Wow I haven't written anything in a while no have I. Either way I wrote the poem for creative writing and fell in love with it and wrote a story based off of it. Poem is Hetalia too, form America's POV, so yeah.

Oh, and I'm going a roleplay with one of my friends. USxUK, and it will be posted here. We're planning it last weekend on our retreat, but it's extremely delayed because I got the pig plague. But I have a feeling it's going to be great with we start, cause it's got a bunch of history in it...and it's mostly be rated M when were done writing it -blush-. So we're going to be making a new account and publishing that there. I hope we can get it up soon, or at least the first chapter by next week, or something like that. I don't want to tell you all what it's about, but I'll tell you the title cause it might change, but probably not. Tea to Tears that's the title.

So you all know I don't own anything right, because it would be awesome if I did, but I don't so -cry-.

I remember the rain falling like tears,

All those men that died, ending that night,

Winning with such a sorrowful delight.

Arthur was doing it again, completely falling apart. He had a whole bottle of something in his hand. Did he buy that whole thing, and no one stopped him? Then again he was sitting at some abandoned bus bench, getting soaked to the bone. It wasn't any where close to that day, or any day that usually made Arthur do this. Was he just moody or something?

Alfred had yet to make his presence known; he was still lingering in the back. He would watched as the bottle would tip up and then fall with a sigh, sometimes a sob or two, but nothing more, that British man held stubbornly onto whatever pride he had.

I wonder how you dealt over the years,

How many drunken rants fell upon deaf ears?

Arthur was muttering a bunch of slurred and mashed together words, sadly no one was hearing them for there was no one. Had he done this every time he remembered? Did he talk to air about his problems, because no one else seemed to listen, and there air just happened to be there? Was he talking to his fairy friends? No, he wasn't being stubborn and clinging onto the bottle like someone was going to take it away from him. So was he really simply talking to the air, the rain, the ground?

All those letters and not once did you write,

It needs to end, I can't take much more tonight.

Alfred quenched his fist, he had been standing there watching Arthur for an hour now, watching the bottom go up and down and up and down. Three-quarters of whatever he had gotten was gone, and Arthur seemed to be having trouble sitting, as he swayed about. Alfred strolled over, Arthur didn't acknowledge if he heard Alfred or not, he simply continued to sway about, muttering all the while.

Alfred held out his umbrella, getting the familiar feel of the London rain on his back. Arthur must have felt the absence of it and turned to look up.

So can we forget the world affairs?

I'm taking you home, you remember that?

"Come on Artie, let's get you home." Alfred said with a smile on his face, but Arthur didn't move merely stared. He looked down at Alfred's free hand that was out stretched for him to take, swatting it away Arthur scold.

"Since when do you care?" He spat out sourly.

"Arthur, a hero won't just leave someone in the rain to get sick, especially a drunk one." Alfred said reaching to grab Arthur's arm and rip him off the bench.

Don't stand in the rain, for sick will you fall.

"You did though. That one time you left me in the rain." Arthur's voice was small, but it hit Alfred hard, he froze looking at the puddles by his feet.

"That was different." Alfred defended. "It was a rough patch, something all heroes go through at one time." Arthur snorted, and Alfred found himself able to move again, and slowly he pulled Arthur up. "Come on, we should get you home before you get sick."

Hand in hand, we walk under a shared cover.

Somehow the bench grew farther away, and Alfred was gripping Arthur's smaller hands in his own. The bottle had been tossed in the trash, much to Arthur's displeasure; he had put up something of a descent drunken fight. Either way, they walked under Alfred huge umbrella, and Alfred smiled at the light tint of pink on Arthur's cheeks.

I don't see exactly what you're look at.

"Alfred, did you see that?" Arthur asked for the tenth time since they walked from the bench. Alfred had looked where ever Arthur was pointing but he never saw anything. Yet he didn't want a drunken stream of curses and hits to start heading his way. He usually nodded and smiled, but never once seeing a thing.

Usually I don't see you acting small.

Arthur had seemed to surrender whatever pride he had at the time. He had merely stared at his house, glanced at the stairs, before turning to Alfred. A piggy-ride later and they were in Arthur's door, Arthur himself was curled against Alfred back like a cat. Alfred made sure every inch of him was dry, earning a few child like shrieks and a little laughter here and there.

Arthur clung to Alfred, literally belittling himself in the process. Course Alfred did what he asked, and eventually Arthur curled up in his bed, falling sound asleep with his huge teddy bear.

I will be here till you fully recover.

Alfred smiled at the sleeping Brit. Gently prying the arms away, only to have them latch on in panic again. "Don't…eave." Arthur muttered clinging tighter, but all the while still asleep.

"I won't." Alfred said gently. He wasn't in any rush to leave Arthur again.

Just so everyone knows, the Itallics are the poem, and it's a sonnet, I wanted to kill the paper. I saw how I could lace a story with in and I did, and I kinda like the way it turned out.

Please RxR