The rain pounded down on clothed skin. Each drop burnt the both of them, each droplet of liquid from above landed on them like molten lava.
And then one of them broke.
Unlike most suspicion that it was the smaller of the two, it was actually the almighty superpower that franchised democracy and freedom – it was he who broke down into a frenzy fit of sobs and incoherency in front of his former caretaker.
Tears streamed down his cheeks together with the rain that fell on his face. "Can you never be proud of me?" His voice was dark, ragged and cracked, so very unlike the high-pitched and confident voice of the fallen hero. "Why . . . Why can't you ever be proud of me?" He wailed loudly as he directed his tragic rage at the United Kingdom.
The pressure of his ex-colony's gaze was heavy upon frail shoulders. "A-" he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. England could not finish calling the latter's name. He couldn't when America was crying in front of him . . . his little angel was hurt . . . His little brother was crying . . . And it was because of him.
America, surprisingly, smiled and stood from where he sat uncomfortably on the ground. "… I'm tired England." He murmured. And if England wasn't paying him his undivided attention, he would have heard none of it. The emerald-eyed male reached out, however, Alfred flinched away vehemently at his attempt of contact. Pain protruded his chest; it was as if a sharp arrow of guilt impaled him with the American's blatant rejection. But no, oh no, it wasn't done there. It was far from over.
"I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment to you." Alfred smiled brightly, though; his tone and his eyes completely contradicted the Hollywood smile etched on a young face. His throat became hoarse and Arthur could speak no more if ever he had anything to say. All he could think of was pull his little brother into a tight embrace and tell him he was wrong. Tell him that he was not a disappointment. He never was and never would be. Tell him that he was his pride and joy. Tell him that he was his everything.
But before the British Empire could articulate himself, his world walked away from him and as a form of twisted sympathy, the sky shed the tears he was not allowed to release. Too stunned was he to move. Too stunned was he to chase after the retreating nation.
Rain fell on the world that night . . . Thunders roared and lightning flashed as England's precious little brother, his Alfred, his universe, his reason for living walked away, his back facing the empire – a complete replay of their first separation. Only this time, it was Arthur who destroyed his brother's heart.