Title: When Worlds Collide

Pairing: USUK

Summary: "If you don't love England much," America said quietly, with a quiver, yet awfully honest and desperate and in love, "Can I take your place?"

Note: Angst. Angst everywhere.

X

2054, World A

He should have loved him right when he had the chance.

This was not a new thought for America and for the past decades or so, this had been a constant company. That deep-seated sourness of regret. It gnaws on him, scratches his skin, and positively makes him blue all the time he thought of his woes.

He should have loved England right when the man still loves him too. And maybe it would have been different—it would have been a big love affair, just the two of them against the whole wide world and everybody would have been jealous because they won't ever experience the same thing that was between them. It would have been perfect.

But he did not.

So, he sat at the head of the table, pretending to listen to whatever Germany is saying. It's been decades but he still lets his blue eyes stray where the British nation was.

And it's all the same thing, the same way it was since thirty years prior, the same England and Japan and their big love affair that everybody is jealous of and still no America in it.

England stared at Japan with the gentleness only love could muster.

And by God, how America wishes England would love him again.

He knew he should have loved him right when he had the chance.

X

He hesitated, fingers wrapping tightly around the hot cup of tea, feet shuffling from left to right. He was in front of England's door and he hears talking inside, almost like soft sweet nothings and lullabies.

Against his better judgment, he knocks, a light rapping that silent the murmurs inside.

He met green eyes when the door opens. They widen for a bit before they settle into a familiar politeness that never had set well with him. It throws him back to the time when he asked why he was being polite to him and the Brit merely answered that charming darling Japan wished him so.

He thinks it was bullshit. Well, he also thinks their relationship is bullshit. Most of all, America thinks he, himself, is the shittiest bull of the world.

"America," England said, surprised, and a little bit guarded. His shoulders slump in the tone the Brit used. Cool. Detached. And not at all in love. "What are you doing here?"

Because…

"I brought you tea." He presents the tea like a man presenting a rose. His palms are burnt by the hotness of the surface but he ignored it, delighting in the fact that the mere gift lit the peridots of the man in front of him. England took it carefully from him and for a second, their hands touch and it's the little thing that he treasured most.

Pathetic.

Just because…

"Oh? Thank you? Why?"

Just because I still…

"I just want to." He laughs weakly, turning around in haste, and running down the hall he came from. Missing the way England frowned knowingly. He doesn't look back until he heard the closing of door. A glance was thrown to the schism between them and it's as if all the memories were painted on them, especially the bad ones that remind him of why there's a division in the first place.

I…

The walls of the hotel are gray, much like his mood, and they don't do much to uplift his spirit, just bring him down more. Gray is the color of the ashes that represents the love England had offered. Just hopelessly, irrevocably, miserably gone. And he was the fire that burns it so, childishly so, unkindly so, tragically so.

"America?"

He doesn't move from his position even as Tony put a hand on his head. He sat leaning on the door, head buried on his arms that hugged his knees to his chest. He felt the rapid thump-thump of his heart, felt it twist, felt it break.

And then he let his tears free.

It had been way too long since he last cried, a month maybe. It felt good, felt right somehow. He felt naked, felt broken, felt wretched all in the same time. But it wasn't enough to let a sob out, he kept it in, kept it quiet lest he wanted to be dubbed weak.

"You went to the bastard, didn't ya? Fuckin' idiot." The accusation was pungent with a bitter tang. It rang so tauntingly within the silent walls that it might as well echoed throughout the hotel.

"I miss… him." He said with a cracking tone, "It's been months since I talk to him, you know, Tony? And I thought it will be okay—I will be okay. But I love him so much. Still. Forever so. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts."

What he want to say, what he want to articulate simply is that even now he is still not okay. Not yet. Maybe, not ever. And oh God, why did he let him go?

"I'm so tired, Tony… so tired…" He says in a ruined mess, "I just want to… have England again, is that so bad?"

He mumbles on in broken sentences, in sad paragraphs, in unfinished chapters about how much he loves and needs and wants England still, about how he wishes he didn't took him for granted, about how he longs for the Brit's touches, about how he wishes it was him England still love, about the many regrets that accumulated over the many years that pass since England stop loving him.

And he goes on for many minutes, for many hours. Tony doesn't say anything because he was used to nights like this one, only with much sobbing and breaking things and lots and lots of sad love songs blaring from the American's playlist.

The alien sighed quietly when the rush murmurs quieten into a sigh of sleep. He picked his friend up and put him to bed, patting his head gently albeit awkwardly. It had been a long time since he saw him happy, way, way too long.

"Fuckin' Americans. Fuckin' limey bastards. Fuckin' love."

He frowned before giving into the humanized part of the organ that kept him alive and decided that it was just about time that America should be happy again.

X

2016, World B

America woke up with a start as he found himself facing the bright blue sky. He was lying on the cold hard stone of a rooftop he knew all too well. For a minute, he thought it not strange, sleep-muddled, he rolled to his side to block the persistent light. But when the concrete becomes unbearably hot, he immediately sat up with a yelp.

"Wha…?" He said, rubbing the sleep away from his system. The surrounding was unbelievably familiar that it did not cause him to panic much. The rooftop he was in was a beautiful garden that offers shade but unfortunately he was placed far from such trees and more likely in the very middle.

He was in the old conference building in Paris they had not used for two decades now.

"What am I doing here?" America scratched his head in confusion before letting his hand fall to his thigh and that's when he noticed a simple note written messily attached to said limb. Tony's handwriting.

America,

I cannot send you to the past to correct your errors. But you are somewhere in a world with much closer history like yours. Make the right choices.

-Tony

He should have been panicking by now or even furious at the alien for making such rush decision. Even worried. But to be in love for so long, to be deeply in regret for such period, one is bound to search for hope that maybe, one day, somehow, it will get better. Perhaps, it was that thought that calmed him down most—the hope shadowing the panic and confusion.

"Alternate universe, huh?" America sighed with a smile, the tired look he now wore fading from his face, a bubble of hope popping in his chest minutely with the new information.

His fellow nations had once noticed the change in his attitude one day and told him he felt more mature than ever before, more adult-like and it's the most pleasant change. France had asked why the sudden change and he only answered that it was about time.

But truthfully, he wanted to reply to him that he hated his childish persona, the one that had let himself lose someone irreplaceable. Honestly, when someone broke your heart, you get a little bit mature for each piece that shattered. He guessed it was for the best.

So being informed to such sudden travel, he wasn't the least bit immature—he might go so far to be quite grateful. Really grateful.

America crumpled the note in his hand and stood up.

It was amazing how much the building was alike that of his home world, he observed as he climbed down the rooftop and into the inside of the building. Everything about it was identical, even its warm atmosphere that he thought that Tony was just messing with him. He looks around the same hallway of the 28th floor they usually held the conference.

It was the same thing, too alike it's both nostalgic and uncanny.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not hear the call of his human name until he was tapped by the shoulder gently and he was forced out of his musings.

"Alfred-kun." He turns to see Japan waving at him with a small smile and his eyes automatically strayed to his right where England was usually at. Empty.

"Where's England?" America asked guardedly, the bitter feeling towards the Japanese nation rise up his throat and out of his tongue. Japan slightly frowned at the tone of his voice but replied anyway, "I'm not sure where Arthur-san is, Alfred-kun. I thought he was searching for you."

"For me?" He perked up, surprised. Japan tilts his head, "Hai. He said he prepared a lunch? I think it's for you."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Did he cook you lunch?" It was spite, he knew, but he couldn't help it. Japan shook his head, "I believe it's specifically just for you."

"Aren't you his lover?" A forward question that caught the slight man off guard, red rising to his cheeks while he profusely shakes his head, "What are you talking about? We're just friends, Alfred-kun."

The building was a familiar little thing, even the warmth it gives off was the same atmosphere he had felt when they had used this for every time they met in Paris, and for a moment he thought Tony was messing with him. But if Japan and England weren't together, then Tony is the most awesome friend in the universe.

"Oh. I… uh… I gotta go find England." America said with a sense of finality, a grin breaking so widely in his face, running past the confused flustered man. It wasn't long before he heard shouting inside the room they held their meetings.

It was England.

"What did you say?" It was an angry snarl accommodated by a blazing green. Arthur was beyond mad at this point but Alfred merely flicks a wrist, unperturbed by the sudden change of the older man's tone like he had been subjected to it too many times before that he had grown immune.

He was about to enter when he heard another voice. Himself. And it was full of harsh amusement that he wanted to punch himself. Such a cruel man, that he is.

"Like feeer reals, Iggs." Alfred started casually with a roll of his eyes, "Don'cha think you're being unreasonable?"

Stop. Stop saying that to him.

"Me? Unreasonable?" Arthur sounded mockingly surprise for a minute before he took an angry cat disposition once more, "You're the one being unreasonable! You're being a stupid good-for-nothing insolent little child with a penchant of ruining things. You are being… you know what. Fuck it. Fuck you. I don't bloody need this. I don't bloody need any of this, especially your offensive running commentary about how awful my food is even though it is not. Next time, I'm not making you any, you stupid ungrateful twat."

No. Please. Don't do that. I want you to still cook for me. Please. Please. Please.

"See what I mean?" Alfred preened at the surrender, "I just didn't eat your poisonous lunch and you flip out on me. You're being unreasonable."

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

"Shut up." Arthur winces at the insult, a hurt look flashing his face.

"Just the smell is enough to kill you."

Shut up. Shut up. You don't mean that, stupid. Shut up. Shut up. Just shut up.

"I said shut up."

"And if you get pass the smell, the look would do you good and dig you a grave." Alfred continued rapidly, not noticing the dejection clear in the emeralds of his former caretaker, "I mean who would want to eat such dangerous things?"

I would. Forever and ever and ever. I would.

"I would."

The identical voice of Alfred slices through the thickening atmosphere in the almost empty conference room. It was enough to cut Alfred's tyrant rumbling, enough to make Arthur turn around and take a double look, enough to stun the two into a wordless stupor.

America stops, feeling the sudden eyes on him. He didn't mean to say that out loud. But England's eyes are on him, staring at him with such emotions he did not direct on him anymore—a mixture of so many feelings, blazing, burning, and far from such fake politeness he exhibits towards him for years. He fully opened the door and stepped in, longingly staring at the British nation.

"What…?"

America smiled at Arthur. Something about the smile made the Brit want to embrace the man tightly and tell him reassuring words that would make him stop smiling like that. And he almost does, except he was frozen and confused and still hurt from the previous commentary so he doesn't move an inch.

"WHOA! You! You look like me!" It was Alfred who composed himself first, finding it hard to do so but trying the best he can. The doppelganger ignored him, walking calmly towards the table that Alfred had abandoned, reaching for the burnt scones within the Tupperware, and biting.

America couldn't help but smile at the tastelessness of it. He took another bite and then another and when the first one is gone, he took another and another and another until there was none left. He consumed them all like a starved man eating for the first time in years because they were the taste he couldn't eat anymore and he missed it, missed them stuffing his throat so drily. It was England's cooking, after all, and he loved it to bits.

Arthur stared blankly at the consumption of his scones in disbelief.

"It's perfect, England. It's just the way I liked it. Thank you for the meal."

"Hey! Don't ignore the hero! You look so much like me. Are you Matthew playing a trick again?" Alfred stomped his feet, feeling unimportant for being ignored. Blue eyes look at him. It was so identical, all the specks and all the hues, yet so strangely different, more mature, more jaded, much more than him.

"Who are you?" Arthur finally found his voice because it couldn't have been the sweet Canadian standing in front of them, the eyes are too blue to be his, "How did you get here?"

America merely smiled more before all too suddenly the water broke from the man's eyes and they flow solidly down sickly pale cheeks, a much lighter color than Alfred's sun-kissed one.

And all too suddenly, he was wrapped up in America's arms and he can hear the man's thump-thump beating, hear it in broken vowels, in damaged letters, hear it like it had been broken for far too long, his heart.

But Arthur dismisses this. For all he knows, he's just romanticizing things again. He was quite known to be the poet, after all. And yet, there was nothing in the world that can describe the man's racing heartbeat anything other than ruined.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, England. Please forgive me. I love you. I love you. I love you."

The warmth left him quickly as Alfred yanked him from the tight grip with an indignant protest, pushing the man away. Arthur stared quietly at the bawling man and hears him repeat himself over and over again. And something about his words felt so sincere, so desperate, so utterly devastated that he doesn't register his own tears falling, sympathetic.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, England. Please forgive me. I love you. I love you. I love you."

TBC…

So, basically, Tony sent America to a different world which is pretty much the same one as theirs, with the same turn of events, only that he was back to the day in which he began making bad choices one after the other until England had gotten so fed up.

The scenario is like a dating game in which you make choices. America of World A made wrong choices and Alfred of World B is like the reset of the game and he was just about to make those choices.

And I'm a twisted author with a penchant for sad little things.

Oh, and please review. Thank you!