Forgive me for not updating Engraved, my fellow USUK fans (or at least, the ones that have read it). I was planning on updating it today, but a part of me died inside today so I just couldn't do it, no matter how hard I tried.

We had the STDs talk at school.

With pictures.

REAL PICTURES OF INFECTED $#%s!!! *dies*

To make things worse, there was a freaking activity called "Cup-Sex", where we all got cups of water, and one of us got one with a chemical. We would go around and pour water into each other's cups, and then we would add a chemical to our water that determined if our water was infected...... Somehow, I felt like Francis would do this if he was a teacher. The sickening part of the day was that the weird guy in our class made his way up to me for the activity. *screams and dies* Gods, I just wanted to die today....

You can see why I'm not updating Engraved, if you know the summary. (A lot of implied sex, just so you know)

Anyways, back to the fanfiction stuff, I came up with this little short USUK. After that STD thing, I might not updated Engraved until Saturday (still dying inside, hiding under the covers, etc.)

He begged it to go a little deeper.

To bite a little further.

To slice a little more.

It cut with ease, and yet it was so difficult to keep pressing the knife into his flesh. He gasped softly in pain, but then smiled weakly at the knife, as if it were an old friend. Red as a rose, the blood began to gush out of his skin slowly and sickeningly. His lips held to the weak smile, but the corners twitched slightly in pain.

Why did it feel so good? It sent vibrations of pain, and yet satisfaction, though his veins; the feeling of blood escaping his body somehow felt right. It was almost as if this was what he was born to do. This pain...it was so good. The knife in his hand was now caked in fresh red blood; the red liquid pooled out from the deep slit made in his upper arm and spilt onto the kitchen tile, soon forming a pool on the ground. It would be a horrorific mess to clean up later on, but it would be worth it. He was getting dizzy. That was not a good sign. But he didn't care. Nations couldn't be killed like this, so what the hell? He could get very sick and close to death, but he wouldn't die. It was more of a curse than a blessing, really. Suicide was pointless. Murder was pointless. It was all so pointless. Arthur watched with a melancholy expression as his own tears dripped down onto the puddle of blood on the floor; the tears soon disappearing in the mix as the blood continued to flow. The Briton bitterly laughed, gingerly puling the knife out of his arm. How pathetic he was, stooping this low to relieve his pain. Alcohol didn't do a thing for him now; it only made things worse. He had to do this. This was the only way to forget.

This was the only was to be free.

"I used to be so strong," Arthur chuckled darkly, staring at the blood seeping from the deep cut. "What happened? Now I can't even go any further...it hurts too fucking much." The English gentleman; no, he didn't deserve to call himself a gentleman. He was nothing more than a fool. A fool that hopelessly chased after memories of the golden days. Arthur fell to his knees, his pants becoming soaked in his own blood. It was sickening. The feeling of his own blood sticking to his skin made him want to vomit. Why did it come to this? When did the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland resort to this horrid habit? Arthur sobbed loudly. "I-It hurts..." He shut his eyes and embraced the pain like an old friend. His senses were dimming.

A choked gasp broke through the agonizing silence.

Arthur looked up in horror, his emerald green eyes shrunk back a bit as he saw who walked in.

It was Alfred.

The American was frozen, his mouth open in shock and horror, his eyes widened as he looked at the Briton and the blood streaming out of him. His usual cheery and gallant smile was replaced with pure fear. "A-Arthur..." he whispered in disbelief. Alfred could not tear his eyes away from the blood. Arthur's blood. The chilling red liquid streamed from a large gash in Arthur's upper arm; it was also dripping off of the knife he used to cause the gash. Arthur didn't say anything in response. He didn't even blink. For some reason, he felt like this was what he wanted. He wanted Alfred to find him in his broken state; he wanted Alfred to save him from this hell he was enduring. "G-Git," Arthur managed to cough weakly. "H-haven't I told y-y-you not to....to enter m-my house wi-without...." That was all he said before he fainted, his own blood soaked into his clothes. It was sickening.

Alfred came to his senses, and realized the situation.

"ARTHUR!!!!"

Arthur opened his eyes slowly, taking in his surroundings as the blurriness began to fade. He was in his room. But how...? His mind was hazy from the loss of blood, and the fact that his self-inflicted wound was surging with pain didn't help his mind either. "F-Fuck...." He muttered this as he tried to sit up. He still had to clean up the blood in the kitchen, and also bandage the cut he made. "You shouldn't move."

Arthur looked up and saw Alfred.

"A-Alfred...?" Arthur stammered in horror. The American smiled softly and sat down on the far edge of the bed, a melancholic expression was worn despite the smile. "I'm not very good at cleaning," Alfred chuckled nervously, "but I think I managed to clean up the kitchen floor pretty well. The towel is stained though..." Arthur looked away in shame. So that was how he got in bed. Alfred had walked in, saw the situation, Arthur fainted, and Alfred dressed the cut and put him in bed. The Briton's hands were shaking. Shaking. What would Alfred do? Alfred's smile dropped as he noticed the trembling of Arthur's hands, his eyes dimmed a little as well. "Why?" The single word that escaped the American's mouth hurt more than any blade would. For some reason, the fact that Alfred was ashamed and angered by his actions made him feel pathetic...disgusting...shameful. Arthur coughed nervously, shifting positions from under the covers. "Why?" Alfred repeated, this time more angrily.

"W-Well..." Arthur had no idea what to say.

"Why would you do something so...so...so dangerous!? Do you have any idea how freaking scared I was!? There was so much blood....and the knife.....! Arthur, what the hell made you cut yourself like that!? Are you insane!?" Alfred shouted, his sky-blue eyes darkened with anger and concern. Arthur glared at Alfred; his glare was far more anger-filled than Alfred's. "Why the hell is my life any of YOUR business, you fucking prat!? What I do is none of your business, and this wasn't that fucking dangerous!" Somehow, Arthur felt he was wrong. Alfred stood up and returned the glare, but.... His eyes were not filled with anger or irritation. They were filled with sadness.

"Arthur, please," he said hoarsely, "Why? Why would you do this to yourself? What has caused you so much pain that you practically slice your arm open!? Is this the first time!? Or have you done this a lot?! Answer me!!"

Arthur gritted his teeth. He wanted Alfred to know why this was a habit, and why he wanted to just kill himself everyday. "You want to know why!?" Arthur shouted. "I'll tell you why, you bastard!! It's because of you!!! You dumbass! You have no fucking clue about anything at all, do you!? You're always making me upset, and you don't give a damn! Not just the Revolution, but everyday! You have no consideration for my feelings for you at all, you goddamned American twat!!!" The Englishman rose out of bed, wobbling a bit as he stood on the ground. He held back a loud sob, but the tears were dripping down his face. "That's why I cut myself! You hurt me more than any blade! You, Alfred F. Jones!" Arthur suddenly breathed in sharply, the tears becoming more obvious. Damn it...why? Why did this have to happen now, of all times? Why did he have to start an argument with Alfred when he was still weak and feeling pain from the cutting? Arthur looked back at Alfred, wondering how the American would counter his rant. Arthur's eyes widened at what he saw.

Alfred was crying.

The American stood there, struck with awe at Arthur's words, with a pained expression on his face. He let the tears cascade down his face without any qualms; his lips were quivering a bit but no words or sounds came out. It was his fault? Arthur was cutting himself mercilessly because of him? It was too much. Alfred blinked and wiped his tears with the sleeve of his favorite bomber jacket. He looked at Arthur through teary eyes and whimpered, "I'm sorry..." He couldn't think of anything else to say. What could he say besides....

"I love you."

Arthur blinked.

"W-What.....?"

"I love you, Arthur. I don't want you to....to...." Alfred didn't know what else to say. He stood there, his eyes still teary but determined. A blush was rising on both their faces. Alfred found himself moving towards Arthur, his arms reaching for his body. "A-Alfred...!" Arthur gasped, the American pulling him into a gentle and yet firm hug.

"I love you, Arthur," Alfred said with a happy smile. He managed to laugh, a grin plastered onto his face.

Arthur's lips formed into a smile, but this time, it was a strong smile.

"I love you too, you bloody git."

Yep, a short one-shot angst story! Arthur should know better than to cut himself.

Well....still scarred from today...