like the rest of his group. "You didn't heed our warning." he said venomously. "You came to find us."

"Yes," Arthur said. "Now we've caught you with your trousers down."

One man eyed the assortment of weapons on the table in the corner and Alfred aimed his shotgun at him. "Don't move!"

The man stopped and put his hands up.

"We came here for our friend." Ivan said dangerously. "Where is Francis?"

Jamal guffawed. "Oh, you mean pussy boy? Yeah, we had our fun with him… you really missed out if you haven't taken his ass."

All the color drained from Arthur's face, and he felt like shooting the man right in the mouth, through those sickly-smiling teeth. But he restrained himself. "Where is he?" he ground out

Jamal stopped laughing to smile wickedly. He nodded across the room. "Right there for ya. Wrapped for pick up."

Their eyes trailed across the room and Arthur's heart sank.

A lifeless mound was sprawled in a dark corner. A blanket was draped over it. Blond hair fanned out from beneath it, caked with dried blood.

All they could do was stare in disbelief for a moment. A moment that seemed to last a lifetime.

They had lost a member of their group.

Francis was dead.

They were pulled abruptly out of their reverie by movement out of the corners of their vision. Ivan noticed it first and snapped his head back to the convicts before them, lifting his AK-47 and blasting a hole through one of the men's chests. He put two more bullets in him before the man fell to his knees, dropping face-forward onto the floor, blood pooling beneath him. From his hand, a .45 M1911 pistol clattered to the floor.

The other convicts had stopped moving toward the direction of the weapons table. They had been doing so slowly during the nations' momentary lapse of inattention.

And now that one of their own had been killed, it was all out war.

Ivan shot down another convict before he could reach the weapons table. Arthur wounded a man in the leg. The convict howled in pain and dropped to his knees before the Briton finished him off with a shot to the side of his head. Brain matter and blood flew as he collapsed, bleeding, onto the floor. Kiku pinned one man to a wall with a thrown shuriken. The blade pierced through his arm, through flesh, and he screamed as he struggled to get free. One man rushed at them, weaponless, intent on some hand-to-hand. But Alfred shot him in the hip and Kiku dispatched him with a long slice to his torso courtesy of his katana. Blood sprayed and the man gurgled a bit before dying. They all spotted Jamal trying to flee, and they all launched attacks at him at once, shooting and slicing him until he looked akin to a gutted pig.

The last man had managed to get a gun, and he aimed it shakily at Kiku. But Ivan, Alfred, and Arthur shot him down before he could pull the trigger.

At the sight of all of his comrades dead, the man held down by the shuriken writhed and screamed, and Alfred quickly put him out of his misery, more out of annoyance and rage than mercy.

When it was all through, they looked at each other. Arthur didn't realize his heart was beating hard enough to crack his ribs.

"We… that was a bloodbath." Alfred spoke what all of them were thinking.

"I have seen worse." Ivan said.

Kiku watched the blood drip from his katana. "They were going to kill us. We had no choice."

"No," Arthur muttered. "Francis is dead. That's why it happened… we didn't even think…"

"Francis," Alfred said, looking over at the body across the room. "We should… carry him back. Bury him properly."

"Da," Ivan said. "That would be best."

They all walked over to the corpse… oh God, the word was so hard to even think. Francis was gone. This was his corpse. Arthur's stomach roiled.

You've done a lot of stupid things in your life, frog. he thought. But I never thought you'd die.

They stared down at the body under the white sheet, soaked with blood, blond hair matted with dirt and caked with red, in shock. This was a stark reality for them. They really weren't nations anymore. They could be killed by humans. No one was safe.

Ivan finally broke the tension and bent to pick Francis up. He held him in his arms as gently as he would hold any child.

Alfred could feel his gut twist. Mattie. He would be so heartbroken… and dammit, if they had gotten there earlier, if they had just kept looking instead of deciding to hunker down…

Ivan seemed to notice Alfred's brooding and said, his voice soft and sincere, "I think it is time that we returned."

Matthew turned as soon as he heard the back door open. And when he saw what Ivan was carrying—or rather who—he lost it.

"No," he said, as if trying to deny God the right to have his papa. "No, he can't be dead! He can't be dead!" It felt like a floodgate had been opened behind his eyes; there was no stopping the tears and he didn't care who saw them. Francis was dead, and there wasn't a goddamn thing he could do about it.

Alfred walked over to Matthew and held him, not saying a word. The Canadian wrapped his arms around him, clinging to him, as if he feared losing Alfred too, crying into his shoulder. No one said anything as Matthew grieved. They were all too busy taking in the tragedy.

Arthur stood by the door, looking away. Matthew sounded just like Alfred when he'd cried as a child… would Alfred cry the same way if something happened to Arthur? The Briton couldn't stand the thought of it. It made him realize how agonizing this must be for Matthew.

So. He was gone. The frog. The perverted cheesy monkey. His rival. Never in a million years—after so many years of combat with the Frenchman—did Arthur ever think it would end this way for Francis. Francis was always there, always a nuisance to him, a constant nagging in the back of his head, like a gnat he couldn't bat away. But now… there was a void.

He never knew he would miss Francis. Now, he admitted, he sorely did.

Matthew sobbed for a good ten minutes until his voice became raspy and his chest ached with every breath. He quieted eventually, just sniffling as Alfred hugged him tightly to his chest. Alfred knew Matthew just needed to be held. He'd always needed to be held when he was sad. Through their colonial years, Alfred had held him just like this, and he wouldn't let go until Matthew complained that he was crushing him.

And then Gilbert stood, snatching Ludwig's gun from right out of the holster at his brother's side. He had that face. That face he always had when he was intent upon killing someone.

"Where are those bastards?" he growled at Kiku. "I'll kill them with my own two hands!" He had lost two friends now, his very closest: first Antonio and now Francis. He hadn't admitted earlier that Antonio's death had hurt him, but now it was coming into stark realization with the sight of Francis's lifeless body.

Kiku gave him a solemn look. "They are no longer alive. We killed them all."

At this, Gilbert stared, then with a snarl of frustration, he tossed the gun across the room and smashed his fist into the wall, howling out his rage. He left a sizeable hole in the plaster, and his knuckles were bleeding and quite possibly bruised. But he didn't care. "I hope you killed them as brutally as possible. I would have caught them and broken every bone in their bodies before letting them bleed out."

The image shocked everyone, who were still reeling from the death, and Matthew stopped sniffling, staring. Then Ludwig put a hand on Gilbert's shoulder and said, "Bruder… I think you need to sit down."

Gilbert blinked, as if coming out of a daze, and complied. He stared blankly at the floor.

Across the room, Feliciano burst into tears. He had been so shocked at first, that the tears were kept at bay. But from Gilbert's outburst, he felt a harsh reality crash down upon him, and he put his face into his hands and cried and cried and cried. He had no desire to see Francis's body. Beside him, Lovino put his forehead to his temple, holding his hand, squeezing in reassurance. Feliciano's pant leg became wet from his brother's silent tears.

Once Matthew was consoled, they agreed to bury Francis. They looked for a place outside in the woods, spotting a beautiful rose bush. It seemed a sign to Arthur as he looked at it. It was fall, and bitterly cold, but the roses were still blooming, bright red and a dark, delicate pink.

Ivan dug the grave, just like he had with all the others. He had a sinking suspicion that he had been marked as the designated grave digger of the group, but he didn't mind the labor. Within ten minutes, the hole was dug. Ludwig and Gilbert lifted Francis's body into the grave. As Gilbert looked down into it, he found that Francis appeared quite small and fragile. His eyes welled with tears and he looked away.

Alfred muttered, "Do you want to take the sheet off?"

Matthew shook his head, suppressing another round of sobs. "No… no, leave it on. I don't want to see what they did to him." He couldn't see his papa hurt.

"Shall I fill it in?" Ivan asked, shovel at the ready.

"Wait," Arthur said, plucking some roses from off of the bush and dropping them down into the grave. "They were his favorite… it's only fitting."

At this, Matthew started crying again, muttering a string of 'thank you's to Arthur. He didn't know Arthur cared so much. He didn't know Arthur cared at all.

They all watched somberly as Ivan shoveled dirt over top of the corpse. It seemed so wrong in Arthur's eyes, covering him up like that forever. Dousing a light, that's what it was. A burning candle wick blown out abruptly with no warning whatsoever to the others relying on its light in the room.

And Arthur suddenly felt a longing in his gut. He had no one to argue with anymore over such petty things. He was already missing Francis's perverted remarks.

Why do I want him back? Arthur thought, his cheeks running wet and hot with tears. Damn you, you French bastard. I can't believe you're making me cry over you.

They all came forward to say their words, but Arthur barely heard any of it. He was still so shocked by Francis's sudden death. The man who opposed him, the man who never gave up no matter how many times he was defeated, as annoying as that was. The man who, Arthur had to admit, had made a formidable opponent…

Was just… gone.

Just like that.

Forever.

Feliciano was taken back into the house by his brother afterward, followed by Ludwig, who was shrugged off by Gilbert. The albino was staring down at the mound of dirt, grief mixed with pure anger on his face, hands in his pockets. He later left with a growl of frustration rasped with mourning. Kiku left also, though no one really noticed, he was so quiet, taking the injured Sadiq with him. Wynston decided that he didn't need to see his father worry about him crying also, so he left Alfred to tend to Matthew. Yao shook his head, his heart hammering in his chest. In all his years, he had never seen nations drop like flies so quickly. Would he be next? Yao had always thought that, with his many years of experience, he could handle anything, but now… he was not so sure.

Then there were four: Ivan, Alfred, Matthew, and Arthur.

Matthew's crying had quieted a bit, but whimpers were still escaping him, and he couldn't stop them. He was gone. Francis was dead. He pulled away from Alfred to examine the grave, and for one wild moment, he contemplated snatching the shovel from Ivan, digging Francis up, and lying beside him. They would be buried together. It felt so right… it would be so beautiful and tragic, that Fate would weep for taking his papa away so cruelly…

And then Alfred's hand was on his shoulder, and Matthew remembered why he needed to live. He still had Alfred. Alfred would be devastated if he was gone. And he didn't want his brother to feel what agony Matthew was feeling now. Even though Alfred was an asshole, he didn't deserve this. No one deserved this.

He walked over to the grave. Being closer to it, knowing that just below his feet, the remnants of the man who had raised him—who he had called Papa—was curled up and cold, so many feet below, unreachable, salvageable, it was unbearable. His legs turned to jelly with the thought, and he went down, crying out as his knee snapped back into place with a very painful pop. On his knees. But he barely felt it; compared to his intense grief, it was but a trifle. Matthew put his face in his hands, hunched over, and cried all over again. But this time he screamed. It felt right. To tell the hellish world and the greedy God what pain they had caused him. So he screamed out his sorrows. Screamed out his frustration. Screamed out his pain.

Alfred didn't touch him. This was Matthew's moment. His brother needed this. He needed to vent his grief. He needed to let it out. But that didn't stop Alfred from silently crying to himself, hand over his face to hide it.

Arthur, though, wished with all his heart for Matthew to stop. Even though Francis had raised the boy, Arthur had always had a soft spot for him. He didn't like to see the Canadian cry. It broke his heart. He wanted to rush over and hug him and scream for him, take all his pain away with the power of his lungs, show him that he was not alone. But Arthur was still, and he listened to Matthew's mournful ballad. Without fully knowing it, tears streamed down his own face.

Ivan stared. Just stared. He did not cry. He did not mourn. He had decided when he'd found his dead sisters that he was through with mourning. In this hellhole of a world, there was no time for grief. And he had cried all the tears in his body in his youth, during his most turbulent times. He was stronger now, and Matthew was getting stronger in the same way he had.

The Canadian was learning that the world and God were cruel. Ivan had realized this long before and fully expected what precious things of his own could be taken from him at a moment's notice.

Matthew could have stayed out there forever. Could have cried for centuries. Could have just laid there and waited until Death took him, too. But Alfred's hand on his shoulder guided him to his feet.

"Let's go inside." Alfred muttered, letting Matthew lean on him (as his knee was still throbbing with pain), leading him back into the house.

Arthur continued to stare solemnly down at the grave, still not accepting the fact that Francis was gone.

"It is done," Ivan said. He stepped forward and drew a cross in the dirt above the grave with the point of his shovel.

Arthur felt tears push at his eyes again, and he seriously hoped that Francis didn't see them. Ivan was marking Francis's death. It was permanent now. Francis would never return.

They both made their way back into the house. It was still noon, but everyone was in their sleeping bags and respective resting places. Except for Alfred; the American was curled around his brother, holding Matthew on the couch, fingers intertwined with the Canadian's. Matthew had stopped crying, going suspiciously silent. His indigo stare was blank and myopic—as if he was not seeing anything. It worried Arthur.

Seeing as everyone was too stricken to speak, Arthur made his way to his sleeping bag and settled down in it. But he didn't feel like he could sleep. He was too shocked by the day's events to sleep. He was paranoid. Were there more convicts out there? Was the Organization near? Of course they were. Danger was always close. Francis's death proved that.

But Arthur lay down his head and stared, thinking it strange that he could no longer feel Francis watching him. Why did he miss that?

Was it that night with the thunder and the rain? When they had shared a tent and much more between them? They hadn't talked about what had conspired that night they'd spent together, curled up to each other. Arthur was too ashamed to even mention it. But he never realized how confusing it would be for him if Francis had died without giving him answers. What was all that about? Sure, Francis liked sex, and he had been trying to pick Arthur up for centuries. But, somehow, in the midst of all this hell, being forced close together, it made Arthur think that it could have been something more.

Could have been. Now that was the saying. Arthur had been too afraid to ask, and now he would never know. The thought made him feel guilty—guilty that he had not been able to give Francis whatever it was that the Frenchman had wanted from him. The man had died with too many loose strings. And now Arthur was paying for it in grief and in confusion.

Stupid frog. he thought almost grudgingly. You've always been a git. And you stay true to it by dying and leaving a million questions behind. No doubt to only addle me for the rest of my life. I never thought I'd say this but… you won, Francis. Finally. You've left me with questions that have no answers, something which I cannot win over. Scheming prat…

Arthur recalled how Francis had touched him and shook away the thoughts. No, he told himself firmly. He's a no-good wanker. He just wanted some… nothing more. Though Arthur knew he was just lying to himself to stave away what he really knew was truth. But the truth would only trouble him more, and he didn't need that in times like these.

Arthur swallowed dryly and closed his eyes, but sleep never found him. And he knew everyone else was in his same position. There were no heavy breaths. No snoring. No Alfred talking and squirming in his sleep.

But he would rather have had that instead of the agonizing silence that hung over them until evening fell and the first stars came out. Matthew shifted his gaze to stare out of the window with a kind of loathing admiration.

Francis was dead. And he couldn't believe the world was cold enough to go on, as if everything was perfectly normal.

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Cheesy chapter title is cheesy. But all the sad stuff made up for it enough, I think. And, yes, England did cry. Why he did, even he doesn't know. And Prussia went berserk there for a second. Hmm, just watch him closely, people. There's definitely something more going on in his head than just his best friend dying.