Freedom and Sympathy

July fourth.
Damn this bloody day to hell.

Every Fourth of July, England locks himself in his house. He doesn't answer his phone and when asked about it he does not reply. All of the lights are off, the curtains closed, but he's there. No one knows why he does that, but France has a hunch. He has known the British nation longer than anyone else except maybe Scotland, Wales and Ireland.

France knows that on the Fourth, England was beaten to the ground and forced to give independence to his ex-colony, America. America was like England's very own son, and his brother, and someone he could care for, but when America wanted freedom, he took it by force and left England alone, in despair. England never brings up the subject in public, not with anyone. If someone mentions it, he quickly changes the subject and moves on.

So, one day, France decided to see what England did in his house, all alone, with the lights off. It wasn't like anyone else was going to do it.

All of the doors were locked, the windows closed and drapes pulled over them. England sat there, in the darkness, holding his knees to his chest in the middle of the vast, empty house. He was crying, his stomach hurt from crying and he had purposefully not eaten anything today. Each fourth, he went into a deep, deep depression. America was out there, celebrating, all of the other nations with him. America purposefully waved independence in his face, making as much of a ruckus doing it as he could. The fireworks, tons of fireworks. He hated the sound of them. On that day, everything in America's house was decorated with red white and blue. Stars and stripes that mocked him.

"America..." England sobbed, "Why? Why did you have to leave me here on my bloody own? WHY?" he slammed his fists on the ground and screamed, his sobs racking his chest.

A small knock on the door. "England?" The door rattled as the person outside of it attempted to pull it open. "Open the door, s'il vous plait. I can hear you in there, you know." He paused, taking in a breath and letting out a small, laugh. It was not a laugh of happiness, but more of a, "Oh, God, please let this work out fine" sound coming from his mouth. "Please, England, it's me, France. Let me in."

England suddenly went silent, holding his breath subconsciously as he froze. He was scared. France was probably here to mock him about this dreaded day, he didn't want that. He won't answer the door, simple as that. He curled up into a ball and just lay there, sobbing silently, innerly begging everyone to just go away.

"England..." France murmured, his lips pressed to the wooden door. "Please, let me in. I know you're here." The door rattled once again as France tried to open it.

England suddenly remembered something and whispered, "Oh darn it... he knows where the keys are." He cursed, remembering France has broken into his house many times before. He knew that France would find the keys under his porch swing cushion. "Well... I'll just wait." He sighed, trying to straighten up his hair a bit to make him look a bit more presentable (which didn't work).

France let out a weary sigh. "England, if you don't open this door, I'm going to go ahead and open it myself." When there was no reply, France went over to the porch swing, lifted up the cushions to take out the key, and fit it into the lock. He opened up the door, not surprised when he was greeted by darkness. But there, in the corner, was England, his hair a mess and his eyes sunken and red. France couldn't help as his lips curled up into a slight grin.

England turned his head away quickly when he saw the grin. Great, just great. France has come here to mock him on this dreadful day. He got up, running upstairs, tears falling behind him and they caught the light from the door. "Go away, wanker!" He cried out, but you could hear so much pain in that voice. Just hearing it hurt, the agonizing cry.

"England, wait! Where are you going-" France had outstretched his hand, but in vain. He had already vanished upstairs. Suddenly, he was struck with a feeling of heavy guilt. He hadn't meant to smile like that. It was just so... different, seeing England after he had been crying. He started up the stairs too, making his footsteps silent.

England had left the door open; he was in pain, crying on his bed. It hurt so much to him. He remembered...
"England... All I want is my freedom!"
"I won't allow it!"

"Why." his crying softened, and he just laid there.

A hand was placed on England's shoulder from behind. "I'm here, England." A pause. "Can we talk?"

England tensed up a bit, but then relaxed, sensing France didn't mean harm. "Alright, what is it?" He sat up, rubbing his eyes, trying to regain his composure.

France licked his lips nervously. "I-I'm sorry I grinned when I saw you."

"I-It's alright." His voice was a bit scratchy, "Just why are you here, Frog?"

France patted England's messy blond hair in an almost teasing gesture. "I wanted to make sure that you were okay."

"Psh. Yeah right, like I'll believe that..." He looked down to his hands. He was holding something in them.

"You should," France murmured, crystal blue eyes drifting to England's fingers, which seemed to be curled around something. "...Is there something you'd like to show me?"

He softly uncurled his fingers, hesitantly, and held the object up as if it was the most delicate thing in the world. "... I'm foolish for keeping this, aren't I? It's a little eagle America carved and gave to me when he was little..." He smiled lightly, remembering.

"Non, non... You're not foolish at all." France smiled gently. He sat down on the bed and placed his hand over the carved eagle, closing England's fingers over it again. "You should never forget what the ones that you love give to you... whether it's a material object or a sweet memory."

He wiped a small tear from his eye with his sleeve, then muttered. "Thank you, Francis..."

England looked up to him, "It's just, every year Alfred has a big celebration on the worst day of my life... He left me, Francis. It hurts..."

"I understand," France whispered, slowly pulling England into a tender hug.

England hugged back, nuzzling into France's neck, welcoming the warmth and comfort he hadn't felt for years on end. Small tears made darker marks on France's shirt. He whispered softly, "Thank you, Francis..."

"Sometimes, you just have to let go and set your eyes on the future instead of the past," France said softly, stroking the back of England's head in a caring manner. "But never completely forget, promise me that."

"I'll never forget, I promise."