Hello my lovelies! This is my second Hetalia story (technically, I started this one first, but my other one popped into my head in the middle of this one and said "You will write me now!).
I fixed all the typos. There wasn't a horrendous amount, but a few of them were pretty bad.
This is NOT an Alfred x Matthew story; it is an Alfred plus Matthew story. Brotherly love only.
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Alfred lay curled in a tight ball in his bed, shivering, lights off and his curtains drawn tight to lock out the blinding sunlight. His sore throat burned with his shallow breaths and his chest ached horribly with every fit of coughs. Fever raged through his veins, and he could feel the sheen of sweat on his face even as he clutched at the blankets for warmth. There was a vicious hammering and spinning in his skull, taking hold of his senses and thoughts, refusing negotiation of its prisoners. His phone was chirping on his nightstand, but, despite the pangs of nauseating agony the noise sent cleaving through his already-pounding head, he could not convince himself to reach over and answer it, could not convince himself to move at all lest it increase the unbearable throbbing in his skull. Finally, finally, it stopped, and he relaxed slightly. He had long since given up the fight to keep his breath steady and settled instead for keeping the tears locked behind his eyes, the snivels of pain locked in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut to escape the swimming of his vision, and his arms were bound tight around his torso in a vain effort to keep himself from trembling with the fevered chills that racked his spine. His entire body felt drained and heavy, and he wanted nothing more than to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, hoping all of this would be gone when he awoke.
The dark room was suddenly filled by a blinding bright white, and Alfred curled farther into his pillows, cringing away from the light, a barely-audible whimper escaping his throat.
"I'm sorry," said a soft voice from the door, and the light was turned back off immediately.
"Mattie?" Alfred whispered, his voice shaking slightly. "What are you doing here?"
"Stop," Matthew said sternly, gently pushing Alfred back down when he tried to sit up. "Before you start in about 'being the hero' and saying you don't need anyone to take care of you, please consider the fact that I just pushed you back down, and you must be in bad shape if you can't fight me off."
"Matt, I'll be fine-"
"Al," Matthew said warningly. "It's three in the afternoon and you're still in bed. I know you like to sleep in and all, but if you were going to be okay, even you would be up by now. And you wouldn't have missed the meeting yesterday, and Arthur wouldn't have cancelled his meeting with his boss tonight so he could come over."
"Artie cancelled his meeting?" Alfred whispered.
"He's worried about you, Al," Matthew said sadly, perching himself on the edge of Alfred's bed. "And it must be bad if Arthur is admitting out loud that he's worried about you."
There was a brief pause before Alfred admitted to himself that he had neither the strength nor the desire to argue with his stepbrother. "Thank you," he whispered.
"No need to thank me, Al," Matthew said. Then he sighed. "We were worried when you weren't at the world meeting yesterday. Arthur and I were," Matthew clarified when Alfred snorted in disbelief. "Which is why Arthur came by last night to see what was wrong with you. He called me this morning and told me you weren't feeling well. Well, no, actually he said something like 'that bloody git's gone and gotten himself sick, blah, blah, British insults and the like,'" he said, in a passable imitation of his stepfather's accent and irritated tone. "But you get the idea."
"Mattie," Alfred said abruptly. His voice was weak and hoarse, and it shook with the growing pain in his head. Alfred cursed the single tear that slipped down his cheek, wiping it away hurriedly and blinking hard to keep the others in their place. "I never thought I'd say this, but you're so loud."
"Sorry," Matthew said, quieting even more than usual, horrified by the tears in Alfred's eyes. He smiled sadly before placing a cool, gentle hand on the base of his stepbrother's neck, massaging softly, just as Arthur had always done to relieve Matthew's frequent headaches when they were younger. Matthew relaxed when Alfred's tense shoulders loosened and he let out a long, slow breath of relief.
"There," Matthew said softly. "Now, have you eaten anything today?"
"No," Alfred admitted, almost sheepishly.
"I'll go make you some soup. Feliciano gave me a recipe I wanted to try anyway."
"Mattie, there are some cans of soup in the pantry," Alfred said, obviously feeling like he was troubling the Canadian. "You don't need to make it."
"Al, I'm making you soup," Matthew told him firmly. "I want to," he insisted when Alfred opened his mouth to protest again. "Look at it this way; it'll take longer if I make it, so you can go back to sleep until it's ready."
Alfred was silent for a moment, debating with himself. The pain in his head was reaching levels he'd never experienced, his muscles ached, his entire body felt heavy, and more sleep was definitely an appealing option if he could somehow manage it.
"Alright," Alfred consented, and Matthew knew it was more to stop the argument than anything else. Matthew smiled sadly and stood, heading out of the room. He returned barely a minute later, however, with a glass of water, which he placed on Alfred's bedside table before heading back to the kitchen. Alfred sat up slowly and took a few small sips of water, setting the glass back down and curling back up into his blankets.
He appreciated Matthew coming over, just as he had appreciated Arthur stopping by the night before, concerned that Alfred had missed a world conference for the first time in history. But as grateful as he was for all they were doing for him, he hated letting them see him like this. Miserable, vulnerable, weak. Far from his normal self. He hated the feeling of people worrying over him. He hated that Matthew was troubling himself over him. He despised the fact that, rather than getting some much-needed sleep, Arthur had chosen to come check on him, and was now cancelling an important meeting with his boss, no doubt causing himself more trouble later. He had never done anything to deserve either of their time. But try as he might, he simply could not gather his wits enough to even attempt a façade of his usual outlandish, obnoxious self. No, the most he could do was weakly protest to their efforts and endeavor in vain to assure them he would be fine on his own.
His phone chirped again, as if to add insult to injury, announcing the arrival of a text message. Alfred cringed slightly at the bright blue light from the screen before proceeding to open the text.
Arthur: Are you feeling any better?
Alfred sighed and texted back I'm fine, Iggy. Mattie's over right now and he's taking good care of me before silencing the device and stashing it in the drawer of his bedside table, rolling back onto his side and planning on taking an outrageously long nap.
These plans were dashed after about twenty minutes, however, when a relentless fit off deep, heavy coughs racked Alfred's frame with such intensity that Matthew came rushing back into the room, having heard them from the kitchen. He pulled Alfred gently into a sitting position, rubbing soothing circles into his back until finally the coughing stopped and he drew a deep, shaky breath, his head pounding and spinning, a few more traitor tears falling from his eyes.
"Are you alright?" Matthew asked gently as Alfred leaned back against the headboard, wiping his eyes hastily and wrapping an arm around his aching chest. Alfred nodded, an almost imperceptible movement in the darkness of his bedroom, and reached for the glass of water again, drinking considerably more of it than he had before.
"I can make you some tea, if you'd rather have that," Matthew offered. "It would probably help your throat."
"This is fine, Mattie," Alfred assured him. "You're doing plenty already."
Matthew smiled sadly in the dark room. "The soup's nearly ready," he said. "And I'll grab you some Advil. It should help with the headache, and it'll bring your fever down some."
Again, Alfred nodded, setting the water aside again as Matthew left the room once more. He returned a few minutes later, hot bowl of soup in one hand and a pair of tablets in the other. He handed the medicine over first, then the soup once Alfred had taken the pills. He perched himself on the edge of the bed and watched as Alfred ate. For a long while, the only sounds in the room were those of the spoon touching the bowl and Alfred's slightly labored breathing. It wasn't until Alfred was nearly finished with the soup that he spoke.
"This is really good, Mattie," he said, partly to fill the silence, but mostly because it was true.
"It's good to see you eating something other than burgers," Matthew teased lightly. He kept speaking simply for conversation sake, knowing how much Alfred hated long stretches of silence. "Are you feeling any better?"
"A little."
"Good. It's weird seeing you so quiet."
"You should have seen me yesterday. I wasn't talking, but I definitely wasn't being quiet."
Matthew made a face. "Yes, Arthur told me," he said. "But I'm kind of glad I wasn't here. Vomit isn't really my cup of tea."
Alfred gave a half-hearted laugh as he set the finished bowl on his bedside table. He leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed, setting his glasses aside as well.
"Are you alright?" Matthew asked him, concerned.
"My head hurts," Alfred whispered. "A lot."
"Lay back down," Matthew said gently, pulling the blankets over his stepbrother's form as Alfred did so. Matthew picked up where he'd left off earlier, massaging the base of Alfred's neck gently. Alfred was perfectly still but for the shivers that still ran down his spine occasionally.
"Your fever's gone down some," Matthew said cheerfully.
"Has it really?" Alfred asked miserably. "I guess I'll have to take your word for it."
Matthew smiled. "Do you need anything else?"
"An obscenely long nap," Alfred said simply. "But you can't exactly get me that."
"No," Mathew said sadly. "Sorry about that. But I can leave you alone for a while if you like."
Alfred hesitated. "Mattie?" he said tentatively.
"Hmmm?"
"…Stay with me, please."
Matthew smiled, moving his hand to run his fingers soothingly through his brother's hair.
"Bien sûr, mon petit héro."
Alfred pulled the blankets more tightly around himself, letting the gentle, rhythmic motion of Matthew's hand in his hair relax him. His eyelids drifted closed and he smiled softly in his sleep.
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Not the best ending in the world (I seem to have that problem a lot).
Oh, and the French line that Mattie says is "Of course, my little hero."
Let me know what you think, and thanks much for reading.