Okay! One shot time, because I'd been working on this for a while and forgot about it. |D So this is just a little thing I decided to do for WWII, because the Blitz interested me so much. It might not be historically accurate, but I really couldn't find a whole lot. It was really only Wiki that helped out, and you all know how that usually works out...

Ahem. Also! I'd like you all to go to my profile and vote in the poll for the next fanfiction I am to put up. The descriptions are in my profile. You may choose two! Please. The plot bunnies wouldn't leave me alone, and I need help knocking one out at a time.

Please review! Critique is welcomed!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Heroes Don't Exist

The sound of bombs whistled in the distance, the explosions pounding against his eardrums. He could only stare with tired eyes at the dark sky turning red as fires filled the night. He clutched the fabric of his shirt, directly above his heart, wincing as pain seared through him. Screams from civilians filled the night air, making him shiver as the shrieks chilled him to the bone. A bitter-sweet smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he continued to watch the city burn. Sadness filled his eyes and heart as he leaned forward against the railing of the roof of a small theater. His legs decided at that moment to give out underneath him, and he crumpled to his knees, choking back a small sob.

His emerald green, dark-rimmed eyes filled with tears as more ash filled the sky, dimming the firelight from the city beyond. His short, messy, ash blond hair whipped in the wind created from the force of all the bombs dropping on the unfortunate civilians in the city. He pushed himself to his feet, using whatever strength he could muster to stay standing.

He wished he could help. He wished he could be out there with the firefighters, putting out the flames that ate away at the people and the buildings. He wished he could be out in a plane, shooting down the enemy who let the explosions rain down on innocent civilians. He wished that since he could do none of those things, a bomb would land close enough to where he was standing to kill him and end the helplessness and pain he felt. But that would be running away then, wouldn't it? Nevertheless, he still wished it.

But alas, the wish was not granted. All the personification of the United Kingdom, Arthur Kirkland, could do was watch helplessly as London—as his heart—burned. A wave of exhaustion swept over the Brit, and he felt as if he would pass out. Lights from explosives setting off upon impact on the ground reached his eyes, and the thundering sound reached his ears. The low drone of Luftwaffe planes flying closer to drop more bombs on his beautiful city made his heart clench and his body shiver.

Would the new wave of German aircraft and explosives finally kill him? He wasn't sure how much more of this pain—this intense, burning pain—he could take. The whole world must've been against him, he figured. It definitely felt that way; the onslaught of explosives dropping from the sky continuously each night confirmed his belief. England had no allies, no help. He was alone in this war against the Nazis, wasn't he?

Churchill had already left to Canada to hide away. So that made Canada his ally, didn't it? Yes, Matthew was really helping him in this war. He had managed to provide a safe haven for his boss to hide away in until the United Kingdom had either won—with was definitely preferable—or lost the war against Nazi Germany, given him supplies and support, and was helping him out in this war. He was thankful that the Canadian was going to such lengths to help him. The king and queen, King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, strengthened the morale of the citizens and Arthur himself by remaining in London. They risked so much to stay with the citizens and Arthur had to commend them for it.

And here he was, forced out into the countryside instead of being allowed to help by being in London like his king and queen were. Maybe he would get lucky and a bomb would drop near the theater, as he had been hoping, so he wouldn't have to face the immense shame. But that was just being selfish, he berated himself. It was selfish to wish for death when he wasn't the only one at the theater. The building was holding many people who had been evacuated to the country.

He scowled, curling his hands into tight fists, wincing slightly as another tremor of pain went through his body, making him quiver. So immersed in thought was Arthur that he didn't notice someone open the door to the stairwell and walk to stand next to him. His eyes were locked on the glowing city in front of him, eyes never leaving the burning capital. But a voice broke him out of his trance.

"Hey, Iggy, you shouldn't be up here. It's dangerous, y'know." The voice was familiar. It was Alfred F. Jones, the one and only self-proclaimed hero, America. He was gazing at the English nation with those sky blue eyes from behind Texas-framed glasses. Leaning against the railing, the taller man gazed out at London alongside Arthur, not really waiting for anything. His blond hair was disturbed slightly in the breeze passing by them.

The Englishman didn't answer. Not even being called that annoying nickname "Iggy" fazed him. Silence pressed on between them, hungry to swallow up all words uttered. Arthur would have left it that way, content to not be talking, but Alfred felt he needed to break the silence. "So…" Alfred dragged out the 'o', as if he was trying to make a point, even though he was probably just making sure Arthur was listening to him. "Are you going to come back inside so we can finish the meeting?"

Arthur started for a moment. He had completely forgotten about the Allies meeting. But it wouldn't really matter; most of the countries there shouldn't have been in the first place: France had surrendered to the Germans; Russia was having trouble as it was, China was too busy fighting Japan, and America was supposed to be neutral. Coming to the meeting was especially pointless for Alfred; he wasn't even in this war. But none of that mattered, Arthur guessed. They were here now, and there was no sense in them leaving when the meeting was important (even though nothing ever got accomplished in them other than a lot of arguing).

Arthur continued to stare at the black smoke rising into the air, tainting the orange sky. He nodded slightly, turning to head back down the stairs into the basement, where the meeting was being held. The Brit reached the door of the stairwell, but stopped, his hand on the door handle, and burst into a fit of violent coughing. Alfred was behind him quickly, rubbing the shorter man's back with his hand in soothing circles, blue eyes bright and filled with worry.

"Arthur… You don't sound all that great. Why don't you just skip the rest of the meeting and get some rest?" the American proposed, silently applauding himself for thinking of such a great idea.

Arthur, however, was already on the verge of breaking, about ready to snap at anything. "What are you talking about? I'm fine. I've only had Luftwaffe planes bombing my capital for many nights straight," he snarled sarcastically, pausing to cough more.

Alfred looked hurt slightly by his remark, but the American finally got a good look at Arthur's condition. He had lost weight, looking thinner than usual, cleverly hiding his poor condition with clothing. Arthur's hair had lost its sheen, blond locks hanging limply to go in line with green eyes slightly dulled with pain and exhaustion. There were dark circles under his eyes, standing out on his pale skin. But before Alfred could finish his examination, Arthur had turned away and started walking down the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the silent corridor, a gentle tapping going in time with the sound of the explosions of the bombs.

Alfred stood on the rooftop for a few more minutes, regretting being unable to help Arthur. He was supposed to be the hero! Heroes always helped those in need; and Arthur was definitely in need of a hero at the moment. Sighing, he followed the Brit's path down the stairway, heading down to the meeting room, not bothering to catch up to Arthur. He sighed. Why did Arthur have to be so difficult? Alfred's thoughts circulated around Arthur, the civilians, the bombings, and the war in Europe in general.

The meeting went on rather quietly, apart from the explosives going off beyond. Finally, it was Alfred's turn to speak and conclude the rather pointless meeting. He started explaining some far-fetched plan to end the war; everyone knew it wouldn't work.

As Alfred talked, Arthur sat in his chair staring at the wall in front of him instead of listening to the American. He could feel the pain growing in his chest—why, he couldn't figure out. Furrowing his eyebrows, he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to block out the expanding pain. The Briton's body was aching, tremors sending his form quivering slightly. Arthur tried to concentrate on the meeting, but it was doing nothing to take his mind off the increasing pressure on his upper body. He needed to get out— he needed to walk around and get his thoughts off of the pain.

Abruptly standing up, Arthur headed towards the door, the other nations curiously eyeing his back. Alfred noticed as well, speaking up at Arthur. "Hey! I'm not that boring, am I? C'mon, Iggy!" he whined, trying to get the stubborn Englishman to listen to him and sit down again. Arthur paused a few feet from the door, appearing to be considering Alfred's words. The American brightened slightly at this prospect, just betting the Briton would turn around and return to his seat.

Arthur could only stare at the floor, though, not hearing Alfred's words. The pain had intensified, flaring through his veins. He was shaking, his body quivering violently from the burning sensation ripping through his being. Arthur's eyes were wide in shock, glazed over in pain. He brought a trembling hand to his chest, clutching the clothing just above his heart, where the pain was centered. His gaze was fixed at his feet, his breathing becoming heavier and more labored. His limbs felt weak, reduced to feeling like jelly and nearly being unable to hold him up.

Arthur fell to his knees, unable to keep himself standing any longer, and moved his hand from his shirt to his mouth, making choking noises, violently coughing. Blood ran down the corners of his mouth, dripping to the floor from his hand as he coughed. His fit died down, and he collapsed onto his side, the crimson liquid smearing the ground, eyes wide and unseeing. Francis was by Arthur's side the instant he had fallen to his side, speaking frantically in rapid French.

"Mon cher Angleterre, are you okay?" he asked frantically after remembering he couldn't be understood using French, seeing the younger nation's eyes lidded and sightless, closing. "Please, Angleterre! Stay awake!" he commanded his rival, panicked. Francis looked towards Alfred and Yao for help, fear in his eyes. But he was met with panicked and surprised expressions. Why weren't they doing anything to help?

Francis gently picked up Arthur's limp body and cradled the nearly unconscious man close to his chest, listening to his ragged breathing. Francis was like a brother to Arthur in many ways, despite being rivals, and couldn't stand to see him this way. He looked so vulnerable—so broken. It wasn't right. Francis glanced down as Arthur's eyes fluttered open, pain obvious in his vivid green eyes.

Arthur's voice was raspy and weak when he spoke. "Francis…" Said Frenchman shook his head, sending a silent message for the Brit not to speak.

"Stay silent, my dear Angleterre. Point to where it hurts." Francis's voice was full of worry and affection, eyes gleaming with genuine concern. Arthur reached his hand to his chest, clutching the fabric above his heart. Francis understood immediately and was about to speak when Alfred interrupted loudly.

"France! What the hell is wrong with Iggy?" Francis glanced up at Alfred, still cradling Arthur close to his chest, and lowered his gaze when he met the American's, looking at the Brit who wore a weak smile—a smile with a grimace, rather—and didn't answer right away.

"Hey! I asked, what the hell is wrong—"

"London," Francis interrupted. Alfred blinked, confused with Francis's single word. London? What was wrong with London?

"W-what do you mean?" he asked, voice shaking slightly, unsure of what was happening. Francis scowled, still gazing at Arthur, whose eyes were half closed and his grip on his shirt was weakened, his mouth slightly open, ragged gasps escaping through it. Francis's scowl deepened as he glared up at Alfred.

"'What do you mean?'" he demanded, enraged, eyes sparking with anger. "What the hell do you think I mean, Amérique? It's London! Are you that daft? London is being bombed, idiot!" Francis continued, clearly pissed with the American in front of them. "But wait! That's right! You wouldn't know because you're fucking neutral," he sneered, venom filling his voice.

"Why don't you just go home and stay there? You aren't helping at all. You're useless." Alfred stared at Francis, shock evident on his face. Of course he was helping! He was the Hero, after all. Heroes always helped!

"What the hell, man! Of course I'm helping! I'm here, aren't I?"

"But you aren't in this war, Amérique. You aren't helping. Angleterre's capital is being bombed, and you are simply sitting here, doing nothing." Francis turned his attention away from Alfred before he could respond, returning it to Arthur in his arms, who was shaking slightly, one hand nearly clawing at his chest. Francis's eyes softened and he pried Arthur's hand away from his chest, taking it in his own, murmuring reassuring words quietly in the small Englishman's ear.

In what seemed like hours and could have been only a few minutes, Arthur finally stopped shaking, gazing up at Francis tiredly. His voice was nearly a whisper. "So many fires… So many dead…" he trailed off, then attempting to stand up. With Francis's help, Arthur struggled to his feet, leaning heavily against him. A breathless 'thank you' and Arthur straightened up as best he could, trying not to look weak in front of the others.

"The meeting is over. You are all dismissed until tomorrow afternoon," Arthur said, voice shaking slightly, while straightening out his suit, failing and only managing to get some blood from his hands onto it.

Yao glanced nervously at Ivan before walking out of the room with him, looking back over his shoulder, slightly concerned. Alfred watched silently as Francis took a cloth and starting wiping the blood off of Arthur's hands with it, Arthur glaring slightly, but giving in and letting Francis carry on while the Frenchman murmured gentle words to the distraught Briton. Arthur glanced up, catching Alfred's eye, and his neutral expression changed into a pained scowl.

"What are you still doing here?"

Alfred blinked. "What do you mean? I'm the Hero! I need to make sure you're alright."

Arthur's expression changed into one of surprise, but then changed back into a deeper scowl. "Right. You can just leave." Arthur turned away, looking solemnly at Francis and his hands. Francis had finished cleaning them off and lead Arthur out of the room, both not looking at Alfred, passing him by like he was invisible. For a moment, Alfred felt like Matthew—but even Matthew was helping in this war while he stood by and did pretty much nothing.

Sighing, he walked out of the meeting room into the hall. As he made his way to the room he was staying in in the theater, he stopped outside the backstage door, hearing Arthur's and Francis's voices. Leaning against the door quietly, he listened to what was being said.

"Thank you, Francis."

"Non, non. It was nothing, mon petit lapin."

"Yes it was. I promise I'll save you, alright?" Save him? What did that mean? Alfred couldn't guess. He listened again as the conversation carried on.

"Angleterre, there is no need. You need to save yourself before saving anyone else."

"No. It is partially my fault you had to surrender. If I had been a little more help at Dunkirk…" Arthur's voice trailed off. He was obviously remembering something bad.

"There was nothing you could have done. Now go get some rest. I'll be fine. After all, you did come to save me from that German bastard. I am in your debt, Angleterre. If you had not come, I'm sure I wouldn't be here right now." Alfred was confused at this point. What were they talking about?

There was a heavy sigh. "Alright… I'll see you tomorrow then, Francis."

Footsteps approached the door, and Alfred scrambled away, hiding behind a plant as to not get caught by the Briton now walking away from him down the hallway. Alfred watched him from behind the plant, expecting him to head to his own room, but was rather surprised to see him heading up the stairs leading to the roof again.

Confused, Alfred couldn't help but follow him. Creeping silently up the stairs, he opened the door leading to the roof, peaking through, spotting Arthur leaning over the railing, staring at the city that seemed to glow even brighter than earlier, raging with fires.

Arthur seemed to have heard him, because the Briton turned around to face him, gazing at him with piercing green eyes. "What do you want?" he asked tiredly, annoyance present in his voice, but nothing else.

Alfred dared to approach the Englishman, unsure of how he would act. "Look, Iggy. I want to help. I really do. Please let me help," he begged him. He was supposed to be the Hero. He was supposed to help save Francis and Arthur. But Arthur only shook his head.

"You're too young, Alfred. Just go home. Stay out of this war. You refused to enter it when asked, and now you no longer have that choice."

Alfred flinched at the coldness in Arthur's words, but there was some truth to it. Alfred's shoulders slumped slightly, face falling, but the sadness disappeared almost immediately, blue eyes filling with determination.

"No way! I'm the Hero! I'll save all of you! Hero's promise!" he exclaimed suddenly, expecting Arthur to tell him 'no' again, waiting for the retort, forming a comeback in his head already. But Arthur just sighed and walked up to him until they were only a few feet away, and stared up into Alfred's sky blue eyes, gaze hard.

"Hero? Do you really think you can be one? Look around, America. Heroes are fictional. The ones you idolize are simply fictional characters of a story. Humans can be considered heroes, but if they really are, why do people still continue to be hurt when the hero is supposed to save everyone? Why is it that the hero dies like everyone else? Why would his ability to save people be taken away like that?" Alfred swallowed, not liking where this was going. Why would Arthur say such things? Did he not believe in the heroes?

"What do you mean? I'm going to be your Hero! Just watch!"

Arthur narrowed his eyes, a neutral expression taking ahold of his features. "Alfred…" he began. Arthur walked past the American, heading back towards the stairs, stopping right next to him, head down, fringe covering his eyes.

"Heroes don't exist." And with that statement, Arthur left Alfred on the roof to watch the bombs continue to rain down on London.