Break

Rating: M for adult themes, suggestively, etc.

Note: I wrote this in a day and half a night. O_O I'm a tired person…so this'll be sucky…and crappy…the writing sucks ass, I apologize. But I had to write it, cause I was inspired! So yeah…maybe I'll fix it later…

Pairings: USUKUS, past America/world, others, etc.

Disclaimer: Don't own, never will. Derp.

Over the centuries, years, America has always reveled in the fact that he could break anyone beyond repair.

And why not?

He was young.

Strong.

Powerful.

He was the Superpower country of the 21st century, and he knew with a simple clarity that he had the world in the palm of his hand.

Call him cocky, narcissistic, egotistic, or whatever. It was true.

He had power, and use it he will.

With that knowledge, he knew that he could have anything and anyone.

His first lover was a young red-haired girl in the 1700s. It was just right after his Revolution, and during that joyous, liberating time, his eyes had landed on the beautiful human.

Jane Adams was her name, and he cherished her, kept her, and treated her gently like a doll, a precious porcelain one.

A precious, porcelain doll he wanted to break.

Of course, at first he remained gentle, kind.

But after the one time they had a fight that resulted in his threatening to leave and her begging for him to not, he realized, as he stared at her tear-stained, freckled face, that he had power over her.

She needed him. Depended on him. Wanted him. Was in love with him.

The new revelation excited him, made him thirsty for more, more, more power, and he began to play a game, a game that exerted said power.

He played the game with her, deceiving her with sweet lies and compliments, before suddenly, his game ended with her heartbroken and needy, unable to function without him with her until the rest of her living days.

Seeing the expressions of ugly fear, sorrow, dashed happiness, and broken hopes on her sweet, sweet face, America had to enjoy it, love it, cherish it.

Broken.

That was what she became.

America had broken her.

And he enjoyed every single fucking minute of it.

He enjoyed making his playthings, prey, lose hope, suffer on their dependency on him, cry over him, and needed him. It was too fun.

He loved how important he was to them, and how he had control over their lives and fates.

Call him power-hungry, a monster, or bastard.

He had power, and he was going to enjoy it to its full potential in controlling and breaking the people it touched.

After a time, he began his work on nations.

Now that was more enjoyable.

Whereas humans would break easier, they would soon die and not care.

He wanted them to care for the rest of eternity.

Like nations.

They lived for so long, and it was rewarding when he finally breaks them. Breaking them into a million pieces was hard work and effort, but so rewarding in the end, for he'll have to see their expressions, and pain, for years and years and years to come.

Like how Japan flinches when they meet eyes. Such an easy, sweet and loving character he had broken…

How Lithuania would break even more when they talk, remembering the darling times he had lied and faked the gentle nation…

How Russia would clutch his scarf, remembering how his heart had warmed only to be stabbed and frozen all over again, this time with sharp blades of humiliation embedded into it a thousand shards…

How Germany reacted with stiff posture at the sight of the American, still pained over how the younger had gained his trust, his life, and bed, during the World War II era, thinking that the bespectacled nation had forgiven and accepted him, helping him, but only breaking him even further as the latter finally cut with burning whispers of faults and lies, reminding the German about whose fault it was that so many had died…

There were so many more, more nations that America can scarcely remember, but remembered that he enjoyed shattering them he did.

The way they would shudder or hold their breaths in his presence told him the extent of the damage he had done, the pain he had given them, the agony of hurting emotionally and mentally.

Needless to say, America was proud of his accomplishments.

He was ecstatic that he was important enough to have that much of an effect on the nations, overjoyed that he left a jagged, gaping hole in them to bleed and cry over, and positively happy that he had succeeded in breaking them, making them his.

Even though he wasn't like the nations of the past, how they conquered other nations with force and wars, America would think he liked his own way of conquering more.

His ownership left no trace on the physical being, merely on the inside mentally as that was where true pain can manifest, and he loves how he had conquered them in such a way, a way that would never fade over time and political disputes, how it would be for forever.

America was young and had so much power.

And with that, he conquered the hearts and minds of everyone he broke, relishing the hurt he gave, reveling in how they cry and scream, sighing in absolute bliss at how his work turned out so well.

Except England.

England. Firm, standing England. The former adopted brother that he had left behind in a shower of rain and bullets and hurt.

England was an anomaly within the sea of broken nations, still standing as the last survivor.

It astounds America to his deepest core.

He would have thought, with their painful past, with the happenings of the Revolution, that he had broken England when he had left the elder in the pouring rain and cold, cold mud. That England was the first of many to have fallen first. Broken first.

But it wasn't true. It didn't turn out like that.

The island nation had came back in the course years of America's early life, with green eyes fiery and ablaze with anger during the War of 1812 and so on, eyes that were alive and fighting.

Not broken. Not defeated. But lively and strong.

England came back standing tall and firm, no longer kneeling degradingly in cold dirt at his former charge's departure, he stayed strong and unbroken.

It unsettled America, made him angry and just downright pissed off as he found that England did not waver under his might, did not even bend and crack under America's power.

That England didn't care enough to be broken by America.

From the 1700s to the World Wars, in small colonies and the trenches, he had tried to get to England, make him feel affected.

But it didn't work.

England, Arthur, didn't let himself be seduced, didn't allow himself to be coerced by America into being shattered.

The slighter blonde had withstood and went against the younger nation, still standing unbroken as he was surrounded by all the other broken people.

It infuriated America, yet he cherished the challenge, knowing that in the end, he would win and it'll be sweet and victorious.

So he up and one day ambushed England and practically raped the elder nation.

Of course, Arthur had put a fight, snarling and cursing, struggling and twisting, but America's strength won over and he fell.

Yet, he still somehow remained unbroken. Unconquerable.

America pulled out, falling to the right side of the bed as the two nations laid there, breathing heavily and harshly.

The spectacled nation felt giddy, almost drunk with happiness as he was sure that he had finally broken-

"Have you gotten fatter?"

America opened his eyes, dumbfounded as the expression he witness wasn't what he had expected.

There was tearstains and pain painted on the Briton's pale face, but he remained composed, controlled as he fought each and every agony. Strong and not yet fractured.

America blinked.

"What?" He asked, not sure what he was hearing was a figment of his imagination or-

The roll of England's eyes answered his question.

"I said," Arthur stated, almost boredly, "Have you gotten fatter as of late? Did the bloody burgers you usually choke down finally gotten to your thighs or what?"

Alfred, America, regarded the cum-stained, bruised and cut up Englishman as if he was mental. "No…" He paused, slightly wary. This has never happened before… "What brought this on?"

England shrugged. "I couldn't breathe properly when you laid on me, so I merely assumed that you have gotten extremely chubby after the 1800s."

Alfred blinked slowly once again. "You…" He frowned. "Why aren't you more concerned with your injuries?" The American gestured violently towards his elder companion's broken form. "I did that."

Arthur looked to what the younger waved to, noting with small interest.

"A fractured collar bone, broken leg, twisted arm, and possibly three broken ribs," the impressive eye-browed man regarded. He gave Alfred a wry look. "You have gotten fatter."

America's lips twisted.

"Doesn't it even hurt?" He asked heatedly, knowing his question was rhetorical, for he had made Arthur scream and sob in pain during the fucking, because he wasn't at all gentle and he was rough like shit.

England merely rolled his green eyes again.

"Of course it hurt, git," the island personification said patiently. "Or did my shrieks of pain and cries of agony not tell you this?"

"Then why aren't you reacting…?" America questioned in obvious and frustrated shock, glaring.

"By reacting, I suppose you mean for me to act like a girl and whine and complain over what you did," Arthur answered flatly, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, please. I've had far much worse than this. And not by you, of course. Those barbaric women on the islands back in the day were quite ferocious…"

As the elder male ranted and talked, the younger country stared at him, uncertain, shocked, and unsure.

It unsettled him greatly.

When he went to rape and hurt all the others, they had immediately broken on touch, letting themselves at his mercy and power.

But England…

"Now," England said primly, giving him a level green-eyed look. "Are we done fucking?"

America had to nod wordlessly, not knowing what else to say.

Arthur gave a pained little smirk, hissing a little as he tried to roll over and instead press upon his injured ribs. "Turn off the lights if you please, Alfred. I would prefer to be sleeping at this time, thank you."

And America followed the request, still bewildered at the whole conversation.

Come the morning after the incident, England had gotten up first, having already healed that quickly, and asked the befuddled American if he had wanted breakfast.

Stunned, America shooked his head no and went back home, still puzzled over his former guardian's reaction and calm words.

What was going on…?

Other nations, having heard that America had set his sights on England, stayed by closely, not interfering as they watched and waited for when the latter would break and become like them.

Nothing of the sort came true.

England remained standing tall, uncaring, not broken, even after what the larger country did to him.

And it infuriated yet made America even more curious.

Everyone breaks eventually.

And England shouldn't be an exception.

With that comforting thought, Alfred redoubled his efforts on the island nation.

This time, he stayed constantly by the Brit's side, following, stalking, hoping to annoy the latter so much that his defenses would weaken and he could strike at the opportune time.

Yes, England grew annoyed and angry, yelling and berating the younger nation on his behavior, but he didn't let down his guard, staying on the edge instead.

But he still let America close.

Alfred stood languidly outside Arthur's house, waiting for when the Englishman would come out so he could follow the elder some more.

England opened the front door and stared at America.

"Hurry up and come in you git," the Briton had called out, lips pursed a little. He went back inside, leaving the door ajar in invitation.

Confused at the turn of events, Alfred did just that, strolling inside the two-story house and closed the owner's door softly.

Noise and clangs could be heard from the area of the kitchen, prompting him to follow the sounds, interest piqued.

"Oh, there you are," Arthur had said, giving his former charge a cursory glance. What he saw must have satisfied him for he smiled. "Good. You look clean enough. But still, go wash your hands."

America was more than confused. "Say what?"

"Go. Wash. Your. Hands." England repeated, more slowly, back turned as he piled pans and pots out onto the counters.

"But why?" America asked, following the Brit's movement.

England turned around, giving him a deadpan glare. "What does it look like I'm doing? We're going to make scones, you clot."

Alfred was getting more confused by the second. In his floundering, he said, "But I don't want to make scones."

A grin played lightly on England's lips. "Fuck you."

How that kind of response somehow made him work, America didn't know. All he knew was that he helped England make scones, helped put them in the oven, watching them burn, and helping to wash the kitchen tools and whatnot.

The two nations sat down, cups of steaming tea sitting in front of their persons.

Alfred picked up a burnt scone, regarding it distastedly. "I hate scones." He frowned a blue-eyed frown. "Especially yours, seeing as you can't cook."

Arthur flipped him the bird. "You helped make them," the elder said, "Don't lie to yourself, git. You like my scones."

America had scoffed, but nonetheless, he ate some, bringing home extras to eat later at his place.

A week later, he ran out of the scones, and in his excuse of hunger, he made some more by himself.

The Patriotic country couldn't help but admit that even though his scones looked a hundred times better than England's, it didn't taste the same as the latter's scones.

He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

England still stood firm.

America grew ever more unsettled, wondering why the Briton wasn't affected like he was use to when the former was a young child.

It was like the island personification didn't care anymore, not of him or his doings, nothing at all, and it made America angry.

But then, as he remembered his past exploits on the other nations, he decided to try to break England another way.

The two had gotten together and fuck before, countless times now, but this time, America took extra care to be gentle, extra care to make England feel good and pleasured, before making his move.

They laid there silently in America's bed, bodies still tingling of the aftermath of their activities.

"I love you."

America began to turn his head, knowing that this time, he had made the elder falter, his defenses would be down and-

England stared back in blank silence. "Really."

America paused. "Yes," he finally answered. "I do."

The green-eyed nation gave him a harder stare before smirking. "Liar."

That simple word made Alfred's blood boil.

How could England see through his plans, just like that?

"I'm not a liar," the currently-not-spectacled nation argued, not knowing why he was still arguing, "You don't know-"

"I do know," England cut in, a faint grin still on his face. The pale man turned on his side, shrugging. "You're young, bold, and quite strong," the Brit said, getting up from his position. "We've enjoyed our little daily pastimes-" He swung a leg over the American's stunned form, and the latter could still feel each other's cum on the strong thighs, making him feel aroused and-

Arthur smirked down at the younger as he finished his statement, "-so why make it more complicating when we could have fun? Like this, America." He grounded down just right, and the two moaned, the room began heating up once again as they resumed.

Still, through their screwing and playing, America couldn't help but somehow feel put out at the Briton's response, but not knowing the reason why.

And so America began his quest on breaking the Englishman, becoming obsessed, relentless.

In the process, possessive.

He knew he shouldn't feel like that, for it was all just a game, but he couldn't help it.

England was proving to be a rather strong and hard playmate, and America figured when he finally broke the former, it would be a rewarding and beautiful experience.

So that's why he'll have to be possessive and not let anyone take his playmate away because America was going to be the one to break him.

Red, vicious, teeth marks littered the pale body.

Alfred looked down, feeling a sense of pride well up inside him as he surveyed his teeth imprints that was stamped all over the neck, knees, shoulders, chest, ribs, thighs, and arms.

England wouldn't be able to hide his marks so easily tomorrow.

Said bitten nation opened eyes blearily. "A fucking cannibal today, weren't we?"

America chose not to answer, opting to lean down and bite another mark on a thigh.

His. His prey, his playmate. No one else to have.

"Don't hang around France anymore," Alfred finally answered lowly, stroking the red-purple bruises on his victim's skin.

England's lips curled. "I can't help that now, can I?" The island said, amused. "We grew up together. He may be a bloody frog, but he is my friend."

In response, America bit and drew blood, wanting to let England knew that he was the one that did this, and not some stupid French man.

His. His to break.

But as of yet, England couldn't be controlled.

It made America feel so damn irritated.

He began to hang around England more, and other nations watched the now inseparable duo with something akin to shock and disbelief.

England wasn't broken yet?

It embarrassed America greatly that his new prey was proving to be a rather difficult case, but he wouldn't quit now, not when he had staked a claim and started the game.

He knew he was in it deep, trying to break Arthur like this, but it'll feel more rewarding in the end, right?

He couldn't help it when he just wanted to say to England, "Stop smiling, it's making me feel weird," or "Make me more scones, Iggy, I'm hungry."

His game was getting a little too…involved. But he didn't care. It was all just a game.

America didn't believe in magic. Never had, even when his existence seemed to proved otherwise.

Science was the key and answer.

Yet, he couldn't explain what he witnessed in scientific terms.

"What weapon was that?" He demanded, staring at England quizzically.

The Briton looked up from his book, face blank. "Eh?"

"The weapon!" America insisted. "What kind of weapon did you use on France? There was light, and heat, and it destroyed everything in sight, except the guy himself, only injuring him! What was that?"

England flipped a page. "Magic," he said simply.

America's face fell. "Yeah, right. Tell me the truth, Artie."

Arthur bristled at the nickname, and he stood, placing his book on the table next to the armchair. The Brit began walking away and out the door.

Alfred was confused, but he followed anyway.

The two countries strolled down England's long hallway, before suddenly, they stopped in front of a dark door on the left.

England raised a hand and pushed the door open, going inside.

It was the creepy room, America suddenly remembered, the place where England was in a cloak as likewise some other people during World War II and he was trying to 'curse' Germany.

The room was dusty, books littered the shelves and floors, and a red pentagram laid darkly on the wood-tiled floor.

It was quite boring until Arthur went over to a random book, opened it and read a page, and then he began to recite the words out loud.

Alfred cocked his head, deducing that what the elder nation was saying was in Latin, and then something amazing happened.

A flash of pure, white light filled the room from England's form, and when America came to from his temporary blindness, he noted with a start that the pencil cup that was sitting lonely on the room's desk was now a vase filled with colorful flowers.

"Wha…"

England gave him a triumphant look. "Believe me now?"

America's face flushed, and he said, "Th-that was some kind of science! I bet I could do it, too!" With that said, he went over to where the elder nation stood, read the page that England pointed to for him to read, and began to recite.

Nothing happened.

America frowned and recited again. Nothing.

"Why isn't it working?" The spectacled country grumbled. He turned his gaze onto Arthur. "See? Told you it wasn't magic. Reciting words doesn't make it magic, Arthur. It's just words…"

"Then how did I turn that pencil jar into a vase with flowers?" England asked patiently, leaning against the bookshelf.

"I…" America shook his head slowly. "I don't know. I…you probably have a weapon stashed on you somewhere, and I just haven't found it yet."

Arthur raised an impressive eyebrow. "You know what you saw, lad," the personification of the UK intoned softly. "You do have the potential to use magic, though."

"Then, if it was really 'magic', why couldn't I do it then?" Alfred asked, feeling frustrated and so, so young. "Why could you?"

A pause.

"You need three things to be able to do magic, git," England said, thoughtfully, green eyes gazing out the window far, far away. "The right words, a strong enough resolve, and…"

"But I said the right words!" The American protested, "But-"

"You were lacking two out of the three," his elder companion replied. "You lacked a strong resolve, and the third thing."

"What's the third thing, then?"

England just smiled. "It's a secret."

America glared, getting annoyed by the moment. "Why?" He asked, "I don't get it. Why can you say it and not me? I would think I would have a stronger resolve, being the top nation and all, and didn't France use to say that your 'magical spells' always go haywire?"

The Englishman swiveled, putting the dusty book back on its respective place on the shelf. "True, my spells did fail a lot back then," he murmured, dusting his hands. He looked up, locking green with confused blue. "But now, I have a stronger resolve."

"And the third thing?" America questioned, sarcastically.

England merely smiled again. "Magic is a selfless force, America," he told the other, "I realize that now, and that's how it made me figure out the third ingredient."

"So blasting France away in violent anger is a selfless thing, huh?"

"It's for the good of the innocent civilians. I merely saved them from his Frog ways," Arthur shrugged. He began walking towards and out the door.

America followed, saying, "All right, if you can't tell me the third ingredient, then at least tell me your 'strong resolve'."

"It's a secret, too," the slighter blonde answered, "It ties in with the third ingredient." He stopped and turned, facing the American nation. "I thought I had lost the third ingredient back then," he said softly, eyes filled with something that didn't have the words to describe. "But…I found it now. It helped me find my resolve." A grin. "It all ties together, America."

And America stood there, befuddled out of his mind as he watched England turned heel and stroll away, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, deep down in his mind, he knew what the third ingredient was, but he couldn't find the words to name it and he left it be.

He followed England back downstairs.

And then came the day that he finally fell. America, that is.

China finally won and became the new Superpower, thus beating the United States of America.

America, now crippled under the debt, now humiliated at his loss, now cowering under the laughter and jeers of the other nations, crumbled.

Months and months passed, he neither eat nor came out of his house, dying so many times from starvation and whatnot, but always being resurrected again and again as his land still existed.

He wasn't the powerful country of the world anymore.

And then England came to him.

The Briton had flown over on a plane, drove to his house, kicked down his door, and marched over to America before swinging back and punching the younger nation in the face.

America did nothing, face blank, eyes expressionless, pride gone, and power waning.

England's hands clenched, and Alfred half expected him to punch again until the former leaned down and embraced him. Hard, warm, and close.

America stayed still.

And England began speaking, softly, lowly, and his words held so much meaning and emotion, as he said, "America, you moronic wanker. Stand up and live." He pulled back, eyes ablaze like the brightest stars in emeralds. He whispered, "You are the fucking United States of America. Man up and make a goddamn difference."

After that, America stood, and he began to mend, going back to his ways, and that night, England took him, gently and hands so kind yet firm, supporting him as he writhed, panted, gasped, holding him intimately and close as he mouthed silent words into the American's hair, words that were not spoken out loud, but meant something.

America felt angry.

It was his game, he was supposed break England.

And now, at his weakest point, England just does something like this, helping him.

Shouldn't he have just left America alone? Because what he did wasn't good intentions, and he was a bastard, doing all that breaking to the other nations, and England was next on his list but he didn't break, and damn it, England should've just stayed away for his own good because-

Arthur tilted and kissed the younger nation's quiet tears away, smiling, and shitEnglandstopsmilinglikethat-

America didn't know what to do anymore.

So he healed, mended, stood, arriving to the next World Meeting, grinning and acting strong, shocking all the other countries.

All thanks to England.

England was there, a constant force, there to support and kick him in the right direction when he just wanted to lay down and give up. There to make him his disgusting scones, there to watch TV and cuddle on the couch with him when watching scary movies, there to be a person to converse to when he was alone, and anyways, his brother didn't visit half as much as England--

And America was about to go insane from the confusion.

England wasn't supposed to care, he wasn't- he was supposed to break, because what America was doing was merely helping to weaken the Englishman's barriers, and so why wasn't he doing something to break England already?

This tie, their bond, the conflicting emotions and strange, strange thoughts, America was going to go ballistic soon.

He didn't want England to care like this, because it's holding him back, and he can't think straight, and he was so, so confused, and he didn't want to hurt England like he was intending, and he knew it should feel wrong, not wanting to break the man, but it didn'tand that's what scared the young, ex-Superpower nation, the most.

Then one day, he just cracked.

He was just waking up, and he smelled something akin to burning bacon or eggs or whatever, so he went downstairs of his house to investigate.

Following his sense of smell, he found England in his kitchen, wearing an American-flag-styled apron, and cooking a mess which the Brit would label as 'breakfast.'

Arthur noticed his presence, and greeted in his way, "Good morning, twat. Sit down and I'll get you your bleeding breakfast."

America did just that, watching England move around the kitchen like he had been there, or belonged in his life-

It scared America, just how much he depended on England right then, and he didn't like it, and he was just fucking scared- what the hell was going on-

A cup of hot coffee was set in front of him.

Alfred glanced up, looking into familiar green.

England looked almost shy as he stated, "You like coffee, so I thought 'why not?'"

As the island personification went to attend the dying bacon in the skillet, America stared at the coffee, thinking how England hated the drink but yet made it for him so-

The Brit put the burnt food on the table and with a line telling Alfred to eat, began eating himself.

The bacon and eggs, and even the toast was burnt, but it was like home and-

"Get out," America suddenly said.

England stopped his fork's ascension in midair. "Eh?"

America gave him a cold look. He was at his limit. "Get out of here."

England, stupid caringmysteriousanomaly England, cocked his head to the side slightly, looking a little puzzled. "Why?"

Alfred's temper flared without a reason why, and he hissed out scathingly, "'Why'? There has to be a reason 'why' now? This is my house, just get the fuck out of here!"

Arthur blinked, and America almost apologized, noting the hurt in the Briton's form, and England said, "America, we've been like this so long- why now of all time-"

"I don't need you," America blurted out, and it was going wrong, England was supposed to fight back, not look so hurt and wounded, like- "I don't need you at all."

Silence. Then England nodded and got up, saying softly, "I see."

Fifteen minutes later, the Englishman walked out with everything of his own possession in hand, closing the door upon America, walking out of his life.

The house was empty and silent.

America gazed unseeingly at England's still full plate, feeling as if he was missing something.

Feeling empty.

"You look horrible," Matthew had said to him, four weeks later, when he came to visit, carrying with the scent of maple leaves and pancakes. The younger twin looked down on curiously. "Alfred, you're not okay."

And it was true. Dark circles surrounded the usually bright nation's eyes, his skin was pale and pallid, contrary to his usual healthy tan, sky-blue eyes dull and lifeless, clothes haphazard, and dark blonde hair in disarray. A smile didn't graze his lips no longer.

"'Course I am," Alfred snapped, glaring at his brother frostily behind glasses. "Why wouldn't I be okay?"

Canada gave him a cool stare. "Because you drove England away."

America opened his mouth, to scream, rage, or yell, but all he did was slump in his seat and murmur, "I don't need him."

His chest hurt all of a sudden, and it was beginning to make him irritated again, this constant pain when the Brit had left, and it shouldn't hurt because it was what he wanted because England just had to be a fucking anomaly against the other nations, and he was just confusing which confused Alfred, and it was cursed annoying and it hurt and-

Matthew's phone rang, and he sighed, mouth still curving up into a smile as he read the name of the caller, and Alfred assumed it must've been France, seeing as the two were together, and his younger twin pressed the 'accept' button and listened.

Alfred didn't care anything about the call until he heard his brother choke and gasp, heard how he accidentally clicked the 'speaker on' button, and then he heard France desperate and so afraid as he repeated-

"Mathieu, Angleterre, it's Angleterre, he- they- they finally decided and England-"

Alfred had never driven to the airport so fast in his long life as he did then when hearing Francis's cryptic message.

He didn't know what he was thinking when he burst into England's Parliament like that.

He knew security was after him, the alarms were ringing, and he shouldn't be there, but he had to find England before it was too late, even though he didn't understand what the too late was about.

Rounding a sharp corner, he suddenly saw England, and the pain in his chest was gone, gone gone, and it felt so good, and it was because of England, and though he was scared of the reason, he didn't care, not at that moment because England was right there.

"Arthur!" He yelled out, and England turned, familiar bright blonde hair and all green eyes and British eyebrows, looking at America in surprise. "Arthur."

"Alfred?" England questioned, eyes wide, and America would've laughed, so glad was he, but why did England look so sad?

"England, Arthur, what…" Alfred trailed off, not really knowing what to say anymore as he stopped in front of England, each staring the other.

England gave a small, pained smile. "Alfred…I…I would've preferred to not seeing you," the island personification said quietly. "But…now, I don't mind." He gave a light sigh, just looking at America. "I feel better, now," he whispered softly.

"England…" America said back, feeling adrenaline rushing through him, but confused as hell. "I…"

Arthur just shook his head.

"You know, America," he began to say, eyes bright, full of life, "You've…you've made me happy all these years, even after the Revolution, contrary to belief and how I acted then. So, so happy." A small smile. "Thank you."

"Wha- why- what? Why are you saying this…?" Alfred questioned, feeling anxious, afraid, as if something dear to him was about to be taken away, but he didn't know what.

In answer to his question, England merely smiled, and the American could tell it was sincere, truthful, heartbreaking.

America's throat clenched up, because he didn't deserve such a beautiful smile from England, not after what he did, done, and said, and this wasn't supposed to be happening and -

"America…I…" England started to tell him, before out of nowhere, his Prime Minister walked out of the room he was supposed to go into.

"Arthur," the Prime Minister called out authoritatively, eyes frowning, lips not smiling. He saw Alfred and nodded. "Alfred."

The security men's voices came ever closer, reminding Alfred what he had done.

The Prime Minister noticed the noise, and said, "I must demand that you leave, Mr. America, since you came here, unnoticed and unaccounted for." He turned to England, dark eyes boring into his country's personification. "England. It is time."

Arthur nodded, and with one last, longing look to America, he turned and followed his leader away.

America let him go, watching his back as the big, double doors closed upon them.

The new England was a girl.

Her name was Alice Johnson, and she was now the new personification of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland.

She wasn't Arthur Kirkland.

She had long, dark hair, just the way Alfred liked it. Not short, bright blonde hair…

She had dark, hazel eyes, just the way Alfred preferred eyes. Not fiery, blazing green…

She was slender and small, beautiful and so very female. Not skinny and all angles, other-worldly, and very male…

She was quiet and kind, compassionate, and smart, and young. Not loud and tsundere, passionately- secretly kind, brilliant, and old…

She was everything in a girl that Alfred wanted.

But she wasn't Arthur Kirkland and he didn't want her.

"Why…?" Alfred questioned France one night, the two sitting so desolate in his living room, both drinking alcohol as they grieved over the memory of the former England. "What…why did Parliament…"

"It wasn't just his stupid government that decided his fate," Francis whispered, staring blankly into his half-empty, half-full wine glass. "It was yours, also."

America turned wide, shocked blue eyes onto the Frenchman, incredulous and horrified. "What? What are you-"

A harsh slap met his cheek and America fell back, clutching his face as France stood, furious, dark, and so, so sad.

"It's all your fault," France seethed venomously, "If you had taken liberty to find out more, talk to your goddamn President more, you could have known, could have stopped them." The French male glared, eyes a dark cobalt navy. "It's all your fault that England is gone."

America sat there, eyes wide and unseeing, not caring as France stalked closer, intent on the young nation's destruction, before Matthew came in and grabbed his lover, holding him back as the elder, bearded man began sobbing and crying, slumping into the Canadian's hold.

"Mon ami, mon cher, Angleterre, England, Arthur, my friend…"Francis babbled brokenly, crystal tears running down rugged cheeks. "He is gone."

"Francis…" Matthew tried hopelessly, form trembling as he tried to not break, to not give up.

And Alfred watched, numb and blank as he realized that England was gone and never coming back.

He found out later, from Canada when he managed to question America's President, seeing as America and he were brothers, that England's demise was planned for a few months now.

"But…Why?" Alfred asked, tone wavering. "Why England, of all nations?"

Matthew drew tired violet eyes upon him, dark and red from the sorrowful tears. Francis slept on the couch, blonde head lying in the younger nation's lap.

"Arthur's Prime Minister said that he was too old, and that the reason why their nation was so poor and weak was because England has gotten weaker." The Canadian drew in a shuddering breath. "He thought that if they replaced England with a newer, younger individual of the century, that their country would get better."

"Wait, will-will this happen to anyone else…?" America asked, suddenly fearful for France and all the elder countries.

Matthew shook his head, curls bouncing lightly. "No…" he said softly. "England was the only one that could do the spell, seeing it that he was the one that had better grip on magic." He stroked Francis's hair, fingers going through blond tangles. The napping man let out a quiet whimper, turning in his sleep. "Your President proposed the girl to take over England."

"What-why?" America nearly shouted, angry and grieving and empty as fuck.

Canada gave him a tired stare. "He and the Prime Minister noticed that you and Arthur had grown close, and they both thought that since homosexuality hasn't been fully accepted in all of your states, they… figured that was the reason why both of your economy's were bad, so they thought if they replaced England with the girl… you and her could hit it off and everything would turn out all right."

America stared in horror. "No. No, no…" He looked up, eyes angry and desperate. "If England was the one that only knew the spell, why the hell couldn't he have refused?"

At that exclamation, Canada gave such a heartbreaking smile that it made goosebumps rise upon his skin, and he said, "Didn't you know, Alfred? They threatened to find the spell and replace him with you instead."

Alfred's heart broke.

It was a couple times later since the first time he fucked England, and this time he was drunk.

Things were going bad at his place, so he sought the Brit out after consuming a decent amount of alcohol, and ambushed him again.

"Why…won't ya- hic- break already, eh, England?" Alfred had slurred, head lolling around messily upon England's naked, bloody chest, streaking his face with scarlet.

"What the hell are you talking about now, moron?" Arthur had questioned, feeling a little cross at America's earlier violence. Stupid American.

Alfred looked up blearily, almost falling asleep.

"You know- hic- thut I was, ya know, tryin' and all to break you, ya know? Control you and crazy shit -hic- that's why I hurt you and shtuff, like rape and fuck, but -hic- why aren't ya 'ffected?" The younger, drunk country sighed irritably. "Why won't ya break like the others, England?"

Arthur was silent, thinking the question over as a hand played with his companion's hair.

"Well, America…" he said thoughtfully. "I suppose it's kind of hard to break something when it's already broke before, right, git?"

America paused. "That- hic- makes sense." He gripped England's wrist, hard and possessive, pulling it closer to land a bloody kiss in the underside of the appendage. "It was me, wasn't it?"

The last thing he witnessed before falling into deep slumber, was seeing England smiling slightly and saying, "I don't mind as much now, you insufferable twat."

America had forgotten that memory until now.

The world was a different place now.

More quiet. More empty.

All of the nations felt they were missing something, and it was true.

They were all missing Arthur Kirkland.

Alice Johnson was nice, kind, but she wasn't Arthur.

She couldn't replace the former England.

But Arthur was no longer a part of anyone's life.

One day, Alfred had went into England's old house, begging the government authorities not to demolish it yet, and he walked up the stairs, down the hall, into the magic room, and found the book.

The book that housed the spell that made England, Arthur, gone away forever.

Sure, Arthur had told him back then that his resolve wasn't strong enough, but now, considering the circumstances, America thinks it has grown strong.

Because he thinks he knew what the third ingredient is, now.

And with that, he went to the next, silent, World Meeting, and he waited, seeking a particular individual.

Watching how somber the nations looked, America smiled.

Let them be sad. He wasn't going to be any longer.

"Hey, Arthur, long time no talk, huh? But we both know the reason why that is.

Did you ever know what my plan was, from the start?

I was planning to break you.

Laughable, isn't it?

In the end, you were the one that broke me.

Through my cockiness, I failed to see the signs. I had walked my bridge and watched it burn.

I broke many people in the past, did you know? And I thought you would be the same. Stupid of me, yeah?

So I pursued you, tried my damn hardest to make you fall for me, but instead, I fell for you.

And look. Now I'm the broken one.

Because, you see, Arthur, I realize this now.

You're not like the others. You're far more. You are…indescribable. You are…you. A sun among the sea of tiny, broken stars. A sun so bright, it blinded me, made me think that I could contain you within the palm of my hand and keep you like property.

But you refused to be own.

I don't mind, Arthur, because it suits you. You're too strong to be own by the likes of me, and I don't mind not a bit.

Yet, as selfish as it sounds, I hate you for leaving me like that. Why must you always protect me? Why did you have to care? But I suppose, if you didn't, it wouldn't be you, and I wouldn't love you, right?

I'm a stupid bastard, Arthur. I know that now.

Not noticing how much you cared and sacrificed for me, god, am I such a moron or what?

If you heard this, you would probably say, 'yes', haha.

I miss you.

I can't survive another day without you, Artie.

The air feels strange without you here, the world is empty with you gone.

Everything is wrong now.

You made such an impact on everyone, you know that, Arthur?

Everyone can't function the same without you, without your complaints and British-ness. Without your nasty scones and obsession with tea.

You're an important part of our lives…but now you're gone.

And I know it sounds selfish, but seeing as I'm a generally selfish person, a little more selfishness couldn't hurt, right?

I'm going to find you.

Hearing that, you'll probably get pissed off again, but I rather face your wrath and anger than nothing at all.

I miss you, so, so much.

But another reason why I'm going to find you?

What were you about to say before your boss came in and interrupted us?

Because I think I know what the third ingredient is now, and it explains a lot. It helped me find my resolve. You were right, it does tie all together.

So tell me what you were about to say, just to confirm my assumptions, okay? As cocky as it sounds, wait for me.

I'm going to find you, Arthur. And we'll let each other know the third ingredient.

Wait for me."

That ended his long phone message.

Alfred smiled a little sadly.

Canada won't understand why he did what he had to do, but he hoped his little brother would heal in the long run.

"Yo! Raivis! Let's ally together and become the ultimate country, okay?"

"But Peter…you're not a country…not even close…"

"Ehhh? That's rude, Latvia! You jerk!"

Alfred stood up, clutching England's spell book under his arm. He grinned.

"Hey, Sealand," the United States of America called out, attracting the attention of the manmade fort. "Want to become a real country?"

He was going to find England, no matter what happened.

END.

Review, anyone? 8D