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England leaned against the bedroom doorway, arms crossed, silently staring America.
The ex-superpower ignored the Briton as he sat in a plain wooden chair facing the window looking outside into clear skies and sunlight.
"Are you finally going to stop moping and get up?" Arthur finally asked, breaking the quiet. "You are America; get back to being like it."
Alfred didn't say anything, body remaining boneless and face impassive, the sun's rays hitting the blonde's glasses in such a way that one couldn't see his blue eyes.
Arthur felt his hands clenched.
It's been three months since the younger nation's fall, and the new persona unsettled England. The silence, the grim, yet emotionless at the same time stare, the blank expression, it wasn't England's familiar Alfred. The rainy island understood how America was feeling, having experienced the loss firsthand when his empire was slowly deteriorating after the Revolution, feeling the wealth and power ebb away like water slipping down the drain.
But it still didn't feel right.
The new sullen America made England somehow feel afraid for the former, it made him feel edgy, made him tense as if electricity was steadily charging up in the atmosphere.
England hated feeling like this.
"I don't feel right anymore, Arthur," America suddenly said, tone hoarse and croaky after months of non usage. Familiar cornflower eyes gazed upon England unfamiliarly. "I don't like it."
The elder nation felt his throat clenched at the soft words, inwardly missing the times the younger called him 'Iggy' or 'Artie' or some other nonsensical slang that would leave himself yelling at the taller as the latter laughed cheerfully, knowing that the scorn was actually hidden affection in obscene words.
England swallowed, letting his hands fall down to hang at his sides as he stood straight. "Of course it doesn't feel right at first, love," Arthur told America gently. "You're not a superpower anymore, but it'll get better, Alfred, I promise."
The glasses-wearing man shook his head in an almost childish manner if not for the agonized, angry flare in his eyes. "It's not going to be alright," the large country snapped back, expression twisting. "Not like this, not…" He slumped. "I'm weak now," Alfred whispered, beginning to shake.
Seeing the young nation seemingly break down, showing feeling after three months, Arthur quickly strode forward, wrapping his arms around the blonde, holding him close.
"Oh, Alfred…" England sighed quietly, using the voice he spoke back in the early days of America's life. "It doesn't matter if you're weak or strong…"
All of a sudden, the Briton felt his world shift, and he found himself with his back on America's wooden floor, the larger nation looming over him, hands clamping his own thin wrists down.
"'Doesn't matter'?" America hissed out, glaring at England with such rage it made the latter's heart skip a frantic beat. "I'm weak now; I'm not the number one anymore. I lost my strength, my power. I'm not a superpower nation now, Arthur."
England immediately began struggling, breaking one limb free. "Let me go, you sodding git!" the English nation gasped, shocked at the outburst. "Get off!"
Alfred watched the island's thrashing, surprise evident in his eyes, before he seemingly sobered, loosening his grip.
Feeling the younger let up the pressure on his hands, Arthur stopped moving, looking up into blue eyes. He waited.
"See what I mean?" America smirked bitterly. "You can break free from my hands now. When I was a superpower, you couldn't, no matter how much you tried, and I had to restrain myself from accidentally hurting you. Now, I'm using everything I got, but you could still break away." The taller nation laughed mirthlessly. "I'm nothing now. Nothing."
Alfred leaned down, burying his head under England's chin. "I can't feel it anymore…" he murmured. "The strength surging naturally through my blood…the power that made me feel like I could do anything…gone."
England felt something wet sliding down his neck, and he frozed in shock.
America was crying.
"I'm the hero," the younger sobbed into the kink of the Brit's neck angrily, sounding small and lost, a memory back from the 1700s. "But how can I be if I'm not strong anymore?"
As America cried, Arthur stared up at the ceiling, a hand reaching up to stroke the former super nation's hair gently. "I don't care if you're strong or not, Alfred," he repeated again, softly over the other's sobbing. "I'll still love you."
Alfred continued his crying, and with a pained throb in his chest, England knew that the American would never truly hear his words, because the younger would never love him. Even though they acted like partners, England wasn't that naïve to even hope that his former charge would love him, would smile and truthfully say, "I love you, Artie" without breaking eye contact and look away.
The United Kingdom of Britain and Northern Ireland was a realist. But that didn't make the unrequited love hurt any less.
After a few moments, America calmed down, body now draped lightly over the Englishman's form. "Arthur…" Alfred began, voice young and dull. "Is…is this how you always feel…?"
England didn't say anything, knowing that the bright nation meant his weakness, his loss of strength after his broken empire, and so instead, continued to pet the larger nation's hair silently.
They both knew the answer to the question anyway.
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