Drunken Tears
England doesn't know what the use of it all is, nostalgia, but he loses himself in it sometimes, especially when he's a little tipsy.
He remembers people especially, people who have gone or changed or grown up, like the small blonde boy he looked after long ago, the boy who toddled after him, tugging his coattails, overjoyed with the simplicities of life; rain, snow, a plastic top all diverted his attention. Arty, he used to shout, holding up the skinned arm or knee, and England would sigh softly and hasten to bandage it.
England hadn't been around a lot during America's childhood but he still misses things like this.
He recalls a few years from that day, where it was himself tugging the boy's clothing, trying to keep him from getting into trouble. He was still so childish, so loud and naive and wide-eyed at water guns, little toy planes and army men. He was still stubborn, and his face still flushed bright red when he held his breath, crossing his arms in defiance.
England downs another pint, slowly, the salty-sweet alcohol burning the back of his throat, and curses quietly. It's useless to call up the ghosts from the past.
Besides, America had become strong, his gangly frame towering over his guardian's, and his new distractions were war and rebellion. He had declared himself independent. His own nation.
England wipes tears from his cloudy eyes. He doesn't cry over this often- it's so rare he could count the occasions on one hand- but he can't help but miss being Arty, the one called on to bandage little Alfred when he gets hurt.
England thinks it's time to stop drinking so much. It makes him foolishly emotional.
He gathers his things in a blur of movement he doesn't think about, and walks unsteadily towards the door.
It's cold outside, the sharp chill biting England's skin down to the bone. He pulls his sweater close around him with trembling, numb hands and then all at once his foot slips on the ice and he's scraped his knee on the pavement.
Instead of getting up like a normal, sober human, he proceeds to curl up in a ball and sob again.
He abruptly, in bitter poetry, wants America to come and heal him. The strong man will swoop down like a hero and save him, holding him and telling him I forgive you, Arty.
Which is, of course, not what happens. England just passes out and wakes up wondering why there is so much liquid frozen to his cheeks.
La Fin