Hurr. Depressing song fic. :3

This was inspired by the song "I Don't Care" by Apocalyptica. Go listen to it if you haven't heard it. It is genius.

You might want to know this. Words in italics and bold are said by England as well as being lines in the song. Kind of like this: I don't care.

A completely different take on USUK, mind you. This is no romantic fluff.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or the song "I Don't Care."

I Don't Care

I try to make it through my life.

In my way

There's you.

England huddled in the corner of his room, pressed up against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, face buried in them. Tears streamed down his cheeks, flowing freely from his eyes like a river, creating dotted marks on the floor and in his clothing where the salty liquid fell.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, heart clenched in sorrow, eyes red and puffy from the amount of crying, a headache pounding in his skull. Why did America always have to do this? He couldn't help but think this as more tears welled up while he nursed his aching head. Every year, America would ask him to go to his birthday parties. England would have loved to go, but he just couldn't. It was practically shoving back in his face that he had lost the war; lost his precious colony. He had been trying to move on, trying to get on with his life without having to suffer the pain. He had been doing well too, progressively drinking less and less alcohol every year when that date rolled around.

And it was here again. But of course, the American had decided to throw his party at England's house, figuring that if he did, the stubborn Brit would have to go to the party. He hadn't even considered how much that would hurt him. England had promptly slammed the door in America's face and locked himself away in his room, not caring that America had found the spare key and let himself in to set up. He simply stayed huddled away, hiding from the world.

The American kept getting in the way—kept shoving the past back in his face. He was sick of it.

I try to make it through these lies.

And that's all I do.

England stood up slowly and made his way to his bed, sitting on it, letting himself sink down into the mattress, letting its warmth shield him and give him a sense of security. He let his gaze rest on the picture on his desk of him and a young America standing side by side, smiling—happy. He had tried to tell himself multiple times already that America had loved him back then, but he no longer found himself believing it. It had been tearing him apart, but lately, he had been able to ignore it. But once more, it had been ruthlessly shoved in his face like some sick joke.

He kept wondering why America kept doing this. A thought struck him.

He enjoyed seeing England break. That must have been it. He enjoyed seeing the Englishman break down and cry about something he did.

Just don't deny it.

Don't try to fight this

And deal with it.

That's just a part of it.

He couldn't keep lying to himself anymore; he knew. It was simply becoming harder and harder with each passing day—each passing year. And yet, he still did. It covered the pain, and it made it easier to deal with the other nations—made it easier to hide behind his mask and hide his true feelings and thoughts. He could deal with it, he told himself.

England gazed at the picture once more, his eyes momentarily blank, unsure. He sat up and stood, making his way to the table, eyes hard. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the picture.

If you were dead or still alive,

I don't care,

I don't care.

England threw the picture hard on the ground, watching with cold eyes as the glass of the frame shattered, the picture becoming exposed and being scratched with the shards, ripping in places. His eyes were wide with a fire that gave away his pleasure at smashing the picture—at smashing one of the few mementos of his time with America back then. He couldn't find it in himself to care at the loss of the picture. He stared down at the broken mess, expression cold and unforgiving, as if he was accusing the picture of something.

England walked back to the bed, collapsing on top of it in an exhausted heap. He closed his eyes, wanting sleep to take him already.

Just go and leave this all behind.

'Cause I swear

I don't care.

The thump of knuckles on his bedroom door awoke him. England lifted his head wearily and looked at the clock by his bed, frowning slightly when he found he had only been asleep for half an hour. The knocking sounded again, more persistent this time, wanting to be let it. England only groaned and laid his head back down; figuring whoever was on the other side of his door would realize that it was unlocked and just walk in.

The person obviously realized it too, as the doorknob turned and America stepped into the room, worry etched into his face. He glanced at England who lay on the bed. "Iggy?" No response came from the Brit. America let his gaze wander around the room, eyes stopping on a mess on the floor. He approached the shards and ripped paper, moving to get a better look at what it could have been. His eyes widened, piecing together what had happened.

The picture… It was of him and England. But… England loved those pictures of them together like that. Why would he…?

"Get out." England's voice broke America from his thoughts. America swiveled to face the Brit. He opened his mouth to speak, but England cut him off. "I said, get out." America stared at England. He was surprised at what he saw. England's demeanor was cold and uncaring, his eyes hardened and determined. America felt intimidated suddenly, unsure of why England was acting this way. He backed out of the room, his hands up in surrender. He'd talk to England later, he decided, thinking it was for the best.

I try to make you see my side.

I always try to stay in line.

Of course, the world meeting rolled around a few days after America's birthday party. Arguing was common, and it certainly wasn't anything new in this meeting. America was again, spouting some random, insane idea that would never work to stop global warming.

But the topic quickly changed to the civil war in Libya. America began naming possibilities to help improve conditions—possibilities England found just as insane as his global warming ideas—and was actually starting to gain some support for them!

England decided to speak up, adding in an idea of his own. But it was cruelly rejected by everyone else; all because America rejected it. England found himself staring at everyone in disbelief, unable to say anything. They were all with America on this one. England was nothing anymore—his ideas didn't really matter, it appeared.

At the end of the meeting, America left the room, everyone parading behind him to get lunch. But England stayed behind, knowing he was alone. No one would agree with him.

But your eyes see right through.

That's all they do.

Sighing, England packed up his things and left the meeting room, deciding to just skip the rest of the meeting. Who cared if America didn't like him? Who cared if he wanted nothing to do with him? It didn't matter anyway. America had gotten what he wanted: he was equal to everyone—maybe even above them.

To the Brit's surprise, America stopped him at the front of the building. England raised an eyebrow, confused as to what the American might want.

"What is it, America?"

Getting buried in this place

I got no room, you're in my face.

Don't say anything, just go away.

"Tell me what's wrong," America demanded. England gave him a confused glance.

"What do you mean?" he inquired, interested as to what might have caused America to suddenly worry about him.

"You're different," he stated firmly. The Briton just stared at him dumbly, not understanding where he was going with this. "You look at me differently now. You don't look at me like you used to."

Rolling his eyes, England said, "And how exactly did I used to look at you? It isn't like you should care how I look at you."

If you were dead or still alive,

I don't care.

I don't care.

"You don't look at me like an equal! You still look at me like I'm below you!" America exclaimed, waving his arms around frantically. He looked annoyed as well as concerned, worry flashing through his deep blue eyes.

England scoffed, rolling his eyes in a way that showed disgust and anger. How could that daft American possibly still think he didn't look at him as an equal? "You idiot," he scowled, narrowing his eyes and looking up at Alfred with saddened, angered eyes. "I look at you the completely opposite way."

Arthur looked down at the ground, training his eyes on his feet as he pushed passed Alfred, walking out the door, heading down the sidewalk towards his hotel.

Just go and leave this all behind.

'Cause I swear (I swear!)

I don't care.

Alfred ran after the retreating Brit, grabbing Arthur's shoulder to halt him. The Englishman stopped walking, fringe covering his eyes as he stared at the ground. "England…" Alfred wasn't sure what to say.

"Enough, Alfred," Arthur said, his tone stern and cold. America flinched at this tone. It wasn't one he'd ever heard the Briton use before—it was uncaring, unnatural, a monotone that had no emotion.

"I've had enough. I've had enough of your antics. I've had enough of your persistence. I am not some puppet to be used, Alfred. I won't change my ways. I won't change who I am, because that is me. And you are never there when I need you. So why should I be there for you?"

(Not changing everything. You won't be there for me.)

(Not changing everything. You won't be there for me.)

"In world wars? I'm fighting, you're neutral. My people are dying, and yours are safe. And when you finally decide to intervene and play hero, the rest of Europe is too tired to do anymore fighting, and yet we're still expected to help you. And we do!" England continued, speaking coldly.

"We're expected to help you just because you ask. What do you do to deserve it? You're a stubborn brat who needs to be taken down a notch, that's what. Learn that not everything is give and take, but sometimes it's just taking, and at other times, you find yourself only giving." Arthur turned around and looked up at Alfred, glaring at him in the eye. His gaze made America want to huddle somewhere and hide like he would when England had one of his rages when he was a colony. It was a calculating stare, a stare that was judging him.

"I won't change everything, Alfred, just because you ask me to."

[Piano Solo]

Alfred was locked in that gaze with the stubborn Briton, unable to escape it.

If you were dead or still alive,

I don't care,

I don't care.

"Face it. I have, that's for sure. You're better than me. You're at the top of the world, where I once used to be. You're the super power, the strongest nation. And I can't bring myself to care."

Just go and leave this all behind.

'Cause I swear (I swear!)

I don't care.

"I am below you. We're all below you. And they all follow you now. My opinion doesn't matter anymore. But that's okay, because I don't care anymore. I'm simply a shadow."

If you were dead or still alive,

I don't care,

I don't care.

"I look forward to seeing you fall off that pedestal, Alfred. You'll fall, just like I did. And I won't be there to catch you, just like how no one was there for me. I'll watch you fall, and I'll laugh. I'll laugh because your foolishness is what brought upon your demise. And then you'll be like the rest of us. You'll be equal once more, and a different nation will rise to the top."

Just go and leave this all behind.

'Cause I swear (I swear!)

I don't care…

"Artie… How could you say things like that?" Alfred looked at Arthur with tears streaming down his face, yet the English nation was unaffected. He gazed up at the American with a cool, collected expression.

"Leave it, Alfred. I don't care. I don't care anymore. Fine, brag about your victory in the Revolutionary War. Fine, brag about how you came to save our arses from the Germans. Fine. I don't care. I want to leave it behind, America. I want to be able to live without having it all shoved back in my face and making a huge deal about it. Because I simply don't care." He broke eye contact with America, not caring as the younger nation cried. His emerald green eyes gleamed with a disgusted pity.

At all.

Alfred watched as Arthur walked away once more. He clenched his fist, gritting his teeth as he tried to stop the tears. "But I do care…" he whispered, and walked away in the opposite direction.

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