Before you read any more than this: The chapter of this fan fiction contains: Alcohol abuse and historical references
I wonder Ch. 3
America knocked on England’s front door “England! Are you there?”
There was no answer “I’m going in.”
He roughly elbowed the front door to England’s house open; to his surprise, it was already unlocked, England would never leave the door unlocked, it’s unusual to him. A strong smell had seeped up in his nose, making wrinkle in sensitivity and he knew what it was, alcohol. The smell wasn’t bad, it was just strong. The freedom nation searched around the house for him, but couldn’t. It wasn’t long until he seen a thin-boned man who had a 2/3 of Whiskey in his clenched hand, sitting in a rocking chair in a booze cellar through an open door. America knew who the intoxicated man was, it was England. America very much knows the British man’s limits when it comes to liquor.
America stuttered “A-Arthur?”
England turned to see who it was calling his name and picked up the sight of a nervous American, he stood up from his seat as he slurred is words “Amaee-“ he hiccupped “Alfred, whyer yoou here?”
America answered with composure in his voice “You didn’t answer the phone when I called.”
All of the slurring in England’s voice was quickly replaced by anger “Why did you call? I know you hate me.”
“Arthur, that’s not true.”
The intoxicated nation snapped “Don’t lie to me!” making the American jump.
Within a few seconds, England’s eyes of anger was replaced by sorrow as he dropped to his knees, the whiskey bottle fell out of his hand spilled a little onto the floor and his eyes filled to the brims of his eyelids, rolling down his cheeks. America’s fright from being snapped at settled and turned into concern. He walked over to England, crouched down to his height and hugged the older nation into a hug, attempting to comfort him, knowing England hugged him back gave the sign that it made him feel better, however, England’s tears continued to fall and his bottom lip quivered briefly as he buried his face into America’s chest, staining America’s hoodie as he began to sob, but America didn’t mind, he was more worried about his ally. A few minutes passed and England’s sobs faded, leaving the room as well as the house completely quiet.
England broke the silence; his words muffled into America’s chest “Why is it like this?”
America furrowed his eyebrows “What do you mean?”
England lifted his head, meeting his emerald eyes with America’s ocean water orbs “I’ve always hated the thought of you leaving and I was embarrassed to admit it,” he sniffled as his tears filled into his eyes and his voice cracked “I’ve wondered if you hate me.”
America slightly tightened his hug, trying not to make the hug too tight, he said in a quiet tone “Britain,” England was surprised by being addressed by his other name “I would never hate you. We’ve fought before, but I still think you’re a cool dude. Why would I hate you?”
England answered as he nuzzled his face into America’s arm, muffling the next words he sobbed out “The White House fire.”
His answer was clear enough for America to hear and remembers that day very well: August 24, 1814. The heroic country tries his best not to think about it too much.
“It’s a thing in the past.”
A soothing tone filtered his voice as he lifted England’s chin, making him widen his eyes a bit as he softly requested “Please, get some rest.”
England nodded as his once little brother carried him bridal style to his bedroom and tucked him under his blanket. Barely awake, England’s eyes slowly fluttered, with each blink, he fell more into his subconscious as America gently combed his fingers through England’s bright blond locks.
He wished England sweet dreams “Sleep tight, dude.”
England let out a weary yawn “Same to you, America-AAH.”
He fell into his blissful abyss of his subconscious. America gave a warm smile as he left the room. He walked through the hallway to see if his old room was the same as it was before he moved out, which seemed to remain intact and as if it was dusted and cleaned every day. America sat on the edge of the bed, making it squeak.
He sighed softly “Memories.” As he looked down at the beds surface, he felt sadness flood in, making him frown “He must’ve missed me if he meant to keep this room clean.” He gave a small smile.
End of chapter 3
Author's Note: There will be a fourth chapter, but it will be the last one.
Historical Note: The "White House fire": In August 24, 1814, some British troops had burned the White House and pretty much most of Washington D.C.(At least according to Wikipedia).