His fingers hovered over the keys of the phone. Outside wind and rain smashed against the walls of the house. Not even the weather could keep from warring. Mind raging with hesitation and doubts, he tapped out the familiar rhythm of numbers and waited.

He hasn't answered before; he's not going to answer now, nagged the tiny voice inside his head. Just give up already.

He listened hard, straining for any sign of a voice at the other end of the line. 6,000 miles away a phone would be ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

An all too familiar answering machine kicked in and the receiver of the phone smashed against its base.

Every day, for nearly a year, England had tried to phone Japan. And, every day, Japan ignored him. England knew it would be stressful for him – after all, the scars of the Second still ran deep within the Rising Sun's blood, but he just wanted to check Japan was okay. How could he be sure that he was safe when they couldn't even talk?

England closed his eyes. Behind dark lids he saw America – his friend, no… his son – smiling slightly as his own little boy fell from the sky.

"This is a mistake," England had said. China might have nodded; he wasn't sure.

"Maybe," America replied, "but we're in the right. We must be or He would not have delivered the bomb into our hands, would He?"

"You mean God?" England had asked.

America nodded.

England looked away. God had no role in this. This was evil; he could see that now. The Second ended six days later. Japan had never quite been the same since. Who could blame him?

He opened his eyes and shook his head hard. Regrets. Every country had their own fair share of them. England glanced at the phone once more. He picked up the receiver and dialled a slightly less familiar number. Took a deep breath.

"Ciao!" the voice on the other end of the line sang.

"Hello. Italy?"

"Yeah."

"This is England. I… wanted to speak to Germany."

"Oh, sorry. He said I can't let anyone see him," Italy said quietly. "He's… I don't think he's very well and I don't know what to do."

"Bad memories?"

There was an uncharacteristically long silence. "Yes."

England nodded and then realised that Italy couldn't see that. He tried to think of something else to say.

"What am I supposed to do?" Italy wailed. "Normally, Germany would help me, but he can't do that right now. Do I talk to him about it all, or do I distract him or-"

England hung up. He felt bad. Very bad. But he had no words of consolation for Italy.

Germany was brooding; Japan was going back to his old ways; Russia and China were getting friendlier and friendlier; and America… he was scarier every day. The world was spiralling out of control.

He needed a walk. England marched to the hall and wrenched open the front door of his house. He stepped into a full-on English downpour, but paid no attention to the way his hair was already plastered to his forehead. Wind whipping around him, he headed anywhere and nowhere - deep into the storm.

"Whoa! Wait a minute!" barely out of the door and already someone was onto him.

England twisted round to face the voice, hands deep in his pockets. "What?"

"It's not safe out here," the latest of his bosses rushed towards him, cowering under an umbrella threatening to turn inside out, "you're supposed to stay inside."

No reply.

"Where are you going, anyway?" the boss – England couldn't quite remember this one's name. David? Edward? – pushed his glasses further up his face. He tried to step forwards so that his umbrella would cover them both, but England backed away, into the cold rain like liquid bullets.

The silence stretched out between the country and the politician. Eventually England replied, "Walk."

Another silence replaced the first. "You're going to see America," the boss said, circling the country as if sizing him up.

England considered that for a moment. "Probably."

"About an alliance?"

England shook his head. The politician leaned in closer. "Our people need to see us doing something. They want a war."

"Well I don't."

The politician paused. "They said you used to be a pirate," he said.

"They did," England replied.

"War wouldn't be anything new for you – how many countries haven't you fought? We're ready: our army's bigger than ever; our citizens are high on patriotism; trident's-"

"DON'T," England shouted and immediately caught hold of himself, "even talk to me about trident," he whispered.

Another silence crashed against the two figures in the dark rain, like a black wave battering chalk cliffs.

"You need to go back inside," the boss said. "Europe's crawling with foreign soldiers and-"

"Let's leave Europe," England said.

The boss sighed. "We are not having this argument again. You need friends and alliances and…"

This boss really doesn't know when to stop talking, England thought. "I have friends," he pointed out.

"Unicorns don't count."

This next silence was more threatening than awkward. "I'll go and negotiate with America," England said.

The boss scowled, but let England walk away. "Be careful," he said just before England got out of earshot. "World War Three is a dangerous place for a country with no friends."

England nodded and felt something inside him soften. Okay, so his boss was a worrier and stuck his nose where it wasn't wanted, but he did care and England knew that his country was in safe hands. He smiled and gave what for most people would be a half-hearted wave, but for England it was a massive gesture of friendliness.

England walked through the open door to America's house. "You should probably lock this," he shouted. "There is a war on, you know."

A slight click sounded above England's head and he dodged out of the way just in time as what looked like a statue of the current president smashed into the floor where he had been standing.

America appeared with a disappointed look on his face. "England, you should have warned me it was you – you could've been hurt."

"Wh-What was that!" England exclaimed, understandably shocked and confused. Was this some strange hallucination that had manifested itself from his jetlag, or had America actually tried to crush him with a statue suspended from his ceiling?

"Oh, it's my latest secret weapon," America said happily, patting the half-shattered statue. "Enemy forces stand no chance against me. I leave my door invitingly open and they come in to kill me and die themselves."

"Ingenious," England said slowly, raking his fingers through his hair and frowning at the grey powder and stone chips that fell to the floor. Who hung statues from their ceiling, anyway? "What does your boss think?"

"She loves it," America grinned. "She told me to stay here and make a report on how well it worked. If it goes well, I'll spend a whole year sitting here, watching my doorway."

England sighed. "No, she's trying to get you out of her way, Ameri-"

"Chinese!" America screamed and dragged England to the floor.

"What?"

"I have this trap," America hissed, "you enter my house and a statue crushes you. It just got triggered."

England groaned. Yeah, this was why he hadn't been visiting America lately. "I triggered your trap. There aren't any Chinese forces around here."

America frowned. "You sure?"

"Yes," England said forcefully and stood up. "Do you want me to cook for you? You look tired."

America thought for a moment, then nodded. "I'm the hero," he said. He was still crouched on the floor, surrounded by pieces of rubble from the statue, eyes wild and scared.

England smiled and nodded. "You're the hero." He left the room and headed to America's kitchen. He'll be okay, he told himself, he'll be okay.

America and England sat across from each other, a plate of fish and chips in front of each of them. "So," America said.

England waited for the rest of the sentence and then realised that it wasn't coming. "So?"

America nodded encouragingly. "So do it. Say it. Why did you come here?"

"Oh," England looked away. "I just wanted to know you were okay," he muttered.

America laughed. "You're shy," he said. "You don't want to say it. English guys like you always crack me up! Okay. I'll do it," he took a deep breath. "United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, will you form an alliance with me?"

England blinked. Couldn't move for a moment. America thought that he wanted to join forces with him. "I'm not really ready to fight," he said carefully. America had been so unpredictable lately. He did not want his country to be invaded by the closest thing it had to an ally.

America waited for the 'but' after which England would exclaim that, despite all the hardships, he would ally with America and conquer the world. He was completely unaware of the awkward silence ticking away.

"I have to go," England said and stood up. He glanced around for an excuse to leave, then – having given up – simply ran as fast as he could.

America stared at the place where England had been standing. "Aw, maybe I rushed him," he said. "I'll let him suggest the alliance next time."