A one-shot with England and America this time. I hope you like it.

The concept of being fine

Alfred looked at the man in front of the counter. They were in his, the man's, kitchen, in his Victorian house in the calmer district of London. He looked at him with concern in his eyes. Once he had looked at Arthur with pride and love: thinking he was the best person in the world. Now he was sure that all Arthur could see when he looked him in the eyes were concern and sadness, and god know: Arthur didn't need that. What he needed was a strong hero to be there, certain that he was fine like he said he was, and who could be in his kitchen without concern in his eyes as he watched the man making some tea; like he always did.

Alfred turned his gaze to the cup he held in his hands, the black coffee staring back at him.

"America" he heard Arthur voice, he lifted his gaze again and forced a small smile, before he didn't have to force it. Because that was one of those things Arthur needed.

"Mm" he could almost hear Arthur take a deep breath. This isn't something that they talked about, they shouldn't talk about it either. No one should even mention it; among them, the nations, it was too personal to let anyone else know.

"I'm fine, Alfred. Really" The thing was; usually when he said his human name it was to convince him. It was starting to not work anymore.

Sometimes he wonders if Arthur is aware of the lies he tells, because he seems to believe them; especially when he says it like that. It was easier to just shove it off when he was drunk or angry, it was easier to not listen to his argument about being fine when he shouted. But when he said it like that with a calm voice and a tired face, it was like he had given up trying to get America to understand something that he would never understand. Like he, not Arthur, was the insane one. When he said it like that, one could almost sense how not fine he was.

"Yeah, of course you are, England." And he smiled that big, shiny smile of his, and he was rewarded with a small smile and a tap on his shoulder as Arthur left the room. In the end, there is nothing else to say.

Arthur is not the only one. There was Russia for example, and that creepy sister of him. And the Nordics; they had always acted, well not normal exactly but still, around him but Alfred was sure that there was something messed up with them. Except maybe Finland, he was the only one who did not scare the crap out of the other nations. Of course, Denmark didn't scare them at least not on purpose, but the other Nordics was the only ones who put up with him.

But Alfred only cared about Arthur, who talked to fairies and had mayor mood swings which he seemed to not remember or at least not give a damn about. He seemed to have something bothering him all the time also.

It was not depression, at least he didn't think it was. Arthur didn't act like this when he was depressed. Sometimes he explains it with that every little thing happening to him had just been building up inside Arthur and something made him snap. Maybe they all had it like that, but different ways to deal with it. Like complain about everything like South Italy, being extra cheerful like Spain or with sex like France.

And some people break. Like Russia and that sister of his or the Nordics...or like England. What he didn't like with that thought was that it meant that they could all break, even he, and the guilt it brought; because Arthur hadn't always been like this.

It had started during the Second World War with tiredness, from the night he couldn't sleep because of a burning fire roaming in his body and the end-less days where he had to do something all the time to get through it all and it had developed from that; slowly losing his sanity.

Once he had heard that the lack of sleep was enough to mess with people's mental health. That and the huge hit against the just as huge ego of the man.

He didn't regret waiting so long to help him in the war. After all, it was his people choice to join, and he respected and would always follow them, no matter how frustrated it could get. But when he sees what it may have done to his former brother, he can't help but to feel guilty.

"What's on your mind?" Arthur takes his eyes of the puzzle to look at him. He had once again come for a visit out of boredom.

"Oh, nothing. Work, ya' know" and he smiles to hide the embarrassment. He feels like he got busted from doing something forbidden.

"Oh, right." Arthur turned back to the puzzle. Because they both knew what Alfred had been thinking of. "I'm fine, you know?"

"Mm, yeah" Alfred looks down. "Of course you are." In the end, there is nothing else to say.

One does not be happy to be fine. Fine is not always all positive feelings round up into one. It is one positive feeling or just a few of them, and a few negatives ones. Or just the absent of the negative ones. So, in theory, Arthur was fine.

But not in the way Alfred wanted him to be. Not when it came to his mental health.

Every time Arthur didn't opened the door Alfred had to let himself in, and every time he stops breathing. Once, not so long ago actually, he found the house empty at first. The lights were on, but he couldn't find Arthur. And when he did he wishes that he hadn't.

It was the first time he really understood how bad Arthur was, how far he would go. He heard his voice, he had been in the living room when he heard it; two harsh words. He followed them to the kitchen to find Arthur sitting there, in his green uniform pants and half ripped open white shirt: the bowl of red water and a white towel with large pink dots on it in front of him. His arms on his knees and his head on his arms, with the bloody knife under him. But America didn't see the knife, what he saw were the cuts on England's wrists, on his arms and the ones that were still bleeding.

In horror, he had been standing there; staring at him. England had lifted his head, been unable to focus his gaze until America moved closer, ever so slowly; as if he was afraid that if he moved to fast England would freak and hurt himself even more.

"Ah, America!" Arthur had said. "What are you doing here? Haven't I told you to call and let me know before coming over?" Words that he, according to Alfred; would never say in any normal situation. And then he rose from the floor, his legs shaking a little. From blood loss, maybe?

"What are you doing to your self?" It was barely a whisper. England managed to hear him, but he didn't seem to catch on.

"What are you talking about?" Alfred had just stared at him, and completely out of words; he just pointed at the wounds. Arthur looked down and at once he seemed tired and sad.

"Oh, those" he sad in a small voice; Alfred had helped him with bandage that night. That night, when Arthur looked at the window and Alfred caught a glimpse of the emotions running his eyes in the windows reflection, a flash of raw insanity that made him understand how far gone Arthur really was. "It's nothing, I'm just… I'm fine."

But this time, this one time, Alfred just shook his head. He wanted to say something, but he didn't know what; he wasn't even sure if it was in his place to say something. Even he knew to follow the unwritten law the nations seems to follow. "Yeah…no" slipped from his lips. In the end, there is nothing else to say.

America didn't understand, he tried to, and he was, to be honest, doing some small successes. But it wasn't enough. And sometimes he truly was fine. He never listened to when others called him crazy, or insane for that matter. He had seen them all in their worse state. Hungry for power, love and money; they had done things far worse then the things they are afraid he will do. If he took time to think about it, he will probably find one time when he had done the things already. Existence, it's a funny thing, isn't it? What seems important today will be forgotten tomorrow. War, politics and religion, sometimes he thinks it's the same thing; once it was. So far that was all America could understand of the way England seemed to think.

America was right about him being an old man. Not in human years, he was only twenty-something for them. America was, like what, 400 years in total, and he was around five times as old. Maybe he was right about him being insane too? Probably not, but since the Second World War, he had felt some of his thoughts and memories were slipping through his mind. He had no control over it. Was it like this for Russia too?

He could find himself sitting there, being social and polite, and the next thing he knew he was acting like a sociopath. France thought it was just a phase, and England really wanted that to be true.

He wasn't crazy, Norway could see them too. They weren't dangerous; they were fairies for god's sake. And they always stayed with him, no matter what. They had seen him in his worse, he had been mean and he had shouted at them. They always came back to him, because they like him.

America left for this time; he'll be back soon probably. It always ended with that little conversation, where he said that he was fine, and Alfred wouldn't believe him. America is gone now, but he is still standing in the door way, looking after him. He don't want him to go away, he feels like that boy is the only thing keeping him safe. Ridiculous thought, actually; it wasn't like he was in any danger, but he couldn't shake it away.

Once the fairies said they would take him flying, and they had. He had always preferred the sea, and it would be a good opportunity to see what it was America liked so much about the sky. He still doesn't know how the fairies lifted him up, it must be by magic. Flying made you feel so easy, so free, with the wind blowing under you. Like literary walking on sunshine.

"Let's take him skydiving!" a fairy had said.

"It's fun" another one said, right above his ear. "Please let us take you, England?"

Amazed by the feeling of pure happiness he nodded, smiling. They had ended up on a cliff he found very familiar, the withe cliffs. He used to jump down into the water here when he was a child.

"Just run, we'll catch you. You can feel the water" one of them said. So he runs. America doesn't know, but he has saved him before. He was running towards freedom when America decided to call, one of the few times he did let him know he was coming for a visit, and England found himself on the roof, ready to jump face down on the pavement. During the conversation he found his way down and curled up to a ball on his bed with the mantra "I'm not crazy, I'm not mad" running through his head. America must have noticed, he found him like that.

"Are you okay, England?" a purple little creature asks him. She looked over his shoulder to see what he's looking at.

"You're not sad, right?" a green one on his head asks him.

"I'm quite alright, thank you." He says. "I'm fine."

And he was really; there were nothing wrong with him. Fairies did exist, others were too stupid to see them, and yes his mind played tricks on him; but that's nothing the other nations doesn't go through sometimes. He was completely, perfectly fine, no matter what everybody else thought.

He closed the door, and a feeling of loneliness washed over him. He didn't know why or what it resembled. But it always came as soon as he closed the door after someone had visited him. In his house he was cut off from the reality, in here he had his own world. No one would ever understand.

He never saw the possessive side of his "friends", how they were slowly driving him to hurt himself without him knowing. As purple, green, blue and the other colors of the rainbow followed him; he never saw the shadows, the creatures waiting for their turn. To make them selves visible for him, to have their way with him.

And he truly believed he was fine, he wasn't insane. It was just that; he couldn't deny that he wasn't sane either.

Evil little fairies, why you might wonder; simple, in Swedish folklore, fairies were some magical creatures you should not disturbe or mix with, they weren't so nice.

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