Shame hanging off him like a weighted chain, England storms back towards his miserable hotel. Lights, shops, and people fly past his vision in a blur. He ducks through the chaos with urgency. Chilly air stings his lungs with every breath, but he doesn't slow down. The world around him is exceedingly bright and loud. Boisterous European citizens drink and chatter away as though nothing about today is significant. As though everything isn't falling to pieces.
England can't begin to fathom their happiness.
Spotting his pathetic sanctuary in the distance, England sprints for it, only to be blocked by blaring traffic and crowds. Stress mounting, he pushes through the sea of people, dashes across the street, and ignores the angry car horns bellowing at him. He takes the white stone steps two at a time and wrenches the hotel's front door open. Its metal frame bangs against the outside wall. A few guests lingering about the lobby stare, but he's well beyond giving a damn.
Up flights of stairs and down the corridors, he at last comes to his rental. He fumbles through his coat pockets for his blasted room card. Finally finding it, he swipes it through the mechanical lock and throws himself into his room.
Panting, England stands shakily as the wooden door swings shut behind him. His brain is abuzz with adrenaline and he can hear blood pounding in his ears. Finally, though, he's safely inside the dull walls of his hotel room.
Smooth, dark grey carpet. Drywall the colour of post-it notes. His shabby cardboard box of knick-knacks. This place is where he should have been the entire time: shut up in this room, making no noise and pretending he doesn't exist.
Give him any war-torn battlefield and he'll stare down death itself. But in the middling trials of everyday social life, England is a complete mess. Although, he supposes that encounter in the pub was more than just a 'middling trial'. To a greater extent, it felt like a waking nightmare.
With all those familiar faces pitying him, there was nothing England could do. What could he have even said?
'Hello, chaps! Sorry I've gone and trashed our working relationship, but that's just politics, innit? A few burnt bridges come with the territory! No hard feelings though, right?'
...For fuck's sake.
A potent mixture of frustration, guilt, and regret nag at England's mind. He's just a cowardly dog, running away from the consequences of his own actions.
Instead of repeatedly bashing his skull against the nearest wall, England settles with chucking off his outdoor attire. He tosses his coat, scarf and gloves onto the sandy desk chair, kicks off his shoes, and collapses face-first onto the lonely bed. He checks the digital clock on the bedside table, which cruelly reads 8:22PM. Shoving a crumpled pillow into his face, he breathes in the faint smell of industrial fabric detergent and tries to calm his quaking nerves.
Despite all his worldly conquests, he never discovered a spell to rewind time. What England wouldn't give to go back an hour and run off with France to some secluded place, hidden from the rest of the world. Maybe someplace where they could just be, without the Brexit bollocks hanging over them. Where he could just stare at the elegant twat, listen to his obnoxious laughter, let the alcohol melt away their inhibitions, and then...
Mushing his cheeks into the pillow's fabric, England imagines it being softer, blonder. That it isn't a pillow at all, and is instead the frog's stupid, flawless hair.
It isn't fair.
The universe can't give him a damned moment's peace.
Sighing sourly, England's thoughts rampage with anger and paranoia.
How the hell did they all run into each other? Belgium drinks more beer than she drinks water. She has probably a thousand pubs in Brussels alone! What sort of twisted God would send Germany, Italy, and an entire slew of nations directly to the one particular bar that France picked out?
The likelihood is so incredibly small. The only way it could happen is if it was planned out in advance!
Remembering France's charming behaviour, the way he encouraged England to come drinking, how he disappeared the exact moment everyone else waltzed in, England's heart sinks like a stone. The morbid jigsaw puzzle clicks together so perfectly.
Gob-smacked at his own realization, England sits bolt upright. He twists the pillow in his fists as a wave of anguish crashes over him. He cannot believe his own naivety.
It was a bloody set up.
What other explanation is there? It was a cruel, sadistic prank and England fell for it entirely. All because he was so desperate for something normal - for France to treat him as if nothing changed.
Trusting France only ever spells disaster. He's always known that. What a fool he was to momentarily hope otherwise. England's breathing hitches as he imagines France back at the bar, snickering with his friends over their successful joke.
So be it, then. He can lock these idiotic feelings up and bury them six feet under - a method he's painfully familiar with. And in a few hours, he'll be cut off from Europe, which will make the whole process easier. Any economic struggle will be far better than dealing with France, that wretched wanker. Even if it means ruining his own citizens' prosperity, and wallowing in hopeless, rotten isolation for decades...
Trembling, his grip on the pillow weakens. A headache sparks and burns through his temples. Bitterness crumbles to despair and England trudges over to the hotel phone. He dials for room service.
"How may we be of assistance?" asks the impersonal man over the speaker.
"Could you um," England mutters pathetically. "Just... bring me up a bottle of gin?"
"Of course. Do you know which brand you would like?"
"No, I... Whatever you've got is fine; I don't particularly care. So long as it's at least 80 proof."
"Very well, we will send a waiter up to you in just a moment."
Without so much as a 'thank you', England hangs up the receiver and slinks back over to his bed. Crawling on top of the covers, he lays down on his back and stares up at the blank ceiling. He rests an arm on his forehead in a feeble attempt to ease the throbbing in his skull.
If nothing else, he'll finally get to drown his headache and misery in alcohol. Maybe even the terrible memories of today will vanish as he drinks himself into unconscious oblivion.