How long has it been...

Canada yawned, rubbing his eyes. The alarm clock beeping tiredly, digital digits proclaiming the time. 7:45 a.m. Sunlight streaming through the blinds, standing testament to the early hour.

Another wonderful, summer morning.

Since I last saw you...?

He stretched his arms over his head. Hands carding through his short locks on the way down. He stared blankly at the wall before him. His mind still foggy from sleep. He scratched his chest idly.

Oh. Right. Today was that day wasn't it?

"Right, Alfred?"

The name lingered in the air. The pleasant scent of sunshine wafting from his open window. Kissing the name, carrying it away. Canada smiled.

Slipping out of the covers, Canada touched down on the freezing-cold floor. Wincing as the chill bit the soles of his feet. His house was a stubborn one. The days might grow warmer, longer, brighter... But still the floor stayed frozen.

He sighed. Getting up and donning his robe before heading downstairs. The familiar scent of cooking pancakes embracing him as he opened his bedroom door. The sizzling of the hot griddle music to his ears.

If he turned the corner... Would he be there? Maybe if he turned fast enough...What if he tiptoed quietly? Perhaps then... Perhaps then...

He spied a flash of blond, his breath catching.

The slight noise catching the man's attention. He froze. Slowly turning around.

Green.

Green eyes.

"...Canada?"

Canada smiled. Pretending his heart wasn't breaking.

"Hello, England. What are you doing here?"

England's entire posture sagged, his shoulders bearing the weight of the world.

"O-Oh, nothing. Canada. Nothing at all. I-It's just that-that day... You know?"

A flash of orange. The pancakes were on fire. Canada blinked.

"England. Allow me to cook. It would be impolite to let a guest do any work."

England smiled slightly at that, waving his spatula around. "Nonesense! And besides, I'm not a guest. Canada. I'm-I'm family aren't-aren't I?"

A nervous chuckle. The fire was spreading. Canada dove forward, turning off the stove. The black aroma of burnt batter permeating the air.

"No. No. I insist. It would be much faster if I cooked. We-We wouldn't want to be late."

England blinked. His lips making a perfect 'O'.

"You-You know what? I'm not hungry anymore. Canada."

Canada sighed tiredly, smiling despite the fact. "Neither am I."

A pause. The two regarding each other carefully. Neither wishing to break the settle silence, neither wishing to keep it. Canada fancied, if he listened hard enough. He could hear England's heart breaking too.

"You should get dressed." England stated quietly. "Canada."

Canada winced. "Yes. Yes. I should. What about you?"

England smirked, his first true expression. "Can't you see I'm already dressed?"

Canada heaved a deep breath. A broad grin spreading across his lips. "What that? You can't be serious, old man!"

"What's wrong with the way I'm dressed?" England was far away now.

"Nothing. It just looks like you crawled from the 1930s. Get with the times, you old-old geezer."

"You just don't want a real gentleman looks like, git."

And then everything stopped. England shuddered, returning from wherever he was. His gaze settling on Canada once more.

"I-That is to say-Canada. I-I meant to say, Canada. Your name. Canada."

And the play was over.

Canada closed his eyes. Who was he kidding? He even stuttered at one point. It was no use.

"I-I better get dressed."

"Yes. Yes. You should. Canada."

Canada nodded absentmindedly. Shuffling across the tiled floor, leaving a broken England in his wake. Pretending there was a draft in the room. Pretending that wasn't England muffling his sobs. Just the wind. Pretending.

In the silence, Canada fancied...

He could hear England's heart breaking too.

How long?

Just as he drew on his worn out coat, France came knocking on the door. Canada knew it was France, because France tended to knock a certain way. It had a melody to it. If he just listened carefully.

Knock-knock-knock. Knock, knock. Knock-knock-knock.

England got to the door first. He probably already knew it was France but he opened the door anyways. Canada could hear him shouting all the way from his room. He peeked over the railing, watching as France waved around an expensive bottle of wine. Vintage. From Napa Valley? England grew more enraged.

At least some things never changed.

He tightened his tie, taking the steps two at a time.

"G-Guys! We're going to be late?"

"Oh, of course, mon cheri! If only England here would just allow me to pass. Then we shall be off!" France cried dramatically, holding the bottle over his head.

"I'll let you pass if you just give me the bottle!"

"Ohoho! Not yet, my dear English bastard! It's only 8:15, I can't allow you to get drunk so early in the day!"

"As opposed to getting drunk in the middle of the day?"

"Ah, but later we shall be in the company of dear friends! Think of it as reward for surviving an entire morning without liquor."

"I'm not worried about my survival. You, on the otherhand, should be worrying about yours. Now give me the bottle!"

"G-GUYS!"

That caught their attention.

Canada shakily pointed at the wine. "Is that from Chateau Montelena?"

"Why, of course! Nothing but the best, mon cheri!"

Canada grinned. "Good. That was... That was his favorite. His favorite winery."

France smiled slowly. Gently. He looked ready to cry. "I know. I know."

"We should get going then." Canada nodded.

If England had any objectiosn, for once he didn't voice them. Simply slipping on his coat, and walking out the front door.

France and Canada shared a look, shrugging simultaneously.

"Well? Are we going or not?" England stomped his foot, already beside the car.

"Yes. Yes. Coming." France replied airily, sauntering away.

Canada followed suit. Pausing at the doorway.

Sometimes. Sometimes, he fancies. There would be a shout, a cat call... His smiling visage appearing behind Canada. Begging he wait, he was almost ready! Almost! He just needed to get his sweater or his watch or his tie. And just hold on!

Canada took another step.

And all was silent.

"C'mon, mon cheri! We truly might be late!"

Canada swallowed.

"Coming!"

France drove. England, arms crossed, sat beside him. Canada sat in the back. His nose pressed against the cool window. France will scold him for smudging his precious car. Canada would deal with it later. He just couldn't... He just couldn't...

His eyes trained on the rolling country-side spread out before him. The lush green grass beneath the blue, blue sky. An eagle soaring freely through the clouds, clothed in a gilded robe. The sun was so bright today.

Right, Alfred?

Beside him, an empty seat. Canada pretended. If he squinted his eyes just so... If he could just look carefully enough. In the reflection on the glass, he could see the vague outline. Wire glasses, that stubborn cowlick... Canada thought, sometimes, that it was so real. He was almost tempted to turn his head and really look.

But he knew if he did... If he did...

The illusion would vanish... fading into the light.

The car jolted to a stop.

They were here.

Here was a nondescript tree, a tall, ancient oak reaching for the skies. Here was a bump of a hill, nothing too eye-ctaching. Here was over-looking a tiny settlement, a warm, tight-knit community. Here they were not alone, Belarus and Ukraine arriving earlier as usual.

Here lies Alfred F. Jones.

Here lies Ivan Braginsky.

Here in the middle of nowhere. Nothing historic happened here. No battles. No treaties. No building of significant value once stood here. It was just here. It was just a place.

It was here.

That they last saw them. Alfred and Ivan.

It was here.

That they laid in peace.

Despite the fact that six feet under, was an empty, ebony coffin. The important thing was... There was only one. There was only one gravestone. There was only one tree. One hill.

They owed them that much. To bury them together.

Nobody knows what happened. It had never been done before. China was at a lost. Because the United States of America. Because the Russian Federation. Because both still stood, proud countries waving red, white, and blue.

But Alfred, and Ivan...

Canada leans against the ancient oak. Nursing his drink as Ukraine sat beside him. The poor girl sobbing her eyes out.

In the whisper of the leaves, the soft scent of summer... Canada remembers. Canada remembers his brother. Matthew remembers Alfred.

And the last conversation they ever held.

Don't you ever want to be human?

I guess so...

That's not good enough.

I feel pretty human.

Most humans don't live past their 200th or so birthday.

So? We age really slow. What's your point?

But it's not just that, and you know it Mattie. It's politics and economics. It's your people and his people. It's history and all the wars that come with it. It's us. As a nation. Living not just as one but as millions. Don't you hate that? Don't you wish, you could just be Matthew Williams? Don't you wish you could be you? Just you?

Do you want to be, America? Do you want to be human?

And America shakes his head. Alfred smiles. "...all men are created equal that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness..."

At first Canada did not understand. But Matthew only tilted his head.

And then...

The United States of America... is not a man. Matthew.

But Alfred F. Jones...

It's been nearly sixteen years. And not a day went by that Canada doesn't wonder what happened. Some nations argue that because there was no physical proof that the nations were dead, there was reason enough to believe that they were still out there. Alive somewhere. But they were all lying to themselves.

People of their Kind did not leave physical remains.

They all felt it. Resonating from their very core, singing in their bones. They all knew. The personifications of America and Russia were no longer.

It was just their Kind. The nations still stood, and...

And so, Matthew sits on his bed. Gazing up at the night sky, hands folded in prayer.

And somewhere out there... In the vast world beyond... Resting peacefully...

Alfred and Ivan lived.

And Matthew smiles.

"...to get to a place where you could love anything you chose-not need permission for desire- well now, that was freedom." (Beloved)