Countdown to Nothing [Anyone not in Mission Midori

[America]

The self-deprecating words England was saying nearly caused America's heart to break. He hated hearing England talk so low about himself. Why couldn't he see just how many friends he had? Why couldn't he see that all of his mistakes were in the past, that he was strong and noble now?

When the tears began rolling down England's cheeks, that's when America took action. He wrapped his arms around the smaller country, enveloping him into a hug. He rested his cheek on England's forehead, wishing for nothing more than to calm him, soothe him, make everything better. "I chose you," he whispered, breathing in England's scent and running his fingers through his hair.

"I knew you were no monster. You might have made mistakes, but haven't we all? You learned from your mistakes, England. You're not selfish, either. You came here, despite knowing how many zombies you'd encounter, and fixed up this warehouse for everyone else. You've put yourself in danger more times than I can count, hoping that the others would all be safe."

He sighed, closing his eyes. "England, I wouldn't want to be happy with another nation. Call me selfish, but all I want is to be happy with you." He drew his head back to look England in the eyes, feeling his own tears well up as he rubbed his thumb along England's cheek.

[England]

"You're too much for me, America." England shook his head, attempting a smile that broke on his face as soon as it came up. There was a violent pain in his chest, and he momentarily wondered if this entire situation was causing his system to overload. It would be quite anticlimactic if he were to die right there of a heart attack.

But he was so comfortable, yet so apprehensive, here in America's embrace. He laughed a couple of times again, just for the sake of dispelling the pressuring silence, all but melting into America's warm arms. He wanted to scream, and cry and laugh at the same time, and too many things were going on in his head. It hurt. The confused thoughts hurt much more than any any zombie bite could.

"I don't know what to think anymore." he choked, his smile falling as he looked up into America's eyes. So close. So very close. "You're so young, so naive still. You don't know me, America. I don't want you to be happy living a lie. I'm not going to make you happy. Look at you." he gently touched one of America's cheeks, ghosting one of his fingers below his wet eyes and touching the smudged tears there. "I'm already making you cry. Someone you would be happy with wouldn't make you cry."

He drew his hand back and looked at it pensively, then put it to his heart, clutched.

"America... I don't want to die." he finally admitted in a shuddering breath, wanting nothing more than to be told he wouldn't. He just wanted to be comforted. America shouldn't have to live a lie, but he was dying. He just wanted to stop hurting so much, no matter what he had to do to achieve that.

[America]

America stared at England, a look of disbelief on his face, trying desperately to stop crying. His only saving grace was that his tears weren't effecting his speech at all. He could still talk perfectly fine, could still force England to listen to him. "You're not going to die," he replied. "I've already told you that you won't die." He took a moment to just stay silent, thinking over all of what England said.

It's wrong, he told himself. England's wrong. I may be young and a tad naive, but I know I'd be happy with England. He didn't know exactly how to say this, though. What facts would he be able to back up with his argument? England was smart- usually he'd shoot down whatever well-rounded arguments America was able to come up with.

With a deep breath, he whispered, "England, you've already made me happy. I'm crying because I don't want you to leave. I want you to stay with me, because you make me so, so happy." He swallowed visibly, managing to finally stop his tears from flowing. Hesitantly, he put his forehead on England's, closing his eyes.

"You won't die," he repeated quietly. "You'll stay here and...and we'll be happy, okay?" It wasn't the 'I love you' he had been attempting to say, but it was good enough for him at the moment.

[England]

England sniffled, nodding lightly and thus rubbing his forehead against America's. The sensitive skin there was still able to pick up the warmth emanating from America, and despite the lethal temperature his brain had reached, he found that he didn't dislike the extra warmth at all. This was the good kind of warmth, the kind that made him feel safe and comfortable and blissfully ignorant of any other problem.

"Idiot." he choked, for a lack of anything pertinent to say to America's promises, gazing at his closed eyelids softly. He didn't know what he wanted anymore. Did he want a spark of hope that would brighten his mood now, but would crush him if things turned to worse? He didn't know if he wanted to be happy during his possibly final hours. He didn't want to die, having promised himself happiness. He didn't want to be hurt like that anymore.

"P-Promise?" he asked in a quiet, insecure voice. His head was splitting apart, and he didn't know what hurt worse: his sickly body, or his contradicting thoughts. America had sworn to keep his promises from now on, but he'd once promised, too, and that hadn't worked too well. Who to trust? He couldn't trust anybody. Not even himself. He was breaking down, cracking, spiraling, and he knew it.

"D-Damn it... Promise me, America." he shut his eyes fiercely, letting the unshed tears hang on his dark eyelashes as he wished to awaken from this nightmare. "J-Just... Promise me we can be happy..."

[America]

With a small smile, America kept his head there, enjoying the contact. He wanted as much as he could get right now. Who knew when England wouldn't be able to remember anything, not even his closest friends. America had heard stories about such things happening to people who were ill, and he wished with all his heart that England would never experience a memory loss, no matter how sick he became. Still, even if he did, it was better to enjoy this moment now, while he still had the chance.

"I promise," he muttered in response to England's question. "I promise with all my heart, England." He did. He found that, without a doubt, he did. He couldn't even possibly imagine going back on this promise. He refused to. They'd always be happy, no matter what may come their way. America knew this and believed it with his entire being.

Slowly, carefully, America shifted his head, moving it up just the tiniest of distances, until his lips touched England's heated forehead. He placed a quick kiss there, blushing all the while, then moved back down into his original position, holding his breath and grabbing England's hands once more. "You'll have to deal with me forever, though," he whispered, with an air of humor. "You know how much of a handful I can be sometimes, right?"

[England]

England shivered at the contact of America's cool, soft lips against his forehead, and despite the general mayhem in his head, he found himself agreeing on one thing: he wanted.... no, he needed more.

"You're the biggest challenge I've ever had to put up with." he chuckled in a teary voice, curling his numbed fingers only to find America's hands in the way. He squeezed without actually feeling how much strength he was putting into his grip, just hoping that if he couldn't feel America, then maybe America could feel him, at the very least.

"And really, even if you are a bloody twat most of the time..." he sighed, opening his eyes halfway and gazing lovingly into America's bottomless blue eyes. "I think I'd look forward to spending forever by your side."

[America]

America smirked, relishing the feel of England squeezing his hands. He never in his wildest dreams imagined to be this close to England, to share this sort of contact. It was comforting, to say the least, and he found himself enjoying every last minute of it, even being able to push the question of death aside. Sure, it still loomed overhead but, for now, it was just England and himself.

When he met England's gaze, his heart skipped a beat. He was so close, so very close. Mind racing, he leaned in and gave another soft kiss, this time to England's lips. The feel of the kiss sent electric shocks down his skin. He couldn't believe he was kissing England. It was a simple kiss, just a quick peck, really. He knew his lips were chapped, and England's probably were, too, but he found himself not caring.

When he drew back, he gave a shaky smile, hoping, praying, he did everything right, he didn't make England angry with him. "I hope you w-won't be irritated when I screw up," he mumbled, unable to meet England's eyes, yet longing to see his reaction. "I've been told I do it often."

[England]

And just like that, everything inside of England was shattered to pieces. He tried to keep his face neutral, though. He took a few deep breaths, trying to make sure his voice wouldn't break.

"You always do." He already did. He had effectively ruined England's every attempt to distance himself from America to avoid them both suffering in the end. England was trying, he really was, but... Stupid America, always ruining everything for him. How could he die with no regrets now?

Leaving America after what had happened would be a regret that would haunt him all the way into the black abyss of death. He had failed in saving them both from the agony of loneliness.

At that moment, England felt so disgusting, he wished he could just die on the spot.

"Let me go..." he whispered, his heart threatening to tear itself to shred with every breath he took. He roughly removed his hands from America's, only throwing him an apologetic look before he turned around, lying down back facing him, and curled up on himself, shielding himself from the pain of the outside world.

Nothing could protect him anymore. From now on, England was doomed to feel both the ecstasy of adoration, and the agony of loss.

[America]

America quickly stood, feeling awful. This was his fault. He drew England away from him. Goddammit, America, why did you have to kiss him? He felt himself breathing deeply, wishing that he could just go back in time and stop that kiss. Stop himself from ruining his relationship with England. If only he wasn't so utterly stupid and impulsive, maybe they'd still be sitting together.

He was hurt, but that was nothing compared to the sheer guilt that suddenly took him over. He did this all wrong. He did everything wrong. Like England said, he always screwed up.

Standing there awkwardly, America had no idea what to do. He wanted to reach out and comfort England, but he couldn't now. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I...I wasn't thinking." He didn't want England to be angry with him, not when he was in so much pain already. "Do you want anything, England?"

He needed to get out of here. He felt as if he could cut the tension in the room with a knife, and he just needed to escape it. No. I promised.

Even if England hated him, he sure as hell wasn't going to break a promise.

[England]

"Glass of water. Or painkillers. Or some food. Or a book." England shuddered as a wave of pain ran across his spine, making him curl inwards even tighter. "I don't know. Something. Go get me something."

Just please, get out. Get out, I can't take this anymore, I'm going to explode. Get out so I can let it out. You won't see me cry. You won't see me break. Get out, get OUT.

Muffling a sob by biting on his pillow, England curled his shoulders in, hoping they were covering his face as he let the first silent tears free. He held his breath, afraid it would shudder if he dared even breathe. He couldn't show any further signs of weakness to America. He was strong. He had to keep his chin up.

America wouldn't see him as the broken toy soldier he really was.

[America]

Staring at England's form on the bed, America contemplated whether or not to leave. Was he really going to break his promise? Wouldn't that just hurt and irritate England even more? Either way, he knew he wasn't going to win. Swallowing nervously, he nodded, though he knew England couldn't see him. "I'll...I'll be right back. Promise."

He had been making many promises lately. He was certainly going to keep all of them, that was true, but he wasn't sure if England would still be pleased that he wouldn't break them. Now, for instance, America didn't know whether or not England still wanted to stay by his side forever. It didn't look as if he did, and this gave America a small pain in his chest.

After opening the door, he glanced back. "I really am sorry," he muttered. "If you don't return my feelings, that's...that's okay. Just know that I do love you." Well. If the kiss didn't piss him off, this really would. America couldn't help it, though. England had to know. He had to tell him, even if he was broken like this.

America sighed and walked out, closing the door behind him. He felt like running. No. England needs me. You'll stay right here and get the things he requested. Water, painkillers, food, and reading material. Well, he said or, so maybe just one of something. Or two. At the very least, a glass of water and the medicine.

Oh, what the hell am I doing? America slid down to the floor, his back against the wall. He just needed one moment to himself. He just needed one minute to allow himself to be immersed in horrible guilt, pain, self-pity, confusion, whatever.

[England]

England didn't reply, and pretended he didn't hear what America had said. He tried to convince his brain it hadn't heard anything. He tried to convince himself he hadn't. But he couldn't. He'd very clearly heard America's words, and every ounce of his logic was telling him to push them away.

His heart, though, his poor, broken, abused, tortured heart was jumping in his chest, telling him everything would be okay, everything would be fine. He had America's love. And America, despite not knowing it, had his. They were going to be fine, they were going to be happy-

But his logic, his damned, cold-blooded logic stepped in and reminded him of his position.

He was possibly living through the last hours of his life. By giving himself a chance to live again, so close to death, he was in for the biggest disappointment of his life.

And what to say of America? England didn't mind suffering if he was the only one suffering. But he couldn't bear to see America suffer. He didn't want to hurt him anymore. He didn't want him to cry anymore.

By giving them hope before betraying it and dying, he was torturing both their hearts mercilessly.

England didn't think he could hate himself any more than this.

He slowly took the pillow from underneath his head and put it on his face, breathing deep for a moment. His body was warm, warmer than it should have been, and his head was begging to be given some respite. His eyes, rimmed red from sorrow, leaked tears that soaked into the white pillow. His limbs, heavy and limp, kept him curled up on himself.

And England, exhausted beyond anything he'd ever felt before, pushed the pillow over his face and for the first time since that fateful day so long ago, he literally screamed out his anguish.

[America]

Once he was able to take a few seconds (or minutes, he wasn't sure how long he sat there with his thoughts), America sluggishly stood up, rubbing his forehead. Painkillers. England needed painkillers. His body didn't want to move, too deep into his guilt and sadness, but he forced himself to take the short walk over to the cabinets. He easily found what he was looking for, since painkillers were in plethora here, and grabbed the entire bottle, wondering how many England would take. Hopefully enough to dull the pain he was in, but America doubted it. That would also dull his senses, and America just couldn't see England purposefully doing that.

To get the water, America had to take a quick trip to the kitchen. He hated using the tap as a means of liquid, especially when it was probably metallic tasting, but they didn't have the luxury of a filter of any sort. Maybe one day, we'll put one in, he told himself, filling up the glass to the brim.

He tried keeping his mind off returning to England. He didn't want to see the rejection in his eyes, the obvious pain dwelling along with it. Gazing upon England's ill, broken form was hard enough. Add in the possible loathing he now had of America...that just made it worse. I'm being selfish, America told himself, walking slowly back to the quarantined room. England's hurt, and all I can think of is how he doesn't love me back? Pathetic.

He shifted the medicine as he opened the door, giving a quick glance to England's form. "You okay?" he asked in alarm, setting the materials down on the table as the door shut behind him. "Is the pain worse now?"

Maybe he could just ignore his feelings. If he focused on simply taking care of England, maybe these feelings would just go away.

Yeah right.

[England]

England, who hadn't bothered pulling the pillow off his face until then, nodded silently, and then removed it. The front was stained with tears and spit where he'd bitten down on the pillow to muffle his wails, so he flipped the pillow around and thumped back down on the dry surface.

"I'm fine." he rasped in a scratchy voice, not turning to face America. The lie was blatantly obvious in his voice, he didn't want it to be read on his face, too.

Pulling the covers over him, up to his chin, England drew his knees up and sighed. After having cried so intensely over a short period of time, his heart felt a bit lighter, and he was possibly even ready to catch a couple of hours of rest after such an exhausting event, but...

He still didn't know if he could face America. He didn't know if he was ready to make both of them happy, to possibly destroy that happiness not half a day later.

England really cared for America. Maybe, even, loved, though he couldn't say for sure just yet. But... The last thing he wanted to do was make him cry as he sank into a comatose sleep, and then died in his arms. He couldn't do that to America. He wanted to love him back, but he couldn't if he wanted to avoid any unnecessary pain for both of them.

[America]

America stared at England's back, holding himself back from putting a hand on it. He wanted to comfort the smaller country, but he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to allow any sort of contact. Not again. Not after what he did.

"I brought medicine and water," he muttered, running his fingers through his hair. "If you want them..." He wasn't even sure if England wanted them anymore. He didn't seem to care what America brought. With a sinking heart, America wondered if maybe, perhaps, England simply wanted him to leave. To go away.

The sudden realization brought America's knees to go weak, and he sat himself down in the chair near England's bed, sitting as far away as he could. No use in being near England if he didn't want America to be there anymore. Yet, he couldn't get mad at England. It wasn't he who gave the kiss, or even returned it. No. I'm to blame for all of this.

"Need anything else?" His voice came out in barely a whisper, and he stared over at the wall. "If you want, I can just leave and send in a medic." Because, wouldn't that be what England wanted?