Trigger warning: Mentions of self-harm, alcoholism, suicide.

It had been 8 long months since his death. Netherlands hadn't left his house since the funeral. Belgium was worried about him and yet she never stopped by to check up on him. They were family and yet they didn't actually care about each other. That was how a country's relationships worked usually.

Canada was different though. He was always happy to see Netherlands, always asked how he was doing and if he was feeling alright. It was nice to be cared for. And Netherlands had loved him in return. And where had he gone wrong? Was he too blunt, too rough? Did he not call him enough or did he go to see him too often? It's not like he could ask Canada the answer. And that just broke him inside. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing scattered unclean cuts along his arms. Netherlands had tried blocking out and hiding from the pain by creating more pain, but it wasn't working. He still felt. His heart still ached every time the maple leaves were blown down the sidewalk by the wind, and when the Olympics had came on the television and announced the contestants in the hockey portion of the games. Something that Canada would never participate in again.

Rummaging through his pants pocket, he finally found what he had been looking for. It was a small switchblade. He ran his thumb along the cool metal of the blade. 'Not today,' he thought to himself. 'You can hold out. You can make it through. Put it back in your pocket, ok?' Netherlands was strong. He gripped the knife's handle tight, causing his knuckles to turn white. Just one cut. One fresh open wound. That's all. That's all he needed.

He swiftly threw the knife against the wall. It stuck. He stood and walked over the closet, opening it. He put on a coat and his trademark scarf and walked out the door. Lighting a cigarette, Netherlands walked the moonlit streets of Amsterdam, wanting love that could not be, and a life that would never change.

In the red light district, prostitutes beckoned for him to come in and forget himself. Pain wouldn't change anything, and neither would sex, drugs, or alcohol. The man Netherlands had loved the most was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt like he had abandoned Canada in a time of need. He just hadn't known. No one could have known. He always seemed so happy, so willing to help, to be a shoulder to lean on. Maybe that's what he was tired of. Why he chose to quit.

It couldn't have been because of him, could it? Netherlands had always blamed himself. In some way, it was all his fault. The women in the window held no interest to him they never had. Finally out of the red light district, Netherlands had finally found the place he was looking for. It was a cafe, one he had taken Canada to at the start of their relationship. He opened the door and walked inside, sitting in a booth in a far corner of the cafe. The cafe was dimly lit and smelled of incense and coffee, a mixture that at the same time was inviting yet repulsed the nation. It brought back too many memories of the past, of the good times he used to have. The waitress came by and he order coffee, black, in the hopes that it would keep him awake and he wouldn't have to sleep. The nights had haunted him ever since that day. His brain would replay the incident over and over again in his head.

The gunshot. America's screams. The blood splattered on the wall like paint. How afterwards, when Canada's body had been moved the rest of the brain matter had fallen out through the gaping hole in the back of his head. They had turned off the camera by then, but Netherlands had read the incident report that had been written up. He remembered how it smelled to. The coppery scent of blood and the putrid stink of death had lingered in the air. He was used to it of course, because like every nation he had encountered war.

But never had there been the death of a nation by a nation's own hand. It filled the air, heavy and dark like a cloud made of poison, it slowly choked out all happiness within its radius. All of these things kept the Germanic nation awake at night. He didn't dare sleep anymore because the pain of reliving one of the worst moments in his life was just too much.

His coffee came, and he greedily drank the liquid, letting it burn his throat and feeling the warmth pool in his stomach. Something else was there too. Regret? No, regret usually made itself known by giving him a splitting headache. This was something unfamiliar.

Acceptance.

Canada was gone and there was nothing he could do nothing he could ever do to change that and Netherlands just had to accept it or it would be his own downfall next and he didn't think the world could take another country's death, that would just be cruel and despicable of him.

Netherlands sat his coffee mug down, along with a few euros to pay for it. He got up and walked out of the cafe, and headed towards Belgium's place. Hopefully she would be awake. Hopefully he would be welcomed.

It was time to move on. He could mourn, still. But at some point he had to stop wallowing in his own self pity. Netherlands lit another cigarette and meandered down the road, taking his time towards the unknown.

Kumajiro roamed the frozen tundra of what was once the proud nation of Canada. Left to the wilderness, cities, suburbs, all that was once there had grown into a surreal kind of wildlife preserve. Chipmunks, gophers, squirrels and marmots made their homes in the houses people that had once lived there. It was now overgrown with trees and grass breaking through pavement and cement, turning houses into habitats for small woodland creatures.

The bear certainly looked quite feral, but inside he was just wondering where his master had gone. Why hadn't he come home in so long? Kumajiro missed having regular meals that Canada had left out for him, so he had had to turn to the wild. At least with the nation's population gone, there were more room for animals, which meant more food for the ravenous Kumajiro.

His fur was matted and tangled, and as the polar bear stalked the streets of Ontario, he wondered why he was left this way. Something had gone wrong, he could feel it. But what? Kumajiro let out a growl that was laden in sorrow. Maybe his master would hear him and come home? The bear could only hope.

He was drunk. Not just drunk, but completely and utterly wasted out of his mind. Whiskey, although not his usual choice in alcohol, sure got the job done fast. He swilled the amber liquid around in his glass, and then abruptly downing it all at once. The alcohol burned the back of his throat, but luckily he was a seasoned drinker and paid no mind. France poured himself another glass and promptly laid back down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

For awhile he had been trying to drown his sorrows but his sorrows had learned how to swim.

In recent months, France had become almost unbearable. The loss of his son or at least that's how France had always thought of Canada had made him increasingly depressed, which caused him to be more inclined to drink. And no one really bothered to stop him. Who would want to, really? It was far easier to deal with a drunk France than a hysterical one. Why was it that the countries were all so uncaring? Was it that they had seen it all? They couldn't be bothered to offer their hand to France because they knew how he would react? Or that they had never been in such a scenario, and were afraid? Whatever the reason, it was petty and heartless, and France couldn't really care for the lot of them anyways.

Fuck love. He was supposed to be the nation of love, true, but he just couldn't stand it anymore. So far love had only brought him pain. How he hated pain. Therefore, he hated love. To see his darling baby Canada kill himself, alone, and to see America so broken, and England had left him too, drunk and cold and alone as well.

The alcohol helped him forget. Remembering hurt. Everything hurt, in fact. Breathing, touching, loving, speaking, moving. The alcohol helped that too. France was in a haze, a mere shadow of the nation he used to be. Sorrow had enveloped him, welcoming him and wrapping its arms around him like an embrace. Then strangling him until he could no longer breathe and could no longer find a way to break free. He was trapped in himself with no way out.

France knew that. He couldn't fight it and didn't particularly want to. It's not that he was content, but Canada's death had struck him in his very core, and he didn't enjoy remembering that. Having children, raising them, is like raising a piece of yourself. And that piece of France was gone now. Death was so final, so cruel, ripping away the people that you loved most at a moment's notice. Without warning.

Lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag, France blew the smoke into the air. He knocked back another glass of whiskey, took another drag from the cigarette, lather, rinse, repeat.

He rolled over on the couch, putting his cigarette out by grinding it into the upholstery. A half-drunk shot of whiskey sat on the coffee table, inviting him to take another sip. To forget some more. France stood, and fell to the ground with a thud. He was more drunk than he thought. No matter. It would resolve itself in the morning. The hangover would come, he would regret and then do it all over again. He faded quickly into unconsciousness.

Know this, dear reader, that they would all recover. It would take time, and it would take will, but things would eventually go back to the way they were. Somewhat. Canada would be held in remembrance, and those closest to him would battle their demons. Such is life and such is moving on.

A/N: Another chapter written late at night. Reviews find a cozy home here.