AN: Uh, yeah. First time updating in years, new fandom and I decide to make you all depressed. You can interpret the story anyway you want. Umm, that's all. Bye.
There was no England, not anymore.
He should know that by now.
"Papa, who's England?" the little child asked (Angla, his name was Angla, he wasn't England even they both had beautiful blonde hair and striking green eyes and- oh God).
"England…" the little boy mused. "Is that where English comes from?"
America looked at the little boy. "Don't worry about England," said the tall country. He felt something clench in his chest. Maybe it was his heart, he couldn't be sure.
"No, I wanna' know about Eng…" Angla looked up at America. "Oh, does England make Papa sad?"
The little blonde boy, with the speed and energy of his father-figure, stood up on his bed and exclaimed, "If England hurts Papa, I'm gonna' hurt England."
The absurdity of the statement made America laugh.
"No, Angla, no one can hurt England anymore."
The small child sat down. "Why not?"
America took a deep breath.
"Angla, let me tell you a story."
Angla perked up. "Ooh! Is it the one about St George? Or Robin Hood? Or King Arthur! I like those stories!"
America shook his head. "No, I'm going to tell you about England." The little boy nodded and let the older man continue.
"Once upon a time, there was a man named England. He was just like you and me, a country. Apparently, he was a pirate once, but I struggle to believe that. However, he was very powerful.
I met him when I was a little boy. He raised me, kind of like how I raise you."
"Oh! So England's your Papa?" exclaimed Angla.
America shook his head. "No, he's not. Well, he wasn't."
The two nations – one young, one not-quite-so-young – sat across from the table from each other. Dinner had just been served.
"Ohh, yay! It's been awhile since I've had your cooking, England!" exclaimed the younger of the two.
The man the words were targeted towards, the one named England, responded in kind. "Yeah. I wish I could make this food for you like this all the time."
The younger nation – the one named America – shoved a potato in his mouth. As if forgetting the aforementioned action, the boy asked; "Come to think of it… I've never really known but… Is this food the kind of stuff you'd call 'delicious'?"
England stood up, hands planted on the table and almost yelled, "WHAA? Ridiculous! Isn't it obvious that it's delicious?"
The younger nation smiled up at the flustered one. "Ohh, I see. So this is what delicious food is."
Angla snapped him up out of his reminiscing. "So, what happened next?"
"Well," the American continued. "We lived happily for a while, but then we had a fight. A really big fight."
Angla cocked his head to the side. "What sort of big fight? Like the one Spain and Romano had at the meeting today?"
America smirked. "No, it was even bigger than that. It was over silly things, like taxes and tea, but you know how little things build up, right? Well, they built up. And it turned into something called the American Revolution…"
England was standing in front of him, almost defeated, while America still had his army behind him.
"Hey Britain!" America called. "All I want is my freedom. I'm no longer a child nor your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!"
England seemed like the words were finally sinking in. For some reason, America wasn't happy.
Suddenly, England ran forward. America was completely off guard, which allowed England to hit America's rifle and send it flying. The tides had turned and now America had a gun in his face, completely defenseless.
England was breathing heavily. "I won't allow it!" he exclaimed. "You idiot! Can't you follow anything though to the end!"
Somewhere behind America, a soldier spoke.
There was the click of guns being readied. There was no need, as England had lowered his weapon.
"There's no way I can shoot you. I can't."
The shock America was feeling from the surrender was only furthered when England dropped his weapon and sank to his knees.
"Why? Damn it, why?" England was sobbing. England. "It's not fair!"
America looked down upon the broken man.
"You know why. What happened? I remember when you were great."
"Wow, Papa, you must be really brave!"
"No, not really." America frowned. "When you feel strongly about something, it just happens." He closed his eyes momentarily. "Not always, though."
The tiny nation yawned. "So, what happened next?"
Alfred pondered the thought. "A lot of things happened. World Wars, y'know. Financial crashes."
Angla, eyes drooping, nodded. "Finance is icky. It makes you feel sick."
"Yeah." America sent one of his beaming smiles towards the child. "Sometimes we were really silly. Hey, do you want me to tell you about one of our meetings?"
"Sure!" replied the little boy.
America was standing at the front of the massive conference table.
"Dude, I think the World Conference can convene. Solving all of today's problems while talking excessively. No matter how hard it seems, we can fix anything with enough meetings and photo-ops. Feel free to speak honestly while protecting your chances of re-election! I'll go first. About using that whole using global warming to slave humanity thing; I think we'll be okay if we genetically engineer a huge hero and have him protect the earth. I give you the superhero, Globa-man!"
Japan agreed with him.
"Man up or I'll beat you with my peace prize!" Switzerland shouted at Japan.
England gave a thumbs-down sign. "There is no way some hero will help global warming or humanities' enslavement."
France was never one not to intervene in a fight. "If Britain and America don't agree, how can I be superior by dissing them both?"
"Agincourt!" was England's response.
America laughed. "You Frenchies sure love to hate America. Why not go back to making us hot green chick statues like you used to?"
England and France then bickered in some form of gibberish. America swore he heard England say something about body odour.
America continued to watch the two frienemies bicker until Germany yelled at everyone to shut up.
America was still amused as he took his seat next to England. He glanced over at England and grinned. England looked away, his face somewhat tainted red.
On the other side of the room, Italy was saying something about pasta.
"So, Papa, what did happen to England?"
America looked down and wringed his hands.
"Well, a few years back – about thirty – England's government decided that it didn't need to have a king or queen anymore."
America supposed the boy would have looked alarmed, apart from the fact he was half asleep, face snuggled into his pillows.
"They didn't know that would lead to a chain of events that would lead to the passing of a bill that destroyed England."
America rushed into England's house, rushing into the shorter nation's bedroom.
The bed England was lying on was so plain, so unroyal. How could something as stupid as the royal family kill him? This was England! America gulped for air, hurrying to England's side.
"England! I tried, but they won't stop the bill and it's going to be passed and you'll die and…"
A quiet voice hushed him. "Alfred… it's okay."
America sunk down onto his knees, his face level with England.
"B-but… you can't die! You're England! You…"
"Alfred." His voice was quite stern. "It's my time."
He couldn't take anymore. America broke down and began sobbing like a child. England brought him to his chest, letting him cry as much as he needed.
"Shh… it's going to be alright."
Between sobs, America managed to choke "But, England I l-love you! You can't die!"
England stroked the nation's hair, whispering soft comforts to crying boy. Gradually, his hand was slowing until it stopped all together. The soft rise and fall of his chest ceased, the soothing beat of his heart stilled.
America looked up at that point.
This was impossible. This wasn't happening.
America looked at his child; Angla was asleep.
Good thing, too. America could feel the tears dripping down his cheeks. The nation stood and turned to leave the room, before being struck by another memory.
This was the first time America had stopped crying in a week.
He was standing at the front of an old Church. In front of him was a plain black coffin, inside a recently deceased nation. They had wanted to bury in a suit, but America had told them not to. So, England was dressed in brown slacks and a green vest.
It was more appropriate, America thought. You should be buried in what you're comfortable in. The processional music began to play and America began to tear up again. But he couldn't cry. No. Because he was America. HE was AMER-
It would be best to cut this memory short.
Alfred switched off the light.