England wasn't aware where he was headed, nor where he was to begin with. He walked, or rather, ran, into a person who grabbed his shoulders, stopping him. He mumbled an apology and tried to move, but the grip was firm. "Are you okay, mister?" asked the person, twice, as he hadn't heard them the first time. Now that the Brit focused on them, he saw a lovely lady of perhaps twenty-five, a dark blonde, tanned, with chocolate brown eyes, and likely Texan, judging by the accent. That meant he was probably still in America. 

He nodded and forced a pained and smile. "Thank you for asking, love." His voice was raspy from yelling being the first sound he emitted since he woke up. She didn't seem convinced. "Are you certain?" He nodded again. "Just... One question, if I may. Where am I?" He hoped he didn't sound mad. "Austin." She replied. 

"Most grateful, love."

"You sure you don't want a doctor?"

"No, thank you." England smiled again and walked off, his smile dropping instantly. Did he really look so terrible? He looked at his reflection in a store window he passed to check; His expression was gaunt, his face was oddly flushed, he had a few bruises and cuts as a result of the war, as well as red rimmed eyes, which was what bothered him the most, it was a sign of weakness. The realization that he was shivering violently only just hit him, so he was likely running a fever due to being in the heavy rain for so long.

Scanning his surroundings, his eyes landed on an abandoned alleyway. Perfect. He walked into it, took a deep breath, then proceeding to shut his eyes and praying this would work. When he opened his eyes again, a breath of relief left his lips. He had managed to safely teleport to one of his houses in England. 

He instantly rushed to his room and changed into one of his own pair of trousers and a sweater, getting rid of France's clothes, which were much too big for him anyway. His sentiment was telling him he should be kinder to France, for he had rather saved his life, but his controlling rage had other thoughts. It thought that bloody frog shouldn't have been so peckish.

On the other hand, his quiet sorrow whispered that it may have been better had France left him to die. 

Ignoring all those interclashing emotions, he went to make himself tea, that always improved matters. It would certainly be of assistance with his fever. Pouring himself a cup of Earl Grey, he sat on his couch with a book. Actually, a few books. He wouldn't let the matter of the war bother him any further.

Yet it was constantly at the back of his mind, pestering him as he attempted to bury himself in a book. After half an hour, he gave up. He sighed heavily and let his head drop into his hands. He should be happy and proud of America, for he had always wished for him to become a powerful nation. 

So why did he find himself falling into a spiraling pit of depression instead?