For my friend who wanted a dramatic England. Post-Revolutionary in-the-rain style. Kind of crack-y. Goes best with the song 'Hurt' by Christina Aguilera.
One year. That was the amount of time that had passed since Alfred, no, America left him. A year of lonely nights. A year of isolation. A year of living in the confines of his room. Normally, Arthur would sleep through the day after a rousing morning of binge drinking and wake at midnight to drown away whatever pain was left with twelve glasses of scotch. But today was the fourth. The fourth of July that is. A heavy downpour had roused him from his room that smelled of liquor and disappointment.
It was so similar to the day he lost everything. The irony of his red silken robe was not lost on Arthur.
He could practically see America now, claiming his Independence. In a hung-over stupor, Arthur reached for the illusion in the rain, of America and his bayonet. Ignoring how his robe clung to his skin and the chilling pricks that assailed him, he made his way to the hallucination. Besides, the rain was basically the country of England's tears, so it wouldn't matter if he cried, or so Arthur told himself.
"Stop being foolish," Arthur begged the image. "Please, America, I need-" But then it dissipated. And he was alone again, in the rain.
"What you need is to get a grip on yourself," a real, dry America spoke from the safety of Arthur's doorway.
"Myself…" Arthur said dazedly. America stepped into the rain to help guide his former guardian back inside. Arthur allowed himself to be guided for a few steps, only to fall to the floor. Alfred caught him at an unconventional moment. The robe, heavy with rain, had slipped off Arthur's shoulders and was halfway to the floor. It seemed the months of drinking along with the coldness of the weather finally did him in.
Alfred placed a hand against the nation's cheek only to pull away, palling at how warm they were.
"Shit, how long were you in the rain England? You're burning!" He received a half-hearted sigh in response. It was as if Arthur had said 'oh well, it can't be helped'. Why were empires so frustrating? After laying him down on a convenient loveseat, Alfred began huffing around the house looking for something, anything, to warm up Arthur.
No firewood, no drinks besides alcohol, not even a single box of tea in the entire house. Well, now it made sense why Arthur was scrawnier than usual. He was practically starving himself in this hellhole.
With only a few blankets and pillows scavenged, Alfred made his way back to find that Arthur was not only outside again, but reciting romantic soliloquies to the rain.
"Devour my flesh to steal away the passions that have died. Remove my eyes to put to rest the fires in my heart," he said to his imaginary audience.
It was pretty, but an Arthur by any other name was an Arthur. Which meant he honestly just needed some attention. So, once the shivering and delirious Arthur returned to the house at precisely midnight, Alfred wrapped him in warm quilts to sleep off a year of hangovers and a week of sickness.