Arthur awoke on the couch to the sound of his phone blaring a fanfare ringtone, groggily sitting up from his slouched position to retrieve the loud contraption from the arm of the couch. He flipped open the phone and put it to his ear. "'Ello?" he mumbled into the device with a stifled yawn. The night before hadn't been very restful; actually, for a while he's been a bit of an insomniac, but the little naps he got every so often were enough to keep him mildly sane, at least. He listened, half-awake, but as he heard the person on the other side of the line speak, his eyes were soon wide open in shock and horror. "What about America..?" he asked, just to make sure he'd heard the person correctly, hardly even noticing his least favorite accent speaking to him on the phone.
"Were you even listening to moi? I said, America's in the hospital!" France's voice was irritated and impatient as he repeated the situation to England. "Apparently he was climbing a ladder to replace some kind of light bulb or something, but he slipped and fell and hit his head. You'd better get over here and off your lazy behind," he snapped, sounding both angered and worried, which, England knew, didn't often go together with the Frenchman. This was serious.
The former pirate was out the door in a heartbeat, phone still clutched in his hand as he stormed out to the street. He summoned a cab and directed the driver to take him to the airport. "France, what's his condition? How bad is it?" he inquired, on edge, gripping his knee tightly with his other hand until his knuckles were painfully white, practically glaring out the window and wondering why the hell the driver wasn't speeding down the road like he was supposed to (as it was in England's mind, that is).
France sighed heavily. "Not good, mon ami. I think they told Canada that some of his vital organs are beginning to shut down because of the shock his brain received from the injury." He sounded hesitant, as if he was worried that something bad would happen to America if he said too much, but England decided to ignore that.
The Englishman clenched his jaw. "Damn... That stupid git better just be screwing around," he muttered bitterly, openly rejecting the fact that America, his former little brother, whom he still cared for even after he rebelled, might be lost forever. He simply wouldn't believe it. He couldn't even begin to imagine how he would feel if he lost his little America. He resented each and every reason that had caused America to revolt, but there was nothing he could do now. Hell, it might be too late to even apologize if this stupid driver wouldn't just hurry up...
"Angleterre, he isn't. Are you okay?" France asked hesitantly, a bit worried about the Englishman's previous response.
England blinked, having not even remembered that he still had his phone in his hand until the Frenchman spoke again. "Oh... Yeah. I.. I gotta go. See you in a bit." England promptly closed the phone and his eyes simultaneously, leaning his head against the back of the car seat. Stupid America, getting hurt like that. He felt a lump rise in his throat, and realized that his eyes were beginning to sting with bitter tears. He swallowed the emotions washing over him as best he could and opened his eyes again, staring blankly at the car ceiling until the cab had finally reached the airport. England promptly paid the driver (no tip, of course. He had driven much too sluggishly to get anything like a tip, even from the usually generous Englishman), and stormed into said airport, rushing to a desk to purchase a ticket to Washington, D.C. How did he know America'd be there? Well, firstly, France had specified that as soon as England had answered his phone, before he'd had to repeat himself. Plus, he knew where America's house was; he was sure the paramedics wouldn't (God forbid) take Alfred half across the country to be treated properly.
After buying the plane ticket and being informed that the flight would leave the airport in about a half an hour, England took a seat in a nearby café, burying his face in his folded arms on the table. He was exhausted, but the anxiety eating out his fatigue was just enough to make the Briton feel as if he'd already lost America. He felt so useless at the moment; all he could do was wait while America needed him more than he probably ever had. He then realized that Alfred had always been his first priority, sometimes over himself, because he was the only person (other than Japan, but that didn't really count) that Arthur actually genuinely cared about, and if America was gone, then England would be truly, completely alone... Again. America was all he had left, and though he hardly ever accepted the fact himself, he would have nothing much to care about except keeping that stupid frog the hell out of the UK if America were to die. But... He can't just die... Right? A frown had creased England's lips. It wasn't impossible. Nor was it likely, but anything could happen... All heroes have some weakness. Even self-proclaimed America knew that. Well, hopefully he'd learn his lesson when- if, Alfred could manage to weasel himself out of this one.
His morose thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a woman's voice on a speaker cheerfully telling all passengers that the flight leaving to Washington, D.C. at 11:45 AM, would be leaving in 5 minutes. This gave him more than enough time to get up, brush himself off, and proceed to the boarding line, shoving past other passengers without so much as a kind "Pardon me, my little brother is about to die, so move out of my way, stupid git!" As he boarded the plane and waited impatiently for the still-miffed others, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the arm of his chair directly next to a window. His other hand fished in his pocket, extracting his favorite golden pocket watch, which he examined for a moment before stuffing the small token into his pocket again. 11:46. These people needed to work on their promptness promptly or he'd get their non-prompt arses fired faster than you could say "prompt". Fortunately, before the English gentleman could lose all of his shortly-supplied-to-begin-with patience, the pilot had announced that passengers were required to fasten their seat belts (oh, how frustratingly obvious the fact seemed, England thought) before the plane took off. After another seemingly endless list of (apparently absolutely necessary) precautionary warnings, the plane finally began moving, soon lifting up into the sky.
After the plane had landed, Arthur got up and began shoving impatiently past more people to get out of the rather cramped area. Once in the airport, he rushed toward the exit, as soon as he was outside calling a cab, directing the driver to take him to the hospital ("And step on it," he added). At least now the driver actually seemed to heed his directions, and when they arrived in the hospital parking lot minutes after England entered the cab, the Englishman paid the driver with a generous tip, then hurried out of the car, practically sprinting into the hospital.
Once he'd opened the door he saw the actually relieving back of a blonde man, whom he immediately recognized as Francis. He walked to the Frenchman, slightly breathless as he approached him. "France... How is he?" he asked, still regaining his breath.
France turned to look at the weary Englishman, an eyebrow raised questioningly, but he didn't voice the inquiry. He just frowned at Arthur, a look which England knew meant something was terribly wrong. "He isn't doing very well at all, mon ami," he told him sadly. "I don't know if he'll make it..." His frown deepened. "In truth, I am surprised he isn't dead already... I guess he was waiting for you," he said, with a sigh. "How horrible today turned out to be... I just got a new girlfriend, too-"
"-Oh, would you stop talking about your damn girlfriends?!" Arthur snapped angrily, interrupting France. "And don't say that... He might pull through yet. Can I see him?" he asked, his large, emerald eyes gleaming with anxiety.
France nodded. "Oui, visitors are permitted," he said, glancing over at the lady at the front desk. "I had actually just seen him myself... He looks terrible... Do you want me to accompany you?" France looked concerned for the Brit, and that only made Arthur angry. How dare that stupid frog pity him like this? He felt like he was being treated like a child.
He wouldn't resign himself to this. No way in bloody hell. He crossed his arms. "No thanks... I can visit my little brother by myself," he replied coldly, proceeding to the front desk and tapping the table to get the woman's attention. "Oi, I came to see Alfred F. Jones," he said once the lady acknowledged him.
The woman sighed, glancing through a few papers. After a while, she said, "He's in Room 13. Are you family?" she asked, gazing up at England with an emotionless stare.
Arthur nodded. "Yes. I'm his brother. Thank you," he said, walking down a hallway which was labeled with a sign that said: "Rooms 1-35". Once he was standing in front of the room that America was in, he paused for a moment, clearing his throat before he entered the hospital room.
England's eyes became wide as his gaze fell on the American laying on a gurney, his face pale and deathly in color. The blonde's cobalt eyes were closed, but he wasn't sure if he was awake or not. "Oh my god... America," the Englishman breathed softly, heading over to Alfred and standing beside him. He glanced at the I.V. machine his former sibling was hooked up to and almost let out a choked sob from his throat, a hand placing itself over his mouth in shock. He stared down at the blank face of America, and he felt a large part of himself wither away, and whatever hope there was previously was now gone. He could swear he saw one of the American's eyelids twitch, but it was more than likely his imagination. England sighed shakily, withdrawing his calloused hand from his own face and then placing his hand softly on America's forehead to softly brush his hair from his face, flinching away when he felt how icy cold his skin was to the touch. He could feel tears fill his eyes. "Damn it... How many Americans does it take to change one fucking lightbulb?" he muttered, his own cynical humor seeming all too out of place. He took a seat in a chair beside his dying ally, reaching over to him and taking a chilled hand in one of his own, frowning deeply. "America... I know you probably can't hear me, but... If you can, though... I want you to forgive me, Alfred... I-I don't know what I did... Taxes, whatever... I just need you to know that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, America... Whatever I did to make you leave, I resent it... If it's my fault, if I was treating you badly..." he trailed off, realizing that hot tears were freely streaming down his face, falling from his chin and splattering on the bleached tile floor, closing his emerald green eyes as if in prayer.
America heard England's words faintly, and used whatever strength he could find to squeeze the Englishman's hand softly, the single gesture exhausting him more than he ever expected it to. He parted his dry lips to utter, "Wasn't...your fault... I..just wanted...to prove...myself... I'm..sorry...for hurting you..."
England's eyes snapped open in complete and utter bewilderment. Had America just spoken? Where did he get the strength for that? And, what's more, had he just apologized to him? He knew he didn't deserve it from America. He stared at the other, afraid to speak lest his voice should betray his emotion, but he would risk it just this once, considering the circumstances. "Don't apologize to me. If you'll forgive me, then I'll pardon you. Then, when you're all better, we can get out of here and get you some ice cream," he told him, sounding much more hopeful than he felt.
America sighed faintly. "No... No thanks... I'm..too tired," he replied. "I'm scared... What's going to happen to me if I give in..? I... I don't want to die," he told England, sounding scared and helpless, and for once, England couldn't do a thing about it. If he could hug him like he used to, when America was young and so much smaller than himself, and if Arthur could comfort him with soothing words to push Alfred's troubles away, he would. But now he knew it wouldn't do anything for the younger nation. He felt so terrible for not being able to comfort him now, for not having the ability to tell him everything would be okay, because truthfully, it wouldn't, and America seemed to know this. He sighed. "Alfred... Don't start this now... What happened to the fearless hero, hm?" he asked softly, in a vain attempt to cheer him up.
America made a small whining noise, a truly pitiful sound. "I..don't know... It's... It's too hard... Just talking to you now... It's too much... It hurts.. But it's going away... And it's scaring me so much, England..." His voice was turning to a raspy whisper, weak and so unlike his usual loud and obnoxious shouts.
America's words made England feel even more remorseful. "Oh, America... I'm so sorry... I can't help you," he said sadly, giving America's cold hand a squeeze.
America managed a small smile, apparently regaining some of his cheer, but for what reason? England was at a loss. "Don't worry about it... It's not..your problem," he said quietly, then his once powerful, but now trembling and weak hand let go of England's, unable to hold on any longer. Closing his eyes, he appeared to be struggling to breathe, although it was a battle already lost. Whatever had been keeping the American alive before must've given in; he was gone.
Author's Note- Wow, I am soo sorry. I got a review telling me about the (really bad) order I've put my story into, and realized they were totally right. Since the second chapter was written really late, I think I was probably getting impatient with myself because I wanted to belt out another chapter, so... Yeah, I'm deleting it for now, and changing basically everything into what I'd originally planned for the story; the only thing I may not change, however, is the first paragraph. I apologize for having totally screwed that up, but I'll make it better... Hopefully. xD