A/N: I wanna make something longer, but I'm not making enough words come! It's rather bothersome, to be honest...
Skies Over London
Chapter 3
"Oh ew no!" America cringed, backing away from the drunken Brit.
"It'sh not shuch a bleedin' bad idea..." England grinned, standing up.
"You're insane!"
"Mad as a hatter,"
"And you're hammered,"
"Drunk to boot,"
"And you keep saying weird things!"
"Only because I love you, Alfred,"
The American froze, his face as red as the stripes on his flag.
"Dude, what the hell have you been drinking?" He growled, trying to shrug off the last comment as nothing more than Arthur's drunken rambles.
"Jusht a bit of ale...though that last one tashted more like that vodka Rushashasha gave me when he came over..."
"When did Russia come over to your house?" America scowled, a pang of jealousy seeding deep within him.
"Yeshterday. Oi, the lad shcares me shometimes, but he'sh great to drink with,"
"Why would Russia wanna visit you, though?" America mumbled, crossing his arms and scowling, like a child on the verge of throwing a trantrum.
"What? You think you're the only one who visitsh me, you git?"
"No, I just don't know why Russia, of all people—"
"It'sh my bloody birthday. Sho he brought me vodka," England snapped then took another sip off the bottle.
Alfred stopped a moment, pondering the date. No, it definitely was no today...was it? No, he would've remembered something like England's birthday. Right?
Then it suddenly clicked.
He'd decided to stay home yesterday and play that new zombie-shooter he'd been putting off. He remembered the phone had rung a couple times but he hadn't bothered to answer, lest he have to set down his burger. Burgers aren't good if they get cold, so he'd just left the phone to ring. Then today at the meeting, there was this weird feeling whenever anyone looked at him. Now it all made sense. He really had forgotten.
Alfred didn't know what to say to now. England had never forgotten his birthday, as he always loved to complain right up to the 4th, and even then he'd still wish him happy birthday, at the very least.
"I'm sorry..." He murmured after a moment, dropping his head.
"What?" England asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.
"I'm sorry,"
"For?"
"For forgetting..."
"Forgetting what?"
"For forgetting your birthday," America scowled. He felt bad enough as it was. England didn't have to go and make him feel worse.
"Oh, I don't care about that," England shrugged, "You alwaysh forget. You have every year,"
America stared at him in absolute shock, his face growing red. It seems he had apologized for absolutely nothing.
"Then why the hell are you mad at me?"
