I wrote this on a whim. It's short and not very good, but I don't really care.
It's basically a look at how lonely England is.
Because he is.
It started out as LOL WHY DOES IT RAIN SO MUCH THAR? But it became more stupid.
Whatever. Enjoy.
It's one of 'those days.'
One of those days where England comes home from a work, and the house is empty and dark. Where it's been raining all day, and the house is cold. Where he starts a fire in the fireplace, makes a pot of tea, and sits in front of the large picture window of his flat, sipping bitter Earl Grey and watching the dark clouds slowly empty themselves over the city.
These days seem to come more and more often.
It's always the same. Lounging on the couch, gazing out the window, a book laying neglected on the coffee table. Feeling too tired, too empty to do anything other than watch the rain fall. Letting the tea cool in the delicate china cup, which is decorated with ornate roses and is a gift from Matthew. Turned away from the wall, where smiling faces of all his children gaze back at him.
India, Australia, Canada, Ireland, even America, all hang on the wall; Photographs of children who were raised under the influence of England and the Monarchy. Children who left him.
On these days, England cries. He blames it on the weather. Blames it on the economy. Blames it on the people. He refuses to take notice of the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach, refuses to accept that the dark, empty house is what brings the tears to his eyes. He doesn't miss them.
Even so, he does not deny the tears. He sobs quietly into his handkerchief, embroidered with little stars (it reminded him of Alfred). Lets his tears fall until the simple white cloth is damp and disgusting, and his hands are shaking and his tea is cold and the clock is chiming the hour.
On a day like this, after he has dried his eyes and blown his nose, he feels much better. He gets up from the couch and heads to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a whiskey or a rye. This makes him feel even better.
After he cries, he can feel again. He can focus on his reading, he can enjoy his tea. He can attend meetings and argue and lecture. After he cries, things return to normal. After it rains, the sun comes out.
Until the clouds begin to gather over London once again.
Note;
I don't care if India and whatever else wouldn't technically be his children. He adopted them or whatever.
And yes, most of Ireland is it's own nation. It's just North Ireland that isn't.
trust me, I wiki'd it.