Reborn - Hetalia fanfic

Reborn

     "England, you're back!" America cried, running to his side, arms outstretched at his sides like a plane. He jumped over a low brick wall, bounding up to him with a beaming, all too happy smile.
     In spite of himself and the day he'd had, he found himself smiling widely back. He reached out a hand, patting the young child on his head, ruffling his dirty blonde hair. "Well, of course I did. I said I'd be back. Who could stay away from such a cheerful smile anyway?" He picked the child up, and hugged him close.
     Something, be it intuition or God, told him that this child would one day cause him immeasurable pain that would last for decades before causing him yet more pain. His heart began to ache with just the thought of their future together.
     "Hey England, why are you crying? Did I do something? I'm sorry," America said, pressing a small hand to the Britt's cheek. He rubbed away the tears that had leaked from England's closed eyes.
     "N-no, it wasn't you." Not yet. "I was just remembering something painful," he told the child he held, tightening his hold around him, "Just know that I'll always be here no matter what happens."
     "Of course!" America shouted as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, hugging England's neck tightly, "We'll always be together forever!"
     "Yes, forever," England responded. He found himself on the ground in the next second, his arms empty. His eyes were closed and he could feel the cold, solid ground pressing into his back.
     Footsteps crunching snow under foot approached him. "Hey, dude, wake up. You'll die if you sleep out in the snow like this," America's voice said above him, stopping beside him, "Come on, dude, wake up. Let's go back to my place." A warm hand caressed his cheek.
     His heart contracted painfully in his chest. He reached up to grasp the hand. Warmth spread through his fingers and cheek, but it was a different warmth than he was looking for. It was less demanding, slower burning. The hand was softer and smaller than the hands he remembered taking.
     Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. He stared into eyes that were darker than he was used to. Blonde hair framed the man's face and stubble shadowed his chin. Concern and sadness filled eyes that usually held nothing, but domination, sexuality, and playfulness. "Britain, it is time you go home. His funeral was three days ago. Wasting away at his grave won't change anything, and I'm sure wouldn't make him happy at all." France spoke uncharacteristically softly, his voice caring and coaxing.
     The fog slowly cleared from England's mind, reminding him where he was. Reminding him what had happened, what had been stolen from not only him, but from the rest of them as well.
     England sat up, turning to the grave he'd been laying in front of. He stared at the gravestone, reading the text engraved into its pearly surface over and over again. His heart seized as he read the name for the sixth time, tears springing to his eyes and trailing in hot rivers down his cheeks.

"Here lies Alfred F. Jones, the United States of America,
Born- July 4th, 1776
Died- June 26th, 2018
Country, Friend, Brother, Son, Cohort, and Hero to All.
May he forever rest in peace."

     Ragged sobs echoed from England's chest, filling the large cemetery, travelling between the graves of every fallen soldier it housed. The America flag snapped beside the grave, echoing his mournful cries. France stood behind the broken man who used to be so strong, tears of his own marking paths down his face.
…..
     Rain pelted the window and roof, filling the small house with the continuous splatter of rain. Dark light filtered through the clear window. Wind joined in the chorus, moaning against the house. Cold seeped through his blanket, but he didn't care anymore. Everything was cold. Everything was dead and silent. Color and life had leaked from his world as readily as the life that had leaked from his brother's body.
     A warm, fuzzy paw slid up to rest against Canada's cold cheek. He glanced down at Kumajiro, his mind and blue eyes blank. If he hadn't been breathing, he could have been considered dead. "What's the matter?" the polar bear asked in his high pitched, childish voice.
     Canada stared down at him uncomprehendingly, the gears of his mind laboriously pushing forward.
     "Did something happen?" Kumajiro asked, staring up into Canada's blue eyes with as much concern as a talking polar bear could muster.
     Canada nodded numbly, his mind whirring to remember exactly what had happened. To find the extent that had caused him such emotional distress. Images of America flashed in his mind's eye. With each new picture, his heart cracked, pain shot through his chest.
     As his mind finally settled, resting on the image of a dying America, his heart broke and crumbled. The image and sensations were clear as day, as if he was experiencing them all over again.
     Blood covered Canada's hands and his front. Warm liquid slipped down his face, making his wide blue eyes look only that much wider.
     America lay on his back, his face twisted in agony. His hands shook, trying to conceal the gaping hole in his stomach. His large hands were dyed the same crimson as his uniform, blood splattered across his face. He stared up at Canada with big blue eyes, his light already fading from them.
     "D-don't worry. W-we'll g-get you h-help. You'll be fine," Canada remembered telling America in a shaking voice, stripping off his jacket, and pressing it over the jagged wound. The cloth was immediately soaked.
     America smirked, raising a shaky hand and patting Canada's cheek. "L-looks like this is it for the great hero," he said, blood following his words and slipping down his chin.
     "Don't say that! You're going to be fine!" Canada shouted, tears already cutting tracks through the blood and dirt smeared across his face, "You're a country. You can heal from this! You'll be fine!"
     "Dude, stop deluding yourself," America told him, "This is it for me. We all knew this was coming. My country was struggling. My economy and democracy were crumbling. It was just a matter of time before I fell. Just remember to live life for me too, Brother." He pulled Canada's head down, pressing their foreheads together. With their eyes closed, Canada knew America was gone when his hand slipped from the back of his head.
     Warm tears trickled from Canada's eyes, dropping onto his hands clutched around the blanket. "Why? Why does there have to be so much war and death?" he shouted, pressing the blanket to his eyes, "Why do good people have to die to settle stupid things?"
     Kumajiro didn't answer of course, choosing instead to stare up at his owner curiously. This was the first time he'd seen him break down so he knew nothing of how to navigate the situation.
     "I want his back. I want my brother back! I want America back!" Canada sobbed, hugging his knees, trying to keep the pieces of his heart and memories from floating to the floor and disappearing. His sobs filled his vacant home, replacing the vibrancy and life that had disappeared with the life of his brother.
     Kumajiro, his instincts sensing his owner's distress, reached up, winding his arms around his neck. Canada clutched at his polar bear, sobbing into his white fur.
…..
     Halfway across the world, countries charged into battle, their war cries echoing through the mountains and valleys. Germany marched for Austria backed by the Netherlands, Sweden, Poland, Spain, Hungary, China, Belarus, and others. Austria was backed the Italy, Finland, Iceland, Bulgaria, Lithuania, Ukraine, Japan, and others. Hungary was currently marching on Lithuania. Even countries on the South American continent and the African continent had joined in the battles.
     Uncaring of the death of a young country and their countries' pain, boss' kept their countries moving, just happy, or mad in some cases, that America was no longer fighting against, or with, them. The war, World War III had pitted brother against brother, lover against lover, friend against friend. Even the strongest of bonds had crumbled.
     Countries conducted their jobs dutifully. Their hearts crumbling under the constant pressure of sorrow and loss. They felt the loss of a fellow country, even those who weren't close to America, and from the connection they'd once had with others that they would and could never find in a human.
     Other countries grieved in solitude, choosing to pull away from the fighting and the open show of rage and hurt. Russia was one of them. He sat beside the window, watching the heavy snow fall of his winter with the fire at his back. A half-empty bottle of Russian vodka was his companion. He was trying to drown his memories just like the rest were trying to smother them with war. For once in his long existence, war held no appeal for him. It repulsed him, and he couldn't say why.
     At the beginning, he'd been able to ignore the pain of loss he felt at his sisters going against each other, leaving him more alone than he'd been before. Once America, the only person who'd stayed close to him, had died, he hadn't been able to take it. He drank, hoping to extinguish the emotions welling inside of him leaving him void, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.
     His memory was clearer, the experiences fresher than they had been while he'd been sober. His emotions roiled and tumbled, growing in size with each swig from the bottle. What was that saying? What you forget, alcohol remembers. That was it. The summed up what he was feeling.
     When had it all gone wrong? Everything was wrong. It felt as if nothing would ever be right again.
     Russia, indifferent to the effects of the alcohol, raised the bottle in his hand to his lips as he spotted the bursts of light from gun fire, missile launches, and burning air crafts that reflected off the underbellies of black clouds in the distance. It must have been Latvia, Estonia, and Lithuania. Even they had entered the war.
     The vodka slid down his numb throat. He wished he still felt the burn. He'd rather deal with physical pain than emotional pain. Silently, he considered joining the fighting just to indulge his want. It wouldn't be so hard. His army had been rallied and prepared just in case another country decided to attack.
     His boss sat back quietly, watching the war like it was a sport, waiting for the right moment to strike or for someone to come crawling to their feet asking for help. "Stupid countries," he would say, "They don't realize that they're destroying themselves just like damn United States of America. It won't be long before they're fighting a war over that land and its people."
     Russia couldn't stand him, not anymore. He'd once shared the man's views and to a point, he still did, but he'd changed. The war had changed all of them. They'd never be the same again. He just couldn't think like his boss did, or like his people anymore. Many of them had changed their tune as his had changed, and that comforted him sometimes, but his boss was not one of those people.
     Anxious and giddy, two things that he rarely was, Russia slowly stood from his chair, feeling his knees wobble. He took a few steps before his knees buckled. He fell to the floor, his knees cracking against the wooden boards loudly. Reflexively, he looked behind him, expecting to see America there, his hands under the Russian's arms holding him up, saying, "Whoa there! You've had too much to drink. Let's go to bed." America was not there of course and the emotions coiled around his heart constricted.
     "You can't make ice feel. You can't break my icy heart," he muttered to himself, but he already knew what a lie he was telling himself. His heart had begun to thaw several years ago, and now he was regretting letting it progress this far. Now he understood why humans made such a big deal over broken hearts. They were painful and incapacitating. The only difference was that they ultimately forgot their heart breaks while he would never be able to.
     Russia clenched his fist, slamming it into the floor and cracking the wood. Anger welled in his chest, spurring his forward. He snatched up the bottle that had fallen from his hand when he'd fallen, rearing it over his head and smashing it against the floor with a cry of rage. Vodka and glass spread across his floor, but he didn't care.
     He shook, suddenly drained. Something warm slipped down his face. He reached up one trembling gloved hand, touching his fingers to the warmth. When he pulled his fingers away, they were glistening wetly. More warmth followed quickly, spilling from his eyes unchecked. A scream of pain rose in his chest. He dropped his head into his hands as he let everything spill forward.
…..
     The funeral had been more than a week ago, but Russia had refused to go back to the cemetery and this country since then. He kept his hands deep in his pockets, stroking the one thing he had left of the young country which was a pair of gloves he'd forgotten on one of his visits.
     He ghosted silently through the almost deserted grounds. The only other people there were a pair of young women. One was crouched in front of the grave of one of the many fallen soldiers, sobbing quietly into a tissue. The other woman looking suspiciously like Belarus walked the perimeter of the century, her eyes pointed towards the ground.
     Not caring if the woman really was Belarus, he'd known that the American had had other lovers besides him which sometimes included his sister, he kept walking, his eyes focusing on a point close to a fountain. The statue atop the fountain was that of a soldier saluting the American flag that was positioned beside the fountain.
     With each step, his heart contracted tighter, making it difficult to breathe. Pain shot through him, but his step never faltered, not until he saw the man already standing in front of the grave. The man had chocolaty brown hair and a body that was all too familiar. His breath caught. Could it really be him? Could America have really come back?
     His pace quickened, with the thought of his pain being alleviated pushing him forward. Footsteps followed him, running across the frozen grass. He glanced over his shoulder to see the frantic gazes of Canada, France, and England running towards him, their eyes focused on the man in front of America's grave.
     "Brother!" Canada called, a sob echoing in his voice.
     The man slowly lifted his head, staring out over the graveyard. Anticipation filled Russia as the man began to turn. Since the American had died, he'd yearned to see those sky blue eyes one last time, to watch the emotions play through them like a movie. If this man was truly America, Russia would finally be able to see those eyes again. The man turned his head to look at them just as they came to a stop in front of him and Belarus stopped on his other side, her breath coming quickly and uncharacteristically smiling. The man glanced between Belarus and the group.
     Russia's heart sank as quickly as the smiles faded from the other fours' faces. Hope drained from Russia leaving him feeling empty and void. Belarus looked as if she might cry as she made her way to stand beside her brother.
     The man's eyes weren't the blue they'd all been hoping for. They were the color of the bark of a Redwood Tree. There was no emotion to them. None at all. They were void and blank.
     "Who are you?" Russia growled, irritation and disappointment making him angry, "Why are you here?"
     The man who looked so much like America watched them silently for a few moments before opening his mouth to answer in a quiet voice. "I am the United States of America. I am here because this is my country. Who are you?" he said in a proud voice, his eyes moving slowly from one nation to another.
     "Don't screw with us. America died. You can't be him," England spat, but realized that it was technically possible. A country could die, but they were just reborn if the country survived. Sometimes the country remained with the same personality, appearance, and memories of the last. God knew that he and France had been reborn many times over, mostly retaining themselves. There were times when a country died, and so much changed that the country was never the same again. Sometimes, the country was so changed that they lost all memories except for the fact that they'd been reborn.
     England's thoughts occurred to the rest of them in the same moment, shoving their hearts deeper into despair, all hope lost. The urge to break down rushed over all of them.
     The man turned to face them, pulling his hands from the pockets of his bomber jacket, spreading his arms out. "I am the United States of America, and this is my first time being reborn."