Where Is The Sun Now?

Nobody told them that Life isn't fair, and so far, nobody reminded them that Death isn't that fair, either.

He was a nation.

They didn't expect him to die.

A cold hand landed on his shoulder, as he watched Finland cling unto Sweden.

Hanatamago is silent.

"It isn't your fault, you know." Iceland's voice is soft, and Norway laughed softly.

There was no humor, though. Such lies.

He knows that it was their fault.

It was their fault because they tore themselves away from him. Because even though they knew that he needs them, they carried on with their own lives, and they haven't even noticed that he is slowly breaking.

They left him. He left this world.

He was a nation.

Was.

Death eats away a part of a person, no matter how small or big it was. It eats away whatever it can, even if it meant reducing that person into dirt.

In Norway's case, he might as well rot, like what would be happening to Denmark, the moment they lowered the casket.

Norway felt disgusted.

The thought of Denmark being left to rot under the ground isn't appealing, because even though their... 'bond' faded away a long time ago, he knows that Denmark doesn't deserve this. He shouldn't be inside that bloody box , and he shouldn't be place under the goddamned ground and be left there to rot, and be forgotten by others as soon as another nation starts to replace his role.

Time flies too fast, that it seems to bury them alive.

"I just can't believe this," Finland whispered, as they stared at the flat soil with Denmark's name on it. "I could never imagine Denmark doing that."

"That?" Iceland said. "It has a name. Suicide. And I know it's hard, but there is no other explanation. You saw him himself." Finland visibly stiffens, his grip on Sweden tightening. The taller man said nothing.

"There's always another explanation." Norway finally spoke, his voice just as tired as their's. "He won't kill himself- you should know that."

But it was a pathetic attempt- He's not even sure if it's them he is assuring, or just himself.

There was no more words that could describe the silence around them.

Cold. Deafening.

Dead.

He sighed audibly, as he picked up the phone.

Denmark has been calling him for the last two days. And he still is.

"Hello? Norge?" His tone was cheery, still. "So you finally answered, huh?"

Norway inwardly groaned. Looking over his paperworks, he knew that he have to finish this. Fast. "Keep it short." His voice was cold, although colder than he intended to.

But his patience is slowly running out, and he could feel migraine inching closer.

There was a brief silence on the other line, before Denmark spoke in a soft voice, "I'm leaving."

Norway was starting to feel the migraine. He desperately wanted to rest now. Or maybe a cup of coffee. "That's good, then."

He hung up when he got no response. That would be the last call I would answer.

Denmark didn't call anymore after that.

Finland was ready to wipe away another tear.

He was tired from crying, but every thing keeps on haunting him; the signs he missed, the things he disregarded.

Sweden still haven't talked since the incident. Norway is lost in silent regret. Iceland is somewhere.

And here he is, crying to himself in his room.

He can't help but feel like his death was partly his fault.

After all, did he not ignored him, too?

As polite as he was to him, he must admit that he tends to get away from him. He doesn't even know why.

He felt utterly pathetic. Mean. Guilty.

Stupid.

He sighed as he made his way down to the kitchen, hoping that a glass of water might help him.

He paused and closed his eyes.

He saw it.

And it would never leave him.

"Denmark?"

Finland decided to visit Denmark that day- he knows that being alone is really lonely. And it hurts him to think that it is partly his fault.

And his own guilt is pushing him further down.

So he'll visit. Just this one time.

"Denmark?" He called out once more. The house reeks of coffee.

He saw an unused mug and a spoon on the counter.

Maybe he was still asleep? He mused, as he made his way to the stairs.

His back is turned to him when he found him. Denmark's back was facing him...but his face looking right at him, his eyes open and glassy…one lid half closed. A trail of dried, flacking, blood ran from the top of his head to his neck where it disappeared from his sight.

His body's numb. He couldn't move; he felt like his heart was going to explode any moment now.

Breathing suddenly bacame hard.

He had fallen; that was his first thought. His second is that there must be something he could do to help him…but his body wouldn't move.

And he knew he was dead.

Finland shakily walked over to him, and closed his eyes.

And he knew that those empty eyes will haunt him.

Iceland stood over the floor.

The police have already left this place after they decided that the case was a suicide.

Unconciously, he started walking upstairs, and he didn't fail to realize that the scent of coffee is still lingering around the house.

He entered his room, and a cool breeze met his face. He walked around the room a few times, before settling down the bed.

He only got a few memory about Denmark, and he knows that he is practically a good person.

Obnoxious, yes, but he is the kind of person that you would want to keep in you life.

That's why he hated the way the other Nordics ignore the guy, deep down. He wanted to shake them and yell to them, in hopes to wake them up.

He wanted to tell them the way how Denmark's mask crumble, piece by piece, everytime they pass by him without greeting. Everytime they disregard him.

He could see him breaking. Cracking. Falling down, like Humpty Dumpty, only faster.

He could see his face, hidden by the sickening smile that seems to be frozen in it, contain the bits of pain and hurt that was left whenever they forget him.

This is different from that Canadian. He still have his family and a French man caring for him.

Denmark was abandoned by his own.

And Iceland knows that what they have done to Denmark is heartbreaking.

Unforgivable.

He's only a carbon copy of himself. The person they see smiling that... plastic smile that they never notice is a desperate remain of what Denmark is.

He's not happy. He's not cheerful. He's not...

He's miserable.

That's what left with him. His loneliness. His constant feelings of rejection.

And it seems like he was passing it down to them.

Small, tiny drops of water fell down unto his lap, as he let himself break down. That's all he can do now.

He could at least cry for him.

The night is still young, but the easy breeze that surrounded him make him feel older than he was.

Outside, by the door, a certain Norwegian silently peered through the tiny gap. He could feel his own tears.

Denmark, you're breaking us.

"Hallo, Denmark." Iceland's voice was never a lively one, but Denmark was happy to hear his voice.

Whatever the fuck 'happy' means.

"Iceland!" He said, his voice being cheery not because of emotion, but because of mannerism.

He was using it too much to hide his pain, that it comes out naturally now.

"Why did you call?" on the other side, Iceland decided not to bring up how fake he sounded to him.

"I'm leaving."

There was no response from Iceland. Denmark waited, but the other said nothing. "Goodnight then, Iceland."

He hung up. Iceland closed his phone.

He was woken up with his phone beeping. It was morning, and the sky is barely lightened up.

"Finland?"

There was silence, before Finland finally said with a strangled sob, "Denmark's gone."

A/N:

I know. I write death fics too frequently, and they end up like crap.

And what's worse is, I can't stop.

Anyway, as you can see, it's still not finished, hm? Should I continue it, or leave it here to rot?

I seriously need reviews on this one- I am thrilled about this fic, in fact. So, please...?

I don't own Hetalia.

And also, I'm not good at the genre.