Work Text:
The soft steps on the pavement echoed through the streets, England peered up from the ground every now and again. He sighed, rubbing the bags under his eyes which caused them to start to irritate. With his hands now shoved into his hoodie pockets, he started to slouch, too tired to care about his future back pains.
Finally, made it to his house. He fished his keys out of his pockets, inserted it into the keyhole and twisted, allowing the door to click and make way for the exhausted nation. Trudging in, he almost collapsed, only catching himself with the table beside the doorway. He sniffed and continued to drag himself into his kitchen to create some dish that would probably give him food poisoning.
He leaned over the kitchen counter, his tired body too weary to attempt proper movement. He groaned and looked out the window, huffing at the sore sight of the same dark, dull sky. After what felt like ten minutes or an hour, he finally proceeded with cooking himself dinner. He found his frying pan, snatched two eggs or three from the fridge and lumbered to the stove, taking his time with his preparation. Patiently waiting for his stove to catch alight with his match, slowly pouring oil into the pan which produced a startling sizzle that had no longer bothered Arthur. He was just too drained.
Almost thirty minutes pass and out came the most edible version of scrambled eggs he had ever made (if you take out the small number of eggshells within and the little bits of burnt). He brought all of his food to his table which would look to be for six but for now, is just for one lonely, sad English nation. He silently and mentally prayed, his eyes shut as his mouth remained a pout staining the nation’s face. After a few moments, his eyes fluttered open and he picked up his fork to poke at his food.
He continued to poke his eggs, like a child who was refusing to eat their vegetables. His eyebrows were furrowed as he focused on the simple plate of eggs. He sighed, before staring straight ahead. “I know you’re expecting something.” He mumbled, finally lifting some eggs from his plate into his mouth. “Something to happen, like maybe for France or America to burst through the door. Apologise for something that happened off-screen..”
“I’m not oblivious. I’ve seen everything anyone would have to have seen.” He took another bite from his eggs, an awkward crunch sounding through his chewing. “I’m sorry to disappoint… This is not that kind of story.”
He smirked, huffing a laugh. “Are you bored now? Tired of this shtick? It’s getting awkward, right?” His hands collide into the table causing the thud to echo through the house. His fork collapses to the floor, clattering against the wood. His once quiet, almost sickly sounding voice becomes booming and powerful. “Well, it’s not my fault I can’t live up to it! Blame it on the writer- if they can even be called one!” He rubbed his eyes again, groaning at the sudden sting from his still irritated eyes. His hands slammed into the table again causing him to groan louder, out of pain. “Fuck!” He kicked his chair out and ran into the kitchen, violently twisting the handle and washing his hands under them… and he waited… and waited…
His foul frown grew more miserable as seconds passed by, his mouth becoming shaky as his eyes began to water. He leaned over the sink, his tears becoming one with the tap water rushing into the drain. He whimpered loudly, his voice screaming and his heart throbbed against his chest violently. He slowly collapsed to the floor as his voice devolved into rough coughs and groaning.
“I know you guys wanted to read about me having a breakdown or something.” He sniffed pathetically on the cold, unwelcoming tiles. “I wanted you all to at least enjoy one thing before this story ends…” He paused, his voice hiccuping momentarily. “Before I don’t… exist.”
Only the sound of the tap running could be heard, it was loud, useless white noise that only brought England to more tears. Sobbing as he clutched his deafening heart. “I guess both ways I am screwed. Either you leave or you finish this…” He shrugged, his swollen eyes emotionless again. He looked up again, staring directly at nothing in particular. “Maybe if you could do me a favour… please”
He swallowed a large amount of saliva and mucus that his throat had collected, causing him to cough again which caused him to start sobbing again. The strength in his body had left as he laid on the tile floor. “P-please… leave this story… don’t finish it just…” He gasped for air. “Let me go…” He sucked in a lug of air again. “You’d be my saviour…”
He continued to lay on the floor, sobbing and gasping. “Leave me! Please!” England yelled, to no one… to nothing. “I want nothing to do with this anymore! I never agreed to be here!” He was barely comprehensible, his sobs had made his voice hoarse, he sounded like he was croaking through his sentences.
“Every paragraph! Every line! Every word!” He shrieked, choking through his tears that felt as thick as blood. “It hurts! It hurts!” But no one could hear him, not his imaginary friends nor his nation buddies. It was only him. It would only be him. It would only be him and this empty world created for him.