Part one of three. All three are UsUk from Arthur's POV. The first part is set in 1917, then it skips ahead to 1940 (:

I have no idea how long I've been here. A few minutes, a few hours, a day, maybe? I can't remember anymore. All I know is where I am, and why. I was locked in my room—or rather, the room I was using. It's 1917, World War I, in the main Headquarters of the Allied Forces. I'm sitting on the floor with my arms folded on the edge of the bed, my face buried in my arms. And I was crying. I had been crying nonstop since I locked myself in here. Since I ran away from him.

Funny how this time it was me who ran away.

I'd been in the conference room, sorting some papers out, by myself. Until he walked in. That loud, obnoxious and nauseatingly optimistic American that I hated, but at the same time, was completely and utterly in love with.

It had been over 100 years since he declared Independence, over 100 years since he tore out my heart and shattered it against the wall, leaving the empty hole in my chest to bleed. But no matter how much I bleed, or for how long, I seem incapable of dying. So instead I'm left with this aching pain in my chest, and all I can do is watch as I bleed.

The pain gets worse when I see him. I can't look at him. I haven't looked at him directly since 1783, in Paris, when my King recognised America's Independence and my beloved colony was torn away from me forever. But over the years, the pain and bleeding seemed to slow down and very nearly stop…

But then he entered this war. And the pain came back.

Back to the point; I tried to ignore America's existence and just gather my papers and leave before he spoke to me, but unfortunately for me, he had conversation on his agenda. "Hey, England!" he greeted me brightly, probably grinning that stupid, handsome smile of his. I kept my back turned to him as I responded.

"Good Day, America,"

"What're you up to?" he pressed, walking closer to me. I knew that there was no way out of this without turning to face him, so I did just that. As per usual, I focused on a spot to the right of his head, keeping his face in my peripheral vision, but not looking at him directly.

"I'm busy, right now," I answered, going to walk past him. But America grabbed my sleeve, effectively stopping me.

"Hey, is everything all right?" he asked me. The pain in my chest throbbed harder as I heard his words, practically coated with concern. Stop worrying about me, I know it's just an act, you filthy, stupid liar.

"Yes, fine," I said, trying to tug my arm away. "Why do you ask?"

"You just seem…kinda out of it, ever since I joined, y'know?"

"This is me," I responded, turning to look to the right of his head once more. "And-,"

"And why won't you look at me?"

I stopped talking. I hadn't realised that he'd noticed.

"Why is it that you never look at me?" America repeated, his grip tightening on my arm and his voice getting angrier.


"Look at me, dammit!" he shouted, pushing my arm away from him, turning me fully toward him.

And for the first time in over 100 years, I looked at him. My eyes met his.

And the hole in my chest started to bleed again.

I panicked; I was on the verge of tears—I could feel the lump in my throat and the burning n my eyes—and America was glaring, he was glaring at me, much like he had before. He'd shouted at me, he'd yelled at me. I turned and ran out of the room, dropping my papers, leaving them scattered on the conference room floor.

And that's how I ended up in my room, crying my eyes out like some adolescent girl. I was in love with America; I was so in love with him. I couldn't bare this anymore, my chest hurt so much. I just wanted someone to heal me, someone to stay with me and protect me.

My head was pounding and the room was spinning. My eyes hurt and stung and my cheeks were sore from my constant wiping the tears away. I was beginning to calm down, the tears were falling less and less, but I could feel my headache getting worse. I needed to sleep, but if I did, I know I'd only have nightmares. Usually they're about the war, about my people dying on foreign soil, but I felt like tonight might be about something entirely different.

That was when I heard the knock on my door. I turned my head and stared at the wooden barrier, despite the room spinning and my head protesting loudly. There were more knocks, and this time I answered.

"Who is it?" I asked, my voice weak, pathetic and broken.

"It's America," came the reply, slightly muffled by the door. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Oh yeah, I'm bloody brilliant," I replied sarcastically, trying to mask my tears with anger. "What the hell do you want?" I replied, turning to face the door and hugging my knees to my chest.

"I wanted to make sure you were all right…," America responded.

"I'm fine," I answered.

"You don't sound fine,"

Dammit, why did he have to be so stubborn? I just want him to leave me alone. He reopened this wound in my chest and now it hurt to breath. I just want to be left alone. "Just leave me alone,"

America didn't reply at first, but I heard a small rustle and assumed he'd sat down with his back against the door. "C'mon, I just want to know what's bugging you,"

Did he seriously not know? Was he seriously that stupid?

"…You want to make me feel better?" I asked, standing up.

"Yeah!" America responded happily. "Because that's what I do! I make people feel better,"

Here it comes.

"Because I'm the Hero!"

Typical. So he was only pretending to care about me to better his own reputation. Of course, why did I even think for a moment that he might actually like me? He left me, he tore me apart and he left me shattered, beaten and broken on the muddy battle field. He didn't give a damn about me.

"Because I'm the Laugh Maker!" he continued. Well, that was a new one.

Laugh Maker, he says.

Laugh Maker.

"Then how come all you ever do is make me cry?" I shouted suddenly, surprising even myself. I strode across my room and over to the door, if only to make my voice clearer to the American.

"I tried so hard!" I continued, shouting. "I tried so hard! Everything I did was for you! And then you just threw me aside like I was nothing! The reason I can't look at you is because it hurts! It hurts, dammit!" I punched the door, ignoring the pain that shot up my arm. I was so angry, I was so sad, I was so lost. I didn't want to yell, I didn't want to shout, but at the same time I couldn't stop these words from tumbling from my mouth—I had no control over myself. The words fell like the tears that had started falling down my face once more.

"Why do you hurt me like this? Why can't I let you go? Dammit just leave me alone! I don't want you in this fucking war, just leave me alone!" I punched the door again. America didn't reply, I wasn't even sure if he was still there. Maybe he left again, because I'm so damn pathetic.

I cried harder as the strength left my legs and I slumped to the ground, my hands on the door, hitting the wood weakly. "Just leave me alone…I can't take this anymore…If you're going to leave me then just stay out of my life forever!"

There was silence following my last outburst. After about a minute, I heard a reply in a small, sad voice that sounded unfitting for the American. "…I'm sorry,"

My head snapped up and I looked at the door. "…w-what?"

"I'm so sorry, Arthur…,"

It was strange, hearing him say my name. And it hurt. Like a thousand knives slicing into my body at once, and yet, I longed for him to say it again. Say my name, just like you used to…

"Don't spit your empty words at me," I snapped, unable to control myself anymore. The anger was coming back, rising hot and painful in my chest and in my head.

"tch…all I wanted was to be your equal…but I ended up lower than dirt," America snapped back at me, finally getting angry. Yes, get angry at me, hate me. Hate me and leave me, leave me alone…

"Save your sob story for someone who cares," I replied, mindlessly. It scared me how much I wasn't in control of my own mouth. Who was this, snapping and shouting at him? Who was this? "Naïve idiot of a child,"

"I'm not a child anymore!"

"You certainly act like one!"

"And you act like a miserable old man!"

"Then why bother with me?" I screamed, punching the door. "Why bother with me if I'm so fucking miserable all the time?"

"…I just want to help you…,"

"Then stay away from me!" no, don't. Stay with me, hold me, love me. Protect me. America…

"…Will you smile?"


"If I leave…and stay out of your life forever…will you smile?"

The anger was immediately washed away with pain, guilt and sadness. No, I want you to stay. I want you to kiss me and love me and make me yours. If you left I'd be miserable.

"I'll only go if it'll make you smile,"

I love you. I love you so much. I love you, Alfred! I love you! Don't leave me! Not again! Please!

All the things I wanted to say but couldn't.

But I had to try.

"Alfr-…A-America..," my voice cracked from the screaming and crying. "…I-I don't want you to leave…I…the t-truth is, I…," I love you. I love you. "I…,"

That's when I heard another voice. "Ah, America, there you are,"

"Hn? France?"

I froze. No, not now! Go away, you bloody frog!

I love you, Alfred! I love you so much! I've loved you for so long! Don't leave me again!

I couldn't speak. I didn't say anything as I heard Alfred stand up and leave with France for a meeting or whatever it was.

Once more I was too weak and pathetic to say it. I was too broken to tell him how I feel. How much I love him.

All I could do is continue to watch the bleeding.