Thank you so much everyone for your comments! I really appreciate them! And—don't take this wrong—but I was glad that all of you were depressed… that just means that I did a good job! :D I'm going to do my best to make the story happy again! Don't worry! I AM planning on a happy ending! All good things come when you wait! :)

Also, sorry such a long wait. This past week had been freaking insanity! I've been sick with stomach issues (I won't go into detail, seeing as I'm merciful like that) and next week… next week is Finals week… I need a hug… XD So I've been working and studying like crazy to try and catch up on stuff I've missed, and then I just kept on getting story ideas for other USUK stories, and… Ugh, my brain has just not wanted to focus! In all reality, I should be studying right now, but… -dies a little inside-

Anyways, I'll shut up now. XD Please review. :D

x-x-x-x-x

Bright light could be seen through his closed eyelids as America began to wake up. He let his eyes open slightly to glance at his digital clock, trying to see if it was a decent time to wake up yet. With his glasses off, he was just barely able to read the time as ten in the morning. Stretching and giving a long yawn, he decided that he might as well get up. He was really hungry for some hamburgers!

Clumsily searching for his glasses, he sat up as he prepared himself to face yet another day. But he could really make it through anything, seeing as he was a completely awesome hero! Even being bored home alone was not a challenge for him! He would just find something to do until he wasn't bored. Besides, even he admitted that he had a pretty sad excuse of an attention span, so it wasn't like he'd get too focused on anything. He was America! Americans never, ever, ever got bored!

Not bothering to clean himself up—he was home alone after all—America wandered to his kitchen in search of his delicious hamburgers. To his confusion, he found them stored in a cupboard. Since when did he actually store food in the cupboards? Weird. Shrugging, he unwrapped one and was about to eat it—until he actually looked at it. He had just bought these yesterday, hadn't he? They should have still been relatively fresh. But the hamburger looked stale. Feeling depressed about the expired burger, he tossed in the trash. He tried looking for a fresh burger in the pile that remained, but was distressed as he came to realize that all of them were stale. He was seriously on the verge of crying as he dumped his hamburgers, feeling like he was committing a crime against humanity—wasting burgers! He felt like he was committing genocide here, killing a whole family of good burgers!

Feeling as if he should be killed for his crimes, America grabbed a half empty gallon sized tub of cookie dough ice cream and a spoon. He really needed some comfort food after that absolute tragedy! All of those hamburgers gone to waste—he just cringed thinking about it. He set the ice cream down long enough to go and grab his computer so he could start watching something on his computer. The only thing that would be able to cheer him up now was some random videos on Youtube. Opening his lap top, he was about to open a web page when he quickly glanced at the date. And then continued to stare at it.

How the freaking crap had he missed five days?

America desperately tried to think back, trying to figure out why he had no memory of the past few days. He remembered Tony leaving, remembered being bummed that he wouldn't have anyone to watch scary movies with, remembered watching some TV, and then… then he had woken up in his bed this morning.

Really beginning to panic, America forced himself to take a few deep breaths. Okay. What could have happened? What were the possibilities? Alright. He had been in a coma… a hamburger induced coma… a coma where he had magically not needed any assistance whatsoever. Alright, that was not an option. What else? He had figured out something that he wasn't supposed to know, so the CIA came and wiped out his memories… Only he was the freaking United States of America, and was supposed to know everything. Huh, alright, another option out. Oh, maybe he was just dreaming and his brain was just deciding to freak him out! He pinched himself, and threw that option out the window too.

Had the freaking apocalypse happened? Was he the only man on Earth left alive? Was everyone else a zombie? Holy Zombie Apocalypse, Batman! Scared that this was the case, America quickly turned on the news. He gave a huge sigh of relief as he saw that nothing else besides crushing debt and lying politicians were happening. Alright, so that was normal, nothing to worry about. It still didn't explain why he didn't remember anything though.

Now relieved that he wasn't the only living human being on the planet, nothing seemed too bad to America. He sat back as he let himself calm down. He'd figure out what had happened sooner or later. He'd probably call someone later on and see what they thought about it.

Surely at least England would know what was going on. He always knew everything.

x-x-x-x-x

All England was aware of was that he was still alive. He was still lying in his bed, still dressed in clothes he had changed into before he had left America's house, still utterly and painfully alone. He had no idea how long he had laid there, how long he planned to stay there. By now, all of his emotions had gone numb, his brain turning off everything that hurt. He was sure that he was going to have to eat soon, but he had no desire to. All he really wanted to do was stay where he was and slowly fade out of existence.

The phone rang, forcing him to realize that, even though he was suffering like he never had before, the world was still moving. He supposed that he should answer and see what the world needed of him now. Luckily, the cordless phone was within arm's reach. Without looking at the caller ID, England answered it. "Hello?" he said drearily.

"Ah, mon ami!" a most despicable voice said on the other end of the line, it's tone far too happy to be legal. "How are you doing? How is your little American doing?"

Hitting the end button, England tossed the phone across the room, a look of pure rage on his face. Damn France! Why the hell did he have to call at all of the worst times? The phone began to ring again, but England decided to ignore it. He felt like utter rubbish already, so he had no reason to speak with him. However, after it had been ringing for a whole minute, England was on the verge of yelling bloody murder. Growling, he stood up and stomped across the room, violently hitting the talk button. "What the bloody hell do you want?" he hissed into the receiver, not caring how ruthless he sounded.

A hurt sounding France spoke. "You took his memory, didn't you?"

England stared off at nothing in particular, pressing his lips together in a thin line. "And why do you care?" England asked, his hand holding the phone hard enough to make his knuckles go white. He didn't want to talk about this. He didn't want to talk about anything.

"Even though we may not get along all the time," France said, his voice for once sounding somewhat serious, "we are still friends. I do care about your wellbeing."

His hand loosened on the phone, letting a frustrated sigh out. He really had to be feeling terrible to feel guilty about being rude to France. "Sorry," he said, shoving his hair out of his face. "I'm just… I'm really tempted to just kill myself right now to be honest."

A pause held them for a second, feeling like a literal chill between them. "Angleterre," France said, his voice cautious. "Again, I know we don't get along, but do you want me to come over so you could talk?"

"No," England responded without a second thought. "No, I don't want to talk about it. It will just make me feel worse."

France once again paused, England actually surprised by his silence—since when did France learn how to shut up? "Well, Angleterre," he said, his voice now having an edge of mischief. "What would you say if I were outside your door right now with some drinks? Would you talk to me then?"

England paused as he took the phone from his ear and stared at it. What? Quickly, he ran to his window that had a view of his front door. An evil glare on his face, he put the phone back to his ear. "Why the bloody hell are you at my house, damn bloody frog!" He could hear France give obnoxious laughter as England continued to let out a huge string of profanities.

"May I come in?" France asked, England now able to see that disgustingly smug smirk on his face. England was going to tell him to go to hell when France added, "You know a true British gentleman would let me in, seeing as I've come such a long way."

He clenched his teeth together as he growled. Damn prick. "Just wait a bloody minute."

Within five minutes, France was sitting comfortably on England's couch, sipping his wine as England filled up another glass with scotch. England had yelled at France for barging in like an arse, but he had finally dropped it as he also sat on his couch, continuing to drink his alcohol. They sat there in silence as England felt his consciousness beginning to become foggy. Finally, he was able to easily able to avoid all of those painful thoughts.

"So," France said, making England cringe. Why did he have to speak? "When did you remove it?"

England grunted, slumping in his seat. "What day is it?" he asked, his eyes somewhat unfocused. "I lost track of time a while ago."

France paused as he thought over the question. "It's the twenty-fifth," France answered. He must have seen England's still puzzled look as he added, "You visited my house a week ago on the twenty-second. Does that help?"

Drinking more scotch, England thought back over the days as he tried to remember what he had forced himself to forget. "Then it's been three days," England answered nonchalantly. Then he cringed as he actually thought about it. "Th-three days?" He looked down at himself as he realized that he had only done the necessities the past few days. He hadn't changed, hadn't showered, hadn't brushed his hair. He groaned at his weakness. "God, it's been three damn days. How the hell did that happen?"

"Time moves on," France said, patting him on the shoulder, "even if you don't wish it to."

England drank what was left in his glass and poured himself more drink. "I'm such a damn mess," he murmured, filling the glass to the brim. "I haven't been this bad since the Revolution," he said, taking another swig of scotch. "I mean, sure, when that happened, America left me, and I pushed him away. It was horrible, but this time… I don't know why this time is so much worse. Well, maybe it's because—" Another swig of ale. "—because maybe I had more feelings for him. I dunno. Yeah, before, we were just brothers, n' you expect brothers to fight; it's just natural. But this time, we were, we were way more. We were—" He finished off another glass and poured himself another one. "We were… he said h-he loved me. A-and I said I loved him back. And I did love, d-do love him back. I guess that's why… why—"

He jumped as he felt France lay a hand on his shoulder. "Angleterre, it's not a good idea to be drinking and crying at the same time. You won't be able to breathe."

"C-c-cry?" England asked, He touched his face and was filled with self-hatred as he felt trails of tears running down his face. He roughly wiped them away, cursing himself for showing such weakness in front of France. "God dammit," he breathed, placing his glass down on the table. Pressing his palms against his closed eyes, he held his head as he tried to slow down his breathing and calm himself. He could lose himself in his tears later, but not when there were other people to see it.

"So you do love him?"

England looked up at him, surprised by his question. Then he realized that for the first time, he had come out and said that he loved America. He had said it and had done nothing to hide it. Letting out a sigh, England laid his head back in his hands. "More than I could ever explain," England answered.

"Then tell him."

France jumped back at the venomous glare he received from England. "And how the hell do you suggest I do that, idiotic frog?" he spat. "He doesn't remember anything about what happened. How am I supposed to just go up to him when I know he could never return these feelings for me willingly?"

France gave a little laugh, making England extremely tempted to stab him in the throat. "And just how do you know he doesn't return feelings, hmm?"

England gave him a puzzled stare as if the answer was obvious. "Because," he said. "How could someone… he couldn't. I… there's too much wrong with me. I'm too bossy, too stubborn, too cold…"

"You're also rude, foul mouthed, short tempered, a horrible drunk, abusive…" France's list went on and on, each new item added putting more and more weight on England. "…your eyebrows are huge, you're stuck up, you think you're always right, you hold immature grudges, you—" France's list finally ended as England hit him hard in the back of the head with his clenched fist.

"Are you just trying to make me feel worse?" England grumbled, glaring at the Frenchman. "Because if you are, trust me, it's definitely working."

"All I'm saying is," France said, his horrible habit of wrapping his arm around England's shoulder in effect, "sometimes the things that you hate about yourself are the things that America could love about you."

England swatted his arm away as he gave him a dubious stare. "So, you're saying America could love me because I'm an abusive, stuck up drunkard?" he drawled, aiming all of the hatred in his body towards him.

"An abusive, stuck up drunkard with huge eyebrows," France said with a wink. After a swift punch to the ribs, France continued. "I'm just saying you'll never really know how he feels for you until you confess."

"Heh," England huffed, slumping farther on the couch. "Seeing how my bloody luck has played out thus far, I'd take a wager that America'd never speak to me again if I told him how I feel."

He felt France's gaze on him for a few moments, and saw, just out of the corner of his eye, a sly smile crossing the man's face. England glanced at him, suddenly worried about what the man was thinking—he never knew what to expect with France. "Hmm," France said, running his fingers over the stubble on his chin, "and you think me a coward. How humorous."

Abruptly England perked up, his eyebrows furrowing together. "Excuse me?" he murmured, giving France a glare that would have sent a smarter man running for his life. "Would you like to explain just what exactly do you mean by that?"

France smirked, one of his obnoxious laughs filling the room. "Well, Angleterre," he said, crossing his arms, his blue eyes dark with whatever plot he had, "I may not be the best person when it comes to warfare, but at least I can tell a person my true feelings." His smirk grew ever larger as England felt his anger nearing its boiling point. "I mean, you have to be a true coward to not be able to admit your l'amour to your only love."

"I, by no means," England growled, "am a coward."

"Then it should be easy to tell your precious American your feelings."

"And just how the hell am I supposed to do this?" England hissed, his arms crossed furiously. "I can't just call him and blather to him about this. He'd just hang up on me."

France let out a laugh. "Angleterre, there's a World Conference tomorrow!" he said jovially. "Just tell him there! It will—" His sentence was cut off as England grabbed him by the collar, a squeak coming from his throat.

"You brought ale here to get me drunk," England said slowly, trying to keep his rage down so he wouldn't ruin his upholstery with France's blood, "the day before a World Conference? You are a complete and utter prick." He released France as he slumped back against the couch, fuming with anger. "Get out before I grab something to kill you with."

"I will if you promise to tell your American your feelings," France said, his expression looking calm even though he was keeping a good distance between them now. "It'll make you and me happy if you do!"

England sat there seething for a moment, still thinking over the option to grab a sharp implement and shoving it in France's face. He finally gave a sigh of defeat. "If it makes you get out of my bloody house, fine, I promise I'll tell America tomorrow." France was about to say something when England shoved his hand down between the couch cushions and pulled out a dagger—he always kept some weapons hidden in odd places around his house; and old habit left behind from his old pirating days. "Now please remove yourself from my house before I kill you."

France gave a nervous laugh as he grabbed up his things. "Keep to your promise!" he said as he ran through the door, his cape fluttering behind him as he pulled the door shut. England glared at the door, feeling as the alcohol really began to muddle his brain. Not wanting to be horribly hung over the next day, he got up to go get a glass of water—might as well try to flush out the alcohol as soon as possible. As he got water from his water filter, the enormity of what he had promised suddenly hit him full force. He shakily drank his water as he realized that in not even twenty-four hours, he be confessing to America that he loved him—again. Only this time, it very well might be one sided. The thought of being utterly rejected made him feel sick. He ran his fingers through his hair again only to be reminded how disgusting he felt. He set down his glass as he headed back to his room to fetch himself some clean clothes.

Just what was he getting himself in to?

x-x-x-x-x

A depressed America sat on his couch as he stared at the now empty gallon sized ice cream tub. He had a variety of ice creams left in his house that he could eat, but he really wanted some hamburgers. He could make some if he really wanted to, but the ones he made just didn't have the same taste or the same texture or grease and deliciousness as the ones from the Sacred McDonalds. With a sigh, he got up and decided to go pick up some more burgers to lighten up his mood. He thought for a moment about changing his clothes to look nicer, but he figured since he was just going to go to a McDonalds, no dressing up was required. So he jumped up and made to reach for his keys—only to realize that they had been moved from where he had left them last.

Okay, seriously, what the crap was going on here? He had put his keys in the same place for, like, five bajillion years, and now they were gone. He held his breath to contain a growl in his throat as he searched around the general area on the shelf for his keys. He kept filing through the papers that had somehow become neatly stacked, only to find no keys to be found. He moved his search from the shelf to some of the cupboards above, thinking that he might have somehow placed them up there. Getting more and more frustrated, he started shoving papers out of his way, not really caring what he was damaging. About to start screaming, he threw open another cupboard and vigorously searched. Papers began falling out, but he didn't pay attention to him—he was having burger withdrawal here! He didn't have time to be searching through papers! However, he came to a sudden stop when his eyes caught something fluttering out to the floor. He looked down at the paper and called off the search for now—this was more important to him right now.

Carefully, he picked up the picture, feeling guilt well up in him—it was one of his oldest and most favorite pictures of England. It had been carelessly been bent in his search for his keys. His mouth becoming a thin line as he tried to flatten the picture back out to how it had been before. An odd feeling came over as he looked at the picture, his mind going back far into the past. Back when England used to smile. Sometimes when he looked at the picture, he would feel sad upon remembering his childhood and how happy they had both been. But as he looked at the picture now, some other feeling came over him. At first, he couldn't place it, the feeling being so unfamiliar. A shock when through him as he realized what it was: He felt loss. He felt like he had lost the thing that was most important to him, like he had lost everything.

He felt utterly lost.

All of a sudden, America's entire vision went black. He felt his heart pumping, scared and freaked out by what was happening. Was he having a seizure because he hadn't had his hamburger quota or something? But then images started flashing in front of his eyes: England laughing; England smiling; England looking at him with those green eyes he grown so accustomed to over the years. In all of the images, England was giving him a look he had never seen before—a look of longing.

A look of love.

When America's vision returned, he found himself bent over the shelf, holding his head in his hands. His breath was uneven and he felt the room spinning around him. Feeling like he was going to pass out, he stumbled back over to his couch and fell onto it, letting his blue eyes close. What the hell was that? It had been nothing like anything he'd ever experienced before. It wasn't like a dream or a vision or anything like that. It was like… It seemed to be…

Memories.

But why would he be 'remembering' things that didn't happen? He knew for a fact that what had just happened, everything he had just seen, had not been a dream—the images were too clear, too vivid, too real. Whatever he had seen wasn't just a figment of his imagination. His mind reeled as he tried to figure out all that was happening to him. He didn't remember anything from the past five days. He was 'remembering' things that he didn't remember happening. Was he going insane? Was he having a stroke or a seizure? He groaned as he felt himself falling farther and farther into confusion.

What was happening to him?

x-x-x-x-x

Le Gasp! America's remembering things? Squee! :D I thought that next chapter was going to be the last one, but not anymore! :) Two more chapters after this! And I cannot wait to write them! Thank you guys for reading! Please review! Make me happy! :)