People just kept asking and asking for this, so here it is. Wasn't my original plan, but hey, a writer has got to cater to the audience. Hope you enjoy.

Warnings: Uh, sadness and stuff...

Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.

America couldn't stand their fake tears and apathetic speeches. The sorrow was all forced, and the condolences were impersonal, cold, and distant. Everyone seemed indifferent. The entire ceremony was nothing more than some kind of detached, social gathering. There was nothing – apart from the flag draped over the coffin – that gave any evidence of who they were mourning. No pictures, no heartfelt messages. It was as if the person in the coffin was a mannequin – a doll that had never lived. A being that no one had ever cared about.

And America hated it.

"L-Look, I'm sorry, I know you probably don't c-care, but I needed to talk to someone before I… before I…"

The funeral ceremony for Canada happened on a Sunday, two weeks after the horrific incident. The bitter irony of the day made America want to laugh and cry at the same time.

It was the first day of the seventh month: July the first.

Canada's birthday.

"Does it really even matter anymore? What's the point of even trying?"

It was Canada's day. The day where everyone was supposed to remember him and celebrate his life and be there for him.

And Canada was dead.

And no one seemed to even care.

America wanted to yell. He wanted to accuse the surrounding nations, to blame them for everything they did and everything they hadn't done. To make them see. To make them understand. To make them care.

"You don't understand, Al. I'm ready for it to end. I can't take it anymore."

But America couldn't. He couldn't blame them. He couldn't accuse them and scream at them and yell and cry and hate. Because he was just like them.

No, he was worse.

Sure, America saw now what he had done. What he had driven his brother to do. What he had failed to stop from happening.

How could he even think to blame England for his forgetfulness, or France for his carelessness, or any of the others for their inability to notice Canada when he had…

"No one cares, Al. No one."

When he had, time after time, failed to be there for his brother. When he'd not only forgotten him, not only overlooked him, but actually hurt him.

Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Hurt him enough to drive him to the edge.

"No one has ever tried this before, Al."

Enough to make him jump.

"I'll be the first."

But Canada had never blamed America. The northern nation had never given any indication that he held hard feelings towards his American brother. He had never shown the pain of being forgotten, or the loneliness of being overlooked. No, even when he was standing on the ledge, even when he was taking the final step, he never looked at America accusingly.

But America still knew. He knew it was his fault. If he hadn't been a superpower, if he hadn't kept overpowering and outshining Canada, his brother wouldn't have so desperate. He wouldn't have gone to such extents.

His brother would probably still be alive.

"People might actually remember me."

And as America scanned the room of nations, looking at the faces of Canada's supposed loved ones, watching as a few representatives ambled towards the red-and-white covered coffin, he realized with dread that no one here would remember him.

No one would even try.

In weeks or days or maybe even in hours, the memory of that shy and gentle nation would fade from everyone's mind. It would get lost behind the memories of war and strife and love and everything else that everyone here had or would ever experience. Canada would fade from history, just as he'd faded from sight during countless meetings and conferences.

His memory, like his life, would cease to exist.

"I don't care anymore. It's too late to go back now."

America watched from his spot in the corner as the wake slowly began came to an end. Anyone who had wanted to say anything – who had wanted to speak in Canada's name – had finished. It hadn't lasted long, barely an hour, since there hadn't been many speakers. No one seemed to know what to say.

No one mentioned the suicide.

And America watched various nations left the hall without a second's pause. Like they had something much more important they'd rather be doing, somewhere more interesting to be, something more memorable to devote their attention to.

America averted his gaze as a group of Europeans passed him on their way out. He didn't want to see their apathetic and indifferent expressions. Their mindless and uncaring condolences. He didn't think he could handle it. But try as he might, he couldn't escape their words. Words that he heard loud and clear.

"Well this was a waste of my awesome time…"

"God, that was so fucking boring. I don't know why you dragged me to this, you damn tomato-bastard."

"Germany~, why did we come here? I don't even know a Matthew Williams, ve~..."

America could feel a sharp pain in his chest. Of course they hadn't held a funeral for Canada. They had held one for Matthew Williams, the name behind the country. The name of America's – no, not America, Alfred's – brother.

Matthew Williams.

"Fuck it Matthew, TALK TO ME."

Matthew.

"God damn it, Matthew. Please, just tell me where you are."

Mattie.

"Why, Mattie? There are people who care about you…"

Alfred had tried.

"Matthew, don't. Please, it's not too late."

He had tried so hard.

"Mattie, listen to me, this isn't the answer."

But he had tried much, much too late.

"Matthew, god damnit, don't do this!"

And so he had been forced to hear those final two words.

"Bye Alfred."

It had been horrible, and terrifying, and heartbreaking. Horrible to hear those final words, terrifying to watch him take that final step, heartbreaking to have his fingertips so close yet so, so far away.

And so Alfred had watched him fall.

Fall without a sound.

Fall until he landed.

And Alfred knew – knew from eighteen stories up – that he was dead.

He hadn't needed to see it…

But he did.

He hadn't needed to check…

But he did.

He had just felt it. Felt it the moment it happened. Felt it like a part of him had been ripped away and cast into oblivion. It had hurt. It had hurt like a physical blow to the gut. But that pain was nothing compared to the emptiness he felt now.

And he knew that he would never, ever forget. The emptiness wouldn't let him. And although Alfred wanted to let that emptiness consume him, to let it overtake him and render him nothing more than a shadow, he knew that he couldn't break. Not like that.

Not when he finally knew what he had to do.

He would make them remember. He would make them care. He would talk about Matthew and Canada and what he stood for and how good he was. He would speak on Matthew's behalf and help out with his country and Alfred would try his best to be the brother that he never was.

He would honor one of Matthew's last wishes – "People might actually remember me." – and he would do everything he could to make sure they remembered.

He wasn't going to forget.

And he wasn't going to let the others forget Matthew either.

And here is chapter three to my originally planned two-shot. Hopefully no one feels the need for ANOTHER chapter. But hey, I would love some feedback, so please feel free to tell me how you felt about this.

I absolutely adore Canada, he's one of my favorite characters, but... a story is a story. And this one pretty much wrote itself. So I'm sorry about the character death. *tears*

Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed it. Love you guys.