A/N: Yep, so we're onto chapter 4! Woo! This one is a bit more serious than the other chapters...Arthur's more drunk on vodka here, rather than ale. I figured I'd try and add my own littler racist thing in here. Ale makes you derpy, vodka makes you aggressive. It'd explain my mom, anyway...

Skies Over London

Chapter 4

Arthur's mind began to clear and only then did he notice the flustered look on the American's face, which he tried to mask but to no avail.

"Why do you assume I'm angry at you?" He sneered, setting down the empty bottle he'd been holding onto. The rhythm of the pouring rain outside crashing against the windowpane became the only sound as Alfred struggled to try and put together any kind of response to that.

"W-Well, what're you being so hostile for, then?" He retorted after a good, long moment of thought.

"We're at war. We have to be hostile at all times," England sighed, his eyes drifting toward the window.

"Not with you own allies!"

"Allies?" Alfred hissed, turning to him, "Codswallop! I'd call France my ally no more than you'd call Russia yours!"

America nearly shivered at the tone in England's voice. He sounded so cold and heartless. It was eerily familiar, but he couldn't recall where he'd heard someone speak like that.

"And I can't say China and I are on the best of terms," England continued, his voice still in that icy tone, "So that just leaves..."

England ran his gently finger over the mouth of the empty bottle, as if pondering where contents could have gone. It was only then that Alfred noticed the name on the label was written a strange language. It was one he couldn't make heads of tales of. There was no doubt in his mind. It was Russian.

"...just you an I,"

"Arthur, I—"

"Can we really call each other allies, I wonder? I wouldn't say we work well together, nor do we agree with one another. Not on anything, really. I might go so far as to say we don't even like each other,"

America stood frozen, whether by the mere shock of what England had just said to him, or by the coldness in which he had said it. England brought his hand over the cuff of his sleeve, letting his fingertips slowly run over the intricate stitching of his infamous red coat from the days of old, which still proudly wore the chest of the British Empire, just as it had all those years ago.

"Even now, you still only look out for yourself. You only recently joined in this war, even though its been going on for years. Even though thousands of your so-called allies' soldiers died. And even now that you have joined, its merely for your own personal reasons. Don't you ever think of anyone but yourself?"

In his moment of aggravation, Arthur's hand slipped and the bottle shattered, resulting in him with a cut on his hand.

"Ugh, bloody hell..." England mumbled as he pulled out a handkerchief and put it over his hand. America silently walked over to him and took his hand in his, kissing the cut gently.

"I think of you..."