Untitled dribble no. 1 (Hetalia: England)
It isn't that England remembers Bradford; the Brownists were not any of his concern, even though Holland never had been willing to shut up about what honest, hard-working fellows they were. It isn't like he particularly cares about what France one day will start calling sweet America's Baby Book, because in 1776, sweet America is most certainly neither a baby nor very sweet, and that is why England is drinking. Centuries of wars that never were quite so personal (never quite so full of betrayal) have taught him that liquor does not solve his problems. But even common sense cannot deny that it is a salve for a blessed few hours, so England barricades the trap door to the tower and sets to work on that half-bottle of brandy.
A good amount of it is still left when he turns to look at the books carefully shelved by the walls, and he is still seeing straight as he takes a volume at random and opens it to find a lengthy complaint about his Church, written by one of the blasted puritans. But a carefully misguided contempt keeps him turning the pages written by one of the first to have left him for America, and the bottle is only empty when England has curled up around the stupid journal and wept himself to exhaustion over pages of memories from the days when America was still little.
AND THEN HE TOOK IT HOME AFTER HE LOST.