Summary: Outside, rain kept falling over the city of London. The sky was grey, dark. But it was always like that. The Londoners didn't realize the air became a bit colder, and that the wind grew a bit stronger. They didn't realize their country was suffering, but then again: no one did. And would someone before it was too late?

Rate: M

Warning: Future slash (malexmale relationship), depression, self harm, eating disorder and maybe a few others. I, however, will always mention, on the begging of the chapters, if something of the kind happens. Oh! Hum... OOC! England.

Pairing: unknown.

A/N: Hello! This is the my first fan-fiction and I'm kinda nervous. Yeah, hum, oh! I am not an English speaker, didn't even finish my English course yet, and I don't have a Beta, so - please - if you see any mistakes kindly forgive me and point them out so I can correct them at a later date. All this boring stuff aside, have fun! I hope you all will enjoy This as much as I had fun writing.

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me, but to Hidekaz Himaruya! The marvellous characters are all his! The plot, however, is mine. :)

Words count: 2560

(oOo)

As soon as he heard his answer he had to sit down once again. 'No'. He tried to ignore the painful throbbing of his heart. A bitter smile formed on his lips.

He should have known.

(oOo)

It was lunch time, meaning he only had one brief hour before having to go back to the conference room and resume the meeting from where they stopped and, consequently, to America screaming he was the hero, France being his usual frog-self and avoiding brother-dear Ireland. Sighing, he got up. All the other nations had already fled the conference room, disappearing to who knew where. Rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension there, he tried to remember what he had for breakfast.

Toast with butter, poached eggs, back bacon, baked beans and black pudding accompanied by tea. Closing his eyes he deemed it okay to skip lunch, he wasn't hungry anyway. So, instead of going to the little café down the street like he normally did when the meetings were held in London, he would walk around the building. Not really good, but better than waste his time by sitting alone on the conference room, moping around.

His footsteps were light, soundless, a skill he learned and mastered long ago, when he was still a child and running away or hiding from his brothers attacks. Scotland, Ireland and Wales weren't the best brothers one could have. And they only got worse after their mothers demise.

But then again, he thought, the old days were different. Rougher. The stronger survived, the weak perished. Blood ties meant little.

(The forest was cold, unfriendly, and the night had already fallen, making the place that much more scary. Had he had a choice, he wouldn't have entered it at all. However, knowing his brothers had been right behind him and being barely able to dodge most of their arrows and rocks, he run to the protection the dense foliage could offer him. Now, perched at the top of one tree, he waited with baited breath, hoping his brothers wouldn't find him. And with each call for his name - they insisted on calling him 'Albion', although mockingly, and with barely concealed malice in their voices -, with each footstep and broken twig or the rustle of leaves, he held his breath, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. He couldn't understand why they were all so mean, had he done something wrong? Hurt them so much that he deserved to be hunted down and beaten? Why did-)

Shaking his head to whisk such thoughts away, he quickened his step.

As he walked through the crème hallway a familiar annoying laugh, coming from one room two doors down on his left, made him stop momentarily. His thick eyebrows twitched in irritation, this person was one of the last he wanted to meet. So, to save himself one aggravating confrontation, he decided to ignore it and go his merry way. This is, until he heard his name being mentioned.

His black dress shoes came to a halt right in front of the aforementioned door.

He normally tried to stay as far away as he could from him. God knew how much just the sound of his voice, with that infuriating accent of his that he took so much pried in, irritated him. But... He heard his name, pronounced in his terrible language yes, but his name nonetheless. And like hell he would pass such opportunity!

Green eyes narrowing, he crept as close as he could to the door, careful to not be discovered: should this happen, he could already hear the mocking that would follow. And he preferred to spare himself such ridicule.

"Why are you here again, mon ami? Didn't Germany already prohibited you from participating, or even coming close, to the meetings?" Asked France, curious.

"Kesesese. As if the awesome me would follow orders from anyone!" Laughed Prussia, a small chirp from Gilbird - which was hovering over the albinos head like usual - following suit, as if agreeing with its master statement.

Rolling his eyes, he leaned closer to the door. He was sure he heard his name! And what could the frog and his two friends - because he could see Spain munching happily on a tomato -, be talking about that involved him? Certainly nothing nice, but what?

France, from what he could see, shook his head exasperatedly, muttering something too low for him to hear, but that earned a laugh from Spain and a glare from Prussia. "Anyway, back to the topic we were discussing, did anyone else see Angleterres face?" He asked, snickering, barely able to contain himself.

"Sí." Answered Spain, his eyes glowing with mirth as he remembered the face of his long time rival "Why was the bastardo so frustrated, though?" He asked curiously before going back to his tomato.

"Ohonhonhonhon" France laughed, one hand covering his mouth slightly." It seems our dear Angleterre invited America to have lunch with him and was turned down! Quite fast, I heard!" He snickered, blue eyes shining with amusement.

Prussia laughed loudly, almost doubling over himself "He is so unawesome!"

England hastily put a good distance between himself and the door, as if burned. He didn't hear Spains reaction, but it didn't take a genius to figure it out. And although he was peeved by what he heard, to the point of almost knocking the door down, ready to show those three idiots what a former pirate could do, he was also embarrassed that they knew America had turned him down. Not only that, but he had overheard a private conversation, to go inside there would be assuming he heard eavesdropped on them - Humiliating. And he knew how the three felt about him, how he was their favorite target. So it wasn't a surprise they were making fun of him, but... It was like rubbing salt on a gash.

He had wanted to talk to the younger nation, just that - nothing more. To rebuild the bridges long burned. Their relationship had been getting better with the years, and he thought that maybe it would do them some good to talk, maybe try to be friends. But America had said no, flat out turned down his invitation. And it had hurt. More so because he turned his back and didn't look back. It reminded him of a similar situation, although the circumstances were very different.

(The rain didn't lessen, it kept on falling, as if cleaning the battlefield. He thanked God, because this way no one could see his tears. His sobbing, however, wouldn't stop. And he stood there; tall, his blond hair damp, looking down on him with pained blue eyes. The last words he said before leaving, they were like a dagger to his heart. He just wanted to keep crying, sobbing on the ground until the end of times. His little brother was gone, he left, abandoned him. For the first time he cursed his immortality. For the first time he wished he had no heart. He kept sited on the mud until one of his soldiers came to him and helped him back to the camp were he was patched up and the day after, he left the thirteen colonies. He kept looking to the mass of land as his ship got farther and farther away, until it disappeared from his sight. His last words kept playing again and again on his mind. 'You used to be so...big')

England breathed in shakily, unshed tears burning his eyes and a lump in his throat. The past hurt, the present hurt. He was always hurting, not that anyone seemed to notice or care, if they did. Wanting to get away as fast as he could before he was discovered, he ran. Closing his eyes in an attempt of stoping the tears, he trusted his feet to carry him through the already well know hallways.

He was grateful the world meeting was being held in His capital this month and that today was the last of the seven days of its' duration. He didn't think he would've been able to stand another day in the same room as The Bad Friends Trio or America.

It was bound to be awkward with America, at least on his part: the lad probably has already forgotten how uncomfortable they were after his rejection. And it would be both embarrassing and infuriating to be in the same room as those three git, who would probably cluster together and snigger or outright make comments which would make him uncomfortable.

After a few minutes of running, he finally stopped. And recognizing where he was, he turned right and entered in the first room he saw. The stark white tiles made him squint his eyes at first, but as soon as he got used to them he made his way to one of the many sinks the bathroom had to offer.

Instead of opening the faucet he looked up, his green eyes locking on the reflexion on the mirror. A saddened smile graced his lips for a few seconds before he bent over the sink, turned the silver wheel to the right, and begun washing his face. It wouldn't do for him to show up with a blotched face or red eyes. It wouldn't do for him to have any less than an impeccable appearance when in the presence of the other countries.

After using paper towels to dry his face, he gave a weak smile to his reflection. His nose was slightly pinkish, but he could attribute that to the cold autumn air. All in all he was good to go. Or as good as he was going to get.

The sound of footsteps outside, however, sent him in a frenzy, and he quickly hid in one of the cabins. Sitting on top of the toilet and drawing his knees to his chest, he asked himself what the bloody hell he was doing. And when he decided to leave his little hideout, two voices he knew very well came within earshot.

I'm turning into a creepy git, he thought.

"And that was how I, the Hero, defeated the zombies!" The boisterous voice of the one and only United States of America, exclaimed. Probably swinging his arms up and down in his excitement, thought England fondly. "Hey, hey, Japan!"

"Hai, America-kun?" Asked the always polite Japan.

"Do you want to have a horror movie marathon?!" America asked, his blue eyes wide and hopeful as he stared at his friend.

"Won't you get scared, America-kun?" Japan pointed out a bit hesitantly.

"The Hero doesn't get scared!" America exclaimed before laughing obnoxiously. His voice echoed in the bathroom, making England wince.

The sound of water running alerted England of where they probably were. A few booths down of his own. He was safe. The small confident smile he had on his lips, however, was wiped out with Japans next words.

"America-kun," He called, his voice a bit unsure "What it's that you and England-san talked that got you so... Agitated?" His eyes were anywhere but America when he blurted it out "I'm sorry! It's not polite to ask-"

"Heh! It's alright. He just asked to have lunch with me." America said laughing, as if the mere though of having lunch with England was funny. The green eyed man strengthened the grip on his knees, knuckles losing their color gradually and turning white "He is such a weirdo sometimes."

Seeing Japan was giving him an inquisitive look, he rapidly tried to explain, "I mean, he wants to have lunch with me out of the blue? And normally he just gives me his burned scones and disappears, ya know? It's strange!"

"Ah! I see." Nodded Japan, his face serious "England-san truly is a complicated person to understand."

"Hahahhaha! He is isn't him?" America laughed, blue eyes sparkling with mirth, a wide grin on his face.

"Aa." Was Japans only answer, but a small smile lingered on his lips - not that England could see.

A few minutes passed with the two of them exchanging meaningless chitchat, basically about horror movies and America being the hero, before they left the bathroom. Only when the sound of their voices was muffled by the door did England let his legs fall to the floor.

Tears tickled down his face, falling on the fisted hands on his lap. His body trembled slightly and he wanted nothing more than to scream, however, his manners stopped such crude (on his opinion) actions. He kept crying silently, small little gasps of breathe escaping his tightly pressed lips from time to time. An idiot, he couldn't help but think, I am an idiot. Did I really though I could've had friends? Who would want to be friends with me? I am an idiot, a clueless idiot.

It was too much. It had always been too much, but these days, recently, everything seemed to be getting worse. Why couldn't he have a rest? Why couldn't he sleep without nightmares plaguing his mind? Why did his demons persecute him? When did it became so much harder to hold everything in...?

He remembered a phrase that he seemed unable to forget: "The sun always shine above the clouds"*. England was sure the sun lost its' brightness long ago and that above the heavy grey clouds, there was nothing besides darkness lurking around.

With a self depreciating smile on his face, he resisted the urge to laugh; the small gasps turned into big gulps for air and the silent tears not only made him choke, but they wouldn't stop. No matter how many times he cleaned them, they kept falling and falling. After some time he gave up, letting his head fall on his hands, fingers holding painfully onto his hair as he finally gave in and broke down.

("Shut up, black sheep of Europe!")

*Paul F. Davis