A/N: As much as it pains me to say this, I do not own Hetalia. I wish I did. Now, please note, this was not written as USUK, but can easily (proud USUK fan) be seen as it. Prepare to be sad.

Because I was Drunk - Arthur Kirkland

It's the Fourth of July, and I'm drunk again. Just like last year. And the year before that. And so on. Deep down, I know I should put down the Scotch, and go home at the least. I know it's a good idea, but by now I'm at the point of not even being able to walk straight, I think, and besides, I don't really want to go outside while that wanker is shooting off all his stupid fireworks. Damn snub, I think he does it to piss me off.

There goes another glass, I can see my hand lifting it up, and by now the sharp ache in my chest is beginning to subside to the warm feel of the alcohol. Over on the other end of the counter, some pricks are drinking and cheering, and it makes me mad. I down another shot and push back my stool angrily. Do those bloody gits even realize that while they're over there having a grand old time, I feel like my heart's cracking in two? Of course not.

I put, or rather, slam some bill down on the counter, and storm out the bar. The air is hot and muggy, and it isn't helping the fact that I'm as wasted as all those years I spent on the git.

I should have remembered that the Fourth is the day that all these wankers are always driving drunk. I should have remembered to look before I walked. I shouldn't have mistaken the screech of rubber for the whistle of an explosive, and I most defiantly shouldn't have mistaken the lights from an oncoming car as one of those bloody firecrackers. Come to think of it, if I was smart, I wouldn't have been drunk.

But I was.

I stepped out onto the street, and the squeal of the tires, and the lights drowned out the firecracker overhead as countless explosions erupted in my body, momentarily blinding me. I hit the asphalt, a tangy iron in my mouth. A car door opened, closed, and someone ran towards me. Warm, strong arms scooped me up, my head lolling unnaturally to the side. "Britain! Britain! Oh God, Arthur, say something!"

My eyes stared past the boy I had raised, reflecting a shower of sparks in the sky. I didn't, couldn't, say a word, but as my final breath rattled quietly, I thought to myself, 'I hope you're happy, America.'

The last thing I ever heard was his scream tear apart my heart as the fireworks finished in the grand finale, lighting up the sky one last time.

And America cried.

All because I was drunk.

A/N: No, I do not hate Britain. I can just, sadly, see this happening. I actually love him very much, and want his eyebrows. (Not on my face, but on my wall or something, 'cause they're just that epic. XD) . So, happy Fourth. I know it's late, but deal. Oh, and this may end up being a two-shot. We'll see.