Forced Betrayal (A RusAme fanfic)

Chapter I: Dying Love- Act I: Love Drunk

"I used to be love drunk, but now I'm hungover." 

America chuckles darkly, he was sitting against the hallway of his family's small attic. Out of all the people that existed in the world, why did Russia, out of all people, had to be the one to let him down? All he could perceive was ringing, he was sobbing profusely, his breathing interrupted by hiccups and ugly cries. His hands kept wiping at his cheeks, trying to stop them from pouring, but they did, relentlessly and painfully. He was just full on bawling at that point.

His pain wasn't heavy and instant, it was long winded and dragged out. Every breath, every tear, just felt a little worse than the last one. And the feeling of not being good enough, of being useless. He was tired of it. America was done with all of it. Why can't it all go away? Why can't everyone just all go away? 

America honestly thought Russia was the one, but to him, apparently they were already done.  Russia had been someone he adored, something so endearing to him, that Ame loved more than anyone. But who really knows America anyways? Who is he? What does he have to loose? Suddenly, America really hated Russia. People, in general, somehow seem to annoy him so much. He was so needy, and grating, and annoying, and wanting and- and- and-

"America.." The caring, calm and collected voice of his mother broke away at his train of thought. He was a bit taken aback, and then he forgot, and suddenly it didn't matter anymore then he didn't care. France had said she was going on a business trip and wouldn't be back until the end of the year. He was fine with that usually.

No he wasn't, he wanted his mother to be around him a bit more.

He was fine, people ignore you until they need you all the time.

France is your mother. She should be there for you. 

I have my father. 

It's okay. 

(Lie.)

America was fine. 

(That isn't true.)

He had every right to be upset. As France creaked open the door and entered, America just broke down even further. In broken sobs, he let out a jumbled explanation of what had happened earlier. He was so tired, America was beyond exhausted, everything was like melting away. So all he could do was let out a croaked, pained laugh. A smile more like a cry. 

France came to his side, gentle as always, America's eyes were swarmed with tears. He rested on her lap as he wailed out all of the pent up pain. He had seen enough, too much even. 

He had received warnings before from his friends, to not get involved with Russia because of the people he surrounds himself with. America ignored all of his red flags. He thought Russia had went back to his old ways, he really thought he could make him fall in love. 

Because Russia had that thing, that pulled America in. That touch of him that was just so irresistible. His white locks, boyish smile, his eyes. The way he touched America, the way he pulled him in by the waist, the way he smelled, the way his fingertips tapped on his shoulder ever so lightly from time to time when he needed to get his attention.

He did not want to give up on the person he loved, but their worlds just collided, they were too different, and it was impossible for them to love eachother in peace. There was no way America could ever be the same after this. He struggled to come to terms with the fact that the person he had loved no longer existed inside inside of the body that he stared at everyday. It was difficult to wrap his head around it, it takes a while to believe. And even then, does he even want to believe it? 

Something was wrong. America knew that the moment Russia watched him cry inconsolably, over something he had done and he didn't even flinch. Russia didn't attempt to apologize. He was cold and hard as the stone pavement they were on, admist his crying, Russia was unmoving. Nor was he remorseful.