England swore bitterly, thinking of pouring himself more tea in another futile attempt to forget the looming depression, then decided against it, and instead took out his violin from it's case. He began to play a melancholic tune, matching the broil of emotions inside him perfectly. He lost himself in playing, as he always did. It was the one thing that never failed. He would play for hours on end, not even noticing the ache in his arms, eyes shut, until he would walk into a wall or a piece of furniture. Nothing different happened this time.

And so he spent the coming few days; Reading, drinking tea, and playing, and he had almost succeeded in driving all thoughts of the American Revolution from his mind. Up until a world meeting, which was luckily in London. He had reconstructed his perfect demeanor, and was in gay (HAPPY, IT MEANS HAPPY, GET YOUR MINDS OUTTA THE GUTTER) spirits as he entered the conference room. 

Until the very moment when he, America, entered as well. The other nations congratulated him on his independence as England's façade threatened to shatter there and then. Him and America didn't acknowledge each other's presence, which, not that England would admit, hurt slightly, but no matter.

The other nation kept eyeing the two cautiously throughout the meeting, which only increased the tensions. France was constantly sending odd stares from across the table to England that were particularly difficult to ignore. After a good ten minutes of this, he snapped. "Bloody what?" He seethed through gritted teeth, interrupting Russia, and act he wouldn't normally commit. "Non, nothing." France replied just a tad too quick.

Russia was now staring at England incredulously, who was slowly burning a sheet of paper with his bare hands without realizing it. "What? Carry on." England said as the room fell silent. Russia slowly turned back around, his eyebrows raised high as he cleared his throat and continued. 

England was drumming on the table nervously, unaware he was leaving finger shaped scorch marks. It was getting too much for him, and his magic was acting out in turn. Not only did the meeting seem to drag on, and not only were everyone sparing him perplexed glances, but also, the seating had changed throughout the meeting so he was now sat next to America. 

Frankly not caring what China was saying or how disrespectful it was, England stood up and left, walking back home, mind blank. Once he shut his front door, however, his mind was instantaneously filled with thoughts in an awful rush. He shut his eyes, hoping to clear his mind slightly at the very least. The attempt being in vain, he rubbed his temples, and opened his eyes. He stayed where he was, silently willing his thoughts to slow. They did eventually, and only then did he step forward. 

Looking to his left, he saw one of his fey friends, Rose. Her and some other fey were all he actually had right now, but he tried not to think about that. "Well? Are you just going to ignore me?" Rosetta asked, sounding a little frustrated. Going into the kitchen to make himself tea, he replied simply with a "maybe." 

The fey crossed her arms. "You're going to die of tea poisoning." She noted, and he smiled, actually smiled, and said: "That's not possible." "It's not supposed to be, but you're a special case with the amount you consume daily." She shot back, and he rolled his eyes good naturedly.

"So, is everything alright here?" She asked, and he nodded. 

"Certain?"

"Yes."

"If so, I'll take my leave now, I'm rather busy and only dropped by to check in." With that, she disappeared. Had anyone seen or heard the conversation, they would have thought England mad, for it really seemed as though he was conversing with the air.

After her leave, he sighed heavily. He was mentally exhausted, but he knew full well he would not be able to rest. Not yet. He had to be physically exhausted as well. Yet, when the time came, slumber did not. He paced about, hoping it would help, but in vain.

Well then, perhaps he would tire out eventually and fall asleep. It seemed like the best option, and probably the only one he had anyhow. If he didn't sleep, well... It was still only one night. Wouldn't it be lovely if he was wrong?

In that sense, you could say England had a lovely week.

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Okay, so trigger warning for the next chapter.