As the days began to meld together into one spectacular blur, America found himself trapped. There was a heaviness that weighed on his limbs, like moving through a pit of volatile quicksand. The nearly constant barrage of caustic outcries only served to deepen the chasm, gradually swallowing him whole as he sank, sank down into its (Pulling, tugging, engulfing -) abyss as a small bubble of hysteria settled itself (Choking, smothering, strangling -) comfortably within his esophagus. He hardly registered the dull pang that settled into a monotonous throb in his chest - it had long since settled and became consistent with each tear shed from emerald eyes.

America accepted the routine of screams and scratches with a smile and loving reassurances. He continued to walk through his care taking duties with unwavering dedication, humming a lighthearted tune that he knew sounded quite empty and sad. He would swallow the churning mass that stretched and pressed against the confines of taut muscles that contracted and swelled with a forced, hollowed, and entirely inappropriate laugh.

And though the young nation was tired of the pitiful charade he put up - longed to just lay down and grieve - he knew it was necessary. Something dangerous sizzled within the guise of pressure and constriction. It clawed for release as it pushed and grew, seeking freedom with a voracious hunger that tore and ripped and seared and hated. The power behind it frightened America - downright terrified him when he realized the possible consequences of releasing it.

So time and again, he would swallow that bubble down to a bearable size and allow it to slither down his throat once more, letting it fester as it fed off of the ammunition needed to stretch and push at the back of his tongue once more. He would pointedly disregard the exhaustion that persistently pulsated behind his eyes as he distracted himself with documents at the bedside table. The faint sounds of his pen scritching across papers filled the room as he tirelessly scribbled down notes for the small island (To blatantly ignore, a soft voice murmured.) concerning his politics and current events when he wasn't looking over batches sent from his own people. The nation would throw himself headfirst into any task, if only to distract from the incessant pulsing that ticked away in his throat.

After all, England needed him functional and attentive. It was he that America fought for; not himself. And as he accepted the bruises and verbal abuse from the other, America reminded himself of this. He imagined the brilliant smile that once graced the chapped, bleeding lips and remembered the melodic laugh that was now warped and lost to the screaming voice that cracked with sobs and tears around malignant insults. Those memories grounded him, held the delirium at bay and gave him the strength to focus on what exactly he was doing.

However, America acknowledged his limitations.

"I'm sorry to ask this on such short notice, but I'm -" His breath hitched. "I don't know what to do." He swallowed the bubble forcefully as he gave a brief pause for a soft reassurance. "Thank you; thank you so, so much. I'll see you in a few."

Clipping the phone shut with a shuddering sigh, the young nation ran deft fingers over the dull, slightly matted flaxen locks of the worn man dozing fitfully beside him. Fingertips trailed over the rather angular protrusion of a cheekbone and the sharp edge of a jaw, not feeling for that moment the hard lines of malnourishment, but soft, plump cushioning of a healthy body - one that was well-fed and not trembling beneath copious layers of blankets. America ran a thumb gently over the cracked flesh of a bottom lip; he drew back cautiously as green eyes snapped open.

"England," he began gently, "someone's coming over to talk to you. They're going to try and help you."

America could see a spark of madness catch alight within the hazy green. He grit his teeth against something between a scream and a sob.

"There's nothing wrong with me."

It was hardly a whisper, but the words tore through America like a blade heated in the gleaming read coals of a fire - cleaving the tissue and bone within his chest cavity neatly in two as his innards heaved under the sudden exposure and bled into the duvet below. He could imagine the carnage spilling over the older nation, and wondered absently whether the man would scream; would scramble back over the slippery carnage while America would smile at the display with sleepy fascination.

The younger swallowed hard as the potent scent of blood splayed over his tongue and tickled at the back of his throat.

(Breathe in, breathe out; repeat.)

"There's nothing wrong with me." America recognized the plea for what it was. England buried his face into the blankets; whether to muffle his voice or suffocate himself, the younger couldn't tell. "Nothing's wrong with me! I'm fine!"

"You're not fine," America gently demurred as pried the fingers away from their grip on the blankets. He could see the tension rippling through taut shoulders. A tiny voice debated whether the flesh might rip open under the strain. "You're sick, England. You're killing yourself, and you can't stop. You need help."

"How - how could you?" The change of pace in the conversation floored the younger as England's voice cracked and trembled in new heights of fury and hysterics. "To tell the others of - to tell anyone - you fucking bastard!"

(Breathe in, breathe out; repeat.)

"You need help," America protested hoarsely. His throat was growing dry and a familiar pressure was building. "I didn't tell a nation. We can't help you, don't you see?" He flicked a nervous tongue out to wet his lips briefly. "You need a - a professional."

"Fuck you!" America flinched and his stomach rolled. "Fuck you, you bloody,fucking - fuck!"

(Breathe in, breathe out; repeat.)

"England, you need to calm down." There was only the slightest hint of begging to America's tone as he pulled fingers that had curled and formed a claw-like resemblance from where they attempted to rip into a grief-contorted face. "Remember what happened yesterday? I don't want to have do that again."

"Let me go, let me go!" sobbed the island as he thrashed. "Please, please let me go! I need - need to -"

(Breathe in, breathe out; repeat.)

"I can't let you go, Arthur," America whispered. "If I do, you'll fall apart. I have to help you stay together."

"You don't know," England moaned, his hands shaking violently in the other's tightening hold, "you don't know!"

"You're right." The accession was quavering and soft, leaving America to swallow rapidly in its wake. "I don't know a lot of things right now. I don't know why you're doing this to yourself - hell, I don't know how long you've been doing this to yourself. And - and I don't know what I can do to stop it."

He looked down at the stilled body beneath him. Thick eyebrows drew into a helpless scowl while tears leaked idly from half-mast emerald eyes that darkened with loathing. His throat contracted violently.

"But," he managed to croak out, "I won't stop trying to find the answers. I'll solve these problems one by one, Arthur - I swear I will. I'll figure out how to fix this."

When England did not respond, America pressed his lips to the now lax knuckles of the older nation.

"Please, just let me be a hero. Just this once, babe."

A pregnant hush settled over the suddenly too-still room, heavy with an electric undercurrent that hummed a low drone of heat. America shuddered as it thrummed steadily beneath his flesh, tears prickling for some inexplicable reason at the corners of his eyes as he gazed down at the older nation. England twitched under the scrutiny of the younger, teeth sinking into the tender flesh of his lower lip as his eyes shifted to stare fixedly at the ceiling. A thin line of scarlet was drawn along the contours of the offending teeth and bubbled over to dribble down into the soft casing of the pillow. America wordlessly released the frail wrists and allowed them to drop bonelessly to the island's sides as he brushed the crimson streak with a thumb. His other hand smoothed across a wrinkled brow in slow, tentative strokes.

"Do you want to go downstairs to talk?" America asked, "or would you be more comfortable up here?"

The monarchist merely stared over the young nation's shoulder.

"Up here it is." The younger silently went to work binding his partner's hands. England wept.

(Breathe in, breathe out; repeat.)

"Thank you for coming."

Though his voice was tinged with a nearly tangible thickness of exhaustion, America gave the most gracious grin he could manage as he stepped back into the hallway to allow entrance to the patiently waiting visitor on the porch. She was an older woman - middle-aged, America mused as he took in the flecks of grey speckled throughout her short, perfectly curled hair. Though she carried herself with a rigid posture and was clad in a despicably neat and pressed dress suit, she had a kind face; one that was not subjected to the frenzied attempts of some women to perfect whatever features they deemed imperfect. Her eyes were clean of any caked on mess of makeup used to disguise the gentle ridges of crow's feet that crinkled at the corners of her eyes as she smiled, and her cheeks were devoid of product to distract from the distinct laugh-lines that sloped gently from nose to lips.

"Not a problem, Mr. Jones," she affirmed, patting the younger nation's arm in a horribly placating gesture.

America chose to ignore the violent constriction of his throat in favor of securing the latches of the front door.

"After all," the woman continued as she strode through the entryway, "I could hardly say no. You sounded positively frantic. If things are truly as poorly off as you've said, it would be hypocritical for someone in my profession to ignore the call."

The young nation's smile waned at the offhanded comment, his stomach giving a violent lurch as it was stabbed with the forthright finality of an accusation proving itself true. Of course he was aware of its validity - he'd known since the beginning of the messy ordeal he'd found himself thrust into. But to hear it from an outside source, someone completely unbiased and unaware of details beyond the bare minimum; he could feel the small, foolish flicker of denial and hope fizzle out beneath the crushing weight of truth.

Because when it came down to things, there was something wrong with England.

"Now where might Mr. Kirkland be?"

"Upstairs." His reply came too quickly and too harshly for America's liking. He struggled to rekindle the ease and genial air of his earlier smile in earnest; he hoped it looked a little more welcoming than the painful grimace he imagined it to be. Amber eyes swept over his face briefly, but the woman was otherwise either unfazed by the awkward display or hadn't noticed.

"Will he be alright staying up there for a bit?" she asked kindly. "I'd rather like to get a bit of Mr. Kirkland's background, if you will."

America's stomach gave another sharp churn. Background? He forced down a derisive snort at the thought explaining the centuries that the man up the flight of stairs had endured.

"Yeah," he said instead, "I've got him secured."

The woman looked bemused at the assurance. "Secured?"

"Well, I've got to keep him safe from himself," America explained. "When I leave the room, he just," he swallowed the sudden lump of emotion that lodged itself into his windpipe, "hurts himself more."

"Hurts himself." It seemed more of a statement than a question, but the nation knew she was waiting for an explanation.

"Yeah." Azure eyes flicked unconsciously to the staircase. "He makes - he makes himself throw up. Repeatedly."

America could feel the calculating, ever analyzing gaze sweep over him once more. His attention drifted pointedly to the wilting leaves of a potted plant perched upon a small tabletop by the door. He'd have to water it soon.

"And how exactly are you keeping him secured?" The nation tensed at the tone that was straying far too close to accusatory. Burning, searing pain surged from the pits of his stomach and shot up to the back of his tongue, begging to be released.

"I have to keep him tied to the bed."

The affronted flash in amber eyes was unmistakable; painted lips parted, but America refused to give her the chance to speak.

"I only use handcuffs with cushioned lining - it won't cut or bruise him," he said in a hurried breath. His heart pounded painfully in his chest. "I just needed some way to make sure he wouldn't -"

"Mr. Jones, that is not a method that I can approve -"

"I needed to do this," America interjected, pleading with the woman to understand and validate his actions. "I couldn't let him do that to himself every time I left the room -"

"Mr. Jones, I understand your actions weren't ones out of malice, but -"

"It's not like I keep him there all the time!" The young nation felt like he was crumbling. "I just can't let him out of my sight, you see?"

"Mr. Jones -"

And suddenly that bubble - that spiteful, disgusting bubble - nudged his lips into moving on their own accord. It was still in tact, but America made no attempt in swallowing it down once more. His eyes glazed over. The disproving voice fell silent.

"I need to make sure he doesn't hurt himself anymore." The words were forced between gritted teeth in a low growl, the helplessness and fear and anger of it all building and building - "You think I enjoy doing this? It's killing me!" Hands shook and breath caught and quaked. "If he's not throwing up, he's scratching himself to pieces. I can't leave him alone, I can't let him do that. There are other things I need to do around here for him - I can't stay by his side all day and night! I - I -" America's voice tore into an ugly, terrible scream.

"I couldn't think of anything else to do!"

America stood shaking, staring through a haze at the plaster that seemed to be devouring his fist. It was only after a few moments of gathering his wits together that he acknowledged the warmth trickling from his knuckles. He tentatively withdrew his hand, holding it up to study the ragged rips in flesh. The room's other occupant said nothing as she followed him to the kitchen; watched him run water over the wounds before wrapping it in a dishtowel.

"May I ask what the nature of your relationship is with Mr. Kirkland?" The sweet tone was back in full-force.

The young nation paused, weighing the possibilities silently as he leaned over the sink and stared at the drain. The woman was a professional - even if he couldn't divulge in explaining everything, he knew he should tell her what he could afford to. But England, whom had been so very reluctant in letting anyone know the details of their "Special Relationship," would no doubt be upset in letting a complete stranger in on their delicate secret. He scowled out the kitchen window. It was drizzling outside.

"We're boyfriends."

"And when you say 'boyfriends,' you mean lovers?" The term sounded cheesy and overdramatic coming from her lips. It took away the wonder and beauty from what they shared.

"Yeah," he said dully. "We're lovers."

"I see." The woman paused, looking around the kitchen carefully before facing America once more. "And this is his home?"

"Yes." The droplets of water looked so depressing as they trickled down the windowpane. "I live over in America."

"Long distance relationships often take a toll on hearts." America pictured himself as one of the water droplets, dripping down, down, down as he hummed his agreement. "How does Mr. Kirkland feel about this?"

"He doesn't like it any more than I do," the nation said, a bit of heat edging into his tone. "But we don't have a choice in the matter. We have jobs to do."

"And what might those be?"

"Inner-government analysis." It wasn't a complete lie.

The woman gave a small, impressed sound. "Important jobs indeed. I can't imagine you being able to come across the pond very often."

"I can't," America mumbled. His eyes dropped to the china that sat on the windowsill. Beautiful porcelain that shined brilliantly despite the decades it had been through; his eyes burned. "I come as often as I can, though. He does too."

"Where did you two meet one another?" The query was innocent enough, but the nation's insides twisted in panic.

"I was really young," he said, trying to keep his voice level and calm. "He found me one day. He raised me."

The dubious silence was suffocating.

"I know it's sounds strange," he said hurriedly, "but I really love him. We're not related - it wasn't blood that brought him to me. It was fate." His heart gave a sharp twinge. "I think everything that happened from then on out had a reason. Everything was meant to lead to this."

"How beautiful." America could hear the smile in her voice. "You must feel very blessed."

The young nation watched the tree limbs droop under the torrent of rain that now beat upon them.

"I do."

"You say that he's been displaying 'cracks' in his mental stability." The woman paused and he could feel her eyes bore into the back of his head (In an entirely not-so-subtle method of analyzation, America mused). "Would you care to elaborate? I'm afraid your explanation over the phone was rather vague."

Every fiber within America tensed. "He screams and cries a lot," he said slowly, as though each word was in need of the utmost consideration. "It comes and goes. When I try and stop him from hurting himself, he loses control - he starts punching and scratching, screaming like - like I'm the one trying to kill him."

"Did he ever exhibit this behavior in the past?" Fingers curled around the lip of the sink instinctively.

"No," he said with a vehemence that was, admittedly, uncalled for. But the burning was there once more, swirling and licking away at his stomach. "He's never been anything like this."

"So it's only occurred this past week?" America mumbled his agreement as he watched England's beautiful roses drown in the downpour. The fire roared in his chest. "With no provocation?"

"We've been over this," the nation said with no small amount of exasperation. He spun around to face the guest. "I don't know why he's been doing this. It just started randomly! If I knew, you wouldn't be here, doctor."

"I ask because bulimia isn't a disorder that pops out of the blue, so to speak." Hazel eyes held steady with blue, undaunted by the blatant bitterness. "There's always a catalyst that pushes the inflicted over the edge, starting the cycle of purging. It's an emotional overbalance that's not uncommon to be caused by an outside source - or person."

The flames that crackled and spat gave way to a sheet of ice that was spreading rapidly, pushing his stomach to his toes and wedging his heart into his throat.

"So you're saying that I caused this." The powerful nation's voice was reduced to a trembling, shallow whisper.

"Not necessarily." The reassurance did nothing to quell the freezing ache that stretched and bled into his chest. "The contributing factor could come from anything, really - television, radio, magazines, books -"

"Arthur's not like that." America hated the emptiness in his tone. "He's not affected by outside media. No matter what the popular fads and trends are, he's himself; he has been all his life."

"He's unaffected by media altogether?"

America snorted. "Look around - half the things he has in just his kitchen could be sold as an artifact." He shook his head and managed a small, weak smile for himself. "He doesn't let the outside world change him. He is who he is. It's part of the reason I love him."

"So we've established that he holds his values close." The woman gave a pause for thought. "How is he socially?"

The nation opened his mouth, expecting the reply to come quite easily. England was wonderful; he had a sharp wit and used every opportunity to display it in conversations. He was charming and funny with a wonderfully complex and diverse personality. America loved moments of discovery when he happened upon a new side of the monarchist.

But the words died upon his lips before he could manage to form them. The England that he knew was different from the England he presented to the public. The island was reserved and defensive to nations in a meeting, caustic walls slamming themselves down on an unsuspecting member of a conversation if it would stray too close to sensitive areas of the man's life. And in reality, nearly everything was a sensitive topic when it came down to England's private life. Beside America, he wasn't so sure the island had another to claim as a friend.

Azure eyes resignedly fell to the tile. He swallowed the tears as a soft announcement was made.

"I believe it's time to speak to Mr. Kirkland."