1776-1799, roughly

America was confused.

He'd really thought this was going to feel great, but now he was confused. He lowered his bayonet slightly, frowning. He didn't understand.

Britain was in front of him, crying. Sobbing desperately. And it felt wrong. "You used to be so... great," America murmured. He'd never thought he would ever see Britain like this.

America had always looked up to Britain, and if he was honest, he hadn't personally thought he would gain his independence. America had actually assumed he would die trying, and he had hoped for that much, because it was better to hope that England would just finish him off than to imagine things would get even worse. Those were his personal opinions, of course, and he hadn't shared them with anyone else.

Britain, despite being his parent, couldn't seem to parent after awhile... America had found it tiresome, to have someone hovering over him, but he supposed it was a necessary evil. And then Britain had stopped parenting as a parent ought to, and had kept control over America, and that was when everything had become intolerable.

America had really, really thought that this would feel good. And it didn't. It didn't feel good at all. He was confused to see this nation, this ex-guardian of his, on his knees in front of him. He didn't know what to do now, because he'd never imagined getting this far. America had certainly never imagined that Britain could be so vulnerable, and he supposed that was his fallacy. America had looked up to Britain, and now...

Now what?

Well, America wanted to go inside. He really, desperately wanted to go inside and just think things through. For now he kept his bayonet angled towards Britain, stance unyielding, because that was what he was supposed to do. And he kept doing what he was supposed to do once he was away from Britain. Once he was away from the battle field, and away from Britain, and even once it wasn't fun. It was difficult, and America didn't actually know how to be a nation.

It was hard— such an elementary word, but it worked out well enough in describing America's struggle— some days, just with existing and everything. It was hard to move on, and it was hard to force himself up and to meetings after nightmares, and it was embarrassing to have to excuse himself whenever someone actually wanted to have a long talk about Britain with him— but it was better than being under Britain's control. It might've been hard, going to meetings and avoiding Britain as much as he could and working, but it was easier than being dependent on Britain. America never wanted to feel that way again.

(Linebreak.)

Early 1780s

England sat there. He twiddled his thumbs. It had been awhile since America had become independent. He'd had his fun, and he would come back soon. England was sure of it.

England sat there. He whistled softly enough.

England sat there. A day passed.

England sat there. Another day passed.

England sat there. A third day passed.

England sat there. Man, could the mail be anymore slow? At least a letter would've been nice! He'd given America a fair while to come back.

England sat there. He sat through a fourth day. After the initial shock, England had drank a lot. He spent weeks intoxicated, alcohol cleaning away any trace of America's name— or maybe just masking it. England had quickly gotten over that, realizing that America would come back because he had to. America didn't know how to do anything, and soon he'd come back and ask England to manage him again.

England sat there. His maid came in to ask if he'd like tea, something to eat. The rest of his staff watched intently, somewhat worried about him. He fired all of them on the spot.

England sat there. He heard the door open and close, the last of his workers apparently finally leaving. That was fine, he'd never have the money to pay them again anyway.

England sat there. A month passed. He was starving. A nation's immortality meant he didn't die.

England sat there. Two months. Surely he would've written by now?

England sat there. He was eating a sandwich, something that he'd made himself. Wow, maybe this'll leave, too? It didn't, of course not. England thought that was almost comical, that it didn't do anything. He wondered how hard it must've been to just sit there and do nothing.

England sat there. It had been a few months now. He didn't know what day it was, but was surprised that nobody had come for him. He'd eaten a couple times, but it never helped anything and all of his food had gone rotten so he'd stopped.

England sat there. It'd been a year. Someone had knocked on his door earlier, yelling that it'd been a long time and it was time for him to get up and start doing stuff again. They hadn't yelled the date, but they'd thrown a newspaper at his door. He'd picked it up later that day. Checked the date. Read the news.

(Linebreak.)

England sat there. He didn't know how long it had been. He slowly grabbed a quill and some parchment. He put his quill to the page. Slowly, ever so slowly, he wrote a name at the top. His penmanship was awful. Something inside him said he wasn't proud of this at all, but he wasn't proud of anything he'd done in the past few decades. It didn't matter anymore.

England sat there, a letter of four words in front of him. It didn't matter how much time had passed. It was hard to tell, but certainly less than a few hours. It was dark now, regardless, and he thought he ought to go to sleep.

England sat there. He reached for the paper, reached to get it away from him, and he snapped. He screamed and swept it off the table. He put out the candle and kicked and hit as many things as he could. He fell, panting, to the ground. None of it had made him feel any better. He didn't know if he'd ever feel better again. He was out of shape, and right now he was so exhausted that he didn't know if he would ever breathe again.

England heard a knock at his door. A voice calling his name. He ran to the door, faster than he should've been able to considering his current winded state.

He opened the door, excited beyond belief. He knew he'd have to punish America, to make sure he never left again, but it would be fine because they would be tog—

There was no one there.

England poked his head out of the door. It was the middle of the night. He squinted, looking for any movement under the light of the moon.

There was nothing. England collapsed, starving and winded and so, so tired. He pulled himself up, leaning against the wall.

England sat there on that goddamn porch. He watched a few intoxicated people stumble home, but none of them were his colony.

(Linebreak.)

2012

America had never really thrown a party for one person before.

Sure, he'd thrown plenty of birthday parties; plenty of his own, too, but that was different.

It was his birthday. He was still waiting for a text for England, still waiting for any sign that he was going to show up.

America had been doing better every year. Every year, he was doing better and better, moving past it all slowly but surely. By World War One, he was able to hold a conversation with England. In 2000, he had stayed at England's house, as his guest, without getting paranoid or upset! He was making great progress, and he was getting stronger.

And yet here he was, sitting on his porch. All of his friends were here, human and country alike. Except for England.

He checked his phone again. England had never responded to his invitation. He wondered if England was going to try to surprise him. That was naive, and he knew it wasn't the case, but America wanted England to show up. Once he arrived, once they had a good time together, everything would finally be right again. America could finally move on.

France eventually found him. "America, come on. Let's go inside."

America didn't move. "America, stand up. Come here." France pulled him up and pointed him at the open door. A group of his friends were inside, having a good time. "They showed up for you. We all love you, America. If England's not going to show up, that's his loss, right?"

America nodded. "Yeah, I guess." He let France lead him back inside.

(Linebreak.)

2020

England was at a bar. He was kind of drunk. Okay, maybe just a bit too drunk. He'd get home somehow, so it didn't matter. Not going home at all would've suited him fine anyway.

Sense wasn't with him, and neither was anything else. He was on his last drink for tonight— he had to limit himself these days. He hadn't any money left for the night, and he hadn't anybody else either.

A woman sat next to him.

She was young, maybe about his human age. She was chatting with her friend, rather loudly. England didn't really care, but maybe he was a little upset that this woman was ruining his night. Come on, wasn't this supposed to be his epic angsty moment in this shitty book of life?

Then, didn't he hope for that every year?

The woman glanced over at him a few times. England wasn't exactly looking; he didn't necessarily care for anyone in the bar except the bartender. He took another small, small sip of whatever the fuck this was. England didn't know what he was drinking, but it wasn't what he usually had. At some point, he'd started ordering stronger alcohol. It tasted like nail polish remover, and it was perfect.

Vodka.

It was Smirnoff vodka. Not even all that strong.

The woman made eye contact with him. She looked down for a moment; England did too. He should've just bought alcohol and stayed home. The lady looked up and smiled, but England didn't catch that.

"What are the best drinks here?" The woman asked.

England didn't respond. And then it occurred to him that this woman was talking to him, and so he replied, "I don't know."

"Well, what are you drinking?"

"Vodka." The fact that he wasn't drinking his own alcohol suddenly struck him as extraordinarily depressing.

England knew that this lady was probably interested in him. He couldn't understand why. Still, the fact persisted: This lady wanted a good time, some sort of enjoyment, and England just wanted to feel bad.

"How are you today?"

England hoped that if he didn't keep up his end of the conversation this woman would leave him alone.

And soon he was leaving.

England hated being drunk because he wasn't ever free when he drank. Even when he was incredibly intoxicated, he just felt like he was watching himself from behind a glass screen. He could see everything he was doing, and he disapproved, but the alcohol judged his actions for him.

Right now, he was staggering across the sidewalk, back towards home. A part of him thought that he was nothing but pathetic, that he was better than this... and a part of him just thought about getting home, drinking more, and going to sleep.

England made it home, and he immediately regretted it. Maybe he could've been with somebody instead of just alone.

Then, it would feel wrong to be anything but alone now.

He reached for more alcohol, unsure of what it was but not really caring. He knew he'd drank far past his limit already, but what did it matter?

And soon he was calling America, because he couldn't call anyone else. In all honesty, he really disliked calling America at any point close to July Fourth, much less the day, but he couldn't call France. He didn't want to be made fun of. America was usually a positive influence, and England really wanted to stop drinking, or at least have a good reason to drink.

England really just intended to talk to America. He didn't want to burden America any more than he usually did, but he didn't want to be so alone.

America answered after a second. "England?" America asked.

England couldn't think of anything to say. He was struck by how oddly silent it was on America's side. "Thought you were throwing a party... it's still early where you are," England said after a moment.

"Well," America laughed, "parties aren't much fun without alcohol, are they?"

England blinked, a bit stunned by such a comment. America was right, but it just didn't seem like the type of thing he would say.

"What did you call me for?" America demanded. Maybe it wasn't a demand, but it didn't seem friendly. His voice was cold. England almost wished he hadn't called.

"I called..." England paused. "God, I don't know why I called."

"You called me because you're drunk," America said bluntly. "Well, I ought to go."

"Wait! Wait!" England was rather desperate now. His mind raced and swerved like a drunken driver down a country road, and in a way it was. "Wait."

"Okay. I'm waiting."

"Let me tell you about when I got back."

"I don't want to hear it. I know you were heartbroken for like, ever, but I... I've gotta be honest, England, I just really don't care."

"Let me tell you about when I went back home," England insisted. "After Yorktown, because it basically ended there."

"Fine."

England took a deep breath. He'd spent so much time alone recently that he was used to getting both perspectives on things. This was real life, though, and not a book. He didn't know what America was thinking at all. "Yorktown."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm glad to have your agreement on this," England commented.

"I'm glad you're totally not still drinking," America replied.

"Shut the fuck up." And that shut him up. Some part of him regretted saying that, but England told that part of himself to shut the fuck up, too. "Yorktown. I went home."

"Okay."

"And drank." England took a breath. "And I just... I just... I got into fights. A lot. I spent every morning in a hospital."

America did something that sounded like indifference; England couldn't tell if he'd dropped something or sighed, because he'd only been aware of America's making noise once it was over. "And then I'd go and drink again."

"Alright," America said. "I hope you don't still do things like that. Goodnight."

"No," England protested. America didn't hang up, so he kept going. "Look, America. I was in so much pain."

"That sucks."

"I just wanted it all to be over." England's voice was trembling. How could something tremble so slowly? "I loved you."

"You loved me," America agreed.

"I loved you after all that, so I tried to forget that I did."

"England, I think you should stop drinking."

"I love you. Just less now."

"Reassuring. England, I'm serious. You should stop drinking."

"And I know that you hate me. For what I did to you." England drew in a breath. Usually breathing might feel effortless.

America didn't respond to that.

"I didn't mean to do any of it. I never meant any of the things I did to you, but I was influenced by the acts that they were forcing onto you, and the way they treated you was terrible and I know the way I treated you was terrible and I— I didn't mean to do any of that. I was young and I just wanted to obey my country, and I..."

America was silent. England wondered if he was even still there. "God, I hate you." Somehow, America sounded exactly like that disagreeable voice of his, the one that always criticized him when he drank. America wasn't saying anything. It was so silent. England had longed for the days where he'd be able to drink and make bad decisions without feeling so terrible the entire time, but this was hell. "Come on, say something. Anything."

"I don't hate you," America's voice finally came through.

"Well, you may as well have not said anything if you were going to bloody lie!"

"I'm not lying, England," America insisted. "I don't hate you. I just didn't like you when I was a colony. Chill out. I wanted to stay— really, I did— but you wouldn't listen to me, so I had to leave."

"But—,"

"England, you've told me all of this before. I can assure you I didn't forget," America's voice was cold now. "Anyway, I tell you all the same shit every time you call me when you're drunk. I'm tired of this. Just... Just stop calling." America sighed. "Goodnight, England."

"America, please. I know that—,"

"No, you don't know anything," America snapped. "I'm so goddamn tired of this. Every year. We can't even go out and get drinks together because you always talk about... about that. And you act like the damn victim of it all, and that's what pisses me off the most. I tried to reach an agreement with you, and you wouldn't listen, and nobody even really cares now, but you won't fucking move on. Stop playing up your role as the victim, England. I can't sympathize with you, and nobody else cares enough to."

England, stuck in his muddled state of mind, couldn't think of anything to say to that before America rushed ahead, voice like napalm against England's mind. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have ranted. I have to go, England. Goodnight." America hung up on him, leaving him alone.

Yes, in reference to the song. Review'd be awesome. Have a good night.