(Author's Note: Alright... Again, I'm super duper sorry! xD I think I've fixed it. I've changed absolutely every word in this chapter starting with the moment the second paragraph starts, so yeah. Heck, France probably won't be in this chapter... Anyways, thanks for your patience!)
England stood up abruptly at what would be America's final words, unable to find any proper way to react, but there really wasn't, was there? "America... America, no! Alfred, please... Don't go..." Despair filled the Englishman's heart as he gazed heartbrokenly at the unresponsive America. He felt tears stinging his eyes once more, but he didn't care. He let them fall, burying his face in his trembling hands, sobbing as if he didn't care who saw him, which he didn't. Nothing seemed to matter past his anguish and sorrow, and so he let himself go, all restraints broken.
He was alone. He had always been alone. America was the only exception... Sure, Japan was kind to him, but... He just didn't share that bond with him, like America had. Those bonds, or whatever was left of them, had now been shattered. He felt shattered. And like a crybaby, but was there a person in the world who could point a finger and accuse him of it? Unless that person didn't have a heart, he didn't think so. He wanted to curl up beside the American, to wake him up and hug him, and never let go. But now, he couldn't do it... He would be embracing a corpse, a cold, soulless, and dead American. He had to remind himself of it. Although America's face was practically white, he couldn't help but feel as if the younger nation would 'wake up' and then admit that the joke was on the unfortunate Englishman. No such joke existed. He could feel the cracked remnants of his heart slowly breaking apart, and he couldn't steel himself against the overwhelming sadness and despair.
Lamenting freely, sinking to his knees and taking a gentle hold of the American's icy hand again, England just wanted to warm him and see those bright eyes again. He held on to this feeling of suspense for a moment, but when he realized that it would be too good to be true, he finally let go of the other hand, and his last hopes for Alfred. It couldn't be reversed. Not even his black magic could- wait... Could it? No... Something like that was a last resort. Well, he was at the end of his rope here... He wondered for a moment if America would interrupt him like last time, but then he remembered that it Alfred was whom he would try to revive. Could he do it, though..? Probably not. His lack of sleep definitely took a toll on his strength, and his stamina? Forget it. He'd be just as dead as the person he was trying to revive if he even attempted it now. Not that he cared. He'd rather die than be like this. He had made that decision a while ago, but now he found that the longer he waited, the more he was going to get hurt. He just couldn't stand it anymore. Even his magical creature friends, it would seem, have abandoned him as of late.
After what seemed like hours at America's bedside, keening until his tears ran dry, Arthur forced himself unsteadily to his feet. He ventured another glance at the deceased nation, and he cringed, turning away. "I'm sorry... I'm going to go now... I..." he trailed off, mumbling in a cracked voice, only wishing America could hear. He bit down on his lip to prevent another round of weeping, and he turned the doorknob with an uncontrollably trembling hand, throwing the door open and practically stumbling out of the room. Paying no attention to the strange looks he earned himself, he walked with such distortion that a nurse had stopped him to ask if he was feeling alright.
"Do I look bloody okay to you?! You don't fucking care if I'm okay!" England snapped. He had no patience with the world at this point, and even if a puppy got in his way, he'd kick it. He just didn't care. As the nurse's expression turned to one of surprise, the Englishman walked away before she could reply, just wanting to get the hell away from these idiots. They didn't understand a thing about him; why did they pretend to care about his well-being? He walked more quickly, tears again threatening to roll down his cheeks. Cursing when he managed to flee the hospital without anyone else stopping him, he rushed blindly to the street, summoning a cab to take him to the airport. He just couldn't stay here. It hurt his broken heart to see anything in this country. Everything, every person, reminded him of Alfred. The mockingly cheerful blue sky matched the American's eyes, and it wasn't long before England wished he'd never see a clear sky again. Closing his eyes, he waited until the driver finally pulled up in front of the airport. He got out of the car, paying the cab driver; he probably overpaid him, but he didn't care. He just wanted to get out of there.
Gaze downcast, he made his way into the airport, bumping constantly into other people, but he really didn't care. It's what they deserved for being in his way. He practically knocked over a little boy as well; the child fell backwards on the floor with a surprised grunt, and blue eyes glared up at him. "Hey!" the boy complained, and Arthur glanced momentarily at the child, his heart stopping when he saw the two prominent features. Not only were his eyes the most beautiful shade of cobalt blue, but his hair... He had dirty-blonde hair, parted in the center, and there seemed to be one part of his hair that refused to fall in line, even sticking up stubbornly; the boy looked exactly like America. "A-Alfred..?" the Englishman stammered unsurely.
The boy made a sour face. "What? Do I look like an Alfred to you? That's such a nerdy name... My name's Tyler," he corrected, getting up from the floor and rubbing his backside gingerly. "Man, that really hurt..."
England frowned, furrowing his brows slightly. It was uncanny... but of course it wasn't America. "I'm sorry... Tyler, where are your parents?" he asked, glancing around; the boy was alone, it seemed, as no other adults had come to intervene.
"Huh..?" Tyler looked confused for a moment, but then he soon had a somewhat sheepish grin on his face. "Oh... M-my parents. I dunno... Lost 'em, I guess," he said passively, shifting his weight to his right foot, then to his left; he seemed a bit nervous, the Briton noticed. "I-I'll go find them now... Bye, mister!" Before Arthur could say another word, the boy was gone, having bolted off into the constant stream of people.
England frowned a bit, watching the crowd in which Tyler had disappeared. He didn't seem very sure of himself, Arthur noted. But, it wasn't any of his business... He'd probably never see the child again. Heaving a heavy sigh, the Brit went to buy a plane ticket back to London. Luckily the boy hadn't stayed to chat any longer, since the plane was just about to depart.
Boarding wasn't too stressful, but he ended up in an undesirable seat, sandwiched between two rather chatty women. The gentleman folded his hands in his lap, gaze falling downward. His eyes clouded a little as he heard the ladies blabbing about how beautiful the weather was, then about the weather in London. Would it be as nice there as it was in America? The women hoped so, but England wished for the exact opposite. He loved the rain. Maybe it's just his mood, but if he saw another blue sky, he might get sick. As the two continued to talk, ignoring the man between them, England closed his eyes and tried to relax a little. He attempted to block out their conversations, as every subject they brought up reminded him again and again of the misery he was in. Somehow, he'd managed to fall asleep, head dipping down awkwardly.
It seemed too soon when the Englishman was roused from his sleep; the plane had already landed and a flight attendant was patting his shoulder gently to wake him up. The Brit muttered something bitterly under his breath, but he opened his weary eyes, looking with disdain at the girl. "Yeah. Thanks," he muttered, unbuckling his seatbelt and nudging past the attendant to get out of the plane. Upon entering the airport, he immediately headed for the exit, undaunted by the rumbling in his stomach. He felt rather hungry at the moment, but for some reason he didn't exactly feel like eating anything. Maybe when he got home he'd have some of the ale he'd stashed in his fridge, along with tequila, vodka, and Italian wine(he refused to get French wine). He had a very large alcohol collection, but he usually cleared out the stock in a week or so, sometimes less.
He decided he could walk to his house from here; it was only a mile or two, and he wasn't in a rush this time. As soon as he stepped out of the airport, he was relieved to find that not only was the air crisp and cool as was the norm, but clouds had completely covered the sky, dark gray shadows falling over London. A light rain had begun, but Arthur knew it wouldn't be too long before it was pouring cats and dogs. Well, hopefully not cats and dogs. He disliked the usage of the phrase, as he was pretty sure nobody really knew what it meant. If they did, however, he was sure that they would use it to describe his floods, where stray dogs and cats that had drowned in the sewers littered the streets when it was raining hard enough. The thought somewhat depressed him, but most of the images in his mind upset him anyways; it was no different than usual.
As Arthur had predicted, the rain gradually grew heavier, but England didn't mind walking in the rain. He enjoyed the cool sensation as the water drops fell on his head and clothes, washing away the pain for a moment. Soon, however, a shiver ran down his spine as the rain began to chill him a bit past the initial comfort. Before he got too uncomfortable, though, he managed to make it home just as the first stroke of lightning illuminated the sky, now an almost-black canvas. When he entered his house, the downpour turned hectic, and he could hear the rain falling like rocks on the roof.
The sounds echoed throughout the empty and dark house, and England flipped on a light switch as he walked into the kitchen, seeking to find the alcohol he promised himself he'd have. Finding a few bottles of dark ale, he pulled them out, placing the glass bottles on the counter, immediately opening one and taking a large draft. He leaned against the counter, looking out the window showing him the dark sky and the occasional lightning flashes. He closed his eyes, sighing as the rumbling noises of thunder seemed to make everything in the large house tremble. His cold and wet clothes clung to his skin uncomfortably, and he shivered occasionally, but he didn't really feel like changing at the moment. Taking another swig of the drink in his hand, he observed the sky gravely, and as rain pelted the window his thoughts turned to Alfred. Is he in heaven? he asked himself. Before long, he could feel a warm drop rolling down his cheek. Sniffling a bit, he wiped the tear away, then lifted the ale bottle to his lips and downed the entirety of the drink in a few gulps. Semiconsciously reaching for the second bottle, he popped off the lid and took a few gulps. He began to play a little game with himself; every time his thoughts wandered to the American, or something sad, he'd take another drink.
In less than a few hours, the Brit had consumed about seven bottles of ale, two glasses of wine, and by the time he finished his vodka, the Briton was as drunk as a skunk. However, all of that drinking didn't seem to make him feel any better about anything. In fact, his problems were magnified by his intoxication.
"Alfred... Why did you leave me...? I-I don't want to be alone the rest of my life... I'm always alone... Why can't I make friends like you do..? Why me?" he asked himself miserably. Sniffling, he turned to reach for a box of tissues on the kitchen table, pausing when he spotted the small rack of knives on the tabletop. He reached over to take a knife, then sat with his legs crossed on the floor, twirling the object in his fingers quietly. Wiping away another tear with his still-soaked sleeve, he then rolled the sleeve up his arm slowly, exposing his pale skin. Already decorating his smooth skin were various little slivers of even paler skin; scars. Arthur, without a second thought, brought the blade to his wrist, his hand shaking with both the cold and the inablilty to stabilize itself due to the Briton's intoxication. Pressing down on the knife, Arthur clenched his eyes shut and set his jaw in pain, the blade sinking through his skin and causing a small stream of crimson blood to flow lightly from the small wound. However, the drunk man continued, slicing along his wrist and letting the small amounts of blood to leave his body. One mishap, though, resulted in a larger and deeper wound, and the Englishman dropped the knife, now clutching at his wrist in pain. "Fuck!" he swore, the wound beginning to throb painfully. He froze into place, eyes wide as he stared at the blood seeping through his fingers steadily.
Arthur, a voice began, a painfully familiar voice. Arthur, aren't you going to do something? If you just sit there like that, you'll probably die, you know.
England's eyes darted around the room in alarm. "A..Alfred..?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "America? W..Where are you?" he inquired, wondering if he was just hallucinating; sometimes the voices in his head were really convincing. Especially while he was drunk.
No reply. It must've been his imagination... England felt bitter tears stream down his face. "Damnit... You keep leaving... B-bastard..." However, he slowly rose to his feet, but got dizzy immediately afterwards and had to lean on the table to keep himself upright. He glanced at the tissues again, then decided he'd have to make do, pulling out a few handfuls of the stuff before pressing them against the most troublesome wound, hissing in pain as the contact stung his torn flesh. Pressing the tissues harder to his wound in an attempt to make it stop bleeding, the Englishman slowly made his way into his living room, finally collapsing on the couch, eyes screwed shut in agony. "Ngh... Goddamn fucking son of a bitch!" he muttered, voice strained. As the pain slowly subsided, he opened his eyes and found that the blood had leaked through the tissues, soaking them with crimson. He slowly peeled off the tissues, which had begun to stick to the wound, and sighed a little in relief as he noticed that the bleeding had almost completely stopped. He stared up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused as he noticed an overwhelming weariness hanging over him, and he closed his eyes. Listening to the slowly-lightening pitter-patter of rain on his ceiling, he was eventually lulled into an unconscious state.