My American Oneshot Book

Oneshot 17.2

Alternate ending to oneshot 17

Enjoy!

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The rain was downpouring outside as the nations all stood there. The consequence of their actions was laying in the silk-lined coffin in front of them: dressed in a navy suit, his hair droopy and dull, his glasses missing, his smile nonexistent, and his sapphire eyes forever closed. They all still felt it, the guilt and sadness eating them alive. They did this to him. The most distraught was England, his last words to his little brother still bounced in his head.

"Worthless git!"

He would do anything to take it all back: to stop Alfred from storming out of the conference hall, to stop him from getting into his car, to stop Alfred from crying, to stop this from happening. The meeting was going sour extremely fast, but yet nobody realized what they were saying. 

They all remember the regret they felt when the realized how mean they were. They all remember waiting for America to show up to the meeting to apologize. They remember the agent coming into the hall. They remember Germany confronting him. They remember the agent introducing himself. They remember the words exactly,

"There was an accident... He was fatally injured... He's in the hospital... He's going to die..."

The drive to the hospital was a blur, all of them just praying this was all a joke. But the last time they saw America was in that hospital bed. They saw him struggling to breathe. They saw him contorted in pain. They saw him dying. This was the last time they saw America alive: slowly, painfully, dying. They were only in the room for five minutes before the heart monitor flatlined. It took all the hospital security to drag them out of the small room.

Now they are watching America's casket close up, forever sealing his body from their view. The watched the crew gently set it into the hole they had dug. They watched America's casket get buried in rich soil.

All of them unaware of America watching them...

ONE YEAR LATER

England was whimpering in his bed, cuddled up in his blanket. He was dreaming of his little brother again. The name very clearly being called, "Alfred...Alfred...Alfred..."

Canada was at Alfred's grave, talking to it, "Ya know, it snowed in New York City. Odd weather for April, especially for your country. Right? Anyway, I decided to make pancakes for you," Canada pulled out the small, plastic, food container. His hands were trembling as he placed the tableware on the grave, which was littered with flowers from other nations.

France was in his room, the curtains drawn and three bottles of wine gone. France hated today more than any other day. Even the anniversary of Joanne wasn't this bad, at least he went out of her death day. But not Alfred's, he couldn't even bear to look at the world on Alfred's death day. The Frenchman was a drunk and sobbing mess as he cracked open another bottle and began to drink.

Japan was under his blankets, cuddling an eagle plushie. His eyes stung from crying so much as he rocked back and forth. He lost his best friend to words and rain, that's all it was. Japan and the other's bullied him, he finally left, and the rain made him die. Japan used to love rain, he enjoyed hearing it, watching it, running in it. But now, he detests it, hates it, fears it. Nobody could get Japan to leave his room, not even promises of cute animals or Yaoi.

Germany was working in his study. It helped distract him from how awful he was to America. America, a nation and man who always had his back. All the sleepless nights America would allow Germany to talk to him, confide in him, rant to him. Germany gripped the pen harder and tried to keep writing. Alfred's happy smile kept flashing in his mind, his laughter echoed throughout his subconscious, and his exciting aura embraced the other's soul. Now, he just felt cold as he remembered the body in the casket. His grip was so hard it made the pen shatter and ink went everywhere. Germany chucked the remains at the wall and held his head, crying.