Knock, knock, knock. America waits anxiously outside of England's door. He hears shuffled movement and hushed tones. America widens his eyes.
'There's someone else in there...' The door opens to a red faced England. He pants lightly, looking fairly shocked to see him there.
"America what are you doing here? I'm busy with my... Presentation. Yeah." He blatantly lies. He mentally face palmed, noting to come up with a better excuse.
"I know now isn't (apparently) a good time, but I called three times yesterday. I just wanted to check up on you. You're really red..." England blushes even more. He kept looking behind the door, and facing back.
"I'm really busy, please." England shuts the door, leaving America standing there. He's frozen, unable to comprehend what had just happened. He stand there for a few minutes, listening to more shuffled movements and hushed tones. The wind blew strong, winter was upon them.
"England..." America whimpers. He was desperate for his love. The love he first found several months ago. Now he treats him like a friend. A friend he hasn't seen in years. He flips up his dark hood and shoves his hands in his pocket. He reluctantly backed away from the whitewash door, and ran.
'I miss you! Why are you doing this to me!' A ran down the street, slightly tearing from his eyes. His hood slipped off, his blonde hair blowing crazily in the wind. It was long way home.
"Goddamnit America! You shouldn't have come! Shit..." England runs his hand through his hair and furrowed his thick eyebrows. France hugged him from behind and swayed lightly. England hugged his arms back, but still was truly upset. He peeked behind the curtain, watching America stand there. They made eye contact for the smallest of a second, and ran. He saw him.
'My secret is surfacing...' England worried. He was suddenly angry, pushing France away, straining to slap him.
"Angleterre! What are you-" France tries to hug him once again. England only backs away.
"You bastard! This is all your fault!" England punches France in the stomach. Not hard enough apparently. He only pushes through, fully embracing him.
"G-get off me, frog face!" England struggles. France pets his hair, hushing.
"Angleterre, shh... Its okay, oui? He won't find out." England slowly stops struggling, and just stands there, looking at the ground.
"He will. Its only a matter of time. I have to leave." England harshly pushes France and bolts out the door. He slams it as loud as he can before jumping into his car.
"Wait!" France opens the door to see him pulling out of the driveway. They look at eachother. They both frown.
"I hate you so much..." He finally reaches is street, after a long run of half an hour. All the houses look the same, he has to keep track of which house is his. He slows down to a walk and slouches. He's more suspicious than anything else.
'Is he cheating? And with who? WHO?!' -"AGH!" He reaches his house and kicks his mailbox in anger, breaking the wood and spilling all of its contents out.
"Shit." He frowns and picks up the broken mailbox. He suddenly throws it in the street, not caring if anything would happen to it. He squats, and picks up all the mail, hoping Canada will look through them for him. He checks what they all are, and there is another red envelope. Very much alike the first one he got two days ago. No return address, a sunflower in the corner, and his name.
"Who's sending these?" He rips it open, accidentally dropping the letter. He again, looks both ways before picking it up.
'Same paper too..' He opens it, and sees the poem.
Do you see it now?
Do you see the meaning?
How is it?
Are you mad?
Are you sad?
This is only a game for them.
How long will it take?
Days, weeks, months?
Its only a game for them.
They're playing with you,
pushing you to the edge,
testing to see,
How long will it take?
A rose's thorns are sharp,
They'll prick you
They'll scratch you,
They'll hurt you.
Their beauty is only a lie,
They truly don't mix well.
They'll taunt you,
Flaunting itself.
Showing off its blind conviction,
They know, and they don't care.
Its only a game for them.
Your rose is only trying to hurt you.
"What the hell? A rose? What's this about?" Is this the game? He doesn't get it. He takes out the other poem, and looks them both over.
"This game is what the other poem is talking about. I still don't understand..." He takes both poems, and walks inside, ignoring the other letters and throwing them into the street too.
He walks into the house and hides the letters behind a shoebox in his closet.
"What's happening!?" He takes off his glasses and throws them at the wall. They shatter, and small glass pieces are sprinkled on the carpet.
"Ugh..." He sits on his bed and puts his face in his hands. It started to snow heavily, the precious flakes already sticking to the window.
Its white beauty is only causing him to suffer worse. It reminded him that it was cold, and lonely. Canada wasn't home.
"England, what's going on?" He sighs and rubs his face.
