x-The Point That Is Not On The Line-x

England pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the bathroom mirror. Running away in such situations always seemed like the only option, but always turned out to be less when attempts to remain dignified came into play. He shouldn't have ran. He shouldn't have let his guard down and he shouldn't have thought so much of The United States of America.

But, to tell the truth, he had been expecting it all day. He had been expecting America to tell him he actually liked his food. April Fool's. He had been expecting America to agree with his ideas. April Fool's. He had been expecting every cruel and unimaginative joke in the book for this horribly juvenile day; but not 'I love you'. Never 'I love you'.

He didn't know why he hadn't thought of that. It wasn't like he was so naive to think that America still cared about him after the revolution. The stupid git proved his distaste for him every other day; shooting him down and cutting him apart. So, to keep dignity, he always returned the favour, maybe slightly harsher, but still.

Maybe he thought that America, despite not giving a damn about him personally, at least had the decency to care of another's feelings.

But no.

England drew away from the mirror, glaring at his reflection. His hand reached to his face to wipe it, just to be sure. His face was dry, but it didn't necessarily mean the tear; that bloody tear, was never there. That it never existed in the first place.

That traitorous tear was going to be the death of him.

America watched the door slam as Canada stalked out through it, though not before giving America the filthiest look his mild features could manage.

America would be lying if he said that he didn't think of a reaction like that from England and, in turn, all the others; but he's also be lying if he claimed that it was the reaction he wanted. No, he'd forced himself to think of other possible reaction England might have, like calling him an insolent brat or complaining that since he used to be his brother, there should be feelings left over.

But that must have been a mistake.

America did not just see England cry. He hadn't just made the older man cry again.

France stood with a sigh, brushing off his trousers and giving America a hard gaze. Others were still tutting and complaining, but doing absolutely nothing; France didn't like that. They wouldn't go help or survey the situation, yet they'd be perfectly happy to gossip about it with absent members over tea and coffee later that evening, at both male's expenses.

Waltzing over to the door, France put his hand on America's shoulder, on the way, for the briefest of moments, and stated, "Good job AKY. You couldn't get enough of his tears the first time around," and continued out the door, leaving a dismally quiet room in his wake.

Canada rapped quietly on the closed bathroom stall door, biting his lip.

He had regretted giving America any ideas from the moment America had disappeared that morning before Canada had finished the story. Nothing good ever came from only knowing half the story; it was common knowledge.

The only acknowledgment he got from inside the cubicle was a muttered 'leave'. and a cuss as someone, obviously who he was looking for, tripped over a toilet roll or something similar.

The minute Canada had walked in the door, knowing this would be a place England would automatically run to, that most people would run away to, he heard a squeak and saw the blonde mop of hair disappearing into the cubicle he was now waiting outside of. If England thought he was blind as well as mildly translucent, then he was sorely mistaken.

"Mister England, come out," Canada said quietly, rapping on the door again.

The door swung open the wrong way, hitting Canada square in the jaw and revealing a stubborn, fuming Englishman in the remainder of the door's wake of destruction. His gaze was hardened as he gave Canada a look that could kill a man, even Prussia, and God knows what could actually cause him to die properly.

"I think you've mocked me enough today," he said coldly, turning to reenter the stall, but was stopped by Canada's hand reaching out to grasp his own wrist.

"Sorry," Canada murmured, wincing, "I apologize."

England blinked, before letting his gaze fall to the floor. "I appreciate you doing this, lad, but you've done nothing wrong," a forced smile was plastered across the elder's face, "Go back to the meeting and be sure to tell me what I'll miss, Canada."

And with that, the door swung shut in Canada's face again.

Outside the bathroom, France sighed, leaning up against the door. That moron had really done it this time; and all for some joke? He was more pathetic than France had originally thought, which was the lowest of low, as France didn't think too much of the boy to begin with.

The door opened meekly and Canada peeped his head around. France blinked. "Canada; you tried talking to him?"

Shuffling, he received an answer, "He didn't say much; he's still in the stall and wont come out."

But Canada was talking to himself, he realized, as the door swung shut behind him. He sighed into Kumajiro's fur. "Forgotten again, eh?"

"Who?"

"Canada."

"Mon ami, hiding in bathrooms doing Godknowswhat in meeting time is low, even for you," France said, with a rap on the door.

A muffled grunt came from inside, followed by a "Did you just come here to make fun of me, frog?"

With a shake of his head, France sighed. "Angleterre, just come out already. You have Mathieu all bothered and America looks like a lost cause."

"Whoo hoo for him; isn't it great to have all the power."

But England still opened the door.