Bloody fucking hell. Arthur Kirkland stood in his bedroom glaring at the calendar lazily mounted onto the wall. His green eyes scowled at tomorrow's date. He hated the day more than he hated that French bastard, Francis. He hated it with a passion that grew more as the years crawled by.

Most years, Arthur spent the week before in a pathetic drunken state, but this year was different. Maybe it was because he was busy. Maybe it was because he had spent the last weeks in South Africa playing football, before losing horribly to Germany. Maybe it was because he was still trying to clean the oil spill in the Gulf. Maybe it was because he couldn't bring himself to look at a calendar and count down the dreadful remaining days. The infamous date seemed to come so quickly this year. It crept in, unseen, and found its place as tomorrow's date. It came so suddenly and undetected that if Arthur had not looked at his calendar this particular day, he may not have even known of its arrival. But he had looked. Unfortunately, this day could not be avoided. It had come marching in with the painful memories following close behind. Tomorrow was the dreaded day. Tomorrow was Alfred's birthday.

Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead on the swamp green wall. The realization of the date took his exhaustion to a whole new level. He took a deep breath in an attempt to hold back the overwhelming flood of emotion that rushed over him. It was too much.

The first emotion to break his barrier was anger. Hot, livid fury. The memory of the rebellion, of the day Alfred became the United States of America, stung, fresh in his mind. After Arthur had taught him everything. After Arthur had sailed across an ocean just to be with him. After everything Arthur had done for him, Alf

red left. Alfred didn't just leave; he tore away. He fought his way out leaving Arthur with painful scars. Scars that would remain with him forever. Arthur punctuated this thought by pounding his right fist into the wall.

Gasping as the pain shot through his right hand, Arthur watched the calendar float gently to the ground. He kicked it angrily and it flew across his bedroom and under his bed. The impact had dented the wall and bruised his knuckles. Fuck. His fist throbbed. Arthur only knew one way to stop the pain.

A drink. Without much thought, he stumbled out of his bedroom and to his kitchen cabinet. With his busted hand, he reached into the cabinet above the dishwasher, wincing slightly, and pulled out a bottle half filled with topaz liquid. After fumbling through the kitchen for a glass and some ice, Arthur poured himself a drink.

The welcome burn of alcohol hit his throat first and face second. It simmered down to a summer-like warmth that brought color to his cheeks and ears. He poured another glass, and, with a tilt of his blond head, he drank. He brought the bottle to eye level and swished the little remaining liquid around. In one sip, Arthur finished the bottle.

He tossed the bottle carelessly into the empty sink. Ignoring the sound of glass shattering, he buried his face in his hands and sunk to the ground. Tomorrow was the bloody Fourth of July. The bloody fucking fourth. Tears welled in Arthur's eyes. His mind shot back to when the documents were signed. He remembered the words Alfred had said to him.

"I don't belong to you anymore." Alfred's face was cold and hard. The word's came with ease to the new nation's lips. The coldness of this statement was worse than any blow he had received in battle. If only times could stay as the were so long ago, everything would be all right. If Alfred was just still young. If he could still be that little boy. Arthur knew that he was thinking the impossible. Things would never again be how they used to be. This was the moment that Arthur fell to his knees. The pain had been too much. "I am my own country now."

The tears threatening Arthur's green eyes, rained down. "I don't belong to you anymore." The words gnawed away at his heart. Each word bit deeper and deeper into his chest. He couldn't breath. It felt as if his heart had just stopped. As if it had just died and an empty void had taken its place. "I am my own country now."

A drink. Arthur needed to numb the pain the only way he knew how. Arthur needed to drink.

A pub. He had just finished off the last of the alcohol in his house. In order to obtain more, he had to go out. He sat up straight and wiped the tears from his eyes. If he was going to leave his house, Arthur had damn well better look civilized. A blabbering, crying fool would never pass for the British gentleman that Arthur was.

Arthur wiped the salty tears off his face, covered it with a hood, and left to walk to the nearest pub. He planned to drink himself into a coma.

…...

It was a beautiful sunny day. The kind of day where birds chirped delightedly outside of bedroom windows. The kind of day that was perfect for an All-American cookout. The kind of day that would bring joy to most, especially if it was their birthday.

Alfred had awoken at the crack of dawn. Well, not exactly the crack of dawn, but it was the earliest that he had gotten up in decades: 6:45 am. The smell of bacon filled his American flag themed bedroom and sunlight poured in through the large open windows.

He sat up, stretched, and yawned loudly. After rubbing the sleep from his bright blue eyes, he fumbled around on his bedside table for his glasses. He scratched his bare chest and yawned once more before hoping out of bed.

He ran down stairs in nothing but his red, white, and blue boxers to the kitchen. On the table were a pile of about fifteen pancakes and a mountain of bacon. A fresh bottle of maple syrup sat next to the breakfast plate with a note attached. It read:

Happy Birthday, brother. Sorry I can't come to your party today. I still have to finish cleaning up the damage that you and Denmark caused to my place a few days ago. I still really don't know how a quiet night on my birthday turned into a wild party. Anyway, enjoy your breakfast. –Mattie and Kumajiruo

Almost immediately after finishing the note, Alfred had forgotten who had sent it. Not that it mattered much to him anyway. It was the birthday of the United States of America and that's all that mattered. It was July Fucking Fourth, baby! Hell yeah!

As he devoured the enormous breakfast, he couldn't help but feel as if he was missing something. Alfred felt like today wasn't everyone's favorite day. Something deep inside him felt… sad? But it's the birthday of the hero. How could this be sad?

Ignoring this confusing feeling, he finished the last of his monstrous breakfast. Maybe Tony would cheer him up. The little gray creature always gave Alfred the best gifts. I hope it's a video game.

"Tony~!" Alfred called. There was no response. He got up from the table and walked into the living room. This was the room with the flat screen TV and several video games systems. Tony usually spent his time in here. Where is he? Then Alfred remembered it was still too early for Tony to be up. It was too early for anyone in this household to be up. Alfred stunk down onto his couch. Alone.

He was left with his thoughts. His mind wandered to what his party would be like later on, to last year's parade, to what gifts people would bring him, to a day… A day many, many years ago. July 4, 1776.

"I don't belong to you anymore," Alfred had managed to say the words without emotion. This day was hard. He looked into Arthur's deep green eyes. Alfred could see the pain and it tore him apart. This tore Alfred's heart apart. He wished for the days when he was younger. When he was glad to be Arthur's colony. When he was proud to say that he was British. The wished that it could have stayed like that forever, but it couldn't. Alfred had to be free. This may be something Arthur didn't understand. He may never understand. But it had to be done.

He watched as Arthur fell to his knees. Alfred nearly cried then, but he didn't. He kept his face emotionless. He kept the pain out of his voice as he whispered the words: "I am my own country now."

"Dammit," he whispered under his breath. This day brought back so many memories. This was supposed to be a happy day. This is my birthday. Why did he feel so awful? Just as think thought entered his mind, the phone rang.

Before answering, he looked at the oversized clock ticking on the wall: 7:02 am. Who could be calling? Without looking at the caller ID, Alfred picked up the receiver. He expected a "Happy Birthday" greeting or a wrong number. He didn't expect to get a call from a small hospital just outside of London.

…

Bloody hell, my head hurts. Intensifying this splitting headache was a constant, steady bleeping. Arthur groaned and reluctantly opened his eyes. The sunlight blaring in through the window blinded him. Fuck. It even hurt to mentally curse.

He pulled his left hand up to his forehead. Something hung from the back of his hand. He blinked and tried to make out the object. In his haze, Arthur ran the object behind his left hand's fingers. It was a small tube… leading up to an IV?

Arthur looked down at his body. He was wearing paper hospital robes and was covered neatly in a scratchy, thin blanket. He looked around the room to find that he was in a hospital room, void of color. The room was pale, white, and sterile. It was utterly lifeless, utterly emotionless.

The source of the obnoxious beeping was a heart monitor. Bloody hell. With each beep, his head throbbed. It pulsed into a steady organized beat. This he could handle. I've been through worse.

He attempted to lift his right arm to shut off the beeping, but was stopped by something cool and metal at his wrist. He clenched his fist and pulled his wrist upward. The object jingled and held him back. He looked down at his wrist. Handcuffs.

"What the bloody hell happened last night?" Arthur grumbled. He didn't expect an answer.

"Oh, you're awake," a familiar voice answered back. Arthur shot up into a sitting position. Ignoring then throbbing pain in his head, he looked around the room. Sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, was—

"Alfred?" Arthur gasped. The blond nation pushed Texas up his nose. He laughed awkwardly. Arthur gaped at Alfred as he ran his fingers through his hair. Was this real? Arthur rubbed his eyes with one hand, considering his right one was restrained. Alfred smiled nervously. "You're really…? What…? How…? Bloody hell…"

"Yup," Alfred responded. His teeth nearly sparkled, they were so white. His blue eyes gleamed behind his glasses. He was dressed in a plane white T-shirt and jeans. His favorite, brown leather jacket hang on the back of the door. He was really here. Just the Alfred I like to see: smiling carefree like nothing was wrong. Nothing was ever wrong in that git's mind. Arthur smiled at this thought. For some reasone he couldn't explain, he was glad to see him sitting across the room.

Alfred sat up straighter and sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "It's me."

"Why…? Why are you…? Why am I here?" Arthur didn't remember much from the night before. The last thing he remembered was sitting at the bar of a pub, complaining to the bartender. He remembered ranting about what he once was: The British Empire. He remembered sobbing on a stranger's shoulder and begging to know why Alfred had left him. He remembered being thrown out of the pub and into the gutter. Then, his memory failed him. After being thrown out of that pub, he could not recall where he had gone or why he was in this hospital.

"You... You were shot," Alfred explained. Arthur looked confused. Shot? The North American nation gestured toward Arthur's leg. Arthur looked down at his feet and pulled the blanket off. Sure enough, his right calf was bandaged. He attempted to bend his leg, but winced in pain and straightened it again. Arthur looked up at Alfred, questioning. "You wandering into Swiss territory… Unclothed. You're lucky that he only shot you in the leg. It could have been much worse."

"Bloody fucking hell," Arthur cursed. Then he looked down at his handcuffs. He pulled at them gently and looked up at Alfred. "Because I was drunk?"

"That would be an understatement," Alfred laughed. Arthur smiled gingerly. Shit, how long had he been here? What had Alfred heard? Arthur nervously ran his fingers through his hair. Alfred looked at Arthur slyly and raised one eyebrow. The Brit's heart fluttered a little faster. "From what the nurses tell me, you were hammered. They say you were crazy drunk. Do you remember anything?"

"Not… not, after being thrown out of a pub," Arthur mumbled. He looked down at the other nation's feet. Alfred laughed and leaned forward in his chair.

"Thrown out of a pub?" Alfred laughed. Arthur's hangover was staring to catch up with him. He was growing angry with Alfred. First, he puts me through hell. Then, he laughs?

"Why the hell are you laughing? I'm going through hell and you're acting like an arse," Arthur yelled. Alfred just looked at him and raised one eyebrow. Arthur looked away, as the heart monitor beeped faster and louder. Alfred glanced at it and back at Arthur.

"Artie~" Alfred whispered. He got up from the chair across the room and walked over to Arthur, who refused to look up from the floor. He sat next to Arthur on the hospital bed and lifted the European's chin up so that he could look into his eyes. The heart monitor beeped faster. Arthur's breathing had become uneven. He gulped nervously. "234 years ago, I became my own nation."

Arthur pulled his chin away like a stubborn child. The moment had been ruined. He didn't want to hear this, especially not with a hangover this bad. He felt as if he would vomit and his head pounded.

"Dammit, Artie, listen," Alfred put both hands on either side of Arthur's head and forced it to look at him. The humor had left Alfred's blue eyes, replaced by seriousness and determination. Arthur didn't pull away, but Alfred didn't remove his hands. "234 years ago, I left your control. I want you to understand something."

Alfred paused as he stared intensely into Arthur's eyes. Alfred dropped his eyes to Arthur's lips. He stared at them as he spoke, unable to look into the other nation's eyes. He swallowed nervously.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Alfred's whisper was barely audible over the constant beeping of Arthur's heart. His blue eyes looked into green, once more. "I never meant to hurt you... I never want to hurt you again. Stop doing this to yourself. Please, Artie, don't do this to yourself."

"Gettoff, twat," Arthur shook Alfred off of him. He glared. If he "didn't mean to hurt me", then why the hell did he? Bloody American git.

"Artie, listen to me," Alfred voice was shaking slightly. He put a hand lightly on Arthur's shoulder and shifter so he was entirely facing him. The more words came out of his mouth, the faster he spoke. "You may not understand this now. Hell, I don't know if you'll ever understand it. Leaving you was something I had to do. It was more about me than it was about you. It was about… I don't know… Growing up? That's sounds cheesy, but I don't know how else to put it…. I was my time, Artie. It was my time to become a nation… It sounds stupid when I stay it out loud…"

Arthur's glare turned into a stare of confusion and awe. This was the explanation? This was the reason for all my pain and heartbreak? Arthur tried to fit all the pieces together. He tried to force it to make sense in his mind, but it wasn't working. It was his bloody time? What the hell did that mean? None of it made sense. Arthur tried to fit in what Alfred had just said into his knowledge of the Revolution. He tried to make it work with the taxes, battles, and brutal violence. None of it made sense to him.

"You're right, Alfred," Arthur looked into Alfred's eyes. He stared coldly into the deep ocean of blue. His voice was emotionless, level. "I don't understand."

Alfred sighed and closed his eyes. He moved his hand from Arthur's shoulder to his cheek. He opened his eyes and leaned his forehead against Arthur's. Blinking back tears, he stared into cold green eyes, barley an inch away from his own. Their noses touched. Their lips were close, but nothing would happen. Nothing would ever happen. This is how it would always be.

Every last hope he had of Arthur understanding was shattered. Every last hope of the two nations moving past this was shattered. Every last hope of being together was shattered. All hope was shattered.

"I don't think you ever will," With these whispered words, Alfred left. He rose from where he sat and walked out of the room. Without a goodbye. Without any hope left.

Alone. Arthur sat alone, once again. He sat all alone with nothing to talk to him, but the steady beat of the heart monitor. No one to be with him. No one to smile at, cry with, laugh with, or kiss. Arthur was utterly alone. With each beep of his only companion, it spoke the word: alone. Arthur dropped back onto his pillow. As the tears welled in his eyes, he had only one wish.

A drink. I need a bloody drink.

…...

Dear lord, that was depressing. Sorry to end on such a downer, but that's the way life works, right?

Anyway, I wrote this fic as a fanfiction challenge! WOO! My good friend, bostonian-FTW, texted me this great and mighty challenge: to write a July 4th fanfic including a sad, drunken, pathetic England. In this fabulous challenge is -yours truly-, bostonian-FTW and our good friend, Chibibun. . We each wrote our own version of this challenge.

Rules: we must post before midnight on July 5th (Massachusetts time). Whoever gets the most votes wins. How do you vote? Well, it's simple. Just leave a review praising the story. (P.S. don't be afraid to leave a review about your critiques also.)

So please, just go check out their stories, but vote for me~ If you need to find them, both of them are under my favorite authors.

bostonian-FTW and Chibibun.

Don't forget to vote~ Thanks~