Sleep left just a fleeting taste on his tongue as a short few hours later America awoke. He had been frightened upon waking, unsure as to where he was, how he got there, or why there was a living radiator lying so close. The tremors started anew but his body still attempted to tense and shrink away to the edge of the bed. He had no idea where he was, only that it was dark and he had gotten into bed with another. He didn't want to turn over and look. Fading into oblivion or melting into the sheets was tempting.

Unconsciously, his hands fisted together and eyes went downward. There was a cascade of light flooding in from the window, lending some illumination to his surroundings. From what he could tell, it was a hotel room. Glancing down at the mattress, the answer as to who was sleeping so close became clear. Clutched tightly in his hand was Russia's coat.

Alright, so that made sense. He was in Russia's hotel room. Obviously, the man had found him and brought him back here.

America's hands went to feel about his body, checking to make sure all clothes were still securely on. The check successful, he dared to attempt sitting up without waking the man beside him. He had always figured Russia a heavy sleeper but as his body jostled in place and shook the bed, he had to wonder if the man wasn't dead. He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth though, there was an unignorable itch building and America could deny it no longer.

With as much care as his body could manage in its shuddering and crumbling state, America got off the bed. His feet padded against the carpet of the floor noisily, only the drone of the London nightlife helping to damper the sound. Slowly, painfully slow, he rose to stand on shaking knees. The springs groaned after being relieved of his weight and the room soon fell into a dreary and unsettling quiet. At any moment, America expected Russia to pop up, manifest his trademark pipe, and take a hefty swipe. After minutes, seeming like hours, of standing stock-still and on edge, America made his way to the nightstand set beside Russia's sleeping form.

He inched closer, baby steps taking him closer and closer till his heart was thundering in his chest and hand poised just over Russia's wallet. At any moment he could be caught, maimed, anything. There would be nothing he could do about it either, America knew it. His entire body ached, shook. Muscle was weary, bones creaky, mind scattered. Fighting was out of the question so he just prayed and prayed that Russia couldn't hear his heart hammering away or the imaginary shing of his every nerve becoming taut before snapping.

Nothing came.

There was only the white noise from the streets outside and the clatter of his own mind's imaginings. Russia did not stir. With more confidence than previously, America snapped up the wallet and made a quick exit, willing himself to run even as his body threatened to completely collapse. After seizing the wallet, he didn't care if Russia woke up. So long as he made it out of the room, the hotel, and was well on his way to downtown, there were no more worries. His mind was screeching for another hit, another high. So long as that need was satisfied, America couldn't care about anything. Within the captivity of drugs came the freedom of letting go. That was something he had come to expect, desire, love.

The bare pads of his feet beat against the pavement as he clutched the lump of brown leather close to his chest. He now had money and money would get him what he needed, wanted. Money would lead to his happiness. The idea made his stomach roll but after decades of watching big business run his people into the ground, America found himself otherwise rather numb to it. Money and happiness had always seemed to go hand in hand.

America ran till his lungs burned and legs buckled beneath him. Thankfully, he had gotten to where he needed. Unwilling to move aside from getting himself into a sitting position, he sat on the sidewalk and tried to pry bits of glass from his sweatshirt. The shards in his palm from the fall went unnoticed amidst the collective throb of his body.

Soon, the man America needed rounded the corner, looking casual and calm. America started as he called out to the man, beckoning him over. The exchange was short. America dug through Russia's wallet for the money he needed, handed it over, and in turn received a cornucopia of pills and powders. Give and take, America liked it, liked it a lot.

Without a second thought, he opened the bag and pulled out a small handful of pills and popped them into his mouth. Forget the world, forget himself. That was what he yearned for. Forget the others, forget society.

Forget reality.

What was once so real and vivid began to blur as America's hyperactive metabolism kicked in. The pills hit a pot of already waiting stomach acid, quickly dissolving and being taken up into his bloodstream where they could wreak beautiful havoc. A building storm began inside America as the desperate desire for another high fled and a hazy, dream like state over took all else. The lines of the buildings around him faded to nothing, becoming one with the road and the people and the night sky. The moon warped itself into some grinning being, looking down at him, just him, and America told himself the moon was smiling just for him. America made himself believe it.

A fluttering feeling of weightlessness lifted him up from the sidewalk as he finished out the remaining pills and tipped his head back. Somehow, he managed to choke the capsules down even as his throat closed and laughter bubbled up. Finally, finally, finally. He had his fix. Joyous, America shoved the bag and wallet into his pocket and hailed a taxi. He had no idea where he was going, only that some garbled form of speech fell off his lips and the driver nodded once. America sat back, sure that wherever he was going, he'd love it.

After a long ride, the driver came to a stop. At first, he hadn't noticed, having been too mystified by the passing clouds and blobs of buildings. A shout sounded from the man up front and America turned his gaze to him, eyes glassed over and a wide smile stretching his face. It wasn't pained; it wasn't forced. For once, America had an honest smile threatening to tear his face in two as he reached for Russia's wallet once more and handed the driver what was left. He wasn't sure if it was enough or more than was owed but climbed from the cab anyway. When no protest came, he hung his head as a pleased feeling washed over him.

The vehicle behind him roared to life and left him. Looking back up, America found himself completely enchanted. The echo of distant waves made their way through the pleasant mash of sensations along with the cool touch of a loving ocean breeze and the cold of dew and grass sifting through his wriggling toes. The sea loomed before him, crashing against the rocks below the cliff he stood upon. The waters were a murky black, the light of foam rising up before being smothered by another sweep of black. For a moment, the moon was blocked by another thick shield of clouds and America found himself enveloped in a sheet of darkness.

Spreading his arms, America let it all wash over him, cleansing, revitalizing.

Rebirth.

His eyes slipped shut as he took another step towards the edge, feet leaving the grass to instead root themselves in the gravel of the cliff edge. Everything was so indescribably wonderful. America couldn't even begin to process the euphoria of it all, only knowing that he needed more of it. Something, anything. Just more, more, more. He took another step, toes curling around the jagged edge of rock separating him from flightless reality and weightless serenity.

He thought he was normal, that this was normal. When the world became too much, who didn't try to escape? Who would sit back and let themselves be mercilessly controlled by the crushing weight of responsibility and maddening onslaught of depression, anxiety, and fury. No one could stand it. He had sunk when he fell overboard. Like a stone to the bottom of a lake, America had become a meaningless remnant of some earlier time when things weren't quite so dismal. His ship had left, drifting through the waters of other countries, other times, and left him to forever sit in the muck.

That wasn't him though. He couldn't stand being stuffed into a suit and handed speeches to recite. None of it was him. It was someone else, England maybe. Germany probably, but not him. America refused to condemn himself to that, to forever lie beneath the surface and dream of the surface. He would rather swim ashore and breathe again. Wasn't that what he was doing? Maybe the others didn't understand, but America had found his lifeline. Now, he was without a life that was sadly stuck. He wished he had been more masculine, more authoritative and commanding, before the spiral began, but time had lapsed and could not be wasted on wishing.

He leaned over the edge, breathing the salt and spray and beauty.

Maybe he could've learned to swim but the shore had seemed like fourteen miles away, impossible to reach and teasingly beckoning him from the horizon. Perhaps he could've bobbed up and down in the endless ocean, spinning and colliding into sound as he let the water's beat fill his ears and soothe the growing ache of discontent. America hadn't chosen that path. Instead, he'd dove down, sinking to the bottom of everything that freaked him out. The lighthouse beam had run out and everything became as cold as cold can be. As America felt himself sinking deeper into the abyss, hope had fled and left him feeling hopeless and unwilling to allow another into his personal hell.

He had wanted to swim away from it all, just get away. Was that really so bad? Was he wrong to want something so human, something so deeply rooted in self-preservation? It had felt like he was falling into the ocean, letting the waves take him down as a hurricane within himself was set in motion. An everlasting acid rain had begun, drenching him in everything he felt and eating away at his flesh till he was forced to come down to his knees and succumb. He had let the rain come down, let it destroy him, and now he was repairing the damage. America was violently stealing back the once flippant joy he basked in.

Once under the waves, America had lost himself completely in the years previous. There was nothing but the hollowed din of the outside world as everyone moved around him and he lent his body to some otherworldly being that assisted him in completely everyday tasks. When the drowning began, he had lost the will to care about business and meetings and friends. A couple years passed and America found himself dependant on that nameless, faceless savior just to get out of bed, dress himself, even eat.

In the beginning, before the current sucked him farther from the surface, he had wondered where the proverbial coastguard was. Where was his hero, his saint? He had looked in each direction for a spotlight, someone to give him something. Some sort of life line, something for protection, bits of flotsam junk would have even done just fine. Anything. There had been nothing to grab onto when it all began. The jets seized him, pulled him down. America had sunk, left behind by everything and everyone. He had treaded for his life, intent to stay afloat, only to finding himself wondering progressively more frequently 'How can I keep up this breathing?' As the waters yanked and tugged and suffocated him, he slipped farther and farther.

Inhaling deeply, America bent at the knees. Not knowing how to think any longer and just basking in sensation alone, he let his legs propel him forward into the air. Everything turned to nothing. Thoughts drifted off, emotions melted away, reality crumbled. He felt as if he were flying, completely uninhibited. There was nothing to stop him, keep him from living any longer. The whistle of the wind past his ear and the gush of wind padding his belly sparked something forgotten in him. Flying, flight, total freedom. His body short circuited, everything falling numb as neurons ceased firing and the world came to a stop.

All good things had to end though. What seemed like a limitless suspension in the air and timeless trip into lala land came to an abrupt end. He screamed aloud as his body slapped against the surface of the waves and he began to sink. The icy chill of the waters bit at his flesh, willing him to submit. His arms and legs broke down, unwilling to move as he began to sink further. With a broken cry, America tried to valiantly struggle to the surface once more, envious of the solid ground as he thrashed mindlessly. He cried out for anyone, anything. His hands rose from the waters and reached for the life within him, groping for the air and surface.

There was no one and nothing to assist. America found himself utterly alone as a wave washed over him and shoved him down once more. No amount of desperation was going to save him. How could one man stop his ending?

Briefly, America thought of Russia's face. Why it was Russia, he didn't know. Only that he saw the man standing before him, mouth kindly smiling but eyes speaking of depthless fright and comprehension it made America's chest squeeze painfully as he attempted screaming. Water rushed into his lungs, encasing him in helpless dread. He couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, couldn't move.

Soon, his body just gave up. The intense need to breathe faded away as the edges of his vision faded. Relaxation came as his arms ceased their fruitless attempts at saving him. His eyes shut once more. He could almost see himself floating away in space even as another wave pushed him farther down.

America blacked out only to wake to the sun. Blinking and shooting upward, hacking and pounding at his chest, he realized it hadn't really been the sun. It hadn't all been some crazy dream while he laid out in the White House gardens. The source of light came from the gleam off a head of off white locks, taking in and amplifying the moon's rays as the piece of rock shone brightly once more. Still coughing, America calculated what he had just done.

It had been like jumping from the bow just to prove he knew how. It was midnight's late reminder of the loss of himself, a person he had once egotistically loved. His will had told him to end it all, had sat front row to his need to end it all. Into the ocean he had gone, intent on ending it all. Before, it hadn't made sense, not when he was flying high. The struggle had sobered him up, left him shaken and trembling as the wind that had once felt heavenly chilled him further and reduced him to a quivering mess.

He had gone into the ocean. Goodbye to everything. He had been intent on ending it all. Goodbye to everyone. The haze had covered up the true intentions of his subconscious but now, sitting on a beach with sand clinging to the palms of his hand and Russia staring at him, things became clear.

The all too familiar feeling of desperate, desolate helplessness took hold of his chest and threatened to crush him. He couldn't take it. He had wanted to swim away but couldn't figure out how. Falling into the ocean, letting the waves take him down, had only succeeded in setting another internal hurricane in motion. Everything within himself began an uproar. There was sadness, there was pain. Agitation and depression mingled and seeped into one another. Hate boiled over, at himself and everyone he had ever known.

His hands went to his face when the coughing ceased. Russia was right there, staring. America could feel the man's gaze as it bore into the side of his skull. Russia was watching him but America couldn't help it. Shoulders quaking and whole body jerking, America began to sob into his hands. A rain of what he felt right then began to come down and he let it. He let the rain come down. It was a downpour, a flood. No dam could stop the overpowering need to cry. Keening screams kept locked in his throat soon followed, venting his frustration and seething hatred.

He felt weak.

He felt stupid.

Into the ocean he had gone, intent on ending it all, and Russia must have followed after and pulled him free. Now, here he was. Soaked to the bone and cold beyond all belief but numb to it all. His head was in his hands and knees drawn close as he openly sobbed and bit back screams just begging to be released.

He was pathetic.

He was ashamed.

America figured Russia knew it too.

Yet, he was utterly taken aback as Russia came forward, slipping his coat off and instead pulling it tight around America's back. The man slid forward through the sand, feet uncovered and wearing only his undershirt and trousers, and unwound the long edge of his scarf. With careful ease, he kept the garment wrapped tightly around his own neck even as he produced enough of the fabric to wrap around America as he scooted closer. Securing the scarf, Russia came close enough to let his knees bump America's feet as he reached forward and took the crying nation into his arms. A hand pressed the back of America's head into the crook of Russia's shoulders, stroking the sodden golden locks, as he whispered hushed words.


A/N: Song is Into the Ocean by Blue October. I love this song and totally didn't mind listening to it on repeat~. Beta'd by the always fantastic Shatterdoll. Side note, sorry if I don't always say who edits things. I have the attention span and memory of a yappy, leg humping ninety-year-old dog. Also have a love hate thing with this chapter. I really like the ocean stuff, but that last paragraph I hate. It seems sorta OoC to me, but, eh. Plot devices, what're you gonna do? Read, review, I have nothing funny to add this time.