A Balance Failed

Chapter One

It had become a fact in the micronations' life that to be noticed, you had to go big. If you wanted to be acknowledged, you had to show that you were there and what you wanted. You had to work to get people's attention, then work to keep it. You had to be a showman
But you also had to be a gentleman. Subtle. Affable. You had to go big, but you couldn't shove yourself into anyone either. Be easy to listen to.
There was a balance. A balance that got easier to keep over time; easier with practice.
A balance, Sealand thought, that most people don't really get
Sealand stared into the brook, thick with dead plants and slush, as it ran under the hill, disappearing under a cluster of branches and brush.
The hill was his place. His place. He was sure England knew about it, but he doubted he cared about it much. It was a small hill, just on the outskirts of the wood, outside the garden England cared so much about.
It was outside of England's life. Unknown, or at least ignored, by everyone. Sealand grinned bitterly. He had a few things in common with the hill.
England's garden, even in winter, was alive. It was taken care of. It caught people's attention with sweet scents and colorful flowers and cleverly trimmed hedges.
The garden went big.
Sealand liked it, of course he did, it was a beautiful garden. But at the same time, it annoyed him. There was nothing new to it. It was always the same flowers, the same hedges, the same sweet scents every year. He would look at it, wanting to see something different, but would instead see the same things he always saw.
The garden put itself out there. It wasn't subtle at all, and so had nothing to hide.
But his hill was different. It was quiet and brown, and you could always hear the bubbling of the brook that ran right beneath it that refused to freeze in winter, and slush would run down, taking whatever was in said slush with it into the brook.
There were tiny animals and plants everywhere, but only if you hunted them out. Otherwise they hid away from view, and you could only hear them or see what they left behind.
The hill was subtle. It was often overlooked.
Sealand had often heard China say that nature was balanced. It was perfect the way it was. But it didn't seem very balanced.
Most things were either boring to look at or hard to see at all.
He pulled his sweater closer. It had gotten colder since he had been out, but he had only brought the sweater. He wished he had brought a scarf, or some gloves.
He knew he should be getting in soon, especially as he glanced at his phone, a bright four-forty-five glowing at him.
He had gone out at four.
He shivered as he was blasted by wind from behind. This time he couldn't blame the animals for hiding— he wished he could do the same. He wanted to snuggle into the grass and leaf piles, burying himself in a leafy blanket.
He wondered if England had missed him yet. He hadn't said goodbye; he hadn't wanted to. England had been busy at his needlepoint, and the last time he had bothered England while he was working, he had been snapped at.
It usually didn't matter, but he didn't feel like arguing now. He was tired.
He had been a good showman. He had been friendly, always trying to put on a show. Always tried to make friends, to make allies.
He smiled to himself as he thought of the other micronations. Wy was cool. She was nice, and he could always count on her to get a job done. Sure, she could be snappy, but in an endearing way. In a sassy way, like Iceland and Hong Kong.
Seborga was as nice as his brothers, and was the best chef. Maybe not the smartest, but his heart was in the right place. Molossia and Hutt River were both wonderfully weird and confusing. And kuglemugle...he struggled to find words to describe him. He was in a class all his own.
It was when he thought of Ladonia that he really fought the lump in his throat. Ladonia hates him. Sealand didn't know why, but it was painfully obvious. He liked Ladonia, though, and he would do anything for him, even if it wasn't mutual.
Again Sealand stared into the brook. Some of the slush had melted and some dead plants had gotten loose, and were now tangled in the branches farther down. The water was a little clearer now.
He had been a showman, but had still never gotten a balance. Maybe he was too subtle?
He thought of all the times he had snuck into a meeting, or when he would sneak up behind nations, attempting to kidnap them. All the times he had asked for armadas and artillery and toys, and gotten upset when he didn't get them.
Half of him always knew that he wouldn't, but he would ask anyway. And even though he never threw a tantrum or got upset in front of others, when he was alone he did. He hated it, but he did.
Maybe he wasn't subtle at all, because none of that sounded very discreet.
Staring into the brook again, he sat back down into the snow. It was cold, but he was already cold anyway, and didn't see any point in trying to get warm again.
Sealand jumped when his phone buzzed. He looked at the time, seeing the bright four-fifty-seven beside the message.
It was from England.
"Where are you?" It read. He almost laughed. England just now realized he was gone? It had been nearly an hour.
Sealand was tired. His eyes felt heavy, and every cell seemed to weigh him down, farther into the snow. He knew there was supposed to be a balance. But he also knew, despite what all the inspirational speakers said, a lot of people never found that balance. A lot of Micronations sure didn't.
He would miss them, but he hoped they found what he hadn't. He had failed, but they still had a chance. Again his phone vibrated.
"Sealand, where are you? Dinner's going to be ready soon, so please get here."
Dinner. Was he hungry? He didn't feel like it, but he knew he had to be. He had eaten a toaster waffle for breakfast, but nothing for lunch. He had felt too sick to eat.
Now it was five o'three.
He relaxed into the snowy hill. The snow, he thought, was like a pillow. A big, soft, fluffy pillow made of snowflake thread and sewing needles of ice. He let go of his sweater and closed his eyes.
He wanted to sleep. Sleep was something he never seemed to get enough of. Every night was the same, now: Tell England he was going to bed at nine, go lie down and try to sleep, then fail to sleep.
That was another thing he liked about the brook more so than the garden. At night, the garden would go to sleep. It was dark, save for the lanterns England had put up, and nothing was there. Just the plants that were so uniform and still they looked dead. The garden slept like it was dead.
But the hill slept differently.
At night, if you went to the hill, you could get the quiet buzz of insects and the gurgle of the brook. It was dark, darker than the garden by far, but it was alive. Animals scurried about, nocturnal ones that you would never see in the day, and Sealand would feel glad to see them.
They were the animals that few people payed attention to, and that was relatable.
His phone vibrated.
"Sealand, I've got some McDonald's from town. It's getting cold, so please get back in here," it said. Ten after five.
by now Sealand had started to let go. The cold seeping into his bones was a fuzzy, warm feeling, if only for a second, that helped him ignore the constant ache that came with it.
The cold air burned his throat and lungs so that every breath hurt. He started to think about getting up, but knew it wouldn't work. The hazy cloud in his mind let him remember just enough to know that he was too close to sleep to try and get up now. If he tried to walk, he would pass out anyway, just from higher up.
So he didn't try to move.
He didn't hate England, or anyone. Not even TRNC. He hadn't done any of it out of hate.
But he was tired. Tired of being upset, of being angry. Tired of being scared and weak. Tired of being tired.
If by some miracle someone actually got upset, then oh well. He had tried.
He had tried to be a showman and show everyone what he could do— he failed. He tried to be subtle and be understanding— he failed.
The brook was mostly clear by now, he saw ,as he opened his eyes one last time to see the brook. The hill. His special place.
Would England ever even find him? He doubted he would ever think to look by the little hill. The hill that always went unnoticed.
Almost asleep, his phone vibrated once more.
"Sealand, where are you? It's twenty after five, and you usually answer me, are you alright?"
It had already been ten minutes? It hadn't even felt like five.
He had just closed his eyes when he heard a familiar song. He had always loved Carramelldansen, and loved to play it just to annoy Ladonia.
He knew it was England, and he weakly picked it up, but didn't answer it. He didn't want to.
He didn't want to answer questions, but he did want to hear England. Not to hear him rant. Not to hear him apologize or say it's not too late. He just wanted to hear his voice.
On the third ring he answered it.
"Sealand? Sealand, where the hell are you?" England sounded strained, but not as angry as he expected. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth, but he forced out a quiet noise that he wasn't even sure was audible.
"Hey, jerk."
"Where are you?"
"Somewhere."
Sealand heard a frustrated groan. He closed his eyes again and a small smile formed on his lips.
"Care to tell me where the somewhere is?"
"Paradise."
He settled deeper in the snow. The ache was gone, replaced by a heavy numb feeling. He wasn't thinking of anything beside that voice that was so painfully familiar.
"You're not helpi—"
"I love you," Sealand cut him off. It was the truth. He didn't hate anyone at all. He just wanted it all to stop. He didn't hear anything and he began to slip back to sleep. Everything was fuzzy and dreamy,and bright and light, but dark and heavy, and so conflicting yet calm. It was peaceful.
"Sealand, what's wrong?"
He would have laughed if it didn't scorch his throat. One "I love you" and he automatically assumes something was wrong. Harsh.
"Noth...nothing's wrong. Just... just..."
"*Sealand.* what the hell's wrong?"
Sealand felt his mind go numb along with everything else and his breathing slowed. The gurgle if the brook faded out, so the only thing he focused on was England's voice.
"Bye... England. You jerk, I love you. You... you know that...right?"
"Of course I know that, which is why—"
"Bye."

                                                                                          ❧

England's breath hitched. He didn't like that silence. Silence was not supposed to come from Sealand, happy shouts and laughing was.
"Bye."
That quiet, hoarse word that stopped his world. Sealand didn't say bye. He was supposed to say hello, not goodbye.
It was only then did England notice how heavily the snow was falling, and how Sealand's plate, left from lunch, was still full of food.
But the thing that scared him the most was the little white bottle, upturned and empty, sitting on the ground beneath the table.

Okay, was this any good at all? Sorry if it seemed really confusing, I was trying to connect a lot of stuff but I think it just made everything jumbled up XD 

Should I continue this? If I do, It may be a few more chapters or maybe just one. But they would be about the aftermath, whether Sealand actually dies, and how balance is found once again. Sound good?