Okay, so another new story I've had in my notebook. This one will later on have some more triggering topics, you've been warned. The whole thing is just angst, with very slight breaks of normality in between at some points. Ends in a bit of fluff though, so there's that.

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A moment's decision could change a lifetime. That's all it took. Had it gone differently, had the trigger been pulled, perhaps circumstances would be better. So one would think, as in a situation with two choices, there would be two outcomes; One good, one bad.

One would not expect both to have disastrous outcomes.

Had it been your choice, what would you have done?

Would you have surrendered, lost a vast, resourceful land and had your younger brother that you devoted your life to raising leave you all alone, or would you have pulled the trigger, killing said younger brother but keeping the land? Would you have been able to pull the trigger in the first place? 

A certain Arthur Kirkland, better known to some as England, was not. He was now paying the devil of a price for it. As he knelt on the wet ground, the rain soaking him from head to toe, sobbing his heart out, not once did any regard for his own safety cross his mind, as it was too filled with interclashing thoughts concerning the events that had just occurred moments ago.

Alfred F. Jones, better known to some as America, was facing him, an army of men with cocked guns behind him, and he had given him that very bloody decision he had dreaded from the very beginning. And he had surrendered. This was it.

He had lost in many aspects, not simply this war. But old memories overlapped on this, memories he would have never thought he would come to loathe. Memories of any good moment he had spent with America. And they broke him even further. 

It was pathetic, he had lost so many colonies before. Yet each time it tore him apart just a tad further until it was too much for even the strongest person to handle.

A voice in the back of his mind was continuously telling him to get up and get over it. It was what it was, no changing it. But he simply couldn't, both physically and mentally. 

He didn't know how long he knelt in the pouring rain alone, hacking up blood and bawling his eyes out before his sobs reduced to whimpers and his hands were covered in scarlet. Before he was no longer aware of anything real. Before black spots danced in his vision, then took over completely.

Before he, in simpler words, passed out.

The next time England opened his eyes, he instantly shut them again, the sunlight blinding. A stifled groan escaped his lips as he shifted slightly. Oddly enough, the ground was soft and comfortable. His next thought was he probably wasn't on the ground any longer.

He cracked open one eye just a smidge and took in his surroundings. As his gaze travelled over the glass tables, rose vases, peach walls, wooden floors and a painting of the French countryside, it him like a freight train where was; France's house.

This just couldn't get any worse, could it?

There he was wrong, for at that very moment, the Frenchman himself walked in through the doorway. "Oh, Angleterre! You are awake! How do you feel?" That just about did it.

Suddenly energized by rage, he leapt up, advancing on a surprised, retreating France. "You bloody two-faced frog! You first go and help him claim victory over me, then you go to such lengths to assist me, as though nothing ever happened! If you're going to be my enemy, at least do it properly!"

With that, he stormed out of the house, leaving France stunned at the sudden outburst. It was still bloody raining. England wouldn't usually mind it, but this time was different. 

He hated the sun, he hated the rain, he hated that he was wearing Frances's clothes, he hated that France hadn't left him to die in the rain, he hated that he surrendered, he hated everyone and everything, and most of all...

He loathed himself, for all his stupid choices and decisions.

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Enough angst to kick off the first chapter?