This was written over the course of several hours as a belated "self-challenge" fic I decided to write for the 4th of July, seeing as it seems to be a rite of passage for every Hetalia fanfiction writer on this site to post at least one or more "4th of July USUK/UKUS Angst fest" fics around this time of year in a sort of annual literary flood of heart-aching writing that leaves many a tear shed, both by myself, and by others. I always feel unrepentant when I drink tea on the 4th, but seeing all these stories crop up always leaves me trying to keep from bawling my eyes out, rather than having a proper teatime.
But, I've never quite seen a Hetalia fic of this particular category that fully addresses what, to me, is a pivotal point in their complicated relationship: namely, England's issue with alcohol. Now, I've been to Europe and have found myself to enjoy a good tankard of beer as much as the next person, but England, poor dear, takes up the tankard to what I see as a very unhealthy extreme. I know that he tries to stop, swears he'll never drink again since he knows he can't really handle it, but it never fully seems to sink in. Sooner or later, the poor fellow's off to the nearest tavern to get himself sloshed out of his mind, whether due to stubborn pride or something equally foolish, and ends up acting like an overemotional, prone-to-crying fool due to being completely inebriated and likely teased by another nation as well. Then he wakes up somewhere the next day with a headache the size of the Pacific Ocean, and insists that he'll never drink again, and then somehow the whole thing starts over. Anyone used to trying to get him out of whatever pub or tavern or wherever he'd gotten smashed in will surely feel frustrated with England's complete and utter denial that he can't handle his drink worth crap, too. I know I would.
Seriously, drinking like that is not a good thing to do if you can't handle your spirits. I've never quite understood why no one's fully tried to reason this out, but I suppose that's all the more reason for me to try in their stead. I've seen stories where the alcoholism is touched on as an important part of the story, but I've never actually read one where England actually manages to at least TRY to really put an end to his drinking issue.
Hopefully, I don't make anyone too emotional with this, I'm not quite sure what this will look like to other people. If I offend anyone with this story, I dully apologize.
NOTE: Please note, this story takes place at an unnamed date and time period, but you can rest assured that it's at least after D-Day. The premise of this fic? England and America have the Special Relationship established, but this story won't give a full specification of exactly when. So, just remember that WW2 is over.
America, as can be expected, is affectionate and friendly to the point of occasional annoyance; England, on the other hand, worries that he's not contributing enough to the relationship (seeing as he's not exactly the "hugging, cuddling, kissing-crazy" type and seems to prefer to show affection with a million little things instead), and feels afraid that, being an older, less outwardly-affectionate nation still recovering from the destructive effects of WW2, America, being younger, overly affectionate, and rather demanding and needy, may not want to be with him sooner or later, and find another partner instead (now, as we all know our favorite Englishman seems to be a bit insecure, and has every right to be, this is to be expected).
England also isn't quite sure if he's up to the task of dealing with the infamous "4th of July party scenario" issue, and he also knows America isn't happy with his drinking problem. So, in truth, the answer is, essentially quite simple: England will secretly try to stop drinking; if he can quit the alcoholic habit for good, he'll go to America's next birthday party and give them both some much-needed closure. If he can't break the habit by the time a year's up, he'll keep at it until he breaks the drinking problem permanently. How long will this take? No one's quite sure. But one thing is certain: if it's for someone you love, history proves you'll do just about anything, amazing things included.
In the kitchen of his home, Arthur Kirkland, personification of England, stood, shaking slightly, before the enormous, ornate liquor cabinet. The storage space was stocked to the rafters with bottles and cases of alcohols: rums, beers, gins, tonics, even a few dusty crates of wine and tequila. The reason for this was simple, and yet complicated at the same time: England wanted to clear out his liquor cabinet.
Only a short while back, the very idea of disposing of a well-stocked cabinet full of good, even expensive alcoholic drinks would be considered asinine at least, completely out of the question at most. But the reason why was simple: America. Or rather, its personification, the blue-eyed, wildly imaginative and untamed United States of America, also known more intimately by his human name of Alfred F. Jones.
The man in particular was the main reason why the situation was so very complicated. As of the end of the Second World War, both he and America had "patched up" their rather layered, complicated relationship, so to speak, and their country relations were quite good. They had even made a proper friendship woven in with the rest of it, and there was quite a bit of teasing endured nowadays from other nations about "The Special Relationship" and all that it entailed. But, like any good relationship, old or new or even somewhere in between, there were always going to be problems here and there along the way. England knew for a fact that he still had issues with the origins of his partner's birthday, and alcoholism had taken a sharp increase whenever it was mentioned. The years of past days of wasted birthday parties and rejected invitations flitted across his vision like rotted, ancient film, all with that same disappointed look in those blue eyes, the hurt shining so clear that it made him feel as if he'd been stabbed. It always did hurt to disappoint you...
He didn't want that, he never had, but it was just so hard. Century upon century upon century of drinking, whether it be to comfort, to ignore, to forget, to numb, or even simply as something to do, had always been a constant. Years of chasing down the harshness of war, of defeat, of piracy, of plague, of civil uprising, of the many innumerable cruelties of life had left him dizzied and stuck in a proverbial rut, because it was the only thing he knew of that made the pain go away, if only for a short time. It didn't help that his siblings had a similar problem, given that their people also were fond of drink, but unlike them, England knew, bitterly, deep down inside, that he couldn't hold his drink. Alcohol turned him mad, left his emotions spinning out of control, mind buzzing with a thousand thoughts like a swarm of angry bees, movements uncoordinated as a newly hatched foal, until he spiraled into blackness and awoke god knows how many hours later with the hangover from Hell and a mounting urge to ignore all forms of alcohol altogether for the rest of his life.
He knew he couldn't handle his liquor. He'd seen the pointed looks between other nations, the whispers and furtive glances and pitying disgust. He was painfully aware that he was unable to drink without making a fool of himself, partly out of low alcohol tolerance, and partly out of stupid pride. England was a proud nation, after all, and like anyone with a proper bit of pride and a backbone, he didn't often think of the later consequences if offered a challenge. Time and time again, he'd ended up in a drunken stupor at some nameless bar, spouting his emotional outbursts from lack of sobriety and self-control, all because he was too prideful to turn down a stupid dare from one of the other nations, usually France. The morning after was always just as bad, if not worse, because he'd end up recovering just enough to feel humiliation and self-reproach at his actions, but not recovering enough to stop his body's painful reminders that he was a lightweight in the drinking category. Seeing those damnable superior smirks from nations who thought is situation funny, or even worse, pitiful, made World Meetings afterwards all the worse.
England was many things, but stupid was not one of them. He knew when he was beaten, even if he had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, into sullenly admitting it. He knew when he was outmatched, the other nations having dealt with his alcohol problem long enough to be able to tell him bluntly that he needed to stop before he killed himself with it one day.
When he was young, drinking was for warming the body on the cold nights with no electricity, or to numb the shock and horror of the disasters that followed his people. When he was older, it was a way to be included, to insert himself into a community, even if no one wanted to talk. When the last few centuries were in swing, it was a way to steady his nerves, keep down the pain. Throughout his life, it had been primarily used to ignore, or to forget, if only for a while, the trials of being a nation adrift in a turbulent sea of political webbing.
But only in recent centuries had it become a crutch. Something meant to help support and stabilize, now reduced to a crippling lean-on that he knew he didn't really need, but nonetheless clung to, because in truth he'd forgotten how to let go and support himself without it.
When did it become something I needed, rather than what I wanted?
He wasn't quite sure. Even before America had become a proper nation, England could recall times where he was so drunk that the world had blurred into a series of sensations: touch, sight, smell, sound, taste had all become a mesh of confusion, and he was never quite able to recall every last detail. Everything became a haze, glossing over like the foam on the waves, obscuring the water of memories beneath. An Opium dream, I think some would call it. Nothing's quite the same, and when the high of the ride is over, the world tilts on it's head, and everything's a blur of smoke, slipping through your fingers like the dust and ashes of the lost.
The high of drinking had passed long before he'd been involved in the Opium trade, and even now, looking back on it, the sensation of intoxication wasn't quite as understanding, as sweet as he remembered. The taste, as Prussia, would say, had long gone flat.
But the high of living was something else entirely, and was still going strong. That feeling of your life rushing past, flashing before your eyes like a thousand picture snapshots all at once, your heart beating faster and faster, pumping blood and feeling through your veins as you realize this could be the end, and that you'd fight tooth and nail, pistol and cutlass and courage in hand to stave off death...that was a true high, not the falsities of rum and beer that he'd been drowning in for decade after decade.
Life, if you take the time to consider the monumental complexity of the concept, was very much like a bottle of fine quality wine: at the start, it's fresh, and needs time, and a good place and a helping hand to mature properly. In time, if all goes well, then eventually the wine, like life, will be good, if not fully satisfying. With age is said to come maturity, but only with the right conditions permitting it.
It had taken thousands of years, tens of thousands of bottles, and a consideration of what life really meant, but maybe, just maybe, he'd be willing to try living that high again. Life, after all, was precious, even when it was splurged on and wasted and expended and traded around and stagnated and froze over and thawed out and burst into growth all over the place. Life was a good cup of tea before bed, an afternoon in the garden in summer as the bees and hummingbirds flitted about, the flowers a dazzling array of nature's jewelers putting up their finest work. Life was a blistering hot fire on an icy winter's night, a bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup when a cold had set in, a blood-colored kite flying against an endless, cloudless background of cornflower blue as the pinwheels and wind chimes swayed in the spring breeze. Life was the blue eyes, the warm, all-encompassing hands that never liked to let go, the laugh like the warm summer wind, and that damnable, childish, manipulative, naughty, unrepentant, crazed with enthusiasm smile that had never once failed to reassure him, no matter what time, what place, what lifetime, that eventually, everything would work itself out and be okay.
Life, he realized, was a lot like America. And for him to have life, he'd have to give up something else. It was only fair, after all. "An eye for an eye", "apples to apples", and all that rot. The first rule of Alchemy even said so: For everything gained, something of equal value must be lost in exchange. And who was he to argue with Alchemy?
Looking at the cabinet in front of him, at the bottles that gleamed dully, the contents glinting slightly, as if poisonous, he pondered his next move. Should I give it to someone else instead? God knows Prussia won't say no to a good cabinet of booze, no matter the reason. I suppose if that doesn't work out, I could send it to Russia, or perhaps Denmark, I know that they wouldn't let it go to waste...
But that would simply be passing it along, and he knew inwardly that, if it wasn't gone where he couldn't still find it and get hold of it, the problem would never truly leave. This, at least, was a good place to start.
So the answer, in retrospect, was quite simple. Eyes darkened from acid green to deep emerald, a single hand reaching up to stroke the wood of the cabinet in farewell.
"Evanesco."
Letting out a sigh, he walked away from the emptied patch of floor and wall, a faint tugging at the corners of his mouth began, not quite a smile, but not quite a smirk either.
"Something once lost can never truly be regained."
But perhaps, if in just this one instance, he'd found something, along with someone, to be better instead.