Hey guys! Hope you liked the last chapter!
But NOW. I have decided to make everyone cry today. I'm warning you now: MAJOR ANGST. And you'll all hate Northern Ireland by the end of this. Or maybe you won't. I don't care either way.
So enjoy…if you can.
Five: Hope.
One day you stop hoping.
It sounds weird but it's the honest truth. You wake to the sunlight blaring down on you, daring you to open your eyes. You shield your face from its warm presence and even though it should make you feel happy, you feel just about anything but happiness. You feel uncomfortable and uneasy.
Scared about what today will bring.
And the day after that.
Because it could bring anything.
Anything, but hope.
You stretch as you clamber out of bed, your joints and muscles aching from yet another restless sleep. You quickly get into the shower and let the hot water pelt at your skin and again, this makes you uncomfortable so you get out and put on some clothes.
You choose your clothing without a second thought. What's the point? Everything and everyone is so materialistic, you could laugh. But you don't. Because you, emotionally and physically, cannot.
You mentally think of the things you have to do today apart from the most glaringly obvious because you see that today on the calendar has a large, red circle around it and you have to wretch your eyes away from the thing.
Firstly you must give back that book of recipes you borrowed from France and you know you really ought to have given it back by now but something is stopping you.
You have to collect that package from the post office because it was too big to fit through the letter-box and you weren't in at the time of deliverance. And you have to buy a new tie because you think you don't have enough of them and Spain always has such nice ones.
Such trivial things…why do you waste your time?
But as for the recipe book…
You can pretend you lost it. It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter.
But it does.
The truth is, in that little book is hidden a recipe for a chocolate cake filled with hazelnuts and whipped cream and that is – and that is; you breath in here deeply, hold it in and realise, here he comes again – you exhale; that is his favourite cake.
Suddenly the matter seems hilarious to you. Why do you know these things? Why? And for whom?
You don't understand.
You hear them as you walk down the stairs. Your brothers. Shouting loudly at each other and breaking things. You sigh deeply and hang your head.
As you walk down the hall, you're greeted by an extremely large sign dangling from the banisters and you stumble back at the words that are sprawled across it. Beside it is a tall ladder and standing on that ladder, is quite frankly, the last person you want to see right now.
However, when she notices you, her youthful face lights up in pure enchantment and she scrambles down the ladder, bounding towards you, encasing you in a hug. You stiffen but she doesn't seem to notice as she gushes about how thankful she is that they can have the party here. You smile, it doesn't reach your eyes; it never does anymore. Fortunately she is too happy to even notice the carnage you emotionally feel right now.
Doesn't she even know? Doesn't she even realise?
Probably not. It's been 10 years and you feel your pulse quicken- 10 years exactly so you can only assume she is clueless or just blinded by happiness. Perhaps both.
She politely asks you to get up on the ladder and try and straighten the banner because it's just not right yet and everything has to be right for her. Everything.
You say yes; you always do, and straighten it for her. You'll do anything, anything, you just have to get away from her. She grins and thanks you, her small frame almost shaking with joy. You don't hate her. You could never hate her. If anything you blame yourself for what happened. You know she is to blame too but you can't hate her. Maybe it's because you love her too much. You don't know.
But you regret it.
Oh, do you regret it.
All the same, you tried to push the blame on her. Completely on her. Because she was the most obvious target. The one that ruined absolutely everything and left your life in ruins. She didn't know though; she even thought you were proud of her and the notion is so hysterical, you could laugh. But again, you cannot.
You finally came to terms with the fact that she isn't in the wrong. Not totally. What was so wrong with being love? She didn't know and you weren't going to crush her dreams and tell her. You wanted her to be happy.
You wanted your sister to be happy.
"You better get changed into something better than that! The guests are arriving in an hour and you've spent all this time sleeping!" She winks at you and you immediately fall into the 'Acting Arthur', your alter ego that you have been perfecting for the last ten years.
"I could say the same to you." You reply, putting as much warmth and cheekiness into your sentence as you can possibly muster. It practically makes you sick to the stomach to put on this stupid charade.
She laughs and glances down at her dirty tank-top and worn out tracky-bottoms.
"What, you don't like my outfit?" She raises an eyebrow and laughs again, "Don't worry, just need to check some more things and then I'll go upstairs and get ready. You should do the same!"
"Hm, yes, in a minute," You call out heading towards the kitchen; towards your brothers, "I want to check Allistor and Dylan haven't smashed anything but I won't cross my fingers." You say this dryly and you mean it. Your brothers are forever breaking items in your house.
You hear her tinkling laugh as she climbs the stairs.
"They had already broken three plates when I went in and that was two hours ago."
You groan and rub your temples, slowly.
"Oh and England? He'll be round in 10 so let him in, will you?"
Your stomach lurches.
"Like hell." You think indignantly.
"Of course, no problem." You shout back instead, wanting to crawl into a hole for the rest of the day, heck, the rest of your existence and wallow in your misery. But you don't. Because you are the nation of England and you do what is right. No matter how you feel.
Upon entering the kitchen, your eyes widen in surprise as rows of dishes of food have been laid out of your shiny countertops. Everything is perfectly clean and looking like a new penny. You squint to your right and see your brothers, both sitting at the table, smoking and reading the newspaper, already dressed for tonight festivities. They both look up and nod.
"Morning, or should I say evening." Scotland barks out, not looking at you as he casually dubs out his cigarette and immediately lights another one.
"Your sister said you broke some plates." You say suspiciously. Wales looks up and grins.
"We did. But we cleaned it up so you wouldn't get mad."
Scotland groans and smacks Wales around the head before turning and smiling sweetly at his other brother.
"Never mind that! Look at all this great food!"
You throw a glance at the food and nod. So what? Does it matter? Not to you, it doesn't.
However your curiosity gets the better of you and you notice that the food is actually edible looking. And then you frown. Because there are many things that the Kirkland's are good at. But cooking is not one of them. Even you can admit that.
You whirl around to face your brothers and you scowl.
"This food looks good. Too good! Alright, confess! Who actually made it?"
"Why, moi of course, mon Cher." A seductive voice drawls in your ear and you yelp, jumping back. Your brothers and your best friend start to laugh.
"Dammit France! I told you to stop doing that!" You growl, but can't help but feel almost glad to see him.
Because even though you tried to shut yourself off from the world, he was there for you when no one else was. He let you cry on his shoulder, let you have your violent fits of rage and trash the whole house, let you collapse and break down right in front of him and he has never said a word. Nothing but advice and good friendship. You know, though you'll never admit it, that he is the only reason you are still alive today. And you are thankful for that.
Apart from France the only other people who knew were your brothers. And you're thankful that they don't want to talk about it. You know they want you to be happy, but also know that what you want is impossible.
"Well, what do you think?"
You don't know whether France is talking about what he's wearing or the food that he made so you just nod your head.
"Good job. Well done." You then look at him curiously, "How did you get in?"
"Well I have been here all this morning and afternoon preparing for tonight but I needed to run home and get a shower and get changed. So I came in through the front door."
You nod again and looking at the food, you suddenly rush upstairs and get the one object you have for so long kept for some stupid reason.
When you return downstairs, the three men are chatting happily until you thrust the object out in front of France – the little recipe book.
The room is at once covered in silence; Scotland coughs and looks away; Wales's usual cheery smile is replaced with a look of empathy and France cannot hide the sad look from his eyes as his fingers grasp the little book taking it away from your trembling ones.
"Angleterre..." he says, quietly and painfully, and for the second time that day you sigh deeply, hanging your head.
"It doesn't matter anymore", you say, but what you think is this: yes, yes it does, just not to the ones it should. France nods and puts the book away in a hurry, into his satchel and for the next fifteen minutes his eyes avoid meeting yours.
Minutes pass. The conversation jumps from one theme onto the next but you barely listen to it. You kind of hate the feeling that everyone is just trying to keep talking so they won't have to say anything. Because today of all days would be the worst time for you to slip into your depression mode.
France announces with such joy that he has made another successful recipe for a new cake, seconds later biting his lip and waiting for your reaction; he watches you under his eyebrows.
You swallow hard, but it stops somewhere half way down – still you force that happy sound out of your mouth and through your lips: 'God, I'd rather kill myself before eating any of your food!' and everything is all right in the kitchen again.
Everything is all right until moments later when the hairs on your neck suddenly stand like pricks in the air, and cold fingers pass over your back – you don't even have to turn around to know who just came in.
The other nations don't even realise what is happening until he is standing beside you all – calm, so calm – and so gorgeous that it seems your lungs forgot how to breathe; actually you wouldn't be surprised if they ever knew how to at all.
"Evening all!" He announces and his voice alone makes you tremble, "Looking forward to tonight?"
Your brothers and best friend say nothing, you know they're looking at you warily, you've went pale as snow and your breaths are coming up as short, raspy noises. You freeze as he notices the state you're in.
"England? You okay?" He asks, placing a hand on your shoulder and suddenly everything goes wack, bam! Right into you and you come alive. You jump away from him and closer to France, grabbing his arm and narrowing your eyes on the fair-haired man in front of you.
"I'm fine." You reply, "Don't touch me. You needn't concern yourself with me, America." You spit with little strength behind the words, but your lungs still saying his name is so hard and you feel kind of proud that you said it without stammering.
He opens his mouth to say something but he hesitates and looks at you with those perfect blue eyes and decides not to say anything and simply shrugs.
You know exactly what he was going to say. 'There used to be a time when I concerned myself with you. And vice versa.'
You try and stop yourself from remembering but it's so hard to supress the memories of a time when you were so happy; it seems like a different lifetime, a different world. Because all you do is regret. Regret what happened for the rest of your existence.
The happy memory when you found him and he became your little brother and how your heart never felt such a powerful emotion before and all you wanted to do was stay with him forever.
The painful memory when he left you, only because he wanted his freedom and you understood that.
The victorious memory, you rushed at each other and embraced when you won the first world war, breaking apart in seconds, feeling so embarrassed but so delighted you could have scream it from the rooftops.
The rapturous memories when he pressed his lips to yours in Potsdam in front of everyone and your bosses just smiled and Churchill even shouted ''Each time I must choose between you and Roosevelt,' he yelled at General Charles de Gaulle, leader of the Free French, in 1945, 'I shall choose Roosevelt.'
You had given France a slap on the back and laughed. You had never felt so happy in your whole life.
But unfortunately you remember what happens after that.
How you had to introduce your sister to everyone at Potsdam, because she was so amazing to you in the war.
You remember starting to see less and less of America and you had no idea why.
You remember him missing dinner dates, always turning up at meetings late and never apologising once for any of it.
You remember him saying, 'I love you' to you and you crack because no. No he didn't.
You scream at him that you know what he has been doing, the whole damn world has known for years. You screech at him and trash the living room, breaking down at his feet in sobs and he leans over to comfort you and hiss at him, clawing at him to stay away, shrieking at him to stay away because no. You do not want his pity. The thing you do want has been lost to you since that day at Potsdam.
You rise to your feet and hurl abuse at him. You ask him if the only reason he stayed with you was because he felt sorry for you and he denies it, desperately trying to calm you down but no. You won't give up that easy. You ask him the same question again and again to which he answers no.
You finally say that if he doesn't admit that he only stayed with you out of pity that you will do what he should have done years ago and finish their doomed relationship.
You remember how his eyes widen and his lips tremble, moisture springing to his eyes.
You remember how he starts to yell, 'no' over and over again and that for what he had to you; he is so, so sorry and he'll stop it right now, he'll end it right now but as long as you don't say that. You are shocked and confused by his actions by your mind has gone way past insanity. It has reached new and terrifying heights.
"Say it." You whisper, green eyes locked on blue. He sobs.
"N-no." He whispers back, choking on air. You have never seen he like this. So sad. So vulnerable. "I love you."
You snarl at him.
"No. You don't."
His eyes widen as you part your lips.
"We're through."
You're snapped out of your thoughts by his voice. His perfect voice.
"Sheesh, England, I was only asking." He frowns at you, some indescribable emotion etched across his face. He notices you staring and he looks away. "Look I've got to make a call. Be right back." He turns away – slowly, oh so slowly into the hallway and takes out his phone. Something inside of you knots even tighter, but your lungs suddenly decide to function and you breathe in so hard and so deep that your fingers grasping France's arm turn completely white.
Scotland carefully chucks his cigarette into the bin and places a hand tentatively on your own.
"England, it's all right." When you raise your eyes, they are already blurry from the tears, but you're not quite sure if it's because you have your brothers and best friend there with you or because he's standing so close yet he is so very, very far away from you. And no- it's not all right.
You feel abandoned and safe and loved at once, and as if you're losing your mind because you can't possibly feel such two opposing emotions at the same time.
You turn your head toward the hallway, and you see that Northern Ireland has finally come down the stairs, waiting on him to hang up and she turns and waves at you but America doesn't even blink, doesn't even breathe, doesn't even shrug – doesn't even turn around. A piece of your heart shrivels up and turns into ashes.
You don't even hope anymore. That is – you do – of course you do, because that is what makes you simply you – the hope in a better tomorrow, hope that you will be given new chances and hope – all the hope you have in him. Hope that he will remember all the good instead of the bad. That the next time he will come to your house and you will have to make food for him and he will hug you or kiss you – he will be in love with you again.
You dare to hope. Just not hope-hope, not anymore. It isn't still your very first thought of the morning or your last thought of the night. No.
But life moves on.
Life goes on, whether you like it or not.
Doesn't it?
But…
You notice that Canada has arrived and he runs to France and kisses him.
Your eyes move from them onto France's satchel and that little book inside of it and suddenly you cannot hold it in anymore, the knot inside of you is too big and too strong and sometimes you are not so big and so strong as you may seem and your brothers are watching you like two mothers, worried to death for their child and you just cannot hold it in anymore..
He is not even aware of it. He doesn't know. He doesn't love you anymore.
Your body curls inwards, closer to one of the countertops until your head rests on the clean surface and your shoulders start to shake. Tears start all by themselves, they flow down your cheeks sadly and you bite your lower lip to stop yourself from screaming – it hurts too much. It just hurts so much, and you wonder when it all will start turning for the better because you can't breathe and you must – you simply must be dreaming all this...
You feel a tap on your shoulder and you slowly turn round to face your sister and America.
"England?" Northern Ireland asks alarmed, "What's wrong?"
You can't, you just can't deal with this. You need to get away.
"I'm sorry, I don't feel well." You whisper and she looks at you concerned. America has the same look on his face and your eyes threaten to overflow with tears again.
"I might just skip the celebrations and go to bed," You let out a sob as you push past them and say, "Happy 10th anniversary. Congratulations.'
Where Northern Ireland is standing you should be and you can't bear it as you sprint out into the hallway and fall to your knees. You hear him saying your name and also an angry, "Don't go near him." from France and you try to choke back another sob.
Almost immediately three pairs of hands sneak their away around you somehow, forming a protective nest of safety, warmth and love.
The sun that woke you up is gone – long gone, the clouds outside are of darker colour now and the rain is about to fall. Autumn is turning into winter, and it seems to you, you might just be mimicking it. The leaves are falling outside, constantly, constantly, and as your shoulders shake uncontrollably, the tears drip-drop on the floor and you can hear the wind howling outside; it's so very strong and you are so very weak right now.
Still, it might sound weird, but it's the honest truth – you...
You hope.
…That was so sad. I nearly cried myself! So please review this chapter even if you haven't reviewed before because I really want to know what people think. Thanks very much guys, LucyMoon1992.