Title: The Show Goes On
Author: PwnedByPineapple
Summary: A tribute for Hetalia Day. Ask any nation you want, and they'll all have the same greatest fear: nothingness. Losing themselves and each other to nothingness. Being left behind... alone.
Rating/Warning(s): T; character death, but not really
Notes: For Hetalia Day 2011 and United Nations Day 2011.
Recommended Listening: "The Show Goes On" by Lupe Fiasco

Disclaimer: This fangirl owns nothing.

It isn't easy, being a nation.

Most people will think, 'Oh, but you're immortal, right? You can't die!' as if that's somehow a good thing.

It's a lie.

We are not immortal.

We can die.

And when we do, it's too close to forever for any of us to be comforted by the thought of Heaven.

That night, America dreamed of losing his family.

Believe me when I say we feel everything. When our people are unhappy, when our economies suck, when natural disasters occur, when wars tear us apart... some of these things we learn to tune out; some, we deal with; and some... well, we just have to suffer through them.

But death is a different story. It's a concept both familiar and alien and is probably the thing that terrifies us the most, even if we won't admit it.

It started with a body, and nothing more… no recognition, no surroundings. America was holding the body tightly, and it trembled in his grip, in the throes of death. America gripped it with sheer desperation, though he didn't know why; an ache in his chest made it hard to breathe, and he wondered why the body in his arms inspired such sorrow… that is, until everything was suddenly, startlingly thrown into sharp focus, and he realized who it was that he held.

His heart dropped. "Oh, God…" he said, eyes widening in pure horror. "Feli… Feliciano!"

The Italian's eyes were half-lidded; he was pale, as if all the blood had drained from his body. There was so much blood covering America's arms that it certainly seemed like it. America could scarcely comprehend what was before his eyes and in his arms; his mind was scattered, panicked, and he couldn't even pull himself together enough to remember how this had happened. "Who did this?" he demanded, frantically trying to stem the ooze of blood from his fellow nation's many wounds. It was to no avail. "Dammit… hold on! I-I'll get help!" His head whipped this way and that, searching desperately. But there was nothing and no one, only… more bodies. Even though they were quite close, their faces were indistinct; however, a growing fear that settled in America's stomach and made him nearly sick with it hinted at who they might be.

"What happened?" he whispered, horror growing steadily within him like some terrible creature that fed off his resolve. He looked back down at the nation he cradled. Italy's eyes fluttered a bit, sliding open and attempting to focus.

"Al-Alfred?" he murmured. "Ve~ you're alive. That's good."

America's throat didn't want to work properly. He was still trying to stem the blood, uselessly, pathetically. The Italian even weakly pushed America's hands away, as if he knew it was no good. It was so wrong. Italy was vibrant and lively and the only person who could rival America for cheeriness. He wasn't… this. Wasn't broken, shouldn't have clouded eyes, didn't accept his own death with composure that America could not even begin to summon.

How? How had this happened?

Italy's breathing was labored and erratic; America feared that at any moment it would give out completely. But the Italian managed a few more words. "Germany… Japan… R-Romano…" He hissed quietly, drawing in on himself, but America knew what he wanted.

"Where?" was all America said, softly. He'd gone numb from the inevitable.

Italy's hand lifted only a few inches, gestured. America's eyes followed and came to rest on more unmoving bodies; his stomach clenched, threatening to turn on him. No. Dammit, no. But his left arm tightened around the Italian's shoulders as the other arm slid under his knees, and America lifted his fellow nation as gently as possible, carrying him towards those still bodies.

They, like Italy, came into focus when he really looked at them, and America's heart plummeted so fast that he thought he was going to fall over with the weight of it. But he kept his feet long enough to bring Italy to the sides of those he wanted to die beside.

Italy could barely move now, but America helped him. The Italian clutched at Germany's arm and uttered a small whimper, reaching for Japan. America guided his hand, biting his own lip to keep from losing control; the force with which he did so was so hard that he drew a few small droplets of blood. He was shaking even more than Italy, who seemed to have found some measure of peace. The other nation looked at America with fading eyes, smiling faintly.

"Thank you," was all he said, the words riding on final breaths as he rested his head near his brother's.

America's eyes started to burn. "Feli," he said, nearly choking. "I-I'm sorry… I should have…"

Should have done what?

It didn't matter. Italy couldn't hear him anymore, anyway.

America could barely breathe for grief. Why was this happening? What was going on? His eyes slid from Italy's still face to Romano's to Germany's. Prussia was nearby, just as silent and cold; he seemed to be in the act of reaching for his brother, much the same as Spain was near Romano. Japan was opposite them, drawing a fresh wave of choked tears from America as the American looked at him, and now America could see others beyond, all around.

A disbelieving sob shook him, and he rose unsteadily to his feet, taking faltering steps. Others came into clarity as he neared them. Hungary, Austria… America stepped past Prussia to reach them but found them just as cold as Switzerland, who protectively cradled his sister even in death.

And then America was running.

China was very near Japan, in the center of the other Asians, and America searched vainly for one among them who breathed. He was not successful. Panic was now bubbling in his chest, a wild thing that caused his heart to beat rapidly within its confines, as if trying to escape. He was crying freely, turning round and round as he searched frantically for one other living friend.

He saw Russia, surrounded by his sisters. Not one of them answered America's near-hysterical calls. The Baltics were just as coldly silent, and no matter how much he pleaded with them, the Nordics refused to answer.

No one else would, either. The world would not respond when he called to it.

They were dead. They were all dead, and he was alone.

I'll say it again - death scares us. Most of us believe in some sort of afterlife, but for some of us, it's only a vaguely defined hope, courtesy of the half-assed effort we put into belief. Point is, we don't know where we'll end up or if we'll even end up anywhere at all.

But ask any nation you want, and we'll all have the same greatest fear: nothingness.

Being forgotten.

Losing ourselves and each other to nothingness.

Being left behind... alone.

He found Canada hunched over France's unmoving form. It was the strangest sensation, a surge of relief mixed with yet another sickening blow, and America ran forward, calling to his brother. Alive. Canada was alive, and America wasn't alone. "Mattie!" he croaked, hardly aware of how pitiful his voice must have sounded. He skidded to a halt, sliding to his knees and wrapping Canada in an unusually tender hug. "God, Mattie, you're..."

The words lodged in America's throat, stricken. There was something sticky on Canada's back, dripping onto America's hands, and when he lifted one to look, his entire world lurched.

Blood.

Canada was covered in the same wounds that the others were, the same wounds that marked France's motionless body. As America pulled away, unable to wrap his mind around it for shock and fear, his northern twin gazed at him sadly, eyes glistening.

"I'm glad you're alive, Al," Canada whispered.

Not again. America couldn't watch another one die and not his own brother. He dropped his head into his hands, tightly wrapping his fingers into his hair in hopeless frustration, and he hardly cared that he was staining gold with red. "DAMMIT!" he raged. "What's going on? Why is this happening?"

Canada's hand found his shoulder, and America looked up to find his brother barely supporting himself with one hand; Canada had slumped forward, his breathing growing shorter with every passing moment, and yet he still found the energy to extend comfort. America took him by the shoulders and pulled him into another embrace, careful of hurting him more. "Mattie," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I didn't get here sooner."

"I-It's okay, Al," Canada breathed. "R-Really."

It wasn't. Nothing about this was right, and none of it made sense. With a choked sob, America helped ease Canada to the ground into a comfortable position, near enough to France that Canada could reach out and grab the other's hand. "Papa," the northern twin murmured, his eyes sliding shut. "Alfred..."

Alfred could barely see for tears in his eyes, but he felt it when Canada's breaths ceased.

Dead. Like the rest of them. America drew his knees to his chest, and a quiet keening sound emerged from him, as his mind tried to deal with the shock.

Everyone was dead.

Except... there was one he hadn't yet found.

A despairing hope seized America in that moment, latching on to the utter misery starting to invade his mind. He wrenched his eyes away from France, from Canada, and stumbled to his feet. "Arthur," he said, his voice gaining volume with every shout. "Arthur. Arthur! Dammit, answer me!"

Bodies. So many bodies, enough to make him want to curl up in a corner and pretend that nothing was wrong. He stumbled around Canada, searching, and found England so suddenly that he didn't even register what he saw at first.

And then a final body came into focus. England - motionless, lifeless, pale as a ghost.

Moaning, America dropped to his knees. "Arthur," he whispered, trying in vain to wake the older nation. "Don't leave me. There's... there's no one left. Arthur. Arthur!" He shook England's shoulders, but England's eyes did not open. The wounds that covered him were like the others. Anguish settled on America so heavily that he bent with the wait of it, his head resting on England's still chest as tremors shook his body. "Arthur! Come back!"

But England wasn't coming back. None of them were. He was totally alone.

In rage and confusion and grief and despair, America screamed.

The history of living spirits is ingrained within us, though most of the time we can't consciously recall the things we shouldn't know. Maybe it's because the force of that nightmare is still fresh; maybe that's why I remember these things, and maybe that's why I'm writing this. I may not remember it, later. But right now, I can tell you about Pangaea and her ancient ancestors and every single one of her descendants born of humanity.

Things changed when humans evolved; my kind took on human forms and became less permanent. Many of us have died - from nations no living human knows about to Ancient Greece and Rome. We follow the whims of the humans we represent, and because of this, our instinctively familial natures are altered. We fight each other and kill each other, and once, in darker times when the world was smaller, it was too painful to even love each other.

America was still screaming when he awoke.

"NO!" It was a cry of despair that tore itself from his throat, and he shot upright, disoriented by the blackness that surrounded him. He was barely conscious as it was, and he didn't even register the next few seconds. All he knew was that he heard a worried voice and hurried footsteps, and all of a sudden he came to, clutching at the wall for support, several feet from his bed. He wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten there, though the sudden brightness of the lamplight was probably what had dragged him into consciousness.

"Al!" Canada was there, a few feet in front of him, eyes wide and confused from sleep. He peered at America in alarm, wary of approaching any closer. Dimly, America wondered how wild he must look. "What's wrong?"

There were other voices nearby, distant footsteps drawing near, but right now America had eyes only for his brother. His heart was pounding so hard that it was a wonder it didn't burst; he couldn't even catch his breath, and he stared in amazement at Canada. Who was alive.

A dream. A nightmare. That was all it had been.

Two long steps covered the distance between them, and America wrapped his brother in a giant hug, a strangled little sob fighting its way out. He was shaking as badly as he'd been in... that dream, and he felt Canada hesitantly return the gesture, sensing that America needed it badly. "What happened?" the northern twin asked in bewilderment, sounding increasingly concerned. "Al? Are you hurt anywhere? Answer me!"

America swallowed, willing his voice to work. "I'm fine," he said hoarsely. And so are you. So are you. Thank God.

The adjoining door to the hotel room opened suddenly, and England barged through, wielding something long and pointy. America thought it might have been a sword, but he couldn't tell with how blurry his eyes had suddenly become.

"What happened?" England barked, then dropped his weapon in surprise as America swung an arm around to pull him into the same enormous hug he currently had Canada in. America embraced them fiercely, mindful of his own strength, and closed his eyes, trying to erase the images from his mind. What he'd seen wasn't real. This was real. His brothers were warm; he could feel their heartbeats, as strong as his own. They weren't cold. They weren't dead. They were here, in his arms, where nothing could hurt them.

"Alfred?" England asked in concern, and that was as far as he got before the hotel room's hall door opened with a bang, followed by the second adjoining door. Several nations poured through, most of them holding weapons; these weren't technically allowed at world meetings, but no one batted an eye - everyone had one.

Had America been less relieved, he might have been embarrassed; it seemed he'd been loud enough to wake the entire hall. But at that moment, he didn't care. He released his crushing embrace on his brothers, but he kept an arm around each of their shoulders, wanting to reassure himself that they were, in fact, alive. And it did him enormous good to see so many others, alive and well and most definitely not dead.

A dream. It was only a nightmare.

Clearly, the others had been expecting an attack of some sort; most of them looked around in confusion for intruders. "What's going on?" China demanded.

"We heard you yelling, Amerique," France said, disturbed.

"I'd like to know myself," England added, looking somewhat annoyed at having an arm around his shoulders. He didn't pull away, however.

America took a deep breath, wondering how to answer; it would be hard to admit with so many nations in the room. "Sorry," he said. "I... it was... a dream." He winced at how pathetic that sounded, even more so when incredulous looks followed it.

"A dream?" Romano demanded. "I nearly shot my own foot off for a fucking dream?" He had a pistol in hand, waving it around in frustration, and the nations nearest to him instinctively ducked away.

"Fratello, be careful..." Veneziano said in distress.

Romano's reaction was being echoed; most of them were disgruntled at having been woken to what they thought was an emergency. England, however, had become grave. He shrugged himself out of America's grip to give America a full, searching look, and there was comprehension in his eyes. He knew. He knew the kind of nightmares America was capable of having.

"What was it?" he asked softly.

The room grew silent, perhaps struck by the seriousness in England's tone. It wasn't often that anyone saw this side of the Englishman or the American. Volumes were being passed between the two in nothing but a meeting of their eyes, and suddenly, America sighed heavily. He released his brother and sat himself down on the edge of the bed, dropping his head and gazing intently at the ground. His hands folded in front of him, each trying to stop the other from trembling.

He didn't want to talk about it, now. He didn't want to voice the terrible things he'd seen, and he was certain it would only be met with derision. But they were all looking at him expectantly, silently demanding an explanation, and he could remember each of their dead faces with painful clarity.

Just a dream. Remember that.

"I... you were all... dead," he said, aware of just how quiet it had gotten. "I watched some of you die." He determinedly avoided looking at either Veneziano or Canada. "And... there was so much blood... and... everyone was dead. I... couldn't find anyone who was alive. I was alone." He shuddered, ducking his head even further down, waiting for someone to call him out for the pathetic thing he was being right now.

Instead, he felt the bed sink a little on his left, and an arm settled around his shoulder this time. He didn't have to look up to know that Canada was there. Then a second presence sat itself down on his right, and he glanced to the side in surprise. Veneziano smiled at him in that reassuringly cheerful way of his.

"We're alive right now, aren't we?" the Italian reminded him. "Isn't that what matters?"

No ridicule seemed to be forthcoming. America tried not to reflect on the irony of the two sitting beside him and looked from Veneziano to the others, all of whom had taken on varying degrees of either solemn or uncomfortable expressions. "You need to stop caring so much, Alfred," China said, rather sadly. "That's not how it works, aru."

"I don't care how it works," Alfred muttered. "I don't want to see that happen. Ever. It was... horrible." The whole world, dead. Could that happen? Could they do that to each other? Could they do that to themselves? The thought made him shudder once more, and Canada's arm tightened protectively around him.

"Then it won't," Germany said bluntly.

Everyone looked at him in varying degrees of surprise. "What?" more than one asked.

"It won't happen," Germany said, folding his arms and frowning.

Baffled silence. "... You can't just say that."

"You can't predict when war will happen!"

"I mean, with humans, where's the guarantee...?"

Germany sighed in quiet exasperation. "I've come to notice," he said, "that life is usually as simple as saying yes or no. One would think the fact that we're all here, trying to work out our problems without killing each other, actually means something." His eyes darkened. "I should think that we would have learned from the past centuries."

No one was going to argue with him on that point. An uncomfortable silence descended.

"What are the chances of all of us dying all at once, anyway?" Spain asked cheerfully, breaking it. He raised a debatable point.

"It has to be in the negative percents."

"Unless you count damned nukes and stuff."

"Yeah, but even then, some of us would have to like, survive, right?"

"Dunno. Isn't that why we sign arms agreements, though?"

America listened to the heightened conversations that had been sparked; in truth, he was rather amazed by what he heard. Of all things, it was the last he would have expected. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but before it could fully form, England very loudly cleared his throat.

"I think what we could all agree on," the Englishman said, as soon as the room had fallen silent, "is a promise... that we'll never leave one of our number entirely alone. Even if we fight in the future, we won't abandon each other to that kind of fate. Agreed?"

The silence was tangible, as the nations mulled this over in their heads and, perhaps, put themselves in that sort of situation. And then Russia stepped forward, inclining his head. "I agree," he said quietly. "That would be nice."

One by one, more voices joined him, some doubtful, some enthusiastic, but not one of them denying it. England looked to America, a real, rare smile on his face. "You see?" he said. "Nothing to worry about. Even if we do end up killing each other, it won't be all of us. Marginally more reassuring, isn't it?"

America's mouth twitched. He'd never understand British humor. "Agreed," he said quietly.

"Good," England said. "We can bring this up at tomorrow's meeting as well, for those who aren't here. It won't be a formal agreement, of course, but I think it will do us some good. God only knows we need it."

This inspired fresh discussion, and America listened in wonder. All of a sudden, he found himself laughing, more out of release than anything else. He laughed hard until it dissolved into chuckling, and several of his fellows looked at him with alarm.

It probably did look like he was going mad. "Sorry," he said. "I think I needed that. Anyway... ya'll need to get the hell out of here. This is embarrassing enough as it is."

"Yeah, you ruined our sleep!"

"You owe us drinks tomorrow for that, da?"

America rolled his eyes, giving a crooked grin. "Fair enough. Drinks on me, then."

A rousing cheer follow this; nothing brought people together quite like nightmares and the prospect of alcohol. The nations began to file out of the room, shooed away by England. Veneziano hopped to his feet, patting America on the shoulder. "Better now?" he asked cheerfully.

"Much," America replied, smiling. "Thanks, buddy. And Germany...?"

The nation in question raised an eyebrow at him.

"You too. Thanks."

Germany was impassive for a moment, but his face relaxed into a smile. "I am glad I was able to help," was all he said before departing with the others.

I grew up at the beginning of the end of that darker time. I've seen the world evolve. Maybe that's why it's so hard for me to imagine that, even as I am now, I might one day turn on my family. They're all my family, even though we hardly act like it, and in this new age, I want us to be different from the history that everyone is convinced defines us. I want us to forgive ourselves and each other. I want us to stop hating each other. I want us to live forever.

Go ahead, call me an idealist. It'll be a lot nicer than some of the names they have for me and my hopes. But I'm not going to change that for anyone or anything. They say it's impossible. I say it's because they've never tried.

The room seemed large now, far too big; the comfortable warmth of so many nations had vanished. But Canada and England were still there, and neither of them seemed inclined to leave, even if it was just Canada to the second bed in the room. America was grateful.

"You guys," he said, wanting to express everything he needed to say that he never had - I'm sorry, forgive me, I love you, if you ever die I will kill you again - but he couldn't. The words got stuck in his throat.

They knew what he meant anyway.

"Well," England said, "I suppose I could tolerate sharing a room with you for one night."

America muttered something rapid and unintelligible.

"What was that?"

"I said..." America reiterated, turning somewhat red, "maybe... we could all sleep in the same bed... y'know, for old time's sake."

England and Canada exchanged a glance, making America turn even more red, and then England sighed as Canada gave a small grin.

"Just this one night," England said, and his very obvious smile was carefully hidden.

A lot of bad things happen to us, more than any normal person could handle. Truth be told, I don't really know how we manage to handle it. We just do. We keep moving on, because to give up is death. And like I said before, we don't get along with death.

Even when things get really bad, we keep on going. That's maybe the best thing about us. Throw everything you can at us, and we still manage to take a few more steps forward.

Can you imagine what we'd do if we did that together? If circumstances hurled everything bad at us, and we faced it together? We'd be unstoppable. The future is a scary thing, but if we took it head-on, together, we'd do great things. We wouldn't have any reason to hate ourselves or feel ashamed.

America could have pretended that he was young again for the memories that assaulted him. England had often done this for him when nightmares struck, only now America was sandwiched between two brothers. It felt safe. He had a feeling that no more nightmares would visit him tonight.

Kumajirou had transferred himself from Canada's bed to America's now that things had calmed down and at gentle insistence from Canada, had settled himself in between the North American twins. The polar bear's warmth added another layer of protection, and America sighed contentedly. He was the only one still awake; he'd found that his mind refused to settle, but he didn't mind. Both England and Canada were fast asleep on either side of him, and he listened to their rhythmic breathing, letting it keep calm his own. It kept the nightmare images at bay and prevented him from dwelling on their dead faces etched so permanently into his memory.

But that was all it was - a nightmare. All that mattered was that he had them here. No matter what the future held, even what tomorrow held, the only important thing was that right now, they were a family. He wasn't alone.

He was determined to keep it that way.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that if we did that, we really would live forever. We'd reclaim that connected nature that's long been lost to us. Taking those steps forward would be less painful, and we'd all be better off.

But who am I kidding?

Even I have my limits when it comes to optimism.

Still... it's a comforting thing to know that, no matter what we may do, life is going to go on regardless... no matter what happens to some of us.

That's just the way the world works.

"What are you writing, lad?"

America jumped, snatching the paper and his scribbles up before he had time to even register who had asked. "Nothing," he said casually, turning to face England and his brother's narrowed eyes with a bright grin. "Nothing at all! We need to get to the meeting, don't we? C'mon~!"

England knew something was up. He tried to look at what America held, but America shoved the scrap of paper into his pocket before the other could see it. England scowled, folding his arms. "What are you hiding? You don't write."

"'Course I do!" America said. "Doesn't mean you can look at it."

"Alfred…"

"Can't hear you anymore~!" America bounded towards the door.

"Alfred." The forcefulness in England's tone brought America to a halt, and he stopped with a hand on the doorknob, looking back.

England seemed to be swallowing a few inhibitions; there was unusual concern in his eyes, remnant from the night before. "Are you all right?" he finally asked.

America considered the question. "I am," he said, and there was rare sincerity in his voice. "A lot better than I've been in a while, actually." He hardly failed to notice that England seemed relieved by this, and his grin returned with full force, delighted and mischievous. "Aww, you care! That's so cute~!"

"Why would I care about you, bloody idiot?" England said at once, affecting a scowl - but even that gave way for a smile that fought its way onto his face, and he laughed. "You're blocking the door," he said, swatting at America and gesturing for him to get a move on. "We've going to be late thanks to you!"

As America bounced out the room, trading his usual banter with his brother, his hand absently dropped to paper concealed in his pocket, and he couldn't help but smile.