Now relieved that he wasn't the only living human being on the planet, nothing seemed too bad to America. He sat back as he let himself calm down. He'd figure out what had happened sooner or later. He'd probably call someone later on and see what they thought about it.
Surely at least England would know what was going on. He always knew everything.
x-x-x-x-x
All England was aware of was that he was still alive. He was still lying in his bed, still dressed in clothes he had changed into before he had left America's house, still utterly and painfully alone. He had no idea how long he had laid there, how long he planned to stay there. By now, all of his emotions had gone numb, his brain turning off everything that hurt. He was sure that he was going to have to eat soon, but he had no desire to. All he really wanted to do was stay where he was and slowly fade out of existence.
The phone rang, forcing him to realize that, even though he was suffering like he never had before, the world was still moving. He supposed that he should answer and see what the world needed of him now. Luckily, the cordless phone was within arm's reach. Without looking at the caller ID, England answered it. "Hello?" he said drearily.
"Ah, mon ami!" a most despicable voice said on the other end of the line, it's tone far too happy to be legal. "How are you doing? How is your little American doing?"
Hitting the end button, England tossed the phone across the room, a look of pure rage on his face. Damn France! Why the hell did he have to call at all of the worst times? The phone began to ring again, but England decided to ignore it. He felt like utter rubbish already, so he had no reason to speak with him. However, after it had been ringing for a whole minute, England was on the verge of yelling bloody murder. Growling, he stood up and stomped across the room, violently hitting the talk button. "What the bloody hell do you want?" he hissed into the receiver, not caring how ruthless he sounded.
A hurt sounding France spoke. "You took his memory, didn't you?"
England stared off at nothing in particular, pressing his lips together in a thin line. "And why do you care?" England asked, his hand holding the phone hard enough to make his knuckles go white. He didn't want to talk about this. He didn't want to talk about anything.
"Even though we may not get along all the time," France said, his voice for once sounding somewhat serious, "we are still friends. I do care about your wellbeing."
His hand loosened on the phone, letting a frustrated sigh out. He really had to be feeling terrible to feel guilty about being rude to France. "Sorry," he said, shoving his hair out of his face. "I'm just… I'm really tempted to just kill myself right now to be honest."
A pause held them for a second, feeling like a literal chill between them. "Angleterre," France said, his voice cautious. "Again, I know we don't get along, but do you want me to come over so you could talk?"
"No," England responded without a second thought. "No, I don't want to talk about it. It will just make me feel worse."
France once again paused, England actually surprised by his silence—since when did France learn how to shut up? "Well, Angleterre," he said, his voice now having an edge of mischief. "What would you say if I were outside your door right now with some drinks? Would you talk to me then?"
England paused as he took the phone from his ear and stared at it. What? Quickly, he ran to his window that had a view of his front door. An evil glare on his face, he put the phone back to his ear. "Why the bloody hell are you at my house, damn bloody frog!" He could hear France give obnoxious laughter as England continued to let out a huge string of profanities.
Curses! Memories?
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