As he stood there waiting, America couldn't help but let his mind wander. His thoughts turned from the doom and gloom of finally coming face to face with his former keeper to Russia's subtle kindness. Somehow, in those weeks he had spent holed up in that room, something had been awoken within him. It was a part of himself he hadn't known existed and, even now, America was unable to put a name to it. The aggravatingly confusing thoughts caused the nation to shake his head, trying to rid himself of it. Whatever bond he had formed with Russia was now over.

Those hands splayed across his back, hugging him close after a rather rough round, America had never felt so invincible. He hadn't felt weak for being held or bashful for returning the gesture. There was no sappiness, just a contented quiet which America had been seeking for so, so long.

That was over now and thinking on it would get him nowhere. With another shake of the head, America looked down the road. What he shared with Russia was now far away, intangible. He had to forget those weeks spent with Russia or he knew, just knew, a new sort of depression would set in and eat him away from the inside out. So, instead, he watched the road and slowly let the dread built in his stomach as he saw that all too familiar vehicle come bolting down the road.

"Lovely," America breathed, hunching his shoulders before standing tall and steeling his nerves.

What was to come certainly would, whether he was ready for it or not. He may as well look ready. Putting on a smile, America stepped to the curb just as the car gave a violent lurch and stopped a few feet ahead of America. England climbed from the driver side, looking absolutely furious. His massive brows were drawn together and ever present scowl set in place as one finger pointed accusingly at America, mouth opening and closing to try and find the proper words.

For once, England's eloquence fled him, "What the fuck happened?"

America chuckled, moving around to the passenger side as he yanked open the door and fell unceremoniously into the seat. Leaning back and adjusting the seat to just the right reclining angle, America set his feet on the dash, if only to infuriate England further.

"Russia popped me in the nose," America shrugged, lop sided grin looking sincere.

"You- you were with Russia?" England squawked, climbing back into the car and shutting the door. "Why in the blazes were you with him?"

Another careless shrug, "I've been with him pretty much the entire time. Sort of."

England's hands came up and gripped the steering wheel, tight. His knuckles turned a sickly white; his face taking on a rather red hue. While the conversation may have been pushing a little more than a few of England's buttons, America was thoroughly enjoying himself. He could deal with this England. The back and forth, the quick temper, these things were familiar. What America couldn't handle was England extending a hand, smiling sweetly, and trying to fix him. There was nothing else that would have made America spring up quite as fast and run far, far away.

There was silence following America's remark. The nervousness settled once more as America turned his eyes towards the window and watched the London streets go by. He had no idea where they were going, only that they were leaving the city. Though curious, America didn't dare look to his companion. He was too frightened the lividity once present would be gone. Anger he could deal with.

They traveled on in silence. America had no idea how long they had been out, only that the sun had set and all color slipped away as twilight took over. The stars glistened from their pedestal in the sky, seeming to mock America as he reached a hand up and made a pinching motion towards one of the brighter specks. Contrary to popular belief, America wasn't all that thrilled by space. He resented the stars, knowing he would never be able to touch them. It was painful to want and want and know he would never soar high enough, reach far enough, to just grasp one of those stars and revel in the accomplishment. The sky was his home, where he could soar through the clouds and feel so out of touch with the world below, but the stars were just a mocking mask of beauty sitting in the once blue skies he loved so dearly.

Closing his eyes, America could almost imagine he was flying. The car dipped and gently swerved as they sped down the empty, well kept streets. Hill after hill, he could see himself with arms spread wide as he went from cloud to cloud, far above everything else. That's what he wanted: to fly. No gauges all around, no radio or oxygen mask perched on his face, no metal keeping him from completely dissolving into the sky and becoming one with the heavens. He could melt into the air, become the clouds, be completely absorbed, and feel at home.

Opening his eyes, reality set in once more. America was not amongst the clouds, he was sitting in a car with England and wanting a right fuck or a good high. He was seated in an all too firm chair with his hand against the cool glass and eyes staring vacantly at the outline of long grass fields. His arms were not outstretched; they sat forevermore pressed at his side, leaving him immobile and unable to break free. It hurt to realize the truth.

There were no words. None quite fit the situation no matter how much America wanted to break the overly oppressive quiet. All the things he wanted to say had been taken away. Whatever emotion he could have attempted to convey to England would have fallen flat. He knew England didn't feel the same, couldn't have ever felt the same. They were different people with centuries of knowledge and experience behind them, but he and England were on a different axis, rotating around the same source but forever kept apart by the differences which made them unique. America doubted England could comprehend his need to become one with the sky. The notion of letting go England would understand, but not the pressing need to free fall and never feel the sickening slap of the earth beneath his feet.

"Just go and say what's in your head and I won't try to stop you," America finally allowed himself.

He could keep his own thoughts veiled yet still force the silence away. That was enough for America as he rested his head in hand and waited for England to speak. Had things not felt so fundamentally awkward, America's impatience would have caused his fingers to tap against his thigh or the glass. As it were, he sat motionless, unsure what to do with himself as he waited.

There came a sigh from beside him. He wanted to look over to England, see his face, and try to decipher just what was to come. The motion was disallowed by his mind, still subconsciously fretting over England's potential mood. There were prayers for more annoyance, irritation, something unkind. He couldn't deal with mother-henning, not now. England held the rights America had never owned. The man could drive America deeper into his spiral, send him off to some dark place where his anger roared to life and depression clawed at him. America had never been trusted with such power, but by opening the floor to England, he had handed over that right. Whether England consciously took it or not, America was still waiting to find out.

"I just don't understand, America."

England spoke softly, words edged in agitation but desperately trying so hard to be caring. He had been hoping to lull America into trusting him enough to open up, to somehow project the worry and desire to help. Glancing over, he watched America's listless face. There was no obvious response, just his former charge staring out the window with a vacant gaze and plastic grin. His heart sunk, hands loosening on the wheel.

Though he hated the silence, America was unsure what to say. It seemed England would not continue on and he had nothing to say. There were thoughts but none left his lips. What could he say? He hadn't expected England to understand, for anyone to. America didn't want any of them to comprehend it. Somehow, it felt like some deeply personal secret he needed to keep hidden. No one could know or it would lose its charm and become meaningless. He had to say something though. Hating it, America opened his mouth and shooed the quiet away with the gentle rise and fall of his voice.

"I've just never felt so alien. Like I'm all alone and..."

And what?

America couldn't answer his own internal question. In all honesty, he had no idea. The past few months, he had been unpleasantly coasting through life. A chunk of time was lost to him, memories too clouded over for him to decipher them properly. Even within Russia's care, nothing quite seemed concrete. The days had blurred together, each like the last and the next. Nothing really set them apart from one another. Like a horrid dream, America had watched his life go by, just a third person who looked away and missed something vital in the performance. It left him confused and disorientated, not sure what he meant or why he did it. Even America was still trying to catch up to the storyline. England didn't understand and he would get no proper explanation. America was simply incapable of giving him one.

Another sigh, more forlorn than the last. There was a weary undertone to the minute sound, a hint of the scolding to come bubbling just beneath the surface. When England called his name once more, America knew he could take no more of it. England was not going to reprimand him. He was unsure what the man was going to say, but his overly concerned tone conveyed enough of the intent to send America on edge as he stiffened and quickly spoke up, cutting England off from saying anything more than his name.

"Look, I really don't-"

"No, you look!"

There it was, the anger. America turned his head away, allowing himself a tiny grin. This he could deal with. So long as England stayed irritated, America could deal with their interaction.

"Don't tear us apart again, America."

Solemn.

It was the only word which America could use to describe England as he finally looked over. The man's hands were once more holding the steering wheel in a vice like grip, knuckles white again. His eyes were downcast, shielded by shadows and the shrubbery he called eyebrows. The lines of his shoulders were sharp, tense, but his arms hung slack and defeated even as his mouth pulled into a tight line. For a moment, America thought he was going to be subjected to a tirade of sweet words, caring reassurances, and unwanted emotional prying.

When England spoke, there was none of it. Only annoyance.

"What's the use of it," England mumbled, turning his head away.

He could feel America's eyes burrowing into the side of his skull, needing to look away to prevent them from locking gazes and exchanging something potentially dangerous between them. They danced upon pins and needles, each restraining themselves from saying what needed to be said and healing the new wounds brought forth. The divide between them opened wide, threatening to swallow them both, as they purposely avoided all things potentially helpful for fear of something neither could or would name.

Light flooded the street ahead, another car coming down the road. It was too bright for America and he turned his eyes away. They were not okay, he could feel it. Something was crumbling between them and he felt the need to somehow wrap his hands around it and just hold it together. Losing England to some invisible force prying them further from one another would be another trauma America knew he would handle poorly. He had to salvage the situation.

Reaching out a hand, America lightly touched England's hand. They both yelled as England's body jerked, hands unrelenting in their hold on the wheel as the car darted into the opposing lane. Eyes going wide, America seemed to watch what unfolded with childlike curiosity and uncomprehending awe.

The car rammed into the other vehicle, both slamming into one another head on. The light had blinded America, causing him to close his eyes. His body sprang forward, barely restrained by the seatbelt he had fastened upon climbing into England's car. The material cut into his chest, forcing the air from him as his forehead connected with the dash board. White flourished as his eyelids fluttered, unseeing as he watched a splatter of blood slowly creep down the dash. His legs were pressed tightly against the seat, squished into an awkward angle. One arm was caught between the crushed metal of the window, unable to move as glass bit into his wrist. The other sat at his side, useless.

Their ride was not over yet. The force propelled both cars from one another. The other car, nameless driver slumped over the wheel and unmoving, slid into the ditch, horn blaring. America watched with mute horror as the pavement morphed into the night sky. He stared out the shattered glass of the windshield as the car rolled, pushing the roof down onto the top of his head. England was saying something, screaming, but America's mind couldn't make out the words. Metal scraped against the road, deafening. For a moment, it seemed they would continue rolling, but America mutely realized they had come to a stop as he watched the motionless form of the stars in the night sky.

All the elements had been completed and now the silence pervaded once more. England was silent at America's side, blindly searching for his cell phone with a bloodied hand. It was all chemistry of a car crash. The reaction had completed, leaving only the products to show for the nasty collision both parties had just encountered. As America's eyes drifted towards the other vehicle then to England, still hanging upside down, he tallied up the death toll: one.

There was a huff from England's side of the vehicle. America's attention was once more drawn to the Brit. Despite the steadily bleeding cuts across his face and the bloodied mess of his arm, England looked his usual self if not a bit shaken. He was on the phone, presumably getting help. There were sharp words exchanged, mostly from England's end. Once the task was complete, he tossed the mangled but functional device out of sight, looking over to America.

That's when America noted something was wrong. There was a far off look to England's eyes, an unseeing quality signifying something very, very wrong. His eyes were glazed, staring at America but seeing through him or not seeing at all. England may as well have been blind as his features softened and he reached out for America's free hand. They connected clumsily, fingers lacing together after a few fumbling tries at hooking them together.

"I won't try to convince you to stay with me and let me help," England began, voice sounding hoarse as he fought the urge to cough. The wheel had been forcefully pressed into his chest, no doubt breaking ribs and causing havoc within his body. "This time I'm not going to try and force comfort on you and I won't change the way I act around you."

America wanted to tell England to shut up, that he had an obvious head injury. Whatever England was saying would be forgotten or regretted later. They were false proclamations brought about by an extreme situation but, no matter how much he tried to convince himself, America couldn't tell England to shut his mouth. His mouth sat in a firm line, lips unmoving as he watched England continue on as England's lids fell to half mast.

"This time, if you want to get away, I won't try to stop you or anything. You're all grown up now and can make your own decisions-"

America squeezed England's hand, signifying an end to the conversation. The silence that followed was unlike the one before. There was a calm between them as both succumbed to the throbbing within their skulls. America let a lazy smile grace his lips as he squeezed the hand within his own once more.

"Come on, stay awake, England," America called, almost taunting, challenging.

England returned the grin, wincing as the gesture pulled a rather nasty gash on his cheek, "Wouldn't dream of drifting off, you git."

A/N: Ohhh, fml. I'm at my dad's in an entirely different US state, so. Updates, yea. We'll see, I'll definitely try my hardest, but please don't get angry at me if I fail at it. Anyway. I have a love hate with this chapter. Like it, but kinda don't like it. Enjoy regardless maybe? Song is Chemistry of a Car Crash by Shiny Toy Guns, beta'd by Shatterdoll. Read, review, do the dirty.