The wet cloth pressed against his gashed forehead. Through the folds of the hospital tent, Alfred could see the honey sunlight of a new day. His weak heart, shot at several times, stirred with excitement, the beautiful light illuminating the darkness of the given circumstance.
His spirit slipped back and forth through consciousness. Breathing raspily, his trembling fingers thumbled nervously with his thin, linen covering. As he attempted to distract himself from the pain, a familiar voice spoke his name from afar. Was he imagining it? He adverted his gaze to the tent's entrance, and, with each arm in the crook of an American general, a British commander's eyes welled with tears. Alfred felt his chest rise and fall quicker as his blood ran hotter.
With brisk nods of approval from the American generals, Arthur Kirkland was allowed to sit next to Alfred. For a moment, nobody spoke. Arthur took in the damage: gunshots in his chest, blood-stained sheets, his face ripped open and one arm and both legs broken beyond repair, from, which Arthur found out later, was caused by one of the enemy's tanks running over him as he took cover - making sure they left their mark. A few minutes later, the British soldier spoke up, cupping his palm over Alfred's right cheek - the one that was least mangled.
"How're you managing, old chap?" his accent quavered, threatening tears. Alfred, spirit not lost, rolled his eyes at the nickname, but, using his good arm, collected Arthur's hand and kissed it softly.
"Just fine, wanker." Alfred smiled jokingly, guiding Arthur's hand to rest on his chest, above his heart. Arthur grimaced as his palm sank into the gunshot wounds, but what hurt him more was how irregular the American's heartbeat was - it was struggling to keep its owner alive.
"How about, after the war, we grab a quick swig at the pub, whaddya say?" Arthur whispered, keeping his sobbing at bay; they both knew that the American wouldn't survive. In response, Alfred chuckled, causing an uproar of blood to come sputtering out of his mouth. Arthur, panicking, ripped of his jacket and pressed it to the younger man's mouth, wiping off the crimson fluid. Alfred's eyes crinkled at the corners.
"See...I knew you still cared about me..." Alfred's tone carried triumph. Arthur desperately wished he's shown the love the American deserved, back when he still could. But, in response to the statement, he smiled gently, kissing Alfred's forehead above the gash. Leaving his lips there, Alfred felt them moving subtly, before the sound reached his ears. Arthur was singing.
"In sleep he sang to me..."
Alfred grinned, his eyes closed. Arthur continued.
"In dreams he came..."
Alfred saw his memories underneath his eyelids.
"That voice which calls to me..."
Arthur's voice began to grow more distant.
"And speaks my name..."
Why was he singing softer? He was doing fine.
"And do I dream again?"
Oh. He wasn't. Alfred was slipping further and further away.
"For now I find..."
Alfred smiled, a single tear falling down his face. Arthur paused, the heartbeat under his palm decreasing with every tick of a second.
"Alfred? Alfred, look at me. Alfred!"
The American stirred, his eyes half-opening. His lips thinly parted.
"Arthur, I love you. I love you so much..." the last word hung eerily in the air, its sound drifting slowly away into one last breath.
The British man felt hot tears sear his cheeks as he slid one arm under Alfred, draping the other arm over his torso. Pressing his ear to the man's chest, Arthur could no longer feel a pulse, a beat, a sign of life. Due to respect, he slid Alfred's figure back onto the cot, draping the red-blotched linen over his body. Running his hand through the American's sandy-blonde hair, Arthur collapsed to the ground and wept, feeling as if he was no longer whole.
Here's the clip in Hetalia where England sings "Phantom of the Opera" to America: watch?v=xfpa3uDoHo8