Today is the first day of the new year and it's already raining—not that that's anything to be shocked about. Rain, rain, rain—that's all there will ever be in England. Rain and Arthur's sadness.
Are the skies this miserable in the rest of the world?
Arthur thinks back to Francis's teasing smile, Peter's loud disposition, Alfred's radiant grin.
No, the skies that watch over them are bright and full of sunshine.
—
Today is the tenth of January and the rain has not ceased. He doesn't know why he bothers to keep track anymore. When Arthur cries, England cries. He knows that if he stops weeping, the rain will go away, but he can't smile happily again.
After having his heart trampled on, he doesn't remember how.
—
Today is the twenty first of January and Arthur is sitting alone by the lake again. The rain pours on him and him alone, and he wishes that someone would come and hug him.
Hell, he would even take Francis if it meant not being alone anymore.
Everything is gray in England nowadays—the sky, the water, the roads, his eyes. His brothers, Alfred, Francis, Matthew, Hong Kong, Peter—they've all deserted him, along with the colors and the sun.
Arthur stands up and walks away. He doesn't want to see his reflection in the water anymore.
—
Today is the day of the world meeting, the day in which Arthur is granted that short time in sunshine. He pretends not to notice the concerned glances that he gets from Francis and Alfred as he bursts into laughter during Ludwig's report.
Is this what it feels like to be happy?
Ludwig yells at him to quiet down. Arthur complies—the German man's wrath scares even him—and looks out the window with a giddy smile. That smile fades as he realizes the honey-colored bars filtering through the window make him want to curl up and sob, and he remembers that as soon as he returns home he will be drenched in his tears once more.
—
Today is the day in which Arthur returns home; he laughs out loud when he sees the gray lake, laughs when feels the relentless rain wetting his clothes once more. He hates the rain. He hates the sadness. He hates Alfred, hates Francis, hates Matthew, hates Hong Kong, hates Peter...
"I hate myself!" He falls back against the hard ground, laughing as tears stream down his cold, wet cheeks. "I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself!"
"Why?"
Arthur sits up to look up at Alfred, his laughter increasing in intensity. "Why? Why? You all left me, you and Francis and Matthew and Hong Kong and my brothers and Peter! It's my fault, isn't it? My fault you all abandoned me in this world? My fault I can't smile anymore? Why else would you have left me, America?"
"I left... so I could be... the hero," Alfred says quietly. Arthur swears he can see tears in his blue eyes, but perhaps it's just the rain.
"I already know that! You remind me every bloody day, you—"
"I left so I could be your hero!"
Arthur looks up at the taller nation with shocked eyes. Alfred is crying. Alfred never cries. The sight makes his laughter die out, makes his tears fall faster and faster until everything but those bright blue eyes is just a blur in his gray world.
"So... can you please smile for me?"