Thank you so much for the reviews! I really appreciate them! :) I was a little worried about last chapter, but I'm glad that you guys were happy with it. :D

So, I hope you guys enjoy the next chapter! Please review! :)

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America was woken by the sound of his door bell being hit several times. He buried his face farther in his pillows, trying to drown out the world. He felt sick. So incredibly sick. So sick he thought he was going to die. He tried to think back to last night, but the huge majority of it was a blur. None of his scrambled memories made much sense. Then he remembered how upset and lonely he had been, and how he had thought that, if he drank a few beers, he'd suddenly feel better. But everything after about the fourth can of beer was a blank. The doorbell continued to ring, and America pushed himself up so he could see who desperately needed him at such a time of day. He looked at his clock, expecting it to be seven in the morning. However, it was actually two in the afternoon. Giving a groan, he continued to walk out of his room, cursing himself for getting so wasted.

Walking through his living room, he saw the pile of empty beer cans and cringed—there were at least twelve of them. No wonder he felt so crappy. Seeing as he was a country, he could drink more alcohol than normal people and get away with it. But drinking two six-packs really wasn't healthy for anyone, country or not.

The doorbell was really starting to give America a horrible head ache. Actually, just being conscious was giving him a really bad head ache. The light hurt, sounds hurt, walking hurt, thinking hurt. He just wanted to go back to bed and suffer in loneliness. But no, someone just had to talk to him right now.

He tried to open the door, but then realized he hadn't unlocked it yet. Irritated, he unlocked it and roughly opened it. "What?" he growled, not really in the mood for company. However, he jumped when he realized that it was no other that England standing at his door step. He looked taken aback at America's attitude, making America feel like a complete ass. Wow, he had been missing him the whole time he'd been gone, and soon as he came back, he bit his head off. Way to be a freakin' douchebag.

"Ah, E-England!" he stammered. He went to smile only to realize that hurt too. And his stomach really hurt too, but he figured he could just ignore it for right now. "You're back."

England looked at him curiously, then smiled. America felt warm being able to see that smile after centuries of it being absent "Well, of course. I said I'd come back, didn't I?"

A huge smile crossed America's face as he went to hug him. But suddenly, America's stomach felt really weird. Before he could even think to run back into the house, America threw up—all over England and himself.

Oh God, he was such an idiot.

x-x-x-x-x

England just stood there for a second, not exactly sure what to do. He was slightly irritated seeing as he had had to wait such a long time for America to just answer the door. Then when he had, America had answered it quite rudely, making England afraid that he was angry at him for being gone. Then, once he had thought that everything was perfectly okay, this had happened. America was bent over, now dry heaving after having thrown up on the both of them. England really didn't know how to react. His first reaction was to just start throwing up too because of how ill he felt now, but that would only make matters worse. His second reaction would have been to beat the living crap out of America for vomiting on him, but hurting a sick person was not the gentlemanly thing to do. So, not knowing what really else to do, he just stood there, waiting for America to stop dry heaving so he could maybe do something to help.

After a few seconds, America was finally able to stand up a little straighter, a horrible look on his pale face. "Oh, God, England, I'm so, so, so sorry," he moaned, his voice ragged. "Oh, crap, I'm so…"

England quickly shushed him, pulling America's arm over his shoulder. "Get back in the house," he murmured, feeling America's sick soak farther into his clothes. America attempted to walk with him, but mostly he just let his feet drag. England was confused as to why he was so sick until he had pulled America into the living room. A rather large pile of empty beer cans were lying on the floor. As he thought about it, America did smell bad—and not just because of the vomit.

"Idiot," he muttered, continuing to drag him until they arrived in America's room. "Can you stand?" England asked, still supporting America's weight. Weakly, he looked up, his face a bit dazed. He gave a brief nod as he straightened up. England made sure that he was standing straight and not threatening to tip over, then began searching through America's room. "Where do you keep clothes?"

America looked up, his face pale. "I c'n get clothes," he drawled, trying to move from where he was standing. As soon as he moved, he immediately began to tip. England rushed over and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him upright again. America's eyes were looked muddled, his face only paler. England huffed—and America said that he didn't hold alcohol well, stupid git.

"Just tell me where your clothes are," England said, now having to hold him upright to keep him from falling over. "The sooner you get washed up, the sooner I can get clean too."

America looked at him—or at least looked in his general direction—as it looked like he was thinking it over. It looked like his obvious hang over was making this task very difficult. "Juss pull sum stuff outta d'closet," America slurred, weakly pointing to wear he was referring too. "Dun't matter, I guess."

Carefully, England let America lean against the wall, hoping that it would be enough support to keep him from falling and hitting his head against something. He then quickly went to the closet and rummaged through it until he found a shirt, some pants and—to his extreme discomfort—underwear. Once all of the items of clothing were found, England turned around to see that America had slid down the wall and was now on the floor asleep. With a sigh, England knew he had to wake him up—even though he was kind of cute when he was sleeping.

"America," he said, lightly shaking him. "America, come now, you need to wash up."

America's eyes fluttered open, giving England a sad look. He then closed them again and murmured something. "What?" England asked, lightly shaking him to make sure he was still awake.

"Carry me?" America pleaded, opening his eyes just enough so England could see his blue irises. England felt himself blush. He couldn't carry him! America was rather heavy, and at the moment he was covered in his own sick. But America's eyes were doing something to him that he really couldn't explain. So, even knowing he was going to have a difficult time with it, he slid one arm around his back, the other beneath his legs.

"I might drop you," England warned as he began to slowly lift America. "And if I do, please know it's not on purpose." England held in his breath as he stood up straight with America in his arms. It was awkward holding someone who was taller than him, and even though America didn't look overweight, he definitely wasn't light. America seemed bewildered by England actually complying, but gave a weak smile as he wrapped his arms around England's neck. England stiffened, not sure if he liked the contact, but decided to not say anything. For some reason, he just couldn't say no to America anymore

By the time England had gotten America to his bathroom, England couldn't feel anything in his arms besides pain. He tried to set him down gently, but his arms gave out, making America spill out on the floor. He expected for America to burst with complaints, but he just gave a little "oof" as he just laid still. "Sorry," England said, stretching out his arms. He looked down at him, and was concerned with how little he was moving. "America," England said, "please don't tell me I'll have to bathe you too."

At this, America gave a tiny laugh. "Ha, nah," he said weakly. Slowly, he pushed himself up, his hair falling down over his face. "I can manage that I think."

"You think?" England repeated, a small smirk on his face. "Wow, I'm glad you finally figured out how to think."

"Don't judge me, Mr. I-Cook-Like-Crap."

England slit his eyes, not enjoying yet another insult directed at his cooking. "Take a shower, idiot," he said, tossing his clothes at him. "I want to get cleaned up too, I'll have you know."

America shoved his messy hair out of his sweaty face. "Well, you'd better get out then," he said. A smirk slowly came to his face. "Unless, of course, you want a strip tease."

A blush came to his face as England glared down at him, a forced smile on his face. "Wow, a man covered in his own vomit—how appealing."

"You know it sounds sexy," America said, giving a little wink. England just shook his head at him as he turned and left the room. America could be so utterly ridiculous at times.

Not wanting to sit down on anything seeing as he was still covered with America's vomit, England decided to take off some of his layers, hoping that it would at least help lessen the smell. Besides, they were two men, right? It wasn't like he'd be exposing himself in front of a woman. It was just America, that was all. Telling himself not to worry, he took off his suit jacket and shirt, leaving his body waist up bare. He had tried to convince himself that this wouldn't be a big deal, but the thought of America seeing him like this made him nervous. What if it gave America the wrong idea? What if he took it as a sign that England wanted him? What if he tried something? What if England let him try something?

Too anxious to sit down, England decided to pick out some clothes for after his shower. But, to his horror, none of his clothes were clean. He couldn't wash them when America or he was in the shower because it would take up all of the hot water. He didn't have time either, and a gentleman of his caliber certainly did not re-wear clothes that had not been washed. He gave a groan—he was going to have to borrow clothes from America. Such a disgrace.

With a cloud of shame shrouding around him, England went back to America's closet to try to locate clothes that he would be somewhat comfortable with wearing until his own clothes were washed. But, not to England's surprise, most of America's clothes were cheap T-shirts with immature quotes or images emblazoned on them. After a few minutes of desperately searching, he decided to just go with a plain black T-shirt—black suited him at least. He tried to find a decent pair of pants, but once again, he had a struggle finding something that would at all suit him. Finally, he settled for a pair of red plaid pajama pants—at least these didn't have holes in them.

Having his outfit of shame picked out, England turned around to exit the room—only to find America standing in the doorway, looking at him curiously, a small smirk on his face. England nearly screamed, pulling the clothes up to hide his skin away from America. How long had he been standing there just watching him?

"I'm out of the shower," he said simply, the smile still on his face.

"Well, aren't you bloody observant?" England snapped back, feeling his face flush as he felt America's eyes drink him in. The way his gaze pierced him was very unsettling, making him feel like every inch of him was now being scrutinized.

"Those are probably going to be big on you," America said, gesturing to the clothes in England's arms. "I'm way taller than you."

"Well, I don't have that much of a choice," England muttered, picking up his dirty clothes, unable to break eye contact with America. Having his things gathered, England Not liking how America's eyes felt on him, he quickly tried to rush past him. But America didn't let him go that easily. Before he was even two feet away from him, England felt America's hand grip his shoulder as he pulled him back.

"Dude, chill," America said, a little laugh escaping him as England felt his body run into America's. "What, you weren't expecting me to get out so soon?"

"N-no," England said, heart pumping as he felt his bare skin against America's clothing. He was still warm from his shower, the skin of the hand on his shoulder still just slightly damp. He was quickly regretting having decided to remove his shirt. He hadn't been expecting for America to be touching, the little contact being made feeling like electrical currents running through him.

A sudden shiver went through England's body as he felt America's finger trail down his neck right over his spine. He barely touched him, his finger just barely grazing his skin, but the feel of his touch seemed to make England's nerves short circuit. Then, making England give a small gasp, his finger continued down his spine to his mid-back, his lips grazing the back of England's neck. "I missed you," America said, his breath against his skin making hundreds of tingles rush through England.

England tried to keep his thoughts straight—he couldn't let America get his way with him, even though it was tempting. "I missed you too, git," England replied, sensing his whole body tense. "Can I please take a shower in peace?"

He felt America linger at his neck for a moment, but he finally retreated. "Okay, I guess," he pouted. "You smell bad anyways."

England swung around to face him at this. "Well, that certainly isn't my fault!" he snapped.

America laughed, tousling England's blonde hair. "Sorry," he said, laughing. "Well, you know how well I control myself."

England closed his eyes in a laugh. "Yes, I do know that," he answered.

x-x-x-x-x

This was outrageous.

England looked at himself, not liking how this looked at all. The pants he wore were far too large for him, completely hiding his feet from view. The black shirt was baggy and long, making him look completely unrefined and even trashy. But, once again, he didn't have much other choice. Even with his hair wet, he tried to flatten the rebellious strands. But he quickly gave in—his hair never listened to his orders.

Deciding that he wasn't going to get much better, he stepped out of the bathroom with a sigh, preparing himself for America's snide comments about his appearance. He was just hoping that maybe he would decide to keep his mouth shut. But he knew America too well to ever hope for such a thing.

"Ha ha, England, you look like a little kid!" America said, doubled over in laughter. Yet again, he was irritated by how America was able to recover so quickly. Not an hour ago, he had been so extremely hung over. But now he was completely sober and back to his annoying self. He wondered just how he could do that, but just figured that sickness just got tired of him after a while, just like everything else did.

"Shut up, git," England mumbled, lightly hitting him on the back of the head with his fist. "I wouldn't look so ridiculous if you hadn't thrown up, so this is your fault."

America stood back up, his face slightly red from his laughter. "Sorry, man," he said, a smile still on his face. "It's just usually when I see you, you're all dignified n' stuff! I haven't seen you dressed down like that since I was really little!"

England shrugged off his comments as he roughly sat down on the couch, crossing his arms. "It's not like I had any choice," he grumbled again, picking up his book. He flicked it open back to where he had been reading.

He felt the couch sag next to him, but he didn't look up. "What're you looking at now?" America asked, scooting closer so that their shoulders were touching. England didn't mind the contact though—which he found humorous, seeing as just the other day, his just sitting on the same couch made him uncomfortable.

"I'm trying to see if I can take the curse off without having to take away your memory," England replied, his eyes skimming the page. He had decided that he would at least try to find a different way to take off the curse. He did like having someone care for him, and he was still figuring out all that he felt for him in return. He didn't want to get rid of all they had built up and end up back where they were, two hundred years of disdain between them.

England heard America give a quiet, "Mm-hm," as he sat still, their shoulders still touching. Even without looking, England could tell that he wanted more contact. He gave a half smile as he lifted his arm and draped it around America's shoulders, pulling him closer. He felt America tense under his touch, but he quickly relaxed. America scooted even closer to him, making England jump slightly when his light brown hair tickled against his neck. He gave a contented sigh, bringing his legs up as he somehow snuggled in even closer, his arms winding around England's waist. England felt himself blush, but didn't say anything. Now with them so close, England could feel America dozing off. He guessed that, even though he was feeling much better than before, he was still tired out from drinking so much.

"England," America said quietly, his voice fading off, "I love you."

The three simple words made England feel all kinds of different things—warm, confused, happy, perplexed. How was he supposed to respond? Was he supposed to respond? England suddenly realized that he had been holding his breath, and gave a sigh as he released it. America looked up at him, and England realized that he probably thought that he had sighed in annoyance. He gave a short laugh as he laid his hand on America's head. "I love you too."

It took a second for England to actually think about what he had just said. For a fraction of a second, he thought of taking it back. But, as he thought about it, he realized that no truer words had been said—he really did love this fool. This wonderful, kind, loving, beautiful fool. America stared at him in disbelief, also shocked by his words. Then a warm smile spread across his face as he laid himself back against England, holding him even closer than before.

"I love you," America said, nuzzling his head into England's neck.

"I love you too."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"I love you."

England looked down at the silly American as he stroked his hair. "America, my love, no matter how many times you say it, you'll just get the same answer."

He felt America give a little laugh. "I know," he murmured, once again heading towards sleep. "I just love your answer."

A smile spread across England's face as he continued to run his fingers through America's hair. "You silly fool," he muttered, setting his attention back to his book. "My silly little fool."

x-x-x-x-x

America felt himself fading off, the warmth of England calming him and all of his worries. Any fears he had had, any worries at all, they were gone.

He loved England. And England loved him back. Finally, his world was at peace.

x-x-x-x-x

Something was wrong.

Why was his bed shaking? Why did his bed smell of tea leaves? Why was his bed crying? America opened his eyes, panic taking him over. What was going on? What had happened? He pushed himself up, making his bed—England—jump. America meant to ask what had happened until his words were caught in his throat by the sight of tears trailing down England's face

"E-England?" America asked, his voice sounding strained from the sudden shock he was experiencing. "England, what happened? What's wrong?"

For a moment, England just stared at him as if trying to think of what to say. Abruptly, he turned his head away from him, another choked sob making his whole body shake. America was frozen—what the hell had happened?

"What's wrong?" America asked desperately, placing his hand on England's shoulder. "Talk to me! What happened?"

"I…I…" England choked, refusing to turn around. "I c-can't… There's no… th-the spell…"

America felt his stomach drop. "What about the spell?" he asked, trying to pull England to face him. "What's going on? Talk to me, dammit!"

England slowly, very slowly, turned around to face him. His eyes were red from tears, his face flushed. America was about to again ask what was going on when England shoved his lips against his, making America's breath catch in his throat. Any other time, America would be happy about this and return the kiss; but this was a desperate kiss, a sad kiss. This just proved to him even more that something was horrifyingly wrong.

As abruptly as he had started it, England ended the kiss, staring America directly in the eyes. "I… There's nothing I can do." He paused as his hand traced down the side of America's face. "There's no other way. Your memories will be erased."

America's whole body stiffened. His and England's kiss, England being with him, England saying that he loved him. He couldn't forget that. There was no way that he could let himself forget that!

"No," America said with every ounce of force he could muster into the single word. "No, I won't let you. You can't just—! No! No!"

England's face contorted further as he seemed to sinker farther into despair. "I don't want this either," he choked. "I don't want this at all. I finally have someone who cares about me, someone who shows affection because they want to, not because they'll get something in return. Someone who loves me for me. I finally have someone who treats me like I actually matter, and I have to make them stop loving me."

"I couldn't stop loving you!" America said desperately, taking him by the shoulders. "There's nothing that could stop that!"

At those words, England seemed to break. "How could you ever love me?" he cried, making America stomach twist with pain. "How could you love me without the help of a spell? I'm rude, I'm withdrawn, I push everyone away! There is nothing to love about me!" England silenced, gasping for air between his words and tears. America stared at him, his whole being consumed with sadness. He couldn't make things better this time. He couldn't do anything, and he hated it. "America," England said, gazing into his eyes. "If you choose to ever love me, I want it to be because you actually care for me. Not because of a spell gone wrong."

America felt something in him break. He didn't want this. He wanted England; wanted to stay with him for the rest of his life; to stay with him forever. But England was right. It wouldn't work if he was under a spell. All it would be was a forced love—a fake love.

So, with his throat closed off and tears building up in his eyes, America gave a short nod. "Do what you have to do."

England sat still for what felt like an eternity, but he finally gave a quick nod in return. "Just sit back," England said, his voice strained and quiet. "It… it won't take long."

America kept his eyes latched on England the whole time as he prepared the spell. He didn't care that he wouldn't remember any of this. He wanted to see him, to watch him, to love him for whatever time he had left. England held his spell book, the paper with the casting circle in front of him. He took a shaky breath as he looked up at America, his green eyes full with tears. "I love you," he whispered, his hands shaking. America tried to keep himself contained, not wanting to make England feel even worse. However, he felt one tear escape his eye as he looked at the man in a way he would soon never remember.

"I love you more."

England's face tensed, but a small smile broke through his façade. Then he looked back down at his spell book, his face set. He started chanting. America tried to catch the words but England was talking too quietly. All he heard was mumbling, making him remember how much he loved England's voice when he was speaking softly. Suddenly, all of his thoughts stopped as he felt as if someone was tugging out his brains. He closed his eyes, trying not to make any noise, not wanting to disrupt England. Then, once he was about to yell out in pain—

Black.

Everything was black.

x-x-x-x-x

England felt nothing. He gently dropped America in his bed, looking at his unconscious figure. Before he had passed out, England had looked up to see his face in pain. He was scared that his spell had gone wrong when America had suddenly gone limp in the couch. That was when he knew that the spell had worked. It had worked. He wouldn't remember anything about the past few days. He felt himself become sick as he thought about it, so he once again turned off his thoughts. He'd rather feel nothing that this pain sent directly from hell. He'd rather be dead. It wasn't like anyone would care now if he died.

He let his hand graze America's forehead, brushing his hair out of his face. Sickness came over him again—would he ever be able to do this again? Not likely. What was there to love about him? Surely America would never let him do this when he was back to his normal self. Taking off America's glasses, England sank into sadness he had never experienced before. No, America could never love him.

"My love," England whispered, knowing that America couldn't hear him. "My precious love. I hope, one day, you will come back to me." As the words left him, he knew that they would never come true. Out of all the people in the world, why would America ever choose to love him? It was a hopeless wish.

"I love you," he said, feeling more tears trying to escape him. Not wanting to stay any longer, he turned to leave the room, to leave the house, to leave this country. He could go back to his home now, back to being hated, back to being utterly alone. That was all he was going to get in his isolated life now, so he might as well get used to it. He stopped at the door and peered back at his precious American, his only love that he could never get back.

"Goodbye."

x-x-x-x-x

GAAAH! Ugh, so… much…sadness! Honestly, what is it with me and torturing people! XD But guess what guys! We're getting close to the end! I'm not sure how many chapters are left—at least two—but we're getting to the end! I so can't wait to write it, yet I want it to last and last! But thank you so much for your support—you really don't know how much it means to me! :) I've never met any of you before, but I have loved getting to know you and getting your feedback! Thank you so much—I really couldn't do it without you! :D

Now, out of the kindness of your soul, please review! :D