The night was aging, and I was exhausted from the rush of the day. Travel, stress over the chainsaw event, injury, death… The day was over now, but I had to keeping living it. Russia had just awakened into a horrifying reality, so I could not simply go upstairs to bed. My plan was to strain myself to stay up all night, just as I had before for America.

I wondered if everyone else would sleep, but I did not think that they could. All of them had been twisted up inside from Russia's fate; those emotions had been reflected in the pooled waters of their eyes. America was grieving, and I knew that no matter what brave face he tried to put on. Although I leaned against Russia and watched the screen with him, neither of us really looking, I could only think about what was truly on America's mind.

I had been unprepared when I had found out about my death, since I never had this adjustment period that America had had. Coming back to life, America had already known he had died. He had many days before he disconnected from us, before he was unable to understand our words any longer. I never understood the words of the others, and mostly had only memories of feelings.

Yet America had been crying, though it had been alone in the company of Britain behind a closed door. His face and voice had remnants of tears, so when I had been lying on the kitchen floor unconscious, I had missed the true period of grief. Perhaps he had been loud, but I had not been awake to hear his breakdown. For around two hours, France had fixed up Russia and America had calmed himself before finally seeing Russia.

He doesn't normally let people see when he is upset, I noted. But, why couldn't I see him? It seems like America and everyone else just want to hide things from me. I remember at the start, when I thought that America found his condition amusing. He said that he "looked cool". But Britain admitted that he was really sad, and just pretending for my sake.

I shifted my arm so that the curves of the chains dug into a different patch of flesh.

Always pretending that he has everything under control… Maybe he couldn't allow himself to break down. After all, he isn't used to expressing these kinds of emotions in front of me and Russia. He doesn't want to hurt me and inside, he doesn't want to be weak in front of Russia. But like that, he can't even show how sorry he is to us...

Russia's glare pierced into a place beyond the TV. He was thinking about America too, but it was vengeful thinking. Dangerous thoughts that assured me that America needed to crumble before him, to become a weeping mess that could easily be crushed. He needed to be fragile for once; he was this on the inside, I sensed it, but he wasn't embracing it.

The door was silent when it was opened. I was only surprised by the footsteps that set themselves on the stone softly. I thought that feet like those belonged to Britain or France, but it was America who showed his face. America moved in a way not like he used to, but his face tried to insist that he was fine. He bore a cushion and a blanket down the stairs, flashing his eyes to me the moment Russia snapped his attention onto him.

"Okay, so… I know I'm not supposed to be here, but…" America set down the cushion and sat on it. He faced me and seemed a little lost for words. I understood. He wanted to see us. He needed to hold me still, and he wanted to cure Russia of his hatred, but it was all a rash strategy.

He was already nearing me, and therefore nearing Russia. He recoiled as far as he could, like a hissing cat, although he remained in silence. America touched my arm, but dared not pull me away from the one that fixed him with a black dagger pupil. Now that he was here and cautious, however, came my chance to murmur, "America… You have to do more."

"More?" he whispered into my ear, trying to escape Russia's hearing. "Of what?"

"I… I mean…"

America was gentle, malleable beside me, while Russia was rigid and cold. The middle felt like a position of too much power, where all attention was on me and I had to move the elements at my sides.

Finally, I sighed, "You need to cry."

Neither America nor Russia reacted at first, so I wondered if I had spoken too quietly. I elaborated, "Russia needs to see you cry. He doesn't know how sad you are. It doesn't look like you're really sorry until…"

America folded his legs and flung his arms over them. Our sides touched, not much but still contact- and reminiscent of how I had felt long ago on a clifftop. There was so much suffering lingering in the air that could not be dismissed though. America paled and observed the uneven terrain of the floor, a guilty conscience that proved that I had been right about him. He did want to cry, but his body and mind prevented him.

We watched America bent over on that cushion, but he could not change face. He was trapped in this medium state, where he said all the right words but lacked all the right emotions. To a point, I got it. None of this seemed real, and it was only all real to Russia. Maybe he even sensed that and was angry in his isolation.

Once upon a time, Russia had thought that America was hugging him. It had been me, and I knew how he had enjoyed that possibility of peace. With the memory glimmering in my mind, I placed my hand over America's knee.

"Please do something for him," I told him. And I didn't know why, but I said, "He's sad."

Clearly, Russia was enraged. He had been bristling slowly in his chains, as much as he could, and shifting his concealed jaw. But my words had frozen him. Russia paused all this and his face was swept clean. He took on a neutral expression that waited to be molded into something else.

America blinked, then kept his eyes closed. He slid around me and hugged Russia, holding him securely. Russia's glare flickered back on and he tried to pull back, but he could not move. America clung wordlessly until the fire faded in Russia's eye and his face returned to that neutral expression again. Russia did not know what to think, but America reached for the back of the beam and grasped it. He pulled himself closer and Russia glared, then erased his expression again.

It's a start.

Maybe I could be that middle piece, the method for forgiveness and the one who could understand both sides, encouraging them to reconcile. Alone, I did not think that Russia would forgive America or that America would push himself to do the necessary steps. Words, here, were empty, even when I comprehended the rarity of America's sorries to Russia.

America crept to me and tested if he could hug me without aggravating Russia. The neutral face examined him. In a smooth action, America felled me so that I lay against his chest. Arms more tender than last time, more dedicated, snaked around me. I had never remembered America having a feathery touch, but he handled me like I was a porcelain figure. He did not press, and it tickled instead, setting off tingles under my skin.

I peeked at Russia as I fell limp against America. The eye gazed over us, but it lacked the previous harshness. Fragility- yes, I had led America on the path to falling for it. I was what could not be ignored anymore. The time apart from me cursed him to release this affection over me, even in front of Russia. More than before, evidently intentional and caring.

Russia tilted his head slightly while America's back was to him. The purple was gentle, confused, and now, as sad as I had just claimed him to be. I might have known that this sorrow had been there inside him. America melted the longer that he held me on the cushion. Still, he did not cry like he should have, but this was good enough for now.

He had needed to do all that came next. He had needed to whisper again, how he had missed me. It appeared more genuine when he did. He lifted up the collar of my shirt and gazed at the bandage over my shoulder, then dropped the cloth and set his head over mine. Russia blinked slowly as America stroked my arm and murmured, "You… I said I cared about you… but I mean. No, like… I have to tell you. I never say it."

He had found a way to show strength in the fragility. America had not cried, but everything changed when he touched my forehead with his chin, then lips. I was struck in shock, inhaling and realizing that he had done something incredible. I fought to remember if he had ever done that to me before, but nothing came to mind. My face flipped up to catch his bright, blue eyes. They were honest and unhindered by any glasses as he admitted his final words to me.

"Canada… I'm happy to have you as my brother." America placed me back against his chest. "You know I love you, right?"

Russia's eye widened. The air was cleared of the electric tension as though the spring wind had swept through the basement, taking all away and leaving freshness. All seemed to have been made clear to him, about why I had suffered for America, why I had believed that he would change, why I had worked so hard with the stress and fear of being an impostor. America had not represented himself well during his initial apologies, yet now, Russia saw how America felt about him.

Russia murmured something, but none of us understood it from his cloth, throat, and especially from his lack of lips and cheek. He felt the hug he had been given now, and I knew because his eye fell closed in peace. America was not the one that had hurt him, in death or in his previous life. This America was the one that I had promised would come.

"Let's stay with Russia, tonight," I whispered.

"Yeah," America breathed. "I'll get more cushions, and blankets."

"It shouldn't smell so bad in the morning either. Not after all the cleaners we used."

"I don't mind even if it did. Besides, my stank was superior to any other. I can't complain."

I leaned against Russia and watched America pad up the stairs. The bends of his legs were all correct and their movements flowed naturally. He walked so easily that it was as though I was only watching the ghost of a memory wandering away.

France and Britain still left us in privacy, so when America came back with the cushions, I asked him about them. Reportedly, they were not up to much, but were sitting on his bed, talking and dealing with Britain's arm.

"Did you see what it looked like?" I asked.

"I didn't really see much. A little cut, but that was it."

"No colours?"

"Crap, were there colours before?"

I breathed, "His arm was broken, and purple."

"I didn't know about the purple part..."

"It was an infection."

"That bad?"

"Yeah," I replied with a gentle tone, seeing the remorse within his eyes to hear of just how badly he had hurt him. "I guess he didn't get to tell you yet, but… you were so toxic that you killed off all the bugs."

Russia leaned against the wooden beam. I heard the chains shift slightly, becoming reminded of him and that this conversation was wandering into uncomfortable territory for him. After all, more bugs would come for him and strip off his soft tissue. I recalled the hairy-legged swarm over America, how they had covered up the openings and deflated his eyes. How I had fainted at the sight of him, waking up to him crawling free from the chains.

"I must have looked horrible," America sighed and pressed in his shoulders. I thought that he might have been afraid, but he was trying to contain his emotions.

Russia was relieved of this insensitive conversation when it ended. America went to grab the blankets and some pillows, and I watched him walking again. We then nestled up on the cushions, where I was in the middle as to not overwhelm Russia with America. His presence was tolerated now, so we managed to start watching a movie quietly. Carefully, America wrapped blankets around me and him and cocooned us in warmth. I realized finally how cold the basement had been. He pulled the blankets tighter around us, and I pressed into the heat.

It was relaxing like a hot shower. The coldness in my veins drifted away and my muscles relaxed. This was nearly exactly how I had imagined our reunion to be. I had not expected the basement or Russia's predicament, but here we were cozied up as though there was nowhere else in the world we could be.

I had not meant to, but my eyes began flickering and my head bobbed in my fight to stay awake. America rubbed my back and worsened this condition, but I protested in a mumble, "No, I have to stay up…"

"You've been through so much today," America argued quietly. "I don't think anyone's gonna mind it if you sleep. I'll stay up for you."

I fought on, but it was so easy to leave my eyes closed, especially after the encouragement. I flopped against America as he continued to spread warmth over my back and arms with a caressing hand. I melted into the comfort, forgetting the cruelties of the basement, and fell asleep against America's shoulder. He had made it far too easy, and I never woke once when snuggled in. Despite what had happened to Russia, I slept so soundly against the returned heat of life that no nightmare roused me.

When I came to, the warmth was still thick. I stirred in a pile of blankets, and somewhere in them and still emanating heat for me, was America. He had fallen asleep at some point and left both of us curled up and lying on the cushions. Still snoozing, America loosely held me in the mess of crinkled blankets. I saw his ruffled hair, and the face that peeked out was innocent and gentle.

I rolled my head over and noticed Russia watching us, and I knew that he must have been watching for hours. There was no wrinkle across his skin, however, so he did not seem to have been bothered that America had fallen asleep. The affection that Russia had seen until this point must have affected him. Instead of seeing America's remorse, he found comfort in seeing America being tender to me.

It looks like he wants to see more of this.

Still exhausted, I fell back down into the cushions and blankets, allowing Russia to relax and think pleasant thoughts. America's arm sought me and then draped itself over me. I breathed slowly until I extended my sleep, hearing a door at one point, but never waking up until later. By then, Russia appeared a little different, a little thicker, but huggable nonetheless.

Russia tried to say something: a question I deduced, from the intonation. I rubbed his arms and believed that he had asked about my sleep. He still worried about me and my nightmares, and seemed glad that I had passed the night peacefully. I cuddled and assured him, then headed upstairs and was not long in getting some breakfast.

France and Britain came downstairs to see Russia, and he did not seem to mind them anymore. America slunk out of bed while they asked Russia yes or no questions about how he felt. America went upstairs then came down with his laptop and phone, and never commented on Russia's changing appearance. We hung around Russia for a while, before America abandoned his work to sit beside Russia. I let him do it now, and sat on America's other side, supervising the encounter.

I had never seen America so warmhearted before. As time went on and I was able to observe him, I noticed how most of his time was spent holding or touching someone. He should have laughed at something or made fun of another by now, but America did not pester anyone. Russia would have been an easy target to mock because of the bloating, but America said nothing of it.

Britain started packing that evening for the next morning. The rest of us stayed downstairs and forgot about dinner while trying to entertain Russia with a teamwork card tower. It was disastrous of course, but Russia watched carefully without any creases on his face. When he blinked slowly, I knew that he was trying to express his contentedness. America kept coming back to him for embraces, and eventually Russia stopped flinching or recoiling entirely as his initial responses.

When France remembered dinner and tried to offer to bring us something, America declined. He had remembered the stomach inside him, and did not care to mind it now that he was holding Russia. There had been a line across his head briefly, but then Russia relaxed at America's response. He was impressed that America had been so considerate, and had even turned down food entirely.

America is being so kind now.

Russia had difficulty moving, but it passed after a while. We played different games and tried to include Russia, and America and I slept on the floor beside him once again. Russia enjoyed watching, but America still did not oppose it. I could imagine his voice in my mind, calling Russia creepy for doing that, but that was not reality. Still, America hugged me and Russia, although the room was beginning to smell.

When Britain left, he reminded us that he would try to get travelling permission, but it would be difficult. He told us to watch Russia carefully and to keep him updated. I felt that Britain might have been relieved to go and busy himself, instead of staying in the basement and watching Russia fading and America's sorrowful, affectionate behaviour. No matter the case, it was just the three of us left to console Russia.

America missed meals now and then, and basically only ate after France and I made up other excuses to get him upstairs. America never left if it was for food, but if he was upstairs for something else, then he ate. He tried whatever he could to entertain and distract Russia, even playing Monopoly with him as previously suggested. Then, when America had found out about red sunflower, that the beautiful flower tucked in the guest room was special to Russia, he brought it down. The pot was set in front of Russia, who would then spend great periods of time regarding it instead of the TV.

"You really like it, huh?" America murmured. "But none of us knows what it does."

Russia loved the flower as he grew thinner and more pale. The basement was aired out with an open door and fans, then sprayed with air fresheners. Nevertheless, it was not best to stay down here for as long as we did. The three of us did though, and France was the one to go up into the fresh air the most in order to cook for us. Not that any of us desired to sit down around a table to eat together. All the food was frozen to be picked at later.

America usually ignored his phone until much later after he had gotten a pinging message. He did not want to rush for his phone and make Russia feel less significant. America had never been so skilled at reading the mood, but he tried so hard to please Russia. Even I was uncomfortable with hugging Russia now that he was reeking and turning soft, but America acted as though there was no change. As long as Russia felt and appreciated the attention, he touched him.

One of America's messages confused him. Knowing that I was at fault, he turned to me and asked, "Why do all the north dudes keep asking me to drink with them?"

"Oh, the Nordics?"

"Yeah, them. They're asking when I'm available and if I can convince Russia to have a rematch against Finland…"

"So that's why your phone is always going off…" I breathed. "Well, Finland was unhappy that Russia won. He says it wasn't fair because he was drinking a lot of vodka before he started the contest against Russia."

Above Russia's paling eye, the shape of his eyebrow hinted that he was amused. America demanded quietly, "Man, Canada, did you really become such a popular party animal while I was out of it?"

"I tried to make you some friends… that's all."

America chuckled and thanked me with hugs, his new form of communication. He replied to the newest of messages, then tossed the phone onto the cushion before wiggling back to Russia's side. Throughout the days, he had been so preoccupied with Russia that he had been forgetting his other chores. He thought it was fine like this, not doing his work, hardly messaging anyone, and not even bothering to fix the broken doors yet. In the end, the quiet helper tended to it. France bought everything and he installed the new doors himself; we heard him upstairs using the tools from the basement, but we stayed where we were and did not see how they looked until much later.

France was thanked, of course, because everything ran smoothly when he was around. Behind our backs, messes disappeared. My kitchen was spotless, the carpet had been shampooed, and all walls were cleaned. There was not a spot of blood to be found, and he managed to keep America's home smelling decent. Even while we slept, the floor around Russia was always clean by the morning, and all the games were packed up and stacked to the side. There must have been even more things that France was doing, but since he did not expect praise, we never found out exactly all that he did.

America had taken one job, however. The flower pot remained on one side of Russia's outstretched legs, and America would always take water to it shortly after he woke up every morning. Russia would watch him in a tranquil state, perhaps trying to smile under the cloth that covered his mouth. The strong, blooming life that brightened the basement with its fiery colours had raised Russia's mood since it had been brought to him. I wondered when the happiness would twist, then discovered that it was already underway.

Russia was going blind, and there was nothing we could do for him. His eyes were glazing over, and America must have known although he said nothing. Russia's body sucked itself up as America's had done before, and he started reacting less to outside stimuli. He still looked at the flower and at us even as we faded further away. The TV was ignored completely and we turned it off, but Russia preferred watching us anyway. He checked where we were, looked down when hugged, and tried to overlook our games. It was harder to get him to nod to our questions, however, when he could not hear well.

It was during one of our sleeps when the bugs started to come. Russia didn't react to the bugs as they began to nibble. It was only a few specks or spindly-legged creatures, so he had not sensed them at all. I sprayed Russia with Raid, coating him and informing America that I had done the same for him before. I just didn't mention in front of Russia that it had never made a significant difference.

America noticed quickly that the bugs just came back. Seeing the shiny, black dots beginning to crawl over Russia came as another fierce reminder that he was dead. At times the rot had assured him of this truth, but he continuously was desensitized to it and forgot a little. But the insects was another realm entirely. The stress welled up within him, and America understood the same helplessness that I had faced before. Desperate, he sprayed Russia around the clock. Soon after, America shocked me as he sat cross-legged beside him, starting to pluck off insects and crush them.

The miniscule bodies smeared greasy, black and green stains across his fingers. Yet America maintained only a frightened expression as he tried to get the bugs off Russia. The bugs confirmed what he had done- they pounded the guilt into him that he had killed Russia and had made him into their feast. America's eyes then took on a strange light, and he sat and squashed the bugs in that demented state of determination. France cringed and let him do as he wanted, believing along with me that America needed to do this. America needed to feel like he had some sort of control over Russia's state, despite how he would fade away eventually.

It was not the fault of the bugs when Russia rotted and went blind in the end. Wretched from this development, America tried to show him that the flower was still there. Russia shifted to his words, and he curled his toes when America lifted the pot to touch it to him. The effort to just do something to alleviate Russia's sorrow clutched our hearts, more so for we knew that the end was near. Russia was growing deaf. We had to talk louder and louder so that Russia would hear us, but soon, even yelling had no effect.

Russia gazed ahead while America put the flower to his face. Russia tilted his head and rubbed his cheek against the silky texture of the curved petals. This was about the only sign of consciousness that Russia demonstrated, blind and deaf as he was now. When Russia was barely able to move and only able to feel, America was profoundly stricken. Without warning, he confronted France with a question that I had never dared to ask before.

"Can we just unlock the chains for a little while?" America begged him while poised before Russia. "Just for a few minutes… He won't hurt anyone."

There was a thinness in America's voice that prodded our hearts. I do not remember ever hearing him plead like this for another person. France murmured to not tell Britain, before he unlocked the chains and allowed them to collapse to the floor. Russia, who felt the tension disappear along with the weight of the metal, shifted to test his new freedom. America took one of the hands that had been freed, a discoloured and repugnant appendage, and guided it to the flower.

Russia stopped all other movements and directed his fingers over the stalk with wide eyes. Although free, he did not try to get up or leave the beam. He knew that he was meant to stay, but he reached out his other hand and tried to find someone. The back of that hand was torn and gruesome, the skin gone to show the squishiness of the insides. America did not mind when the fingers found his shoulder. Bottom lip quivering, he shifted even closer to Russia. Russia ignored the plant and took America into a full and wholesome hug while he could.

But Russia was unsure of who was there. His voice was muffled and warbled, but he said something that sounded like, "Kaan?"

"No, no…" America whined, pulling back his head and vainly holding his pained face before Russia's blind eye. "It's me… It's America."

I bit my lip and waited with my breath held. America had been more attached to Russia than I had been recently, yet still he expected me in his final moments. I placed my hand on his back, a third hand- surely, I thought, he would know that there were more than one of us here. France understood, and dropped onto Russia's other side. All of our hands found him, letting him know.

Russia wrapped soft arms around whoever he believed was in front of him. He murmured something behind the cloth, but it was impossible to decipher his words and it wasn't the bandage's fault. We thought he said my name again, so more creases appeared on America's forehead and around his eyes. He squeezed Russia and buried himself into him, trying convince him.

"Russia…" His voice was tightening. "No, I'm here for you… I'm sorry, oh god... I'm so sorry…"

His breaths and dialogue were becoming shorter. I recognized this strain and turned my face to watch his as it wrinkled further. America trembled and bent, his fingers curled and gripped Russia securely, and tears welled up in his eyes. There was no hiding himself now from him. America's throat bobbed before tears flashed down his cheeks. His quivering increased, then his back jolted.

America's lips parted to let out a breath that rocked on the waves of a whimper. Small and vulnerable squeaks and whines came out now that it was impossible to speak. France and I looked up just as America rose up on his knees and smacked his teary cheek against Russia's decayed one. Quaking more heavily and raining tears until he was sobbing, America made sure that Russia felt these tears, even if he couldn't see or hear him.

But I did not know who Russia thought was crying against him. The way America was behaving now was like , now he was my impostor, breaking down in Russia's arms and letting the tears splash against him. Russia mumbled and touched America's cheek to brush away some of those tears. A putrid smear was left, and immediately fresh tears streaked over it. Russia dropped his hand back down, realizing the foul state of his flesh and how it was not suited for this.

America did not pay it any mind. He wailed and coughed into Russia while I watched on in stunned awe. It was all awful and yet, I could not look away as America was overtaken by raw grief, sobbing and shaking like I had never seen him before. He looked smaller too now, but I guess we all looked small when we cried like this. All I wanted to do was protect him and hold him in my arms, but there was no moving him now.

We rubbed our hands over Russia while America stayed and cried for however long it would take. Russia felt America's tears until he could no longer feel us there at all. Russia's arms slackened and he whispered some words. Nothing of it sounded like America's name. America dropped his hands against Russia's bumpy chest to continue crying. I watched each tear form then flee over his eyelid, and I carefully observed his red face. Struggling, he still tried to speak to Russia, but he just could not get any words out through his twitching lips.

Russia's hands fell further down America. France waited a bit longer, then whispered, "We have to put the chains back on, America. He won't be the same person in the morning."

America hesitated, and for one terrible and long moment, I thought that he was going to refuse. America flashed his saturated eyes at us, then shifted back. We wrapped the chains around Russia and clicked the locks back in place, before America dove into Russia once more.

Russia didn't seem to know that he had been locked up at first. He arms moved and tried to perform an action, but they just could not rise anymore. He bowed his head and left his bandaged cheek on America's hair once he had realized what had happened. Both were frozen like this for a long time while the rest of us kept our hands on Russia. Russia closed his eye and hung his head as though he had fallen asleep, cozy where he was. He moved slightly occasionally after, but at some point, he had stopped moving. Russia hung without purpose, no longer aware of the one that was holding him.

America noticed soon afterwards. We watched him with ringed eyes as he shook Russia, but gained no response from him. Choking, America moved his face between his hands, but Russia did not even open his eye to him. Eventually, it would open, but not for any of us. The blind eye was more dull in the way that there was no thought, feeling, or life behind it. It stared through America, unable to see the twitching lip and soaked face before it.

"Russia…" And America broke down, but it had all been too late. In not showing his tears earlier, Russia had thought they had been mine. It was too much for America to handle, so now his crying was turning to screeching.

Through his raspy breathing, it was hard to understand him. But the message was soon pieced together from the stuttered scraps of vocabulary.

"I killed him! Oh god, Russia is dead and it is all my fault! I hurt everyone. Why couldn't I stop myself? How could I have done this?"

France tried to reach out to America, to calm him, but his spirit was too far to be found. The longer he stared at Russia's fallen and vacant face, the worse it got. Crying ourselves, we attempted to pry off America to leave this cold room. America clung tighter to Russia. A longer period of sobbing was necessary before he could be torn off and collected blubbering into us.

"I never wanted to kill Russia," he had squeezed out from himself over the course of a minute. "Not really… This is so horrible. Russia..."

Although he was borne upstairs, there was still no reaching his lacerated heart. America suffered so profoundly all at once, showing us how he had been hiding it within him until now. Guilt, pure guilt that I knew just would not disappear as long as I was marked and Russia was dead.

I knew that in however many days or weeks it would take, America was never going to fully recover from this. I had been correct, and it was like having a feeble ghost floating through the home. This ghost rarely ate and had therefore lost a considerable amount of weight. It did not sleep well either, worse than the rest of us did. It did not react to comforting touches; those were ignored in the sense that they were not felt.

It did not seem to have a purpose, although some chores where done. The blank face watered Russia's flower and worked, while usually avoiding its own home. Far from the corpse, this ghost haunted my home, occupying the couch or lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling in the late hours.

America understood the full impact of Russia's death now that he had lost consciousness. He had visited Russia only once a few days later, hoping that Russia was back, only to find a thin creature that leaned toward him and moaned awfully. Spooked, he had never returned to face the monster that had taken Russia's dead body.

France and I wrote to Britain about America's condition. As hard as Britain tried, he just could not make it to India yet. Wishing to help America, we tried putting Britain on the phone with him. I never knew what they talked about, but he could only cheer up America a little bit, and after they hung up, the light in America faded by the minutes.

We wondered how we could help America recover during this time. Even our healed injuries did not satisfy him. The deepest pain was knowing that he had successfully murdered someone that he had not treated well in life, and had stolen some organs from him so that he could live. America kept his hands over his ribs sometimes with his eyes tightly closed. He could stay in a ball like this for an hour.

And undoubtedly, America was troubled by how it had ended.

"Russia didn't know it was him," I whispered to Britain. I sat on my bed while France and America remained in my living room. "America tried to let him feel his tears, but it was too late… Russia just thought it was me."

"Oh, America… America…" Britain breathed back. "He becomes sadder by the day. I've never seen him like this before."

I pressed the phone to my ear and closed my eyes. "He won't ever be happy until Russia is cured."

"I know… I'm sorry…"

"Isn't there at least something that can we do?"

"I don't know."

Britain had sounded so pained and unsure himself. I hung up and later that night, I tried holding America before we lay down to sleep. He nuzzled me wearily, then dropped under the sheets and turned his back to me.

"Goodnight, America."

There was a period of silence before he registered my words. America would not forget me in his sorrow, so he made sure to murmur back, "Night…"

But the days became more and more unbearable. I just couldn't find a solution to his pain, especially after America came across the cards that I had made with Russia. In the reveal of Russia's kinder and playful side, the guilt overwhelmed him. I hid the cards with the sketches and words, but there was no eliminating his memories.

Yet on the next morning, my doorbell rang. Startled, I rushed to answer the door and found a few people formally dressed while the one in front held out a box to me. They had been sent to specially deliver it to me, something from Britain. I hastened to take the box inside, but I was certain that it did not include the final ingredients. No, Britain would have surely told us excitedly if he had finished everything.

America had not realized the excitement while he was in the shower, but France was at the table as I opened the box.

"What is that?" he asked.

His wavy hair hung like curtains as he bent over and carefully watched the opening box. With France looming beside me, I lifted out a plastic container that contained pulp floating in water. On top, there was a note taped to the lid.

I have never tried this before, but it might help. Pour about a quarter of this over his head. If nothing happens, use more. If a quarter is enough, try to spare the amount to last until I find the final ingredients.

These two plants help heal the brain and the eyes. I hope that if I can temporarily restore Russia's consciousness, America can get his chance. But I don't know if it will do any good when the rest of Russia's body is broken. It definitely will not heal the rest of him, so don't start getting the wrong idea. Also, do not tell America about my idea unless it works. You can't get his hopes up.

And of course, stay strong, all of you. We're almost through this.

After we had shifted our eyes over the note a few times, France said, "If Britain wants us to use it, then we should try it right away."

Hurrying so that we would avoid America, we fetched a small measuring cup and took the container down into the basement. Russia reacted, leaning forward and clucking as insects crept out from under the sleeves of his pants. I held the unlidded container as France dipped in the measuring cup. He filled it and took the amount that Britain had directed us to, then he held it over Russia's head. Unaware of what was hovering over him, Russia only looked forward to where he sensed France to be.

France turned the cup and poured the liquid over him. His hair was drenched in purple and the stained drops ran down his face, but then the colours all faded in nearly an instant. Even the dampness vanished, and it was as though France had poured nothing at all. His cup was empty, however, and France looked from it to Russia, then to it again.

The only sign of a change was with Russia's eye. The clouded blindness cleared and the normal colour of his iris returned. I assumed that he had gotten back his other eye, but it was covered still by the bandages. The purple that returned glanced around, to us then to the chains that bound its owner.

I lifted my hand and waved to try to get Russia's attention. His eye locked onto me but with a full and intense stare that I had not expected. He leaned forward again and pulled the chains taut, making no effort to speak to me. France followed Britain's instructions, and poured another cup over him. After a few seconds, Russia paused. The chains were glanced at again, with a new consideration, then he moved slowly to the side.

Russia looked up to us, although his eye was still wide and strange. It was healed, but he looked sickly even when ignoring the state of rot of his skin. He was quiet and did not struggle anymore, and kept looking between the two of us. I felt that he was thinking of something, but he did not try to communicate anything to us.

If Russia could see and think again, I assumed that he would have expressed some positive emotion to us. I wondered if he was sad or angry with us again, but with that decayed, gray and purple flesh, I could not make out any clear emotion. Sick was all he looked, and sick was all he felt. From my memories, I remembered that terrible feeling of illness and emptiness.

Is Russia suffering now?

Yet Russia did not moan or reveal any discomfort. My hands tried to urge Russia to do something, but he stared at us intently, and the longer he looked, the more uncomfortable I became.

"We might need to add more…" France murmured. "But, we'll call Britain first."

We left the container and took the time to contact him. France spoke to him on the phone quietly on America's usually abandoned side. I sat beside him in the living room that stank of stale rot, waiting and hearing the sounds of agreement. Britain called for a continuation, until Russia truly reacted to us. We could use the entire dose if necessary, if half only made Russia stare at us.

France applied three-fourths, and Russia did not change his attitude. After the entire potion had been dropped on him, Russia still did not do more than look at the gestures of our hands.
"It must not have been enough," France sighed. "If he can, Britain will have to send more…"

I stepped back and turned on the TV while France regarded him. An infomercial came on and blared out behind us, startling France and casting glaring lights over the cold surfaces of the room. Russia never shifted his attention from us to the TV. Feeling the hairs rising on my back and arms, I turned it off and hastily retreated with France out of the basement.

"But I don't understand…" I whispered as we locked up the door. "The way he wrote it, shouldn't Russia's brain be completely healed now? Why didn't he change?"

"I am not sure if I am the person to ask that to," he replied. "But I get what you are saying… although I can't think of an answer. Maybe he did not send the full amount?"

It was clear that none of us thought that Britain had made a mistake. Perhaps it had been purposeful, yet I could see fathom why Britain would not heal Russia's brain completely. He might have run out of supplies; it was all that I could think of.

Yet his eyes completely healed…

When we snuck back to my side, America was working on the couch. His back was turned to us, and he did not ask us why we had both gone. Without even passing us a greeting, he trained his weary eyes on the task on screen.

None of us mentioned Russia. France and I stole glances at each other throughout the day, especially after Britain sent us confused answers. We had to assure him over and over, that we had done everything that he had said. He insisted that Russia should have had his mind back now, and he could not comprehend why Russia had only stared at us.

Check on Russia tonight, Britain had written to us. See if he had needed more time for some reason?

Britain was not sure in his answer, but in the evening, I followed France into the basement. The light was switch was flicked in passing, dimly illuminating the stairs and allowing the click of life to echo as the only sound coming from the freezing room. It was quiet, utterly silent. No chain moved, so I thought that with his sight, maybe Russia needed to see us to know that we were there.

Then, I thought, No, no- he can see that we turned on the light. If he isn't trying to get to us, then maybe he really is better now?

The beam was dark and the metal of the chains gleamed with an eerie shine. Russia sat still with his legs lying straight out before him, relaxed, although his head was already turned to us. As we came closer, he remained silent and still, watching without ever blinking. The silence pulled at our hairs again, making them rise and setting a shiver into our skin. When I saw France clenching his muscles and quivering, I knew that he too, sensed that something was off.

Russia was weak and bound, but the fear was like a rabbit darting within our hearts. He was calm though and appeared to have entirely lost his lust for blood. America's moaning and black-mouthed snaps had once allowed terror to possess my nerves, but in a way I could not describe, this frightened me more.

It wasn't until we walked closer that we realized the logic to our fear. We froze together, stuck to each other's sides, and shuddered before the creature that stared at us unendingly with its sick eye. There was a section of the chains that did not gleam, and that was the inner side of the metal around his front. The outside was clean, yet the inside was lined with red, black, and cotton that clung to the chains and dulled its gleam.

The sweater which Russia bore was worn down, new by the throat, and torn into ghastly shreds the further down the cloth went. In the select gaps between the chains, we saw how the sweater had been rubbed away by biting steel. Then, we saw how Russia's front was now raw and soiled with the black grease of old blood, flesh, and organs.

His stitches had been torn apart, and his innards were now grazed and lacerated from vicious rubbing against the chains. However, he did not look as though he had any interest in escaping his binds now that eyes were upon him. It was so, as we observed him in shock, that Russia did not writhe and harm himself, but remained... absolutely still.