_Englands' POV_
Waking up in the middle of the night isn't exactly normal; even though the time I normally wake up is early. Not 3 A.M. early, but early none the less. I groan, rolling onto my side and roughly thrusting the pillow over my head. Too damn early... Must sleep more... But sleep wasn't coming as I finally realized WHY I woke up. It was the 4th of July.
"Dammit..." I said, cursing fluidly as I rise from bed to get dressed, snatching my softly glowing phone from the nightstand.
"Prussia, meet me at the bar." I type, shrugging on a jacket and stepping into my shoes. The reply is immediate.
"Thought you'd never ask!"
"Ha ha. Just be there."
Five minutes later I'm seated at the bar, a drink in hand, and staring dully up at the glowing TV above me. There's hardly anyone there, save for the laughing Prussian beside me. He can drink so fast. I wonder how he ever overcomes his hangovers.
"Kesesesese! So England, what's got you down?" he asks, his eyebrows shooting up. I know he knows but I flip him off anyway.
"You know, idiot." I take a large gulp of beer, setting down the now empty glass and waving towards the bartender for more. He nods curtly, refilling the glass like he does every Saturday night around this time. I'm a regular customer.
"Ah. And you'd think you'd be able to hold your alcohol better... You know, the amount you drink really isn't good, dude!" the Prussian muses, finishing off his third mug. I roll my eyes, taking a sip from my new glass. To my surprise, the cup is already empty.
"You know bloody well why I drink like this..." I say, my words starting to slur. "Besides, it's not like it'll kill me."
"Yeah, yeah..." the other looks down. "I can barely get drunk, let alone wasted now a days... Right now, I consider you the lucky one. There are things I'd like to forget."
"Tell me about it!" I say. My vision finally blurs and my thoughts start to scatter as the alcohol takes effect. "Sometimes I just wish America wasn't such a... a..."
"Dummkoph?" Prussia offers, playing glumly with his empty glass. I slam my mug down, the bartender refilling it right away, and laugh.
"Yes! He's such a bloody freaking TWAT! I can't stand him!"
"That's not what I said, but whatever." Prussia says as I sling my arm around him. "I see you're perfectly drunk."
"Perfectly, my Queen~!" The Prussian sighs, downing another two mugs. His eyes are sparkling now, but he's not nearly as tipsy as I am. The ceiling, when it's there, spirals around me, and my hands grip the bars edge, knuckles white.
"Common Ig. Let's get you out of here..." the man next to me says, placing a firm hand on my back and leading me from the bar. I think I shout something along the lines of "Fruk you," but I can't be sure. When we exit the bar, a harsh cold bites my cheeks and I laugh. The pain of the wind whipping around me begins to erase my buzz, and the world stops spinning so fast. I can walk normally now, giggling to myself. Prussia lags behind, and I occasionally hear the smash of a bottle against the sidewalk behind me.
Once we reach my house, the Prussian following is absolutely dead on his feet. He gives me a half-hearted wave before taking off towards his home. The poor guy; he should really get together with Canada before the Frog does. When I shut the door behind me the buzz comes back. Without a lack of restriction, such as the wind, I rip off my outdoor wear and stumble into the kitchen.
"Damn America... Damn Independence... Damn alcohol..." I mutter, sweeping through the cupboards for my secret box. Once I find it I careful place everything back where it should go, surprisingly tidy for a drunk. Alcohol doesn't effect me as much as it used to; most of it is an act at this point. Before I go completely down into my own mind I race upstairs to my room, locking the door and the hidden deadbolt, just in case. I don't want myself walking off and I certainly don't want someone coming across me once I'm done.
After securing the room, I open the small, cardboard shoe box and sigh in relief. Inside are three objects; a knife, a pair of scissors, and pills. For good measure I tie my ankles to the bed, just to make sure I don't escape while under. My body can't handle alcohol very well, and I've woken up more than once atop Big Ben, or dressed in bloody rags in an alley, or even hanging upside-down by a noose below a bridge over the Thames. Can't have that happening again...
I can feel myself shiver as I take my shirt off, grasping tightly to the bloody blades in the box. This is a yearly occurrence, sometimes even more often then that, depending on how depressed I am. The moonlight shining through the window over my bed illuminates the ridges of bone and muscle over my thin form. France, the only person besides myself who's ever seen my chest, thinks I'm very "good looking". Which means he's thought more than once about fruking me, I assume. That thought clears my mind for a moment and I look down.
No scars are left from this ritual. Thankfully. No one has figured me out, even though I've been doing this for centuries. Even Prussia, who goes drinking with me periodically, doesn't know. He's got his own problems of course, and he tells people not to bug me the next day, assuming just have one heck of a hangover. The scissors gleam beautifully in the half light, and I smile. Without warning, I plunge the blades deep into my pale skin, hissing as I bite my lip to keep the scream in. No one needs to know...
I twist the sharp side and then rip it out, letting the blood flow freely from the wound I made. It's on my right side, just below the ribs, and I gasp in pain as my knees give out below me. Is this revenge on myself for letting him escape, or is this my way of showing I still care. That I still want him hurts me more than even this blade, and the fact that he'll never know and never return that love just makes it all the worse.
A single tear falls, landing on my bloody palm and disappearing in the red. Red envelopes everything and rules over all in this life. Red, like the color of my coat as I kneeled before him that day. I cried then too, for the same reason as now. All of my pain belongs to him. As I rip the dripping blade from my left side, a small scream escapes my lips. I can taste blood in my mouth and realize I bit through my lips with a sigh.
I take out the second blade; a small, ragged edged dagger no bigger than my thumb. I slice it easily across my wrist, feeling a pinch and then a sting as blood coats my forearm. It's warm and sticky and I try to wipe it away, unable to see the skin clearly. I start to hack away at it, losing count of how many cuts I've done. I feel no pain now, just the adrenaline rushing through my veins as I slice through the poor, unguarded flesh.
My blade slips and I accidentally cut my forehead above my right eye. I curse, my voice slurred, and reach up to dab at the wound. Blood covers my eye and falls in little droplets down my chin. I smile at the new found pain and begin to cut more. As I start to get dizzy I reach for the pills. I scramble to pop the lid off and when I eventually do all the tablets clatter on the floor.
"Damn..." I whisper, bending down to scoop up a handful of the fallen pills. I take one glance down before opening my mouth and throwing them all in. Suddenly the world turns red, and a low beating sound thunders in my ears. The spinning forces me to the ground but I continue to cut, my hand unsteady and slippery with blood. The floor is cool against my fevered cheeks, and I close my eyes in the pure bliss of the moment. I'd completely forgotten America, and spiraled down, down, down into my own insane mind.
_Americas' POV_
"Iggy? Hey, you here?" the American called out, carrying a bag of groceries in one hand and his phone in the other. He'd gotten an obscure message around midnight last night, something odd in a different language. Of course, 5 in the morning is the normal time for England to wake up, but the fact he had texted him? Way weird. He called Prussia, who confirmed that yes, they'd been out drinking the night before and yes, that message was most likely England cursing him.
This wasn't the first time America had received a message like this; just the first time he'd acted on it. He'd come over the next day after cleaning up from his epic party. England never came to his birthday, and even though he wanted him to, America would never ask. He knew how much pain his independence caused the Brit, and he didn't want to push him. After a few moments with no response, the man dropped the bag, which was filled with soup cans and some left over cake, just in case Iggy had gotten sick while drunk like usual. But when he went to the Brits bedroom door it was locked.
With a smirk, he used a safety pin to pick the lock and opened the door. It still wouldn't budge, and at this the American stalled. Why in the hell...? He kicked at the door but it held firm.
"Iggy! You in there?" he said, knocking on the door. The noise echoed through the silent house, as did the faint stir from the other side of the wall. With a smile, America pounded his fists against the door, hollering loud enough to wake a dead man from his slumber. "Open the damn door!"
"..."
"What?" he asked, cupping a hand to the door.
"You can't... come... in..." Taken aback by the weak voice, America stared at the door as if it might open on it's own. When it didn't, he resumed his pounding, shouting at the man inside.
"If you're sick I can help! Please let me in! Iggy, I'll break down this door!" There was no response, and after ten minutes America started to get worried. "Okay, I'm coming in!" Nothing.
America kicked at the door until the hinges broke and left the wood hanging on, crooked and splintered. What America saw shocked him into silence. He stared.
_Englands' POV_
Everything is fuzzy, dancing shapes as my vision clears. Or fogs, how should I know. I know I overdid it. Maybe one too many cuts, or too much alcohol. Or maybe it was the pills. Who knows; because I certainly don't. As I start to come to I can hear someones voice, small but piercing. The sound makes my ears rings and I clutch myself in pain. Make it stop, make it stop, go away, leave me alone, make it stop...
"Iggy?" the annoying voice catches my ears like a fish on a line. America.
"Oh s_..." I whisper, voice cracking. Pains shoot through me when I try to move, so I just sit helplessly in the center of the room, blood still soaking my clothes. I feel incredibly dizzy, and my thoughts don't want to focus where they should. I feel like I'm still drunk, though I know that's impossible. When the nation comes to my door I try to make him leave, but something keeps him here. I drift in and out of consciousness as he pounds on my door. When it grows quiet for a while, I crack one eye open. There's nothing to see. I close it, lying back. My breathing is uneven and the pain wracks my body, causing me to forget about everything else. Not even America can pierce through my armor of pain.
"Why... do I do this?" I whisper to myself, coughing into my fist. Blood appears like a red splotch on my already blood-covered hand and I groan. "I just want to be saved..."
"I'll save you." The voice is right in front of me, but at this point I cannot be fazed. I groan again, shifting a bit.
"Oh really?" There's a pause.
"I'll be your hero." I slit one eye open at that. All I see is blue. Blue, blue everywhere; crowding my vision and erasing the red I have come to know and somehow despise. Tears make my sight blur more, and I feel a hand wipe them away as they fall. Suddenly I'm sobbing, holding tightly onto the person beside me, crying and crying. It goes on for a long time, and America just sits there, rubbing my back comfortingly. I lay against him when I'm done, his arms wrapped around my fragile body.
"Stay with me always?" I ask him. I feel his lips press against mine from above and I close my eyes.
"Forever."