A/N: It's been a long time since I've written anything at all, especially fanfiction. I think it's been a couple years, actually... But I'm back now! :D And I'm here to stay hopefully. :) But anyway, I was listening to music and I kept getting sad USUK images in my head. No matter what I did, they wouldn't go away. So this is my way of dealing with that.
The song I was listening to was "Last to Know" by Three Days Grace when this idea nested in my brain.
I hope you enjoy the story, and please don't forget to review and favorite! ^.^
Scenes from America's childhood haunted England, searing themselves onto the backs of his eyelids. When he opened his eyes, he could still see the smiling blond-haired boy with the awful cowlick. The images seemed so real, England sometimes felt as if he could reach out and caress the boy's face, just like he had whenever young America would fall asleep in his lap. The images vanished every time England raised his hand.
He closed his eyes for the umpteenth time that night, and was instantly attacked by the nightmarish images from the Revolution. The blood of thousands mixed with the rain and mud, creating a grotesque river of bleeding soil that churned around England as he knelt on the ground, his gun thrown to the side. America stood above him, the tip of his bayonet shaking inches from England's face. His eyes were downcast, and England dreaded the moment when he would have to lift his gaze and meet America's, whose eyes - he knew - would be filled with nothing but loathing and rage.
While England laid in bed and relived the Revolution, all those dreadful feelings he had felt back then came surging up. His heart broke for the hundredth time, his scars cried out with a phantom pain, and tears burned behind his eyes. England fought the ocean of tears he knew was coming, but he also knew that he wouldn't be able to stop them - he had cried back then, he cried each time the memories had resurfaced, and he would cry now. He would always cry, would always be forced to live with the guilt, the pain.
England shoved himself out of bed with a wail of pain as the tears burst from him and burned new tracks into his skin. His heart splintered inside his chest. As he stumbled to the bathroom, he imagined he could feel the needle-sharp shards of his heart puncturing his vital organs, tearing through his body and destroying him from the inside.
There was a faint click to the right of England, and the room was bathed in a soft yellow light, but all he saw was the dark red of blood. Everything was coated in the drying liquid, staining the porcelain and the tiles, and there was a pool of the stuff inside the liquid . With a scream of terror, England jammed the heels of his palms into his eyes, blocking out the sight and rubbing ferociously. When he took his hands away with a groan, the blood was gone, and his bathroom was as white as it always had been.
Above the porcelain sink was a mirror that doubled as a cabinet. Inside was a golden chain, light and thin. Attached to the chain was a key with an American flag painted on both sides. England wrapped his fingers around the key, shivering as the cold of the metal shocked his feverish skin. He dragged his knuckles against the shelf inside the cabinet as he pulled the chain closer to his body. Even though the weight of the chain and the key totaled only a couple ounces, England felt as if it weighed a ton. A soft whimper escaped his lips as he tightened his grip on the key and hugged it close to his chest, bowing his head.
Without closing the cabinet or turning off the light, England made his way through his bedroom, down the hall, and to the base of the stairs that led to the second level of his home. His head felt like a lead weight as he lifted it to gaze up at the darkness. He thought the shadows seemed to be mocking him, laughing at his weakness, at his nightly ritual, and at the fear of his need to remember.
The key seemed to put on an extra couple tons as England trudged up the stairs, his slippered-feet scuffing against the wood. He could barely lift his hand above where it rested against his thigh, and his fingers were curled loosely, the key and chain resting in the slight cradle they created. If even one of his fingers so much as twitched, the key and chain would go crashing to the steps.
The darkness at the top of the stairs consumed England as he groped for the light switch. His fingers felt nothing but cracked plaster and peeling paint, so he sighed in defeat and continued his walk down the hallway blind. He didn't need the light anyway - he'd taken this trip too many times to not have it memorized.
The room was the last one on the left. For centuries, the door had been locked, and the old occupant of the room had never asked why, and he had never asked for his childhood belongings. He had never even been in England's house since he left.
England's eyes were adjusting to the darkness around him, and his tired, drug-like state led him to believe that the key in his hand was glowing, as if it recognized where it was and wanted more than anything to go inside. Following the will of the key, England placed it in the keyhole and turned.
A sob broke free from England's chest as he wrapped his fingers around the cool knob and turned. The hinges screamed as the door was pushed open.
Stepping inside, England could already feel the tears he'd been fighting back pour down his cheeks. They burned his skin like acid, and the Englishman cried out even louder as he stepped across the threshold.
The light automatically clicked on once England was inside the room, illuminating everything America had left behind. There were superhero action figures, Captain America capes, drawings of America flying through the sky, old clothes thrown haphazardly on the floor, and pictures. Lots and lots of pictures.
The pictures were what England always went for first. But tonight was different.
Bending down, England picked up a broken Superman action figure. His arm had been torn off because America had been throwing him against the wall, and England had refused to fix the toy again.
Flashbacks began rushing forward from the back of England's mind, clouding his vision and making him sway on his feet.
"IGGY!" America screamed from the living room. England rushed in from the kitchen, afraid America had hurt himself again. But when he reached the sofa, he found America sitting in front of it, clutching his favorite Superman action figure and the arm that England had already glued back on three times before. Tears cascaded from America's eyes and he looked pleadingly at England over the sofa.
"Can you fix him again, Iggy?" America sniffled. "He keeps breaking when he flies." This brought on a harsher round of crying and had England scuttling around to the front of the sofa. He knelt beside America and took the toy from him, examining the damage. America whimpered beside him the whole time, staring in desperation between the toy and England.
England finally sighed and handed the toy back to America. "I can't fix him anymore, Al. I'm sorry." And he truly did sound sorry, even though both nations knew he was lying.
America's face twisted, and a new wave of tears were shed. He reached out for England, his broken Superman toy clutched in his hand as the older nation enveloped him in his arms and rocked him gently.
"Now you calm down, Al," England murmured into his hair. "It's just a toy. You don't need toys to play. Your imagination is all you need. Heaven knows it's big enough." America's tears still leaked from his eyes, but he giggled at England's remark.
The action figure weighed a ton in his hand, and England let it crash to the floor. He had thrown it back up here after America had continued to bother him about fixing it, and the arm had been lost among the mess.
When England raked his eyes from one wall to the next, they landed on a drawing of a family. The tear tracks burned with a rage so intense England felt as if his skin were peeling off. America had drawn the picture when England had come home from a visit with one of his other colonies, and he had left it beside a mug of hot tea and a plate of homemade cookies.
The sobs burst from his chest with such force it felt as though his throat was being scratched raw. When England had come home from his visit, he had walked right past the drawing, ignored the cookies, and accidentally spilled the tea. Some had even seeped onto the drawing, staining a large portion of the upper right corner a nasty yellow. America had cried when England said he hadn't noticed the presents, and all the other nations were blamed for making England forget about America.
After dismissing America and saying he was acting silly and childish, England had thought long and hard about how he'd acted towards the younger nation. England knew he had been wrong, and he thought he had made up for those feelings that same day. But the longer he stared at the drawing, the worse he felt. He hadn't made up for anything, after all.
The pictures were the last thing England's eyes landed on. And he just so happened to be staring at his favorite - one of young America pointing up at the sky, smiling and laughing as he watched a flock of birds heading West. Even in the picture, his eyes were lit up and his joy seemed to dance within him, making his skin glow. Even with just the left side of his face visible, England could see the joy in the young nation's face, and his heart broke further.
He had been the one to destroy that joy, that innocence and love of everything. He had been the one who had robbed America of his dreams. He had been the one to make him leave.
That thought broke him. Not just his heart, but his soul, his person.
England's knees buckled beneath him, and he crash to the floor among the piles of clothes strewn everywhere. He gripped the photograph in his hand, clutching it to his chest. His body racked with sobs, and they echoed throughout the room. England's desperation reverberated in his ears, and it made him cry even harder.
He was hopeless; he knew he was hopeless. Crying every night about the little boy he had lost - no, the little boy he had pushed away - wasn't going to bring his Al back to him. But crying and wishing was the only thing he could do.
England curled up on the floor, resting his head on an American flag pillow. Swirling around him were memories of his and America's time together, and he couldn't help but think that he would never get a second chance.
Sobbing himself into a fitful sleep, England whispered over and over, "Come back to me, Al. Come back and love me like you used to. I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."
A/N: I hate when there are two author's notes in the same chapter, especially when they're both long, so I'll keep this one short. There is a sequel to this story, and it is now up. It's called "Guilt," for anyone who is interested in reading. So go check out "Guilt" and maybe my other story "A Secret Unfurls," and don't forget to review, favorite, and follow. :)
And that's the end. I hope you enjoyed the story and thank you for reading :3