It was quiet, as any early morning should have been. It was also lonely as most nights for him were, but Arthur found the loneliness to be absolutely terrifying. Most of the time, being in bed alone was something he found himself preferring over the idea of spending the night with someone. However, now he longed for company to save him from the quiet room and the atmosphere that came with it. It left him alone with thoughts he didn't want to think, ideas he didn't want to ponder on.

The bedsheets were pulled to his waist, his knees sheltering his face. Arms wrapped around his legs, hugging them close to his chest. The singular candle lit in the room barely illuminated it, light not passing well through the turbulent darkness. It didn't bring him any comfort.

Juliet had been quiet for some time. Then again, for the last few days, she'd been more active than England, and he was almost thankful for it. She had to endure the wrath of her father, her mother's cold-heartedness, and surely felt like the world was nothing but a weight on her chest, threatening to crush her love for Romeo. At least, that's what England felt like. Take out Romeo and replace him with America, and it was a bingo.

Where was he now? Was he alright? Was he safe? Where there people with him? How far was he from Mantua? Did he even know where Mantua was? And, perhaps most importantly, was he thinking about England as much as England was thinking about him?

He swallowed. Lifting his tired eyes from their hiding place, he rested his chin on his knees and stared out into the darkness. He knew what he had to do – or what Juliet wanted to do. And he wanted no part in it. Mocking death wasn't the way out of her arranged marriage and out of this misery. If only she knew that her false death would lead to the real thing, to the end of her life. His hands gripped the sheets covering his legs. England's eyes closed, his brows furrowed.

No. He couldn't think about that thing in the drawer beside the bed.

His eyes glanced to it nevertheless. Inside the top drawer was a vial with God knows what inside of it, and that concoction was the very thing that would stop his breath for some duration or other – two and forty hours, according to the Friar. Lo and behold, Romeo would be waiting for Juliet when she awoke and the two of them would escape and live happily ever after. What a load of crock.

But, Capulet was desperate. She was desperate for her husband; his touch, his voice, his presence. Being promised to a bachelor she didn't love wasn't on her agenda. But getting himself killed over some girl and her foolish love story wasn't a plan of England's, either. He was determined not to fall into temptation and drink that … potion. If not for himself, then he wouldn't drink it for America. He could only imagine the look Alfred would have if he were found in a coma in a tomb, which he surely would be if he drank.

Still, England caught his hand slipping towards the drawer. He woke his senses and jerked his hand back, moving to sit on it and ensure that he didn't make a very fatal mistake. "Damn all of this," he grumbled. He knew all along that temptation would come when Juliet's moment of decision arrived in the plot, but he would have never dreamt that it would be this hard to resist.

England glanced out to the balcony and sorrow filled his eyes. Just a few days before, America had been scrambling out that same window to run away. A few days before that, he had climbed up for the first time and nearly scared England half to death. How foolish it was, for two people like Juliet and Romeo to fall in love in such a short amount of time. It was completely unrealistic. He and America, however, had known each other for years and years – centuries. Maybe that wasn't so unrealistic, or so he would hopelessly wish.

Climbing from his bed, he laid a hand on the table. His fingers drummed the surface, temptation to end all of this grief growing with every tap. No, no – England grit his teeth and jerked his hand away from the drawer. He continued to his original destination, arriving out to the balcony. The curtains were gently blowing and required almost no pushing aside, the wind having done so for him. He wrapped his arms around himself, the late night - early morning breeze chilling him and making his dirty blond locks sway. The nightgown he seemed so accustomed to by now flowed as well as he made his way to the railing.

England laid his eyes on the moon. The white surface reflected in his green eyes, and he felt himself wanting America's company. The balcony seemed much lonelier without him there. The feeling wasn't a good one. His hands gripped the railing righter, and he had to breathe in a few deep breaths to keep his emotions under control. 'Don't cry. Don't cry.'

He looked out to orchard wall. He still expected to see America pushing his way over the orchard wall. America always had a way with finding England, even if he didn't want to be found. Why was it when England actually wanted to be found, that America didn't have the capability to do so?

His arms rested on the steel railing. England dipped his forehead to meet his arms, and he took a breath of the cool night. This empty feeling was beginning to make him nauseous, and not with disgust like it normally would. This was the feeling of hopelessness, that there was no point in anything. He had already cried enough, how could he possibly want to cry more?

He closed his eyes against his arm and straightened himself back up. He reopened his eyes, gaze cast out over the yard. He imagined, beyond the wall surrounding the Capulet yard, that there was a road leading to Mantua, and America had been walking on it. England wrapped his arms around his torso and bit his lip. He knew this feeling from his own experience, and he thought he'd never feel it as strongly as he had in the past.

The pain of the Revolutionary War came rushing back to him. This time it was worse; that same familiar pain with a different twist of the knife in his heart. During the war, the teenaged America hadn't been in the position of his significant other. This time, he had been. England had a taste of what it was like to be 'loved' by America and he found himself breaking, being crushed by the idea that he'd never feel that again.

A hand clutched over his heart, and Arthur dipped his head. His teeth bit down on his lip, and his breath quavered slightly. It shouldn't have hurt this much. He had nights in the past where he never found rest because of the pain of losing America. He had gone through a century of heartbreak over his former colony. After the Great War, however, much of his depression had faded. America had grown into someone that wasn't his colony; he was a young and strong country, naïve in some ways and wise in others. There should have been no reason to cry over him anymore.

And yet, the tears still kept coming. He still was resentful towards Alfred for what he did, still got upset at America's insensitivity, still drank his troubles away, and still tried to cling to the idea that he hated America. It didn't exactly work. He cried also because he knew why he was still so upset at Alfred; why, no matter how hard he tried, America still popped into his mind at all the times he didn't want him there. Arthur tried to deny the truth. Again, it didn't work.

The situation at hand certainly didn't help the point of denial he tried to hard to make. As he tried to keep himself from crying the tears that desperately wanted out, England cursed all of this for reminding him that he was stupid for falling for someone like Alfred F. Jones.

In frustration, England sharply turned and walked away back into the chambers, face hot and fists clenched. Without bothering to close the curtains, he sat on the side of the bed and stared out ahead of him. He could almost feel the ghost of America sitting on the other side as they argued but a few days ago. England glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was just imagining it, which he was. He looked forward again, his elbows on his knees and his fingers lacing through his straw-like hair. 'What if this mixture do not work at all?' he heard himself asking as his eyes glanced to the drawer again. 'Shall I be married then to-morrow morning?'

"No, no!" he hissed. This was driving him bloody insane. He moved away from the drawer and from temptation, fingers digging more into his hair and tangling it a bit. It was starting to drive him mad. He closed his eyes, brows knit in a deep furrow. America made a promise not to die. If he didn't drink that vial down, then they wouldn't have to come close to risking it at all. But, then again, if he didn't drink it, he'd be married to Paris and would likely never see America again. England wished that Shakespeare had bothered to write an alternative ending that would open a new route for them.

Did they have to follow the plot? The question would never be answered, no matter how often it popped up. It would seem, given all that's happened, they had no choice or free will. England wondered if this was the time to change the path of the story. He had the power to do it, if he could just lie back down and go to sleep…

His thoughts had distracted him long enough for Juliet to swoop in and take control of his body. As he mulled over the possibility of leaving the plot as it was, and trying to figure a way to get to America, his hand crept along the side of the bed like a spider, reached into the drawer, and took out the thin vial. England sighed quietly and decided he would force himself to sleep – even knock himself out, if that's what it took; anything but drinking that tonic. Arthur moved to lie in bed and looked at his folded hand curiously. "When did…?" he asked, uncurling his fingers. The vial lay in his palm, his index finger and thumb playing with the cap at the top.

England looked in disbelief. She was truly determined to go through with this. His stomach clenched and he closed his eyes tightly, trying to fight off the thoughts Juliet was thinking. All of them were nonsense fears and the 'what if's' of her plan, the possible loopholes or outcomes she wished to avoid. She was such a stupid girl. If she knew what was coming in her future, she would have much more to be frightened about.

"O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, environed with all these hideous fears?" he thought aloud, Juliet's words slipping out as if on cue. England decided it was futile to try and fight her thoughts and speech, and instead focused his own mind on trying to find a way out of this mess. He stared down at the poison in his hand, enclosed by his fingers and protected from harm. He tried to shake his hand and release the glass within, but his hand remained tightly closed. His knuckles were white from grasping so desperately onto the vial. It was like it was a lifeline for Juliet, one that would ironically cut her life short.

Arthur had moved so he drew his legs up and lay on the bed as if he were preparing to sleep. He didn't hear whatever Juliet was rambling on about and thought to try and get some sleep before she woke up again. He sighed quietly and closed his eyes.

In his mind, instead of darkness, he swore he saw the raven-haired cousin of Juliet shouting out for revenge on Romeo. His eyes shot open and he stared up at the ceiling. "Methinks I see my cousin's ghost seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body upon a rapier's point," he whispered as he stared up at the air above his head. "Stay, Tybalt, stay!"

England shot up to a sitting pose. His brows furrowed slightly and he stared at his hand again. His heart raced as thoughts of America floated into his mind. That idiot was all England could see; that boyish smile and eyes that shamed the sky. He hadn't seen that smile in a few days because of all the drama and his heart ached for it again.

It was an odd point of view for him to live in. When this fiasco was nothing but a story book, he would contemplate how America was across an ocean but was so easily reachable by any means. In these circumstances, he was only a city or two away and surely hadn't gotten far, but he felt further away from him, further than any landmass or ocean that could separate them. "Romeo, I come," he murmured.

England's thumb and index finger pushed the cork out of the small vial. For a moment, his and Juliet's thoughts clashed. One wanted to see her husband so desperately that she would put herself into a coma; the other begged her to come to her senses or he would lose his life. The liquid inside had a silver sheen, clear the rest of the way through. Juliet gazed at the poison and saw Romeo. Arthur looked into it and saw death. However, he was starting to see America's face in the reflection as well.

Juliet's desperation had bested him, and he unwillingly signed a death warrant for the two of them to share. "This do I drink to thee," he whispered. Quickly, in one gulp, the liquid was down his throat as he raised the vial to his lips. England grimaced slightly at the taste; it was similar to the smell of rubbing alcohol. Wiping his lips across the back of his hand, he noticed how the world began to turn into a haze, unclear and undefined. Chills ran from his core all through his body but he didn't shiver. This was the cold feeling of poison sweeping through his blood vessels and nerves. It was making him feel weak; his pulse was slowing and his breath was catching. He swore he could see America right there with him, but maybe it was just the start of a dream.

And just like that, he was gone. His eyes closed and he fell back to the bed, his body going limp as he met the mattress. His chest rose and fell so barely that it could be mistaken for no movement at all, no breath on his lips. His heartbeat, slowed greatly, pumped little blood through his body, making him look chalkier than his normal complexion gave away. The vial rolled out of his now open hand and landed on the ground, slipping under the bed and out of sight. Arthur had fallen into a dreamless sleep where time and space meant nothing, and only two and forty hours separated him from America and Juliet from her Romeo.

The next morning, Juliet Capulet was declared dead.

A/N: I'm so sorry this is late, you guys! I've been to Hell and back and haven't had time to update this. However, I should have it completely up by the end of summer, and I already have a new one waiting to be uploaded. Thank you for being so patient!