Author's Note:
I don't own Hetalia; if I did, USxUK would be canon :3
The days stormed by in agonizing blurs clouded by the sweet haze of alcohol. It had been like that for some time now for England. His weeks were filled with drinking glass after glass, and he could only watch with hurt, drunken eyes as those weeks turned into months, into years, decades.
...It had been almost a century, but the wound and the memory that came with America's revolving was as fresh and bleeding as ever. There were days when he was sure he would die of a broken heart. The Great British Empire was almost unrecognizable, having turned into a drunken, sulking mess.
And when he came to meetings like that, no one questioned him. They probably didn't care. They didn't know that it killed him inside to see how America enjoyed his... independence so thoroughly. It was like they were mocking England. It was painstaking to see all that arrogance brimming from the American, how he acted as if he had never depended on England.
It was eating away at him, and they didn't have a bloody idea.
Walking into a bar, it would be a common sight to see a messy-haired Arthur, drunken to the ears and sitting alone in a corner, staring off into space, face red and puffy from drinking and crying alike.
And that was exactly what he was doing now, drinking until he puked or passed out or, more times than less, both.
Where did I go wrong? he thought, eyes glassy and face red as if he'd break down and cry any second now. I gave that brat all he could ever want... Could it have been my fault?
"No, it's not my bloody fault! That damn wanker's just ungrateful!" England yelled out, arguing with himself yet again. He stood abruptly from his seat, knocking it down in the process. This, along with his outburst, attracted quite some attention. The Brit turned to give the other customers an angered glare.
Without thinking, he spoke again. "What the hell are you all looking at?" he challenged, narrowing his eyes at the crowd. He knocked the five or so glasses that he had drank empty onto the floor, shattering them all in his rage. This drew the attention of a security guard, who seized the drunken blond and half-carried, half-dragged him out of the bar.
England immediately retorted to this, desperately trying to free himself in a flurry of protests and insults. "'Hey, what the heck do you thing you're doing? Don't touch me!" he protested, but was already being dragged away towards the front door of the bar.
"Do you know who I am? I am the United bloody Kingdom!" But the door had already been shut in his face.
And just like that, he had managed to get himself kicked out.
It was by luck that England made it back to his home. He staggered over there, cursing under his breath as he fiddled with his house keys in an attempt to unlock the front door. It finally opened with creak, and the Brit stepped inside.
The effects of the alcohol were fading away; he was slowly regaining his sober state. With a sigh, the nation flopped himself down on the nearest couch. Sleep began to pull at him and he didn't protest, quickly falling asleep. He was glad for the rest; it wasn't often that he got much sleep. And he actually dreamt that night.
His dreams were pleasant; much better than this cruel reality.
In his dream, England was sitting on his favorite chair, eyebrows knitted together in concentration as he read the newspaper. He took a sip from his tea cup, features relaxing into a pleased expression as he drank in the sharp scents. England watched as night fell through the window, enjoying the quiet and peace while it lasted.
"England, England!" came a child's excited voice; America's excited voice. The young boy came into the room and stopped at England's side, eyes wide.
"What is it?" asked the Englishman, directing his attention to the younger blond. His expression softened, green eyes caring and fond as they fixated themselves on America's blue ones.
"Look!" and the American opened his mouth and pushed his tongue against one of his teeth, wiggling it. It was on the verge of falling.
England kneeled so that he was face-to-face with America, taken aback slightly at how tall he had grown. He's growing so fast...
"Oh, you're going to lose your first tooth!" he informed with a small smile.
America looked a bit scared at the prospect. Noticing this, England placed his hand on America's hair, ruffling the golden locks affectionately. "It'll be fine. It doesn't hurt. And when it falls, a fairy will come to you while you sleep and will take the tooth and give you some cash in exchange!" he assured.
"Really?" asked the young America. He did not doubt his guardian's word, but England probably believed in that tooth fairy more than America ever would. England gave a small nod. "Now go to bed. It's getting late."
America nodded and headed off, exciting the room and making his way to his own.
A few hours later, England decided to go check on his colony, rising from his seat and walking over to America's room. He opened the door silently, so he wouldn't awake the young boy he thought would be sleeping. Instead, he was greeted by an America who was fully awake, eyes wide and appearing to wait for something.
"America? I thought I told you it was bedtime," England scolded, making his way to the boy's bedside.
"I'm waiting for the tooth fairy," he explained calmly. "Do you think it'll get here soon?"
"It'll only come once your tooth has fallen," the Brit replied. "Rest now; it's way past your bedtime," he added more sternly.
"But I can't sleep... Will you sing for me?" America pleaded.
England gave a heavy sigh. "Very well." He cleared his throat and began.
"In sleep, he sang to me,
In dreams, he came to me."
America smiled and was quick to sing along.
"That voice which calls to me
And speaks my name."
They sang the two verses in union.
"And do I dream again,
For no-" England trailed off; America had begun to fall asleep. The Brit smiled and covered the young boy in a blanket.
"Good night, lad," he said as he left the room.
And then, all of a sudden, the dream switched into a haunting nightmare.
It was of the Revolutionary War. England was seeing himself pointing his weapon at America, the rain beating down on those who still stood. He began to toss and turn in his sleep as he recalled the part where he broke down and cried.
Cried because he thought this all to be his fault.
Cried because he was losing all he ever cared for.
Cried because it hurt.
Cried like he never did before.
And finally, England snapped awake. He was back home, not in the battlefield with its haunting memories and lifeless bodies. He turned to look at the calendar, feeling a pang of loneliness and pain hit him as he realized it was July the 4th today.
That meant another World Meeting, another 6 or so hours of watching America being oh-so-very-happy without him.
But nevertheless, he got up and ready to start the day. He was the Great British Empire; nothing could ever bring him down. He could be bloody fine without America.
Right?
Poor, poor England :(
Anyway, the song he and America sing is from The Phantom of the Opera musical, if I'm not mistaken.
He sings it to baby America in Episode 14 of Season 2.