A/N: Okay, you can shoot me, but this is my first OFFICIAL Hetalia fic (besides SheepTalia, but that's a WIP). I deleted the le cussing with Strangite "---"s., so hi there, get used to it. This is okay, right? RIGHT?! *paranoia*

DISCLAIMER: As the cool kids say: "If I owned Hetalia, I would own the whole world". I own a world, but it's the one in my brain, not this one. HETALIA DOES NOT BELONG TO ME!

Setting the scene: A short man slouches at the bar of some tavern or other. His suit is rumpled, and his dirty blond hair sticks out every which-way. He has very thick eyebrows, and they are pulled to the center of his forehead in a despairing scowl. He has three empty bottles on the bar in front of him, and is finishing off a fourth.

He sees you staring.

Oh, hallo.

The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

Or England, if you want. UK to m' friends.

That's me.

(God, I need some more of that.


I was just thinking about my life. (Typical drunkard stuff. I hate him, d----t)

People have told me that I'm a bit headstrong. Stubborn. What's the word...? That I won't admit I'm wrong? Refuse to admit I care? Aloof? Snotty? America could tell you. (The w----r.)

Also, no one listens when I talk about the Fey. I'll bring up unicorns and people will just sidle away. (Those b------s.) They all listen to America when he talks about bloody "Tony". (I hate that alien. He started it, anyway.) God, I wish America would stop calling my friends "illusions". I don't call that whale an illusion, (even if it stole my place in America's heart) I mean, he likes that whale more than he likes me. (It's a little cruel.) I must be like his dad or something, right? Or his brother? Or something, what?

You know, I've had a horrible life.

I remember when all I used to do was sit at home and get conquered. Then I finally decided to do something about it, and then there were all those years where I wasn't anything at all... (So much fighting. I hate fighting.)

That's why I became a pirate.

Suddenly I could do whatever I wanted, and I loved it! So I kicked the stuffing out of everyone and left it at that. They were the ones who wanted to fight. (Just acknowledge the supremacy of the British Navy, you...!)

Anyway, there was a long time where I ruled the whole world. China, that was good. He and I were really good friends. (We used to get together and smoke opium.) But then he had to go and spoil it. And Egypt, my pride and joy, gone. India, claimed. Queen Victoria was the Empress, but then there was Gandhi and it all just fell out.

But I think my worst loss was America. (Pass me one of those beers, will you?)

America was my child. Then he was my friend. Then he was my enemy, my worst enemy. (He's taller than me now.)

Now what is he?

So when I made Sealand, I promised myself I wouldn't get attached. Because he's going to grow up and leave, just like America. I handed him over to Sweden and Finland with good wishes. (I didn't cry. Seriously! Well, maybe a little.) Just as long as no one acknowledges him, I'll be fine. (Glare.)

I didn't use to be a jerk. I was really nice. And then I realized that mercy was akin to weakness. And weakness would diminish my empire, the one I had I tried so hard to build.

My kingdom.

I sacrificed everything I ever cared about...

For this?

But now, I think-

England looks up into the bright smiling eyes of a tall blond man (do they know each other?) in a brown jacket and glasses. He blinks heavily, then stands up and falls into the man's arms.

"You w----r, you left me at the meeting!" He slurs.

The other man (traveling buddy?) grins and holds up a paper bag that is shiny with grease. "I had to get us some food." he proclaims with a thumbs up.

"I don't want your bloody McDonalds!" England scowls, but pulls out a hamburger and pulls back the wrapper. He takes a bite, then says: "It's terrible."

His companion (friend?) frowns. "No, it's awesome. Not like any of the other food I can get here. And by the way, they're called 'fries', not 'chips'." This earns him a smack.. "C'mon England, you were hungry. I thought I could be a hero!" His grin widens, but there is some fear behind his baby blue eyes., and you realize this man is just as vulnerable as the one you have just met.

"I just wanted some biscuits or something, you didn't have to go out and buy something..." But England's face has softened, and he hugs his friend (significant other?). "Take me home, alright?" he whispers into the ear of his "hero".

England and his lover (America?) leave the pub, England leaning on America's shoulder and chattering on, America munching some "fries".

You smile and finish off your beer. Then you stand up to leave., reaching for your wallet .Shoot, you-

"He payed for it," says the bartender.

You leave in considerable good spirits, and you realize that foreign relations between England and America must be really good.