You began to fidgit nervously in your seat as you shot a glance at your ex blond lover. His emerald green eyes met yours, screaming a thousand accusations you knew damn well he wanted to say out loud. But you knew equally well that he couldn't, since this was a world meeting and all that.
Still, you couldn't bear to look into his eyes and quickly dropped them to the table, a light blush dusting your cheeks. You dated England for a while, and at first things went fine. But then, you two started fighting. As the fights continued to get worse, you weren't sure the relationship would last. Your suspicions were confirmered that night. You couldn't even remember what the two of you were arguing about.
But it was then that he crossed the line; he slapped you, hard, a hatefull glare plastered to his usually handsome face. The slap rang in your ears as an unearthly silence filled the room. "____-." The blond began, but he was too late; you were already running away, tears blurring your vision.
It was over, you both knew that well. America had been such a good friend to you when it happened; he held you while you sobbed into his chest, stroking your hair. You smiled softly at the memory.
Maybe it was his kindness that caused you to fall for the American.
He watched you silently, his eyes softening slightly when he saw the sad look in your eyes. He was sure he knew what you were thinking about.
He regretted it, he really did. He didn't mean for things to go that far. It just sorta happened, you know? The moment he struck you, though, guilt instantly coursed through him.
He tried to apologize, but you ran away before he could. What truly hurt him was that he saw the pain and betrayel in your eyes. His heart had been utterly shattered. He tried to call you everyday; he only got the voice mail, but each day he prayed you would answer the phone.
He would beg, oh he would scream for you in his sleep. He missed you so much, his heart ached to hold your slim body in his arms again. Then he found out you were dating that annoying twit, America. At first, he had just felt angry, truly angry. But then that feeling turned into regret.
He regreted hurting you, he regreted it so much. You still might be in his arms if he hadn't lost control. The American, done talking, sat next to you, flashing a smile and wrapping an arm around your shoulder. The Brit didn't miss the love in your eyes as you smiled back. That look had once belonged to him.
Until he'd lost control.