When he first arrived at England's house, he had been nervous and excited at the same time. Excited because this would mean he could get to know England a lot better, nervous because he didn't know what the man thought or would think of him.
Of course, it didn't help that he was completely in love with the blonde country personification.
Others could doubt it all they want- if they ever heard of it, which was not likely, as he hadn't told anyone- but from the moment China had introduced them to each other, he was pretty certain that he had fallen for England.
After he'd said his goodbyes to China at the doorstep, he'd felt so jittery that he could almost feel himself shaking from the nerves. Here he was, with England in his rich blue waistcoat and silk bow around his neck, the slight off-white colour of it brought out by the stark brightness of his collared shirt- a sharp contrast to the midnight black of his breeches. The waistcoat was especially tight around the middle, conforming to the trend of showing of slender waists- and slender the wearer was.
"Beautiful," was the thought that went through his mind, temporarily overshadowing even his countless worries. England had taken the obvious jittery feelings for fear (of him) and nervousness- partially correct- and smiled kindly, asking if he would like to have some tea first. Apparently the staring had also been evident, and an apology was sent his way for appearing so informal to welcome him into the grand home.
Hong Kong felt a pang of guilt for being so glad for the Opium War. He loved and cared deeply for China, his father figure and mentor, but this…
Even now he feels that the time he spent at the Victorian mansion took up a great portion of what he considers his best memories. England took great care of him and always tried to make time for him, apologizing when there was too much work to do. He carried around the silk handkerchief with the embroidered panda on it everywhere with him, needlework done by the same hands which soothed his aching body and took care of him as he lay motionless on his bed, too affected by the Third Pandemic to do anything else.
He knew about America, the ex-colony an ocean away, and noticed the looks on England's face whenever he spoke about the youth- which was often- sometimes it was fondness during recollections of the young colony that once was, sometimes despair about the Revolutionary War, sometimes disdain for what was now- but he liked to think that he was the favoured child amongst the cared-for youths.
Somewhere, deep down inside him, he knew this was a lie- America was the beloved shining star of his caretaker's universe, nothing could possibly change that, not even the fact that the personal relations between the two were so incredibly strained still- but to think anything else caused him to curl up from the pain in his chest.
Nevertheless, he tried his best to please his "big brother"- eating the (admittedly horrible) cuisine with gusto, beaming with joy whenever he received a present- that was genuine, he loved knowing that England got things just for him- helping out with whatever he could and occasionally tending to the garden out back on his own. He wanted to show England just how good he could be, and a little voice sounded in the back of his head- maybe, maybe, take America's place in the ex-privateer's heart.
His heart soared whenever he saw England smile because of something he did. He was so happy living with the blonde for years, always in a state of content whenever they were together; and for some time he believed that they would stay like this forever.
That was why, in 1997, he cried for hours on end when the news of the coming handover was broken to him.
"I don't want to go back! I want to stay here! With you!"
He begged and begged, but there was nothing to be done about it. In a sudden burst of emotion, he choked out in tears, "Is it because I'm not Alfred? I'll be like him for you! Please don't let me go! Please!"
England had been somewhat taken aback, but even so all he could do was hold and try to comfort the brunette, once in a while breaking his soothing to talk about how China is sovereign over you, it's what your people want, it's better for you this way, you can always visit , releasing him only when the sniffling stopped- only for him to return to his room and sob into his pillow.
Why? Why did it have to be like this? He'd tried so hard, put so damn much effort into gaining all of England's affections- but entirely in vain. He loved England more than that bastard America did, if he had been raised by England, he would have been appreciative of everything, he wouldn't ever have broken away, he wouldn't ever have broken the man's heart… All's fair in love and war, or so the saying goes- whoever came up with it never went through something like this.
The entire top half of his goose down pillow was soaked by the time he had finished crying.
The separation nearly broke him; each step he took away from that house felt as though the knife lodged in his heart was twisted again. From that day onwards, he barely showed his emotions, and he hardly ever smiled. Not genuinely. He only really smiles for China and England.
Mostly England.
So I began writing this at 12.30am and it's 2.10am right now, so it might explain if this is a little messed up. This idea was taken from a headcanon (that kinda broke my heart) and there are lifted phrases- I'm too lazy to find it back on Facebook, if anyone wants it badly do bug me for it. Please point out any tiny or major mistakes you find, and if you can give me concrit even for this short piece I'll adore you. No, seriously.