Dying sucked, as far as America was concerned.
He was cold, alone, and totally peaceful. And he fucking hated it.
The monster's corpse rotted and stank beside him. He didn't care. He'd killed it with his own two hands, and yet he felt no joy or relief. He'd saved all his friends from certain death at the hands of this particular monster, but he didn't care.
All he could feel was pathetic. All he knew was terrible. Pain. Anguish. Sorrow.
I just wanted
to go home with everyone.
His hands reached up and touched his chest. It hurt. His fingers came away red. He didn't want to look at the damage, any more than he wanted his friends to see the damage.
How bad had the beast cut him? Worse than he'd cut it? No, otherwise it would have died slower.
What kind of hero loses to something as stupid as this?
He was the hero. How could he fall like this? Wasn't he supposed to laugh in the face of Death? It was him who revived England after Death claimed him once before, right? So why? Why was Death coming for him now? And better yet, why was he allowing Death to come and take him away from everything he knew?
Maybe I had this coming
Part of him wondered if he really did. Though he pretended not to notice, he was not stranger to the fact that not many of the countries enjoyed him. Had he done something to offend someone, to make karma kick his ass in such a way?
For some odd reason, he thought about England.
Stupid old man
England's critical expressions, his snide comments, his amazing laughter, his sweet attempts to cook, his underlying concern
I never gave him an answer, did I
Before this whole thing had started, England had asked him a sort of stupid question. Not stupid because of what he said, but stupid because he had asked at all.
England already knew the answer, somewhere deep down.
And, like a moron, America had to be sarcastic and joking.
England had laughed, but America regretted it now. He wished he'd given England a real, serious answer, but maybe it was for the best. Better that he leave the question unanswered than give it a promise that would never be fulfilled, right?
He felt sad, but at the same time, peaceful. Again, he hated it. Why couldn't he scream for help?
Why couldn't he say that he wanted to live?
He knew why.
Because deep down, somewhere in his heart, he was happy it was ending this way.
The way things were going, he would die a hero.
Italy would find a way out of here. He always would. Retreating was his specialty, after all. They'd already started to find a way out the day before, far as he was concerned, and right now England was probably screaming at them to go find him because "the stupid git ran off to face the things on his own again!".
I'll be long gone if they get back here
He smiled, bitterly.
Dying's not so bad, I guess
The warm sting in his eyes bothered him; he hadn't been aware he was starting to cry.
but it sure is fucking depressing
He closed his eyes, one last time, and tried not to let that be his final thought.
Instead, he thought about England, about Canada, about Italy and Germany and Japan and France, about China and Russia and all the others. He thought about himself, sitting with them all at a world conference, laughing and making stupid remarks about things that didn't matter. But those things did matter, because they were all things they had done and said together. They were all things that had been special to him, if no one else. Those moments when they were all friends, all beside one another
They were all things he would miss, all things he knew he would regret missing.
But instead of being sad, he just smiled and thought.
And his memories claimed him one last time.