[APH Fic] Hallelujah [US/UK]
Title: Hallelujah
Genre: Tragedy/angst
Pairing(s): US/UK, but it's not the main focus
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for death, language and one teeny tiny sexual reference
Summary: After a surprise attack on the United States, a certain nation finds himself in a state of conscious death. But nations can't die... right?
Notes: WELL. I basically wrote this whole thing in my head one morning at like 7 am. I was thinking too intensely about the nation-tans's physical bodies and their limits. If the nation is injured, and the actual person is injured, can they die? What if the people are still fighting after they've crumbled beyond repair? So this is what I came up with. Un-beta'd. It's interesting I think. Title comes from the song I was listening to while writing/a USxUK AMV I came across on YouTube with the same song. You can view it here. It's fairly nice.
Original post
Btw this is angst upon ANGST.
The first thing he noticed was the sirens. They were fading in and out, in and out, like a dastardly broken record that wouldn’t cease. His awareness increased over the passing minutes, and more sounds appeared. Harsh voices yelling over loud footsteps, low rumblings, the sound of crying.
He struggled to fling open his eyes, but they remained closed. No matter, he was probably too weak from what happened... but wait. What did happen?
The pain began then. First it crept up his legs, through his waist, his hips, up his spine, searing into his brain, down his arms and over his elbows until it reached the tips of his fingers. He wanted to groan, and to move, to try to keep the rubble from beneath him from further digging into his flesh, but he still could not move.
What is happening? he wondered in a panic, consciousness flooding into his senses. At long last he was able to slightly move his body, even though it only felt reflexive, since it was his body curling away from something jabbing him in the kidney. A moan curled from his lips and he scrunched his forehead a bit, a stinging taste of copper in his mouth. He was bleeding. Badly.
Someone was moving above him. He pleaded with his eyes to open, but still they refused. It was strange, being fully conscious with closed eyes - he imagined this is what being blind was like.
Someone was touching him.
“I found him! I found Alfred!” a voice called, and he winced only the slightest bit, even though the pain was deafening. It felt as if his body wasn’t reacting the way his brain was telling it to.
“How is he? Is he alright? Get him out of that rubble!” another voice ordered. “Get him to the shelter like the others. We have to check him over to get a quick overview of how the country has fared.”
His body moved. He felt hands on his legs, back, arms and head, and someone touched his face gingerly. The person above his head was huffing their breath, but it sounded apprehensive and scared.
“...he hasn’t said a word,” the voice muttered. “You don’t think the-“
“He can’t die,” another voice said. America winced.
I can be hurt, he thought solemnly. And he was hurt, very badly, if the pains arching through him were any indication.
The next thing he knew, he was laying on something soft and plush, much nicer than the shrapnel pile he’d been lying in before. He fought with his body to open his eyes, to acknowledge the fact that he was there, he was with them- but his body stubbornly refused.
He was now aware of how much blood was covering his body. His chest rose and fell raggedly and with each breath he could feel the slight movements of cold, sticky liquid across his chest, down his stomach and around his waist. A cold hand touched his forehead and it pulled back as if it had been burned - was it that cold in here? Or was it just him?
“My God he’s burning up,” another voice said, somewhere to his left. “Someone get him a cold towel or something.”
“Has there been any word on the President-?”
“-he’s fine, I was radioed earlier-“
“-what about the other blast sites?-“
“-no one knows yet-“
Blast sites? Oh. OH.
Bombs.
Someone had bombed the United States of America.
America’s brain was buzzing with activity. What had happened? Had many people had been injured? How many bombs had gone off? Where had they gone off? Was anyone in power killed? But his brain wasn’t just alive with his own thoughts. It felt as if some sort of warmth were coursing through him, an undercurrent that wasn’t entirely natural, but it was prominent and flowing. Voices, emotions, thoughts were running through his body like blood through vessels.
The American people. America hadn’t felt a surge of their passion inside him since 2001 - no, it wasn’t even as strong then as it was now. This was reminiscent of a much larger past, feelings from 1941, or even 1812 or even - even from 1776.
It was this energy that was keeping him fully conscious and aware, he realized. He could tell the people around him that the country was alright - even if there was destruction, the life force, the unity, it was still present-
But he couldn’t move. He became aware of the fact that his chest was rising and falling with less motion, and his limbs felt heavy. The pain was dulling, but there was still a throbbing, aching feeling in his back. He was badly injured, and really should be at a hospital. But at the same time, he was America, he can’t die, right? Even if he was injured so badly that he couldn’t even move. But the pain and the injuries he was sustaining weren’t just from whatever blast he was caught in... his land had been attacked. He was suffering from that, too.
“...I think we’re losing him,” a soft voice said above him. His senses whirled.
I’m right here! he wanted to shout. I can hear you! It’s okay! The land has been attacked but the spirit is still alive- he felt like he was begging to move, but still his body refused to listen to anything that his brain was telling it. What is going on?
“Where is he?” a voice sputtered from across the room, and America’s breath caught in his throat.
“He’s over here-“
“-Out of the way-“
A loud thump, and he felt a pair of hot, clammy hands gripping his cheeks, stroking his forehead, rubbing his chin. He sensed that there was a group of people surrounding him.
“How did they get here so fast?” someone murmured in the back of the room.
“I know there was a World Conference in Canada today... Alfred couldn’t go because of the problems here,” another voice answered. “I don’t know how they got here so fast.”
“America?” a voice asked. America reeled.
It was England.
“He hasn’t said a word,” another voice said. (Who were all these people?) “And he’s... he’s barely moved. He’s not even reacting to the pain anymore...”
A cold cloth him his face and someone was wiping away all the blood and grime. It felt good against his skin, although it was absolutely freezing. What, did they dump the cloth into a bucket of ice?
“He’s so cold,” a voice said from his other side. He could hear many people breathing above him, strained, apprehensive breaths.
“He is? He was feverish just moments ago-“
“America, can you hear me?” England pleaded. “Please, if you can hear me, do something, anything-“
I can hear you fine, England, America thought, his mind frustrated. I wish I could move! Why can’t I move? I’m fully conscious for God’s sake!!
But his body remained still. There was quiet in the room. Someone muttered something but America couldn’t make it out.
“...we should go help,” someone offered (was that Germany?) from above him. “You can stay here, England-“
“I’m staying too,” a soft voice quipped.
“Okay, Canada is staying too... And then-“
“I’ll watch over them,” the voice from his other side offered. Japan. “Because they are emotional.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. The rest of us, we’ll go see what we can do.” The group disappeared and he was left with, arguably, the three people most important to him. His lover, his brother, and his best friend.
England’s fingers traced the shape of his face. His fingers were blazingly hot to the touch.
“Oh, America,” he said softly. “Alfred. Please, please, please, please...” America felt his body shifting, and felt those hot hands on his arms, his head lying on something equally as warm. England drew his torso into his arms, America realized. He felt something hot and broad across his forehead and felt the warm, tensed breath on his face. England had put his forehead to America’s.
“Please, for the love of God, wake up,” England pleaded in a strained whisper.
I am awake! America cried. I’m right here! This was getting to be a pain in the ass. How could he be fully conscious and completely immobile at the same time? It didn’t make any sense.
Someone was unbuttoning his shirt at the collar, all the way down to his navel, exposing his bare chest. There was a group groan at what he assumed was the unsavory sight of his wounds.
“Jesus, was he caught in the blast too?” Canada murmured.
“I overheard that he was in the far side of the building,” Japan offered. Hot fingers grazed his chest and pressed against his heart.
My heart is beating fine, America wanted to shout. I can feel it going crazy. Something was beating heavily in his throat, in his chest, rapidly, as if he had just run a marathon. But it slowly dawned on him that England couldn’t feel that beat. England pressed harder on his chest.
“His heart is so slow,” England said. “It’s barely there. And he’s so... so pale...”
America felt his torso being tugged up, and could feel the slight tickle that England’s sandy colored hair always brought when it was brushed along his skin. Was he hugging him? Something like that was happening.
“We’ll be right here,” England whispered into his ear. “I don’t know if you can hear me, Alfred, but we’re right here. We won’t leave you until the end.”
What the crap is that idiot babbling about, America wondered. He couldn’t... he couldn’t really be dying, could he?
“I love you,” England whispered. “I love you I love you I love you I love you....” he repeated the whisper many more times, more than America could count.
“Just making up for lost time, Alfred,” England offered in explanation. “For all the times I won’t be able to in the future.” A hand slid into his own and gripped it hard. A hand on his other side grabbed his other hand. It was Canada and Japan.
They sat in prolonged silence. America was reeling in his own brain, his consciousness trapped in a listless body. This is so stupid, he thought. I’m fine, the country is fine, my body is just being a dick. But that didn’t help matters. He wanted the others to keep talking, to say anything to break this horrendous silence that he couldn’t. But they offered nothing to him.
It wasn’t until a few minutes later that America realized he wasn’t breathing. Which was strange, because he was definitely panting like he’d just run a marathon, his heart pounding wildly. He was breathing and not breathing at the same time. And his heart was beating ferociously and not beating at the same time. And he was alive and dead. At the same time.
He felt hot tears splash his face, a heaving sob echoing above him. A door creaked open.
“How is he?” a tenuous voice asked. America could feel England shaking uncontrollably.
“He’s gone,” Japan said in a small voice.
Wait, what? WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS.
The voice gasped. It sounded like Hungary. There was a loud thwump, and silence pervaded. The only sound was England’s tears.
Please stop crying, America begged. Please, England, I can’t take it. But no words came out. He felt England bury his face in America’s neck, and America felt his head loll back, his messy hair splayed out. England curled his face into his own and kissed his cheek multiple times. The tears splashed down his face, tingling slightly. America wanted to do something to comfort England, anything to stop him from crying. But his body was beyond his control.
The fingers cupped his cheek, and he felt warm lips against his. He wanted to reach out and wrap his arms around England’s neck, and kiss him senselessly, beyond any measure of control or reason, just to show how much he loved him, how much he was still very much with them-but it didn’t happen.
“We should move his body,” Japan said. “Someplace that isn’t here. Like a bed.”
Oh Japan, always so dignified, America thought lamely to himself. His body was hoisted into the air with the aid of other arms, and his head rolled back, his glasses falling off his face. He felt England get a hold underneath his back and his legs, and he tugged his body away from the other hands.
“I c-can do it,” England said slowly. There was a rush of warm air, and he was moving, moving where he didn’t know, but England was carrying him, and he was a limp as a wet piece of lettuce, and as they moved he could hear strangled gasps, and at least one “No!” as they traversed whatever building they were in.
He came into contact with something even softer than whatever he had been on before- he presumed it had been a carpeted floor- and he would have sighed in contentment if he could. But his body was dead. Maybe. He wasn’t exactly sure. At the very least, he couldn’t feel the blinding pain anymore.
He was moved so gently, he felt like he was made of porcelain. Someone took his arms and laid them across his upper abdomen, laying one hand over the other. Someone else was brushing his hair off his face, touching his forehead gently. He felt his glasses re-appear across his nose. Someone had taken his shoes off.
So... is this death? America wondered solemnly. Am I dead? I have no idea. His mind wandered back to the events before this, trying to remember just what had happened. He was somewhere in D.C., he knew that much, and he was meeting with someone - did some important government building get blown up? He wasn’t sure. He was aching to know just where other bombs had gone off, to hear the death toll-anything that would clue him in to the welfare of his people. But he got nothing.
Someone was touching his forehead. It was those familiar fingers, the ones with rough calluses on the fingertips, the ones that would grip the back of his head, run through his hair, and cup his face. The ones that would pull his face close, a set of lips to his ear, and he would run his arms around the other’s waist, and a strangled name would be whispered into his ear at the moment of climax-it always happened that way.
“The president has been alerted,” a stern voice said from the other side of the room. “It seems that... it seems that the United States of America has fallen.” America could feel his heart pounding, even though it wasn’t moving at all. This is bullshit, he thought to himself. The people... they are still one nation.
But that didn’t matter anymore. Because the physical being, the land, it had been torn to shreds. All that anyone could process was what they could see, and all they could see were the battered, bruised remains of what was once a proud nation-not the thumping heart of humanity beneath it.
The funeral of Alfred F. Jones would be the last national event that the United States of America would ever hold.
GOD THE ANGST.
Genre: Tragedy/angst
Pairing(s): US/UK, but it's not the main focus
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for death, language and one teeny tiny sexual reference
Summary: After a surprise attack on the United States, a certain nation finds himself in a state of conscious death. But nations can't die... right?
Notes: WELL. I basically wrote this whole thing in my head one morning at like 7 am. I was thinking too intensely about the nation-tans's physical bodies and their limits. If the nation is injured, and the actual person is injured, can they die? What if the people are still fighting after they've crumbled beyond repair? So this is what I came up with. Un-beta'd. It's interesting I think. Title comes from the song I was listening to while writing/a USxUK AMV I came across on YouTube with the same song. You can view it here. It's fairly nice.
Original post
Btw this is angst upon ANGST.
The first thing he noticed was the sirens. They were fading in and out, in and out, like a dastardly broken record that wouldn’t cease. His awareness increased over the passing minutes, and more sounds appeared. Harsh voices yelling over loud footsteps, low rumblings, the sound of crying.
He struggled to fling open his eyes, but they remained closed. No matter, he was probably too weak from what happened... but wait. What did happen?
The pain began then. First it crept up his legs, through his waist, his hips, up his spine, searing into his brain, down his arms and over his elbows until it reached the tips of his fingers. He wanted to groan, and to move, to try to keep the rubble from beneath him from further digging into his flesh, but he still could not move.
What is happening? he wondered in a panic, consciousness flooding into his senses. At long last he was able to slightly move his body, even though it only felt reflexive, since it was his body curling away from something jabbing him in the kidney. A moan curled from his lips and he scrunched his forehead a bit, a stinging taste of copper in his mouth. He was bleeding. Badly.
Someone was moving above him. He pleaded with his eyes to open, but still they refused. It was strange, being fully conscious with closed eyes - he imagined this is what being blind was like.
Someone was touching him.
“I found him! I found Alfred!” a voice called, and he winced only the slightest bit, even though the pain was deafening. It felt as if his body wasn’t reacting the way his brain was telling it to.
“How is he? Is he alright? Get him out of that rubble!” another voice ordered. “Get him to the shelter like the others. We have to check him over to get a quick overview of how the country has fared.”
His body moved. He felt hands on his legs, back, arms and head, and someone touched his face gingerly. The person above his head was huffing their breath, but it sounded apprehensive and scared.
“...he hasn’t said a word,” the voice muttered. “You don’t think the-“
“He can’t die,” another voice said. America winced.
I can be hurt, he thought solemnly. And he was hurt, very badly, if the pains arching through him were any indication.
The next thing he knew, he was laying on something soft and plush, much nicer than the shrapnel pile he’d been lying in before. He fought with his body to open his eyes, to acknowledge the fact that he was there, he was with them- but his body stubbornly refused.
He was now aware of how much blood was covering his body. His chest rose and fell raggedly and with each breath he could feel the slight movements of cold, sticky liquid across his chest, down his stomach and around his waist. A cold hand touched his forehead and it pulled back as if it had been burned - was it that cold in here? Or was it just him?
“My God he’s burning up,” another voice said, somewhere to his left. “Someone get him a cold towel or something.”
“Has there been any word on the President-?”
“-he’s fine, I was radioed earlier-“
“-what about the other blast sites?-“
“-no one knows yet-“
Blast sites? Oh. OH.
Bombs.
Someone had bombed the United States of America.
America’s brain was buzzing with activity. What had happened? Had many people had been injured? How many bombs had gone off? Where had they gone off? Was anyone in power killed? But his brain wasn’t just alive with his own thoughts. It felt as if some sort of warmth were coursing through him, an undercurrent that wasn’t entirely natural, but it was prominent and flowing. Voices, emotions, thoughts were running through his body like blood through vessels.
The American people. America hadn’t felt a surge of their passion inside him since 2001 - no, it wasn’t even as strong then as it was now. This was reminiscent of a much larger past, feelings from 1941, or even 1812 or even - even from 1776.
It was this energy that was keeping him fully conscious and aware, he realized. He could tell the people around him that the country was alright - even if there was destruction, the life force, the unity, it was still present-
But he couldn’t move. He became aware of the fact that his chest was rising and falling with less motion, and his limbs felt heavy. The pain was dulling, but there was still a throbbing, aching feeling in his back. He was badly injured, and really should be at a hospital. But at the same time, he was America, he can’t die, right? Even if he was injured so badly that he couldn’t even move. But the pain and the injuries he was sustaining weren’t just from whatever blast he was caught in... his land had been attacked. He was suffering from that, too.
“...I think we’re losing him,” a soft voice said above him. His senses whirled.
I’m right here! he wanted to shout. I can hear you! It’s okay! The land has been attacked but the spirit is still alive- he felt like he was begging to move, but still his body refused to listen to anything that his brain was telling it. What is going on?
“Where is he?” a voice sputtered from across the room, and America’s breath caught in his throat.
“He’s over here-“
“-Out of the way-“
A loud thump, and he felt a pair of hot, clammy hands gripping his cheeks, stroking his forehead, rubbing his chin. He sensed that there was a group of people surrounding him.
“How did they get here so fast?” someone murmured in the back of the room.
“I know there was a World Conference in Canada today... Alfred couldn’t go because of the problems here,” another voice answered. “I don’t know how they got here so fast.”
“America?” a voice asked. America reeled.
It was England.
“He hasn’t said a word,” another voice said. (Who were all these people?) “And he’s... he’s barely moved. He’s not even reacting to the pain anymore...”
A cold cloth him his face and someone was wiping away all the blood and grime. It felt good against his skin, although it was absolutely freezing. What, did they dump the cloth into a bucket of ice?
“He’s so cold,” a voice said from his other side. He could hear many people breathing above him, strained, apprehensive breaths.
“He is? He was feverish just moments ago-“
“America, can you hear me?” England pleaded. “Please, if you can hear me, do something, anything-“
I can hear you fine, England, America thought, his mind frustrated. I wish I could move! Why can’t I move? I’m fully conscious for God’s sake!!
But his body remained still. There was quiet in the room. Someone muttered something but America couldn’t make it out.
“...we should go help,” someone offered (was that Germany?) from above him. “You can stay here, England-“
“I’m staying too,” a soft voice quipped.
“Okay, Canada is staying too... And then-“
“I’ll watch over them,” the voice from his other side offered. Japan. “Because they are emotional.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. The rest of us, we’ll go see what we can do.” The group disappeared and he was left with, arguably, the three people most important to him. His lover, his brother, and his best friend.
England’s fingers traced the shape of his face. His fingers were blazingly hot to the touch.
“Oh, America,” he said softly. “Alfred. Please, please, please, please...” America felt his body shifting, and felt those hot hands on his arms, his head lying on something equally as warm. England drew his torso into his arms, America realized. He felt something hot and broad across his forehead and felt the warm, tensed breath on his face. England had put his forehead to America’s.
“Please, for the love of God, wake up,” England pleaded in a strained whisper.
I am awake! America cried. I’m right here! This was getting to be a pain in the ass. How could he be fully conscious and completely immobile at the same time? It didn’t make any sense.
Someone was unbuttoning his shirt at the collar, all the way down to his navel, exposing his bare chest. There was a group groan at what he assumed was the unsavory sight of his wounds.
“Jesus, was he caught in the blast too?” Canada murmured.
“I overheard that he was in the far side of the building,” Japan offered. Hot fingers grazed his chest and pressed against his heart.
My heart is beating fine, America wanted to shout. I can feel it going crazy. Something was beating heavily in his throat, in his chest, rapidly, as if he had just run a marathon. But it slowly dawned on him that England couldn’t feel that beat. England pressed harder on his chest.
“His heart is so slow,” England said. “It’s barely there. And he’s so... so pale...”
America felt his torso being tugged up, and could feel the slight tickle that England’s sandy colored hair always brought when it was brushed along his skin. Was he hugging him? Something like that was happening.
“We’ll be right here,” England whispered into his ear. “I don’t know if you can hear me, Alfred, but we’re right here. We won’t leave you until the end.”
What the crap is that idiot babbling about, America wondered. He couldn’t... he couldn’t really be dying, could he?
“I love you,” England whispered. “I love you I love you I love you I love you....” he repeated the whisper many more times, more than America could count.
“Just making up for lost time, Alfred,” England offered in explanation. “For all the times I won’t be able to in the future.” A hand slid into his own and gripped it hard. A hand on his other side grabbed his other hand. It was Canada and Japan.
They sat in prolonged silence. America was reeling in his own brain, his consciousness trapped in a listless body. This is so stupid, he thought. I’m fine, the country is fine, my body is just being a dick. But that didn’t help matters. He wanted the others to keep talking, to say anything to break this horrendous silence that he couldn’t. But they offered nothing to him.
It wasn’t until a few minutes later that America realized he wasn’t breathing. Which was strange, because he was definitely panting like he’d just run a marathon, his heart pounding wildly. He was breathing and not breathing at the same time. And his heart was beating ferociously and not beating at the same time. And he was alive and dead. At the same time.
He felt hot tears splash his face, a heaving sob echoing above him. A door creaked open.
“How is he?” a tenuous voice asked. America could feel England shaking uncontrollably.
“He’s gone,” Japan said in a small voice.
Wait, what? WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS.
The voice gasped. It sounded like Hungary. There was a loud thwump, and silence pervaded. The only sound was England’s tears.
Please stop crying, America begged. Please, England, I can’t take it. But no words came out. He felt England bury his face in America’s neck, and America felt his head loll back, his messy hair splayed out. England curled his face into his own and kissed his cheek multiple times. The tears splashed down his face, tingling slightly. America wanted to do something to comfort England, anything to stop him from crying. But his body was beyond his control.
The fingers cupped his cheek, and he felt warm lips against his. He wanted to reach out and wrap his arms around England’s neck, and kiss him senselessly, beyond any measure of control or reason, just to show how much he loved him, how much he was still very much with them-but it didn’t happen.
“We should move his body,” Japan said. “Someplace that isn’t here. Like a bed.”
Oh Japan, always so dignified, America thought lamely to himself. His body was hoisted into the air with the aid of other arms, and his head rolled back, his glasses falling off his face. He felt England get a hold underneath his back and his legs, and he tugged his body away from the other hands.
“I c-can do it,” England said slowly. There was a rush of warm air, and he was moving, moving where he didn’t know, but England was carrying him, and he was a limp as a wet piece of lettuce, and as they moved he could hear strangled gasps, and at least one “No!” as they traversed whatever building they were in.
He came into contact with something even softer than whatever he had been on before- he presumed it had been a carpeted floor- and he would have sighed in contentment if he could. But his body was dead. Maybe. He wasn’t exactly sure. At the very least, he couldn’t feel the blinding pain anymore.
He was moved so gently, he felt like he was made of porcelain. Someone took his arms and laid them across his upper abdomen, laying one hand over the other. Someone else was brushing his hair off his face, touching his forehead gently. He felt his glasses re-appear across his nose. Someone had taken his shoes off.
So... is this death? America wondered solemnly. Am I dead? I have no idea. His mind wandered back to the events before this, trying to remember just what had happened. He was somewhere in D.C., he knew that much, and he was meeting with someone - did some important government building get blown up? He wasn’t sure. He was aching to know just where other bombs had gone off, to hear the death toll-anything that would clue him in to the welfare of his people. But he got nothing.
Someone was touching his forehead. It was those familiar fingers, the ones with rough calluses on the fingertips, the ones that would grip the back of his head, run through his hair, and cup his face. The ones that would pull his face close, a set of lips to his ear, and he would run his arms around the other’s waist, and a strangled name would be whispered into his ear at the moment of climax-it always happened that way.
“The president has been alerted,” a stern voice said from the other side of the room. “It seems that... it seems that the United States of America has fallen.” America could feel his heart pounding, even though it wasn’t moving at all. This is bullshit, he thought to himself. The people... they are still one nation.
But that didn’t matter anymore. Because the physical being, the land, it had been torn to shreds. All that anyone could process was what they could see, and all they could see were the battered, bruised remains of what was once a proud nation-not the thumping heart of humanity beneath it.
The funeral of Alfred F. Jones would be the last national event that the United States of America would ever hold.
GOD THE ANGST.