Britain didn't know how he'd ended up curled into a foetal position on the floor. He didn't know why tears were rolling down his cheeks and giving the nation a splitting headache. He didn't know why his chest was aching as if Russia had grabbed his damned pickaxe and carved his heart from his chest. All of it was lost up in the fog of his wretchedness.
Hands curled around the blonde mop he called his hair, eyes barely open to the world, magnificent eyebrows furrowed and teeth clenched to the point that he thought they would disintegrate. What in God's name was wrong with him? He used to be so great, so proud, so…well, he was Britain.
People had looked up to him; hell, they'd admired him. There was one person that made it worthwhile, though. Britain didn't want to even think of the name, it would make the unbearable pain coursing through every inch of his body even more intense.
America.
"Godammit, America," the nation whispered, practically pulling his hair out at the thought of the bright blue eyes and ridiculous superhero fantasies. "Look what you've done to me." He snivelled miserably, gulping for air in an obscene way that made the Brit flush harder than before. His whole face was hot and red from crying into his chest and all of his limbs ached from the hard floor.
Yet he made no effort to get up from his pitiful position on the floor. He wanted to die. Much aspirin and junk food would be needed after this, Britain was sure of it. Junk food. Fucking America and his damned McDonalds, as well as that endless supply of cheeseburgers that he always seemed to be devouring. It was pathetic. No, wait. Britain was pathetic, that much was evident by the way he was pining after a stupid man-child with the brain the size of a walnut.
God knew what the younger country thought of him now. Gone were the days of little chubby America, staring up with wide, innocent eyes at the person that he could've called hero. The rapture and awe was replaced with quiet pity, masked with a thick wall of happy-go-lucky charm that everyone found hard to pierce but Britain.
And that was why Britain was cry. Because of the way America looked at him now, as if he were some senile old man that couldn't think straight. It was so shameful, so degrading, so hurtful, and what made it worse was the fact that Britain still loved his Little America with all of his shaky, breaking heart.
Britain wanted to be his hero again. Even if America was 'independent' now (fuck that war to hell and back, the nation thought) it didn't mean that he couldn't be a fatherly figure to him. And then Britain realised: maybe it wasn't being fatherly that he craved. Maybe it was…maybe…
He refused to admit it, clamping his lips tight and forcing all thoughts of light, childish freckling and silver half-glasses out of his head. No, he hissed to himself in self-resentment. Don't you dare you bloody ridiculous excuse for a country.
The Brit was so caught up in his turmoil and self-loathing that he didn't hear the door creak open. He'd forgotten to lock it the previous night, what with being so drunk that he'd tried to convince France into sex, and now he was paying the price for it. He didn't hear the obnoxious call of: "Dude?! Are 'ya home, Britain?" And if he did, he just thought it was a cruel trick being played by his yearning mind.
He didn't hear the tap of shoes against the stairs, nor the groan of his door as it eased open to find the crumpled nation on the floor. He could barely recognise the soft gasp of disbelief and pity, nor the tickle of hot breath on the pale nape of his neck. The worried words of: "Damn, Britain…are you ok?" scarcely broke through his protective barrier.
The only thing that seemed to get through at all was when America wrapped his arms around Britain's waist, holding him tightly to his chest and nuzzling his chin against the nation's hair. The Brit's fiery green eyes widened in surprise as his jaw hung open and for once he was lost for smart-arse remarks.
Instead, he just buried himself in the soft, cheeseburger-scented warmth that was America and enjoyed the sensation of his strong arms around him as he howled into the younger country's chest and knew that he would never have America embrace him in the way he longed for so desperately.