So.

Final chapter.

Boy, was this one ever a bitch. -_- I'm just going to go ahead and add America to the characters I can't write. ( The list currently consists of France, Russia, and Germany as well. )

That aside...sorry for lateness. I lost track of time. No really, I thought it had only been two week since the last update and instead it had been three, so then I worked my ass off on this chapter because I realized how late it was.

And we all know how well chapters turn out when I'm rushing. *sigh*

Alfred Refuses to Fall Awake.

/

The sky.

He stares up at it, lying flat on the ground with his arms spread out to the side. The grass tickles his face, his feet, and the sliver of back exposed by his disheveled shirt. The slight discomfort the blades cause doesn't deter his gaze, and his eyes continue to stare unblinkingly upwards.

It's so…blue.

Indeed it is. With few wispy clouds drifting across it. The sun is bright as usual and, now that he thinks about it, looking directly upwards probably isn't a good idea. But well, he has his glasses to protect his eyes. And then again, when has he ever followed society's description of a 'good idea'? He's perpetrated plenty of 'bad ideas' that turned out great. And…..he likes looking directly up at the sky.

So there.

Alfred shifts position slightly, moving his arms behind his head and pulling one leg up so that it's bent at the knee. His head moves to the side just a tad as the gaze with which he looks upwards shifts from one of appreciation to one of contemplation.

Alfred, America, really likes looking up at the sky. The endless sea of blue has been nothing but a blanket of security and hope for him during all his years of existence. To America, the sky has always been something to strive for, something to reach. When he was small and reaching up towards it, it always seemed so far away. So out of grasp. But he never stopped reaching for that endless freedom and beauty. That eternity. That depth. So beyond a little nation-child, and yet, a dream he never gave up on.

Looking up at it now, Alfred wonders about all those aspects of sky that were so appealing to him. That still are. That always will be. Wonders why he always saw the sky as some sort of example. As the consistent role model in his life, something beyond the older Nations that constantly passed through his lands.

And now, with better ways to spend his afternoon but no desire to do any of them, Alfred decides to lie back and really think about that

Lie back, and think about himself.

Because even though he is young, he has a profound sense of himself. He knows there is more to him than just the body he can see in the river's reflection. Then the body that the natives can see. He knows that he can feel the river and feel the natives and feel so many other things. He knows that, but he doesn't know much else.

But then he looks up, and he sees that constant sky. That top to his world that may be covered by clouds or made unclear by rain and snow but is always there. Always above the world, regardless of the factors that affects those below it. The factors like drought and famine and war that hurt the little nation-child. But never the sky. The sky remains shining. Always free and vibrant. Where the birds can sing and dance. Where the eagle can fly. Free. Forever.

When he was little, Alfred wanted to be the sky.

If he thinks of it now, it was simply a dream to be a dream. A dream to be a place with no boundaries, no limits, no restrictions. Freedom, in all directions. The ability of flight to take you anywhere. The sky. A dream.

He has always wanted to be a dream.

But it's only in these recent years, lying on his back looking up at that ever-present role model of his, that America realizes that he has always been a dream.

At least, he has been one since the Europeans found him.

He's not sure if England intentionally hid it, or if the man was not aware of it himself, but America, all of it, the entire New World, was simply Europe's dream. War-torn, bloodstained, battle-weary and yet battle-ready Europe's dream. Their dream for peace. Their dream for hope. Their dream for a land not built on blood and war and shameless conquest. A new world. Untainted. For a new people to grow with no hate in their blood. That limitless land with no boundaries and endless opportunities. That dream. That dream of a land of freedom. That dream of the sky.

And America knows he fulfilled that role well. Better than Canada, losing that pure and innocent image when he was taken and conquered by England. Better than all of South America, brutalized by Spain as they were. It is America who is the dream, that much is clear. With his eyes the colour of that sky and his hope as boundless as it.

Yes, here is a nation-child unlike any nation-child before him. Here is a child raised without fear. With only one parent-nation and never having been ruthlessly conquered by another. Memories of his natives fading back with the memories of a bark-skinned Mother who exists now only in remembrance. This child with eyes unmarred by murder and tragedy. Dream eyes. Sky eyes. Those sky-blue eyes.

And when real war finally strikes, when the country is pushed to the limit by those humans in Europe who can never budge and never negotiate and never compromise on anything-

-those damnable war-loving creatures those humans-

-there is never any question that at last the dream has been tainted and that the only nation-child with the honest smile and painless eyes has fallen just like the others and that the fates of Nations are predictable and undeniable and now the dream must wake up.

It is inevitable.

But though young America does not know exactly his position in the thoughts of the Nations of Europe, he knows his thoughts of himself. He knows what he wants to be, what he doesn't want to be, and whom he was looking towards even before England found him/failed him.

That sky.

That dream.

Of no boundaries, no limitations, endless. Freedom.

This isn't a war of conquest. This isn't a war of subjugation. This is a war to fight for the dream. To fight for the right to expand past boundaries, the right to grow stronger without imposed limits, the right to be free on the soil that is him and be free under the sky that he wishes to be. The dream that he is supposed to be. The title that he unknowingly refuses to relinquish.

Never let go of.

War is forever veiled under the false guise of honour in bloodstained Europe. But a war for Freedom, for a land by the people for the people, for the right to look up at that sky without taxes weighing down your gaze-

Perhaps that.

Perhaps.

A noble, honourable war?

There is no such thing.

But America would like to think it exists. As a new independent nation, he is looking to that sky now more than ever. The last thing he wants is to fall beneath it. To fall to those same greedy ambitions and desires and sins that all those other Nations have fallen to.

No.

Because it is still his dream to be a dream. To be that endless sky. And even though his heart is heavier and his thoughts hold shadows, his eyes are still bright and hopeful and he is not so battered as to give up on the hope for a brighter world. For a brighter future. Not so hurt to give up on a dream.

Never.

At some point- he's not sure exactly when -it became his duty. His…responsibility almost. To continue to be that dream. To be a shining beacon of hope for the Nations of the world. To stand tall and to continue smiling and to never give up on himself or relinquish his hope and plans for a boundless, limitless, endless land of freedom. To be the one dream of the world that never fell, tarnished and bloodied.

It's his heroic duty, he thinks. To remain the idyllic dream. To stand strong and free through everything.

And it is around the time that his people are tearing him apart, South and North bitter rivals, issue after issue, dividing ideals and economic differences, that Alfred makes a promise to himself. When bitter tears are carving tracks down his blood streaked face and he is desperately trying to hold himself together where his body threatens to split itself at the seams. That is when he decides and promises.

He promises himself that this won't break him. That this won't ever break him. Because he hears the whispers now. He hears the whispers and the doubt and he promises that he won't succumb and let them down. All of those Nations who put their hope for something better in him. All of those tired, fallen Nations. He will not let them down. He will not yield to his own pain and he will always keep that precious dream alive.

He will be that boundless, limitless, endless sky. Forever.

And it seems so noble. So good at first. He can't imagine why anyone would think ill of the idea. No, why would they?

Why would they hate that hopeful light in his eyes?

Why would they hate the way he looks up to the sky with a smile?

Why?

Why would they?

America goes through all the hardships. All the things that all Nations go through. He tastes blood and feels blood and sees blood and has blood on his hands. His soul shakes and his heart trembles and he cries bitter tears right from his core. He quavers, he wavers. That sky seems darkened and cloudy. No light. Cracks appearing in that lofty dream. Fractures in that sea of endless blue. Fissures to fall into. Fall from the dream world to the Wide Awake world in which every other nation lives. To the world where dreams are abandoned and instead of a sky of blue there is a sky of red.

The world he was created to escape from.

The world he vows never to set foot into.

Not when he has to be the hero. Not when the world is depending on him to be their only link to that boundless, limitless, endless dream.

So he greets every war with a self-assured smile. Every conflict with the belief that everything will work out. That no matter what happens justice and freedom will be served. A strong belief in himself and his people because self-doubt isn't the mark of a hero and there is no reason to be doubtful when the possibilities and the chances and the hope are endless and stretch everywhere.

He thinks it's great. He thinks it is great that he is not letting anything get to him. That he is able to hold onto the belief that true freedom does exist. That justice will always prevail. That dreams can be realized.

He thinks it's great.

The rest of the world, however, does not.

It is around the 1960s, when he and a certain Russian are butting heads and when his nation's efforts are being poured into a previously unknown, uncared about region of Asia. It is then that he first gets the sense that the rest of the world isn't so happy about him keeping the stars in his eyes. About him keeping his smiles and grins and assurances and beliefs that yes, everything will certainly be all right. Of course it will be. Everything turns out all right when you're pursuing the righteous path. When you're on the side of freedom. Trying to spread the opportunity for a life with no boundaries, no limitations, but endless.

Yes.

But the words of discord, disagreement, disdain begin to reach his ears. Harder to ignore than the deaths of his people on foreign soil. Harder to face with a smile.

Why is everyone mad at me?

And as the years pass by, and he is full of pride at his smile being genuine and not strained, at the continuing progress in his people, at how far the American dream has come, at how he has reached the sky. How man has reached beyond it.

As all of these events occur, it becomes painfully obvious that something is wrong.

There is something wrong with his image as a Dream.

Why are they looking at you with those discontented eyes? Why the disapproval? Why the contempt?

Smiling instead of screaming, holding burgers in his hands instead of acknowledging the blood on them, having hope for the future instead of wallowing in the past…

Not paying attention to the cracks that should be in his soul and heart. To the fissures and fault lines in his country and self. To look upwards and only see the sky.

To be a dream.

Is wrong.

It is wrong.

You are oblivious for looking past and not dwelling on your own mistakes. You are a fool for hanging onto hopeful ideals that have no place in this world. You are bigoted and headstrong for thinking that you can make the world a better place by spreading those ridiculous ideals.

That is…

That is the truth.

The truth of the dream and the harsh reality to counter it.

Because apparently the world no longer has room for dreams of any kind.

/

Step by Step.

One foot in front of the other.

Left Right Left.

Keep moving forward.

Another war. Another conflict.

Another bout of blame.

Damned if I do. Damned if I don't.

America is a large country. It should use its power for good. Use its power to ensure world peace and prosperity everywhere. Make sure that every country is safe and free.

America should mind its own business. America should stop butting in to the conflicts of others.

Why didn't America intervene sooner?

Why did America intervene at all?

That sky that looks over everything. Hangs above and watches over everything.

All those wars that he's been involved in, that he's fought for others. For what he believes is right. For that dream that he always strives for.

Limitless, boundless, endless freedom.

At this point, he's being dismissed as naive and idealistic. The world is tired. They have grown tired of his sparkling eyes and wide grin and carefree attitude. The novelty of his innocence and lack of darkness has worn off. He has blood on his hands now. The dream is over. Why does he still act like a newborn idiot?

The contemptuous glances are not hidden or furtive at all. Because no one thinks he can see them. No. Of course not. He's far too oblivious for that. Walking past the troubles of the world with a smile. Carefree, happy. Still bouncing everywhere. Taking nothing seriously.

Of course the looks, and the whispers, would go unnoticed by him.

Alfred hands clench into fists and his teeth bite down on his bottom lip-

-but then he looks up at the sky. That endless sky. The sky of freedom and beauty and clarity that he strives to be. The dream. The American dream. That he never wants to relinquish.

And so he lifts his head and walks onwards. Skips forward. Humming a tune gaily under his breath.

Because he will blindly continue to pursue his dreams of democracy and justice and all those things that have been labeled overly idealistic, naive, no longer achievable. The ideas of a time past and the peeled away coating on a gilded crown.

Chase blindly after those dreams. Run past the bombed out soil, the decimated jungles, the piles of dead bodies, the radiation burns, the lynchings, the hangings, the burnings at the stake, the murders, the rape, the war crimes.

Or skip past them, if you will.

How far can you go to keep a dream?

How far will you go to stop yourself from waking up?

There is a limit, Alfred thinks. A limit to how long you can feign utter obliviousness. A limit to how long you can endure the hateful and harsh words of those around you. There is a limit.

Bit by Bit.

Torn apart.

Yes. There is a limit. But it is not one that Alfred ever plans on reaching.

Because he is what he was made to be. A dream. The dream of a continent drenched in blood and hate and hopelessness. Their dream for maybe, something more. For an innocence, a happiness, something new and foreign and maybe, just maybe, something that will last.

That dream.

Alfred, America, has never forgotten that dream. Never. To be different then all of those Nations, the ones that give up. That succumb to the horrors of the world. To be different than all of the ones who accept their hands drenched in blood and who have accepted a world of darkness where destruction is inevitable and going through each day is a chore weighed down by centuries, millennia, of existence.

To keep it.

To never lose it.

To hold on to…

His hope.

Hope for the future, for tomorrow, for himself, for his people, and for the world.

Dreams. To hold on to those supersized dreams of his. To chase after them. To always want to break boundaries, go further, discover more, and always maintain that freedom. That freedom that is important to him because it is what defines the sky and it is what defines the dream.

The dream that has now been utterly rejected by the world.

But that's okay.

Really, it is.

Because it's not like he's going to stop.

Oh no.

Why would he do that?

He's still the hero.

He's still the dream.

And he is always going to be. He will always fight for justice and freedom and no boundaries, no limitations, and what he thinks is right.

No matter what.

/

Alfred stands in front of the mirror, head tilted to the side and an unreadable expression on his face.

America…

With pensive eyes, the blonde takes in his reflection. The light cotton shirt that he's wearing. The simple brown slacks with his bony ankles and large feet poking out from beneath the hem. The way the fabric hugs his muscular body, defining the dips and curves that represent the strength his country holds. Regardless of the recession and debt and unemployment and all those fun things the muscles are still there and still prominent. Because America is still the leading world power, despite what people continue to say.

His gaze moves beyond his body to travel upwards to his face. Smooth. Unblemished. Pale. Golden blonde hair, tousled in that just-messy-enough movie star look. Hanging down in front of his face slightly with a rather cute lock of hair sticking straight up.

His face, he thinks, is the very epitome of the American dream. Sparkling blue eyes, cherubic and trustworthy as well as noble and courageous. Blonde hair to add to the angelic look, just long enough to look youthful but not too immature. And of course, pale skin. Because no matter how hard and how long the minorities rage this is still the image of the ideal American man.

This is Alfred F. Jones.

Alfred stares for a bit longer, before pulling a chair over from the desk on the other side of the room, lifting it off the floor in a rare case of preemptive action. Because England would certainly scold him for leaving scratch marks on the floor of the suite.

Alfred sets the chair directly in front of the mirror before plopping himself down onto it. Leaning his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together he once again centers his gaze on his reflection.

"So," he begins, clearing his throat as he sat back in the seat, "America."

He pauses and looks to the side hesitantly, as if suddenly fearing that someone is here and eavesdropping on him talking to himself. He cranes his neck over his shoulder before clearing his throat again and turning his attention back to the mirror.

"So," he starts again, rubbing the back of his head with one hand before returning it to it to its original place, clasped with the other. He lifts his eyes to meet the eyes of the reflection and something hardens in his expression. His posture straightens and all of his nervous motioning stops.

"Lots of people have been talking about you recently, huh?" he grins crookedly at himself, letting out a little bark of laughter. "Yup. You've been even more popular than you usually are! Everyone just can't get enough of you."

Alfred smiles, a soft smile that he usually doesn't give. A sad smile.

"But you know," he continues, voice just a bit quieter, a bit gentler, "It's not always good to be talked about. I know you know that. I know that you have really had enough with the talks about Afghanistan and Iraq and Vietnam for God's sake- I know you've had enough."

Alfred quiets, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before shooting back upwards to look his reflection in the eyes.

"Yeah, you're at war with this huge network of violence and crap and yeah your economy is shit," he continues, voice progressively getting lower and lower, "But…hasn't everyone been through this? Hasn't everyone…" he trails off, staring into the distance. Sharply, he jerks his head back, biting his lip slightly.

"And then everyone," he keeps going, words slow and deliberate, "Seems to think that…that this it. That our…I…me….that this is it. That this is a turning point where I'm going to go careening off that cliff that every other Nation has been kicked off at some point or an other."

Alfred quiets again, biting his lip harder as he twiddles his thumbs and stares at the ground, brows knitted together tightly.

"But…," he says cautiously, speaking as if afraid of causing offence, "But I don't get it…I….you…have already fallen so many times-,"

He pauses, his breath catching sharply. He looks up, eyes wide and angry and frustrated.

"You know death," he says, his voice louder and firmer than before, "You know war, bloodshed. You know famine and drought. You know sorrow and heartbreak. You know destruction." His hands unclasp, slowly drifting to various points on his body. The wide scar across his abdomen from the Civil War. The burn on his back from Pearl Harbour. The ancient but deep wounds from the Revolution. The slashes from every conflict he has ever been in, even the ones not on his soil.

Then, falling completely silent, his hands ghost over his legs. Over areas that he remembers being mangled and broken and burnt. Ten years ago.

Alfred closes his eyes.

He opens them again.

"You know destruction," he repeats softly, "As well as anyone. Don't know why….Don't know why everyone is acting like this is it. If the Depression didn't get you, why should this?" he manages a cocky grin, but the light doesn't reach his eyes and the smile fades quickly.

"It's a different thing they're waiting for," he says after a silence, swallowing thickly as he does, "They might not even know it, but they're not waiting for you to Fall. They're waiting for you…"

His gaze turns to the side, towards the window, and to the bright blue sky beyond it.

"They're waiting for you to wake up," he finishes, his voice barely over a whisper.

"They're waiting for you to stop smiling, to stop seeing the good, to stop pretending nothing is wrong. To stop having naïve hope for the future and to stop trying to help everyone. To stop living this dream…"

Alfred turns his eyes back towards the mirror and startles slightly as he sees a glimmering wetness gathering along the rims in his reflection. He slips a finger under his glasses and hastily wipes away the liquid, sniffling slightly as he does.

"But that's just what they're waiting for," he says, his voice holding a slight quaver despite the conviction of the tone, "That's not what is going to happen. Because guess what? Despite all their hating, you're still the most powerful nation on Earth. We're still full of the most creative and innovative mofos on the face of this planet."

Alfred grins, sitting back in his chair with his head tilted to the side cockily.

"People think we dream too big," he continues firmly, "But that's just they're old age acting up, because obviously they've forgotten what we've already done.* Because nothing is ever going to overshadow the triumph of Colonies, not even united as a proper country, defeating the Greatest Empire on the face of the Earth." His smile is a bit bitter and sad, because the memory is still a bittersweet one for him. But that does not lessen the pride it inspires.

"Clearly," he keeps going after a moment, resting his cheek on his fist, "They forget what free men and women can achieve when all our imagination and common purpose are joined together."* He giggles, genuine laughter bubbling up.

"Silly old men," he snorts, eyes twinkling.

"And then they have the audacity to say things like America is going to have to start backing down, backing off. Start considering the country's safety over constantly trying to uphold those ideals of theirs," he puts on a fake British accent as he says this, downturning his eyebrows and emulating a certain Brit to the best of his abilities. "But I reject that reality," he states firmly, ending his mockery, "Who the hell says I have to choose between my safety and my ideals*? Screw it. I'll do what I want, and do it well." He juts out his chin proudly. If he sounds arrogant he doesn't care, because he's passionate about this and just a wee bit defensive and if Canada is allowed to go on rants why can't he?

"They can hate all they want," he says, his voice lower and more challenging, "My- Your spirit is strong and cannot be broken. You can outlast them* and show them just what a childish dream is made of!"

He's getting more and more defensive, he realizes, but his heart is hammering in his chest and his blood is boiling. This needs to be said. He needs to say it. For himself.

"And they blame the dream," he continues, "They try and blame it. Always blaming America for everything. They should learn that they will be judged on what they build, not what they destroy* and just…just leave me alone!"

Yeah, he's getting really defensive now.

Alfred takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair and trying to quell the pounding of his heart.

"Everyone sees the dream as inconvenient," his voice is quiet again, "Something that…that doesn't fit well into this world. They see America as chasing after something that can't be reached. An impossible society. And they see me- you, as a country that is destroying itself by trying to be something that can't exist."

Another deep breath. He twiddles with his thumbs and looks at the floor, running his upper teeth over his lip.

"But the world needs a dream," he says softly, "The might not believe it, but they all need a dream. All of them. Every single one."

He looks up again, eyes wistful and sad but also strong and determined.

"A dream of a world where you don't have to worry about losing yourself, about being invisible," he starts softly, staring at the mirror but no longer really looking at it. "A dream of a world where you don't have to worry about being judged for being happy, for dealing with pain in your own way. A wistful dream where you and your sister can be beside each other again. A dream where honour and pride don't hold you so tightly that you can barely breathe. Where losing respect doesn't mean the end of the world and where a sense of duty does not sweep away everything you know to be right.

"A dream where your existence was not simply one of death itself. Where you didn't have to be alone because you were afraid of hurting others. A dream where memory never fades. Where people never change and disappear. Where love is strong enough to endure the test of time. A dream where family is strong as well. Where nothing can tear the bond apart and where brotherhood is welcomed and not a synonym for heartbreak and pain. A dream where there is no dark side to conceal. Where a child's world is always filled with happiness and tomatoes and never splattered with the dark red of a blood. A dream where flowers never wither, or burn. Where white stays white forever and never becomes red and thorn-ridden."

He pauses, catching his breath quickly. He once again folds his hands neatly in his lap before licking his lips nervously and continuing.

"A dream world," he says softly, "Where you don't have to lock your heart away because all you can remember is the feeling of when it broke. Where you can forgive and move on and learn to trust again."

He blinks as he falls silent, feeling that dampness in his eyes once more.

"Everyone needs a dream," he repeats in a whisper, "Even if they hate on that dream. Even if they keep telling the dream to wake the fuck up. They need it, even if they're too damn old and stubborn to realize it."

Alfred sighs, and then sucks in a breath, jerking his head up and giving his reflection a broad smile once more.

"So, America!" he chirps, leaning back in the chair and folding one leg in the other, "That's my take on the whole 'You're going to fall soon' deal. Nice of me to actually tell you my opinions to your face, huh?" The smile bitters a bit and his eyes are tinged with irritation and hurt, but the gaiety is still there.

"But don't worry," he continues, "Once a dream is released and realized, it can never be taken back. I- you're not going to disappear just because of some debts and wars in other countries."

Alfred tilts his head, his expression softening as the harsh smile becomes gentler and more wistful, and his gaze becomes far-off.

"Because even though we fall," he whispers, hands clenched into fists, "Even though we're destroyed, we keep going. Keep on living. If they were all truly living in reality, then they would have completely given up on life long ago. But Spain keeps on smiling like a dumbass, Arthur still loves music and embroidery and fairy tales. Yong Soo never stops hoping for him and his sister to reconcile. And Matthew still speaks even though he knows he probably won't be heard. They all keep on trying."

"So you know," and here, Alfred smiles, "They're kind of living this dream as well. It's certainly not realistic to try and live in this crazy world, especially after everything those old fogeys have been through. But they do keep on trying, keep on living, and that's more idealistic and naïve than I'll ever be."

Alfred sighs again, standing up and brushing down the creases in his shirt as he does.

"We never win, but the battle rages on," he comments idly. "And it will keep raging, because, well, we're Nations! We're meant for this kind of stuff. People say 'fall' and 'destroyed' like some great ultimatum. The end. Sayonara. But we come back. We claw our way back up over the precipice we fly off of."

"We all fall down," he says finally, looking out the window and up into the sky, "But as long as we dream of a better future and a better world, we always get back up."

/

And...cut.

God, what a monster. For a spur-of-the-moment fanfiction inspired by the intro to the song, this was ridiculously long.

Buuuuuuuuh. Last chapter and I feel like it was incredibly so-so. My apologies!

Also, I would like to thank President Obama for the last section of this story. The parts with asterisk (*) beside them are sentences that are almost exact sentences from his Inaugural Speech. I hadn't planned on using it but we annotated it in English class and some of what he said was just too perfect to not stick in here.

I'd also like to thank RobinRocks. Her story Pangaea was what first gave me the idea of America being Europe's dream. :3 (By the way, if you haven't read her stories you are missing out on so much. She is, without a doubt, the best USUK writer ever. But you should read her stuff even if you don't like the pairing because her characterizations of Arthur are so perfect. She's amazing. My personal favourites are 'United', 'O America', 'Shatter' and 'Solitaire'. But all of her stories are ridiculously amazing and if you don't read her stuff you are missing out on the best most quality fanfiction this site has to offer. )

You might have recognized lyrics from the song 'Like Toy Soldiers', which is kind of the song for this fic. It's originally by Martika, but I like Eminem's version better because the way they remixed the chorus sounds so powerful and awesome. -w-

So...yeah. Haha! This Author's note actually seems really short! Not too much history this time around so no overly long note!

So I can begin to profess my love and adoration for all of you wonderful readers.

No wait. I can't because I am too speechless.

You guys are amazing. Like, I got some seriously inspiring and touching reviews that made me smile like a dumbass and giggle and skip around the room as if I was five year old girl. Some of your reviews were funny, some were sweet, and others were so profound and well written that I reread them fifty million times and just soaked them in.

God I love you people.

So thank you! Thank you! It's been great! If you've enjoyed my company, my insanity, and lastly, my writing, than you might be happy to know that at some time within the next 48 hours I will begin posting my baby, 'Noise'. I've been working on this story for over a year now and have the first ten chapters written. Now that this story is finished, I'm going to start posting that one. Like I said, it's my baby so I'm really nervous. I hope you guys look out for it and continue giving me amazing reviews over there!

I'll also be posting a Spamano oneshot soon. It's not finished yet but it's almost finished. With any luck it will be posted in two weeks at the latest.

So...yeah. Thank you all again! I hope you stick around with my new stuff! It's been fun!

So, reviews for the last chapter! I'm actually really interested to see what my American readers have to say. And, you know, it would be really awesome if this hit 100 reviews. *w*

xoxo, natcat5 ;p