Arthur kept grossly sobbing, never-ending 4th of July tears that seemed to have been going on for hours, when it had actually been days, streaming down his face. The taller nation awkwardly patted his back, obtaining no apparent positive feedback, but a few broken words.
"H-how could you leave me...Don't you care about my feelings at all?! ...I loved you with such burning passion..."
"N-no...that's not it at all Iggy...I don't regret what I did, but I...almost feel like I need to make it up to you..."
"That's not possible! My heart is shattered beyond repair!"
"But Iggy..."
"Get me a drink."
Alfred looked at the pitiful mess in front of him, who had eventually and drunkenly fallen asleep. So much for a couple of centuries of independence...
He finally made up his mind and jumped up, ready to take a most undeserved rest somewhere around.
Only, few steps after, to be stopped by a needy hand.
"'Merica...don't leave me..."
"..."
How could he forsake old men when in such a state, even think about ever sleeping peacefully after what he had caused?!
A few moments of struggle, and he caved in. It was going to be one of those nights.
Arthur ran his hand through his hair. A huge yawn, a quick eye rub and he was ready to get up. He scanned his surroundings distractedly.
He was gone, as always; guilt-ridden, as always.
Finally, he found what he truly was looking (and cared) for. He grabbed his fat wallet and licked it lecherously.
He surely did love with a burning passion: that is, sex, and money.
It was high time to rub the unspent money in that France-hooker's face. He had to know he was a hard one to crack.
A/N: In case it wasn't obvious enough, hooker is very much literal, and the last bit implies that while Arthur is addicted to sex, he's also to money, so he doesn't want to pay hookers - no other reason why he shouldn't make use of the "service", though.