He stood, his gun pointed at the boy-almost-man he regarded as his younger brother. "I can't do it. You bloody fool… Dammit…why dammit…" he muttered, dropping to his knees on the muddy ground.
"England…" America began, "You used to be so big…"
It had been a year or so since that stormy day, and England still hadn't gotten over it. He couldn't seem to get the memory out of his mind, no matter how much he drank. Bottle after bottle, the memories still haunted him, and he wasn't sure how much more he could take before he snapped.
He cursed himself over and over for letting the boy-almost-man go. He was constantly worried that something might happen to him, careless as America was, and that it would just make everything hurt worse.
England sat at the bar over, drinking something. He wasn't really sure what. He was too drunk to remember. Finishing his glass of whatever-it-was, he stood up and walked out the door of the bar. Staggered, actually, into pouring rain. He turned into an alley, of sorts between two buildings. It was surprising that he had any motor control at all at this point. He was more drunk than he'd ever been before.
"England…" America began, "You used to be so big…"
"DAMMIT!" England yelled. Still, the memories haunted him. He fell to his knees by the side of one of the buildings, with his face up to the rain. Tears mixed with raindrops, and it took him a moment to realize that he was actually crying. His head hurt. Every motion made the pain double, so he slumped against the wall of the building, not wanting to move ever again.
He passed out there, sitting against the side of a building in pouring rain, tearstains undetectable on his cheeks because of all the raindrops that were mixed in.
America moseyed down the sidewalk after dark. There was nowhere he had to be, but he didn't really feel like going home. Lately, restlessness and depression had caused him to wander the streets after dark because he didn't want to go home. It was too lonely there.
That evening it was raining harder than it had in a long time. America meandered past a bar and the alley beside it. He glanced down the alley as he passed by.
Doing a double take, he saw a small, familiar figure sitting on the ground, leaning against the side of a building. The smallish man looked awful. There were circles around his eyes, and he had lost a lot of weight since America had last seen him. America stopped walking and stood there, trying to decide if he should do anything. He desperately wanted to, but he was unsure how England would feel about that. He was probably still mad at him for leaving.
Unable to stand there doing nothing for any longer, America stepped into the muddy alley. Upon further inspection, he discovered England to be unconscious. America stooped and picked up England's limp body. Holding him in his arms like a baby, he carried him all the way home.
America laid out the still unconscious England on his own (still unmade) bed. He pulled off his shoes and his jacket and hung them over a towel rack in the bathroom. He dragged a chair from the kitchen into the bedroom close to the bed and sat down on it, checking the clock. It was already after midnight.
He watched England lay there for a few minutes, trying to figure out his feelings. He reached out tentatively toward England's hand lying on top of the covers. Hesitantly, he wrapped his own around it. His fingers were freezing. With the other hand, he pulled a blanket over him.
He was restlessly drifting in and out of sleep an hour or so later when England finally stirred. America felt him move his hand (which he still held) and opened his eyes. England was starting at him blearily.
"Wha…? Where am I…?" he inquired groggily. His voice was still slurred. Even in this hung-over state, England could tell America was no longer the boy-almost-man he remembered. He was most certainly a man now. In only a little time, he had transformed from a loud, immature kid to a…well… He was probably just as immature as ever.
"This is my house, silly," replied America, interrupting England's thoughts.
"But…you left."
"You know the only reason I left you was because I love you, but I think incestuous pedophilia is weird, right?"
"Really?"
"Nah." A disappointed silence followed America's last comment. "But all the same," he continued. America leaned forward from his kitchen chair and kissed England's forehead. "Now get some sleep, dumbass." He began to lean back to a normal sitting position, but he felt a hand on his shoulder stop him.
"Wait…" England felt tears come to his eyes. He didn't know why, but they did. America stood up and, without letting go of England's hand, kicked off his boots and pulled off his bomber jacket and crawled into the bed next to him. England buried his head under America's chin, where he promptly fell asleep.