Arthur Kirkland's Problem

Chapter Seven:

I don't own Hetalia, or any of the characters I use. That right belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I also don't own the picture for this story- this right belongs to someone I don't know. If this picture is yours, I'll give you personal credit!

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               Recap: Punk, 16-year-old-looking England.

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              America wanted to jump out and cry in Arthur's shoulder, but he forced himself crouch on the side of the house, out of sight,  and think things through. He couldn't just take Arthur away from his adopted parents without teling them; that would be kidnapping and that would be illegal. Heroes don't do illegal. But at that moment, America wanted to foget about being a hero and just go to his former boss.

                He knew that he wouldn't be able to control himself much longer, so he came up with a plan; he would call Germany, get back-up, and explain the situation to England's adopted parents. Worst case scenario, they were forced to wait until Arthur was 18 until they did the spell. 

                  He watched, barely able to control himself, as the black SUV containing England pulled out of the drive-way and left, driving down the road and turning a corner. He pulled out his phone and called Germany. He answered on the first ring.

                 "Ja?"

                "Germany?" America sucked in a tight breath. "I found him. England."

                Germany paused, obviously hearing the strain in America's voice. "Vou did good contacting me before making a move. Vhere are vou?"

                "1740 Mage's Staff Drive." America ground out through gritted teeth.

               "Okay. Ve vill be there as zoon as possible. But, America..."

               "What?" he snapped.

              "I vunderstand vhat zis means to vou. I... I vould veel ze same vay if Italy vere to go missing. But vou can not act rashly. If vou do somevhing, even someving as small as letting Arthur see vou-"

             "It's England. His name is not Arthur." America growled.

          "...Okay, letting England zee vou, vou could und probaly vould do more harm zhan good. Do NOT make a move until I get zhere." he hung up.

            America felt pressure build up in him. He was the one that cared the most, by far. When England had left, he couldn't sleep for weeks. The other countries eventually had to fight him, trying to put a sedative in him so his body wouldn't give out. He was creaming them; the only reason they had won was because he was weakened and he didn't see Canada sneak up on him. He punched the ground, creating an arm-sized hole in said ground. As if on cue, the skies decided to let rain fall freely then, drenching America in a matter of seconds; the weather was tied to his mood, after all. Lightning and thunder rolled louder than ever before, pounding in America's ears, leaving ringing afterwords.

            He managed to control himself, bottling everything up like usual. He forced a grin, as he had been doing since England left, and sat down on the porch of Arthur's house. He laughed, but it was in pity for himself rather than joy.