A/N: Ok, so I have never done anything like this before, but I was inspired by a particular playlist of songs I have dedicated to USUK, so I decided to write this. I am planning on making it a three-shot, if all goes according to plan and I don't rush it like I tend to (which I didn't in this chapter!) I am also planning on doing my first lemon in the last chapter, just as a warning. This particular chapter is a bit angsty, and sort of just the intro chapter, but the future ones should be much more fluffy ^_^

Just in case you want to play them for this chapter, the songs that go along are For You Only by Trading Yesterday (for the top half in Alfred's POV) and Not Alone by RED (for the bottom half in Arthur's POV.)

Warning: Freakish amount of sentences beginning with "and" or "but." -_- I'm such a hypocrite.

Alfred was in denial. Badly. Well, maybe that's not the right phrasing. He knew what this was, he could acknowledge it to himself; he just didn't want to. Maybe it was because that in accepting it, it would be admitting regret and the fact that him, the hero, had made a mistake; or that he knew what it was all along and had opportunity after opportunity to fix things, or at the very least mend them to the point that they could heal naturally over time, but instead he had been a coward. So, he preferred to tell himself that he was in denial, and none of it was his fault.

But that didn't stop him from moping around like a heart-broken teenager, complete with a full tub of Haagen Dazs, a box of Kleenex, and a few tragic romance chick-flicks. The first few times this particular depression hit him, Matthew had come over to keep him comfort and company; but eventually this had become somewhat of a regular routine and Alfred had learnt to cope with it without the aid of his brother.

He couldn't really avoid it, either. There were just so many triggers, so many everyday things that could suddenly cause a barrage of random, innocent, and even seemingly happy memories to assault his mind and drive him to that pathetic state. And Alfred could do nothing but sit and cry, and wonder, "why?"

Because Alfred was hopelessly homesick.

Now, being a country, homesickness, naturally, does not work the same way as human's. Being a country, homesickness was a bout of intense longing for a previous homeland of that nation's peoples; and since said homeland also had a human manifestation, it was a more peculiar longing of one country for another. A longing which Alfred was feeling acutely at that very moment.

There would be so many different things than ran through his mind. On a better day, he could sit and reminisce on happy days where he and his former mentor would be doing the simplest of things, such as playing with his wooden soldiers, or reading beneath the big tree he loved to climb as a child. Such memories only had a slight tinge of nostalgia to the taste, and although somewhat bittersweet, he preferred to linger on the sweet rather than the bitter.

But there were a great many darker days; days where the darkness itself seemed to swallow him up and spit him back out, and leave him a quivering mess; feeling lost and alone, and so very far from the home he had known, as if he were a dependent little boy all over again. He especially hated those days. Partially because he knew that those were not the emotions that a hero should be experiencing, but mostly because, even more un-heroically, he didn't know what to do about it. He would cry and shake, and his hand would be so close to picking up the phone, to calling the one person he knew could really console him and lesson the terrors of being on his own. Then he would remember; remember why he couldn't do that, why he had chosen to leave in the first place. And that's what he hated most of all. So many times he had wished he had just broken down enough that he wouldn't remember, that he could swallow his cowardice-or let go and not be so brave, whichever it was- and simply call him.

Sometimes the urge to do just that, and ever-nagging longing increased, almost as if in a response, like someone was calling him; and how he wished for that to be the case, but he knew that it was not.

And that very thought that killed him most of all. The knowledge that he was not only alone in the obvious sense of the word, but alone in these feelings as well; because it was extremely clear to him that he was not as missed as much as he desperately wanted to be, and he knew that because of that, nothing would ever change. There would be no one calling him from the other end of the phone because they needed him, and since he would not pick up the phone to admit how much he needed that particular someone, it all would go on as it had for the past 200 plus years.

And they would meet in their World meetings, and they would bicker, argue, and call names; and he would steal glances, and hope beyond all hopes that everything he was feeling would communicate through his eyes, if only he would just look. But nothing would change, and they would go home again, his façade in place and heart hopelessly lost, and he would promise himself-

Next time, next time I'll say it for sure.

-knowing full well that it would just be another repeat of all the years past.

And here he sat, eyes red and swollen, clutching an aged photo for dear life, and praying to whatever god may be up there, for just one chance to make everything all right again, to make it how it used to be. He sniffed, and his broken voice pierced the silence:

"I miss you, England."

Arthur hesitated at a doorway. He should knock, he knew he should; and yet he hesitated. This was the house, he was sure. He had never been here before, but he was certain without of a shadow of a doubt this was the correct address; he had taken it upon himself to firmly ingrain it into his memory the moment its occupant took up residence.

Why was he so hesitant? He wasn't…afraid. No, he couldn't be; could he? Sure, he may not have had a decent conversation with this person in decades, and the last he had known, they thought of him as an overbearing tyrant, but that didn't mean…

Screw it. He was terrified. He was almost completely sure that Alfred still hated him, and the only reason he was standing at this door now was the ever pressing, ever increasing need to finally get everything out in the open.

He knew that this was more than a bit too late for that type of conversation, but beneath that cover of a motivation he presented to himself, he had been harboring a glimmer of a fantasy where he and the American nation could relinquish their resentment towards each other and could go along just as they had so many years ago. He had squashed this down so many times, knowing that there was absolutely no reason to be wishing for something that not only was pretty much physically impossible, but also something he felt he had no right to anymore.

Regret after regret had plagued him, and there had not been a second where he didn't think that if he had a chance, he would go back and fix everything; cliché as it may sound, as all things are apt to until the moment they ring true for us. He would have done anything if it had meant Alfred would not have left him.

Not that he wasn't proud of his once-colony! He, although he hardly considered himself worthy, felt more pride over the strength, independence, and the respect America had garnered for himself than the large nation probably felt for himself.

But that did nothing to alter the fact that he missed Alfred something terribly. He was jealous every time he would look with fondness and familiarity upon another country, recalling of a time when the young boy had been solely dependent on himself. He ached to be back even on only polite, conversational terms; and more than anything to be able to hear the boy call him a friend, a mentor once more.

He shook his head to clear it. There was no time for nonsense like that. He mentally prepared himself and raised his fist to the door to knock three times. After no response for a few minutes, he tried the bell. When he still heard nothing and the door was not opened, he grew confused. He had followed Alfred home from a meeting a few hours prior, so he knew he had gone home; and he had stood watch the entire time, willing himself to walk up to that door, and had not witnessed any departure from the house.

Either Alfred knew it was him at the door and was purposely ignoring him, or he wasn't able to come to the door. He had frightening feeling it was the former.

He tried the knob out of curiosity, and with raised brows, swung the unlocked door open. That's definitely not safe. He took a few cautious steps into the dark hall before venturing into the unlit living-space. There, curled up into a ball of comforters and in a nest of used tissues on the couch, sat a sleeping Alfred.

Arthur tiptoed over to peer at his face, immediately worried for his health. What he found shocked him more than anything had that past decade. Dried tears evident upon the boy's cheeks, proof that he cried himself to sleep very shortly before, were the stand-out. What had caused his strong-no, not his anymore- this strong nation to cry himself to sleep?

He observed the items at Alfred's feet, propped up on the coffee table, and discovered a few sappy movies –that had better not be it– and an open notebook.

Glancing back at the now snoring lump to make sure he would not be waking any time soon, he reached down to investigate the contents of the book; what he saw broke his heart. Page after page was filled of recounts of days filled with loneliness, confusion, and…homesickness? For him?!

Arthur took a staggering step back. There was just no way- I mean, Alfred had left of his own free will, so this couldn't…he had just been so sure that he had been the only one suffering the after effects of the American Revolution; it was…it was…

He looked back to the page he had flipped to.

I tried becoming friends with other countries to see if that would help me feel any better. Japan is cool, and it was cool to get to know Mattie better, but…it just wasn't the same. It's not what I want.

There's no one really willing to get close to me; I guess I'm a little bit intimidating. Hahaha…

And Iggy wants nothing to do with me anymore. I mean I guess if I raised someone and they betrayed me like that, I wouldn't either. But a guy can dream, right?

Arthur dropped the book alarmed as Alfred suddenly rolled over. "England…" he sighed.

Arthur felt as if someone had just stabbed him in the chest. Now it was all starting to make sense…how Alfred would stare at him during meetings, why he always addressed him first, why he would follow him around. He wasn't trying to spite him or annoy him; it had been his own way of asking for forgiveness.

The Brit gave a tearful smile in Alfred's direction. He was resolved now; he would give him everything he had missed in the past years; he would be the friend that the American nation was desperate for.

For a moment he was tempted to wake him, but decided that the best way to help him would not be by damaging his pride; no, he would get him to open up to him on his own. Arthur replaced the book into its original position, and bent over to whisper in America's ear:

"You're not alone anymore."

A/N: Ok, to be completely honest, I'm not expecting much feedback for this chapter, and as I'm re-reading it, I'm not really liking it -_- But if you stick with me, I promise the next chapters will be better. Oh, and if anyone is interested in my USUK playlist (which is a bunch of songs that just remind me of the couple) just message me and I can give it to you. :)