Who do you think I am?

America was his own country now, England had accepted that. He said it to others; they'd written it down, it was final. America was no longer his, hadn't been for a long time. Yet as England watched the young nation relate with others, he couldn't help feeling something. It wasn't envy, no certainly not. England was glad not to be the top power anymore.

No, perhaps it was jealousy; England had always used the two interchangeably before, but now there was clearly a difference. England felt nothing when dozens of countries flocked to America demanding money or protection, but France would ruffle the young nation's hair and he would smile that winning smile, or Korea would tell him a joke and America would laugh at his mere attempts. He'd go drinking with Germany and Prussia, trade with China and Japan, or eat dinner with Italy. It made England grit his teeth and clench his fists until his knuckles turned white.

Alcohol was usually England's solution to this, but intoxication was a double edged sword in the UK's hands. On one side, it removed his inhibitions. On the other hand, it removed his inhibitions. He'd sit in the pub letting the pints pile up. What kind of life was this? What was he even doing? Why was he here? Somehow through the drunken maze of England's psyche, he came to the slurred answer: 'M'rica. That ingrate, prat, jerk, pretty boy, conceded little...wonder. England slammed his head onto the polished wood of the bar and groaned. The room was dark and dank, and because it was the middle of the day, nearly no one was there.

Until someone loud and blonde in every sense of the word kicked the door open, which was completely unnecessary as the door was neither locked nor challenging to open by hand. England winced away from the light as America rushed in. "There you are!" The younger nation cried, hustling up to England.

"No 'm not." England muttered, making an attempt to hide under his own arms; something only a drunk man would fall for, and America judged by the many pint glasses littering the area that England was really drunk.

"Why aren't you at the meeting?" America asked, putting a hand on England's shoulder. The elder nation jerked away from the touch and slid off the bar stool, swearing the whole way down. America put a hand over his mouth in mock surprise, really he was trying not to laugh. "Everything alright?" He asked through the material of his glove. When England didn't get up, America knelt on the floor beside him. "What's the matter?" He murmured seriously.

"Jus'g' back t' the meeting." England mumbled, staring up at the ceiling before turning his gaze from America.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong." America replied firmly. One of America's hands landed inches from England's face. The UK turned his head to see America hanging over him, set on his words. "C'mon," He said softly, brushing England's tousled hair out of his eyes, "You can tell me."

England stared up into America's bright eyes. "I di'n't wan' t' see you," England murmured; America's brow furrowed, "With anyone else." One of England's arms wrapped around America's neck, the other one embraced his waist.

"W-Well, that's..." America's cheeks quickly grew red; he quickly told himself that England was just drunk, but there was something in his green eyes that was dead serious. "I really-mmft" America never got to finish his statement as England sharply pulled his neck down until their lips slammed together.

England decided that he didn't care about what America did with other countries; they had a special relationship and no one could change that.

And who do you think I'll be without you?