A kink-meme de-anon. The original prompt for this was Nation A (America) has lost Nation B (England) by any means and has to cope. How they died and if anyone's at fault is up to anon. I would like to see the grief treated naturally and realistically and in full, but also specific to how Character B died. More notes at the end. But before we get there, some name clarifications: Eva is Mexico, Logan is Scotland, William is Wales and Michael is S. Ireland.
God save our gracious Queen, long live our noble Queen...
Alfred hated the sight of Logan. He couldn't help it; no matter how much he tried to force himself to be friendly, and work his muscles into a vacant smile, he wanted to take Logan's arm and tear it straight off every time he was forced to shake hands with him. His messy auburn hair and pale skin made him feel sick. And his eyes, those Goddamned, gorgeous, emerald-green eyes—
(Those eyes belonged on a slightly-freckled, pink-lipped, round face framed with sandy blonde-brown hair and a permanent scowl)
Alfred didn't realize he was clenching his fist in the meeting until he heard Matthew gasp from his side, reaching out and grabbing his fist in his hand.
"Alfred!" he breathed, "your hand! It's bleeding!" Alfred glanced down at his palm, soaked in his own blood from where his fingernails had punctured skin. He hadn't even noticed, and he inspected his fingertips calmly. Matthew's eyes were wide and his eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion at Alfred's calm expression to his bloody hand.
"Oh," was all he could say. Matthew stood up, raising a hand to quiet the meeting.
("Alfred's gone and done something stupid again, time to halt the meeting once more, lad?")
"We'll be right back, if that's alright," Matthew mumbled, and Vash raised his eyebrows, clearly annoyed at being interrupted, but one glance at Alfred's hand and he gave a curt nod to the North Americans. Michael was sitting two seats down from Alfred and he stood, pushing past Eva on Alfred's left.
"Alfred—" he started, but Alfred narrowed his eyes at Michael instead and silently left with Matthew, who practically had to drag him to the washroom. Michael's hands fell to his sides and he stared after the brothers, Eva glancing up at him.
"I don't understand," Michael murmured. He sat back down, his attempts at befriending Alfred once again defeated. Eva tried to give him a smile but it came out as a jagged grin across her caramel cheeks, and instead she looked down at the table. Logan leaned over to William, murmuring something, and William shrugged.
The entire table elapsed into uneasy silence in their absence.
"Honestly," Matthew said as he wrapped Alfred's hand in toilet paper, "you can't just let yourself bleed and—when was the last time you cut your nails, Alfred?" Matthew said, jerking Alfred's free hand right up under his nose. "Christ in Heaven, Alfred, these things are like daggers, no wonder you cut yourself." Alfred sighed and pulled his hands from Matthew's grasp, watching as the toilet paper bled through.
(Arthur owned a full manicure set with his initials embroidered into the leather case. Alfred barely knew how to use it but Arthur brought it with him whenever they were together.)
"Dunno," he answered. "I haven't thought about it much, honestly." Alfred gave a shiver from underneath his (now suddenly too large) blazer and shoved his hands into his pockets. Matthew wet his hands and ran his fingers through his brother's hair, attempting to tame habitually wild locks.
"Are you cold?" Matthew asked. "You should put your coat on." Alfred didn't respond, instead opting to gaze past Matthew and at the washroom mirror. Matthew bit his lower lip and straightened Alfred's blazer, tugging the lapels to make it smooth once more. Inky black was the only way to describe the color. Smoke black. Expanse of space black.
(They both always hated black suits, it reminded them too much of either weddings or funerals. Alfred preferred tan, or khaki, or even navy blue, always brighter than navy blue normally was.)
Matthew turned to look in the mirror as well, but instead just stared at his brother's reflection. Alfred, keen eagle-eyed Alfred, took notice and gave Matthew a weak smile. Matthew struggled to return it but failed, only giving Alfred a nod in return.
Alfred left the washroom, leaving Matthew to stand at the sink, searching within the polished glass to see if the brother he knew were trapped on the other side.
God save the Queen.
Alfred returned to the meeting, sliding into his seat and leaning forward, ignoring the crimson patch bleeding onto his hand. Eva placed her hand on his arm but he ignored her, instead sitting up and staring straight ahead. Logan, William and Michael were speaking in hushed voices, Logan flashing those green eyes in Alfred's direction more than he could bear.
"Alfred, where is Matthew?" Francis inquired from two seats down.
"Bathroom, still," Alfred answered. He gave Francis that same weak smile, a ghost of his sunshine grin from the past. "I think all my bleeding freaked him a little, y'know?" Alfred laid one arm over the other, giving them a gentle rub; his skin was prickling with goose bumps from the cold.
("Take your jacket back, you're clearly colder than I am, you sodding idiot.")
Matthew returned a few moments later, sliding in next to his brother, moving a bit closer than he would have, Eva doing the same on the other side. They had to protect him, they always had to protect him.
"Well, if everyone's, um, ready," Vash said, tapping his notebook with his pen. "We have some other matters to attend to. Ludwig, if you'd present the proposal from your boss..."
"Oh—right," Ludwig said, jerking out of his daze. It seemed as if all of Europe was in a permanent sleep-deprived state. Even two, three months on, the shock of events still hadn't worn from their old bones. Ludwig stood up, and Feliciano leaned forward, placing both hands on the table. They'd been holding hands underneath.
Alfred closed his eyes. Logan nudged William again; William shot him a death glare.
("To be honest, I'm relieved the devolution is finally happening, Alfred. I'm tired of empire.")
"Well," Ludwig began, clearing his throat once, twice, three times before continuing, "Francis and I met with our bosses two weeks ago, if everyone recalls the press conference..." Alfred let his mind wander away from Ludwig, away from Logan's piercing green eyes and William's sandy hair and Michael's freckles.
Send her victorious, happy and glorious.
The dull throb that formed in the back of his head months ago continued to beat like a determined drummer, and although Alfred had grown accustomed to it, it didn't mean he necessarily liked it. Sometimes, if he concentrated hard enough, the throbbing would fade momentarily and he felt light. He would swallow and clench his eyes and teeth and would just think about the slight throb, and pretend it was something else, not a throb but a pulse, just another part of his heart operating inside his brain.
The throbbing was particularly strong on that day. Alfred opened his eyes and stared straight ahead at Ludwig, but he concentrated on the throbbing, trying to make it quell so he could at least retain something.Logan glanced at him again, and he glanced back, and Logan quickly looked away. The blue saltire glared at him from the pin on Logan's lapel.
(It had been his idea to wear flags on lapels; Arthur thought it was stupid. Alfred thought it was fantastic.)
Everything grew hazy in his vision. Ludwig seemed to dissolve into a dark passageway and it was as if someone removed Alfred's glasses, and then suddenly, the throbbing stopped, he felt light, and then dark.
("L-long to... to reign... over...")
Alfred awoke with his head on the conference table, staring directly into those emerald green eyes. A hand was on his face, holding his eyelid open, and the eyes were looking into his own. Logan was bent over him, one hand on his neck, the other inspecting his face for signs of life. Alfred blinked and Logan jumped.
"Alfred!" he said. Alfred gasped suddenly, his lungs burning for air and he coughed, pressing his hands over his mouth. Logan jumped back in his seat, rubbing Alfred's shoulder as he coughed. Matthew came running back into the room, throwing a coat over Alfred's shoulders and stroking his head.
"Alfred, are you alright?" Matthew asked. Logan leaned back, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Alfred avoided his gaze and instead looked down at the table. "Alfred, answer me!"
"Fine," he mumbled. "I'm fine, Matthew—"
"You are not fine, you just passed out at the conference table!" Matthew cried. The other nations in the room had gathered along the table, debating on whether or not to call an ambulance when Matthew practically shouted at his brother.
"I told you, I feel fine," Alfred protested. The throbbing hadn't returned, at least.
"You stopped breathing, Alfred," Logan mumbled. Matthew flopped into a chair beside Alfred, tugging his face towards his own.
"You held your breath until you passed out," Matthew said, sweat dripping down his face. "Logan saw you, what the hell did you think you were doing?!"
"I..." Alfred started. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath; he supposed he concentrated a bit too hard on his headache... "I honestly didn't mean to, Matthew."
"That's—Alfred, how do you not mean to stop breathing?" Matthew demanded. He placed one hand on either side of Alfred's face, and just tilted his head, his expression falling. The two just stared at one another, Alfred opening and closing his mouth in order to say something but his words failing him.
"I'm sorry I yelled," Matthew murmured. Logan was still sitting on Alfred's other side, one leg crossed over the other. Matthew glanced at Logan over Alfred's shoulder; the Scotsman just shrugged and stood up, crossing the room to talk to Ludwig, who seemed visibly shaken.
"You had us all really worried," Matthew said, "Ludwig noticed you looked pale and then watched and—your eyes just rolled back into your head and you fell onto the table in a heap, Alfred. It was really frightening. Logan said he noticed you seemed to be in a daze, and that you weren't breathing—"
"I'm sorry I worried you," Alfred said, and he smiled at Matthew. "Honestly."
("You do such foolish, stupid things, Alfred."
"Stupid is as stupid does, Arthur."
"Don't quote at me, you.")
"Alfred?" a quiet voice said. Both brothers turned to see Kiku standing before them, ringing his hands and looking uncomfortable. "I just spoke with Ludwig and Vash, and they both agree that maybe you should... opt out of the rest of the meeting. You're clearly feeling ill." Alfred rubbed his forehead. He thought, by now, he'd at least no longer be in such a fog all of the time. He was a nation, he had to be strong for his people, for his boss, for his family.
"Al-alright," Alfred stammered.
"I'll share my notes with you," Matthew said, and the two of them stood. Matthew gathered Alfred's notes, and the two of them shuffled out of the conference room without a word from anyone else. Kiku collapsed into Alfred's seat, clearly shaken from the experience, and glanced over at Ludwig, who looked concerned. No one said a thing.
Matthew led Alfred upstairs to his hotel room, where Alfred flopped down on his bed, still wearing his jacket and suit, kicking off his shoes and sighing in the back of his throat. Guilt bubbled inside his gut like a disease, and he turned over onto his side, trying to cover it with his arms. Matthew leaned on the doorframe, watching his brother curl up into the bed.
(Alfred slept stretched out until Arthur happened in his life; then he always curled up and snuggled beside something, preferably Arthur as his personal teddy bear)
"I'll be back after the meeting," Matthew murmured, although Alfred never heard him. He closed the door and trotted back downstairs, staring at the floor as he went.
"Arthur," he murmured. "He's such a mess without you."
Alfred lay on his side, his mind swirling with thoughts and that frustrating throbbing returning to his brain. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth and concentrated as hard as he could, for the last time he did it, he'd been rewarded with a very blissful few moments of freedom... perhaps if he concentrated for longer...
He became aware that when he concentrated his hard, his breathing did in deed stop, as his breath caught in his trachea, but he didn't care. Pressure built in his chest, his mind scrambled with fury and then, after nearly two minutes of concentration, Alfred's body relaxed and he sank into the mattress, mouth hanging open, glasses pressed against his face, breath returning to his chest in small bursts, his mind swimming in dreams.
"Art—holy shit, Arthur!" Alfred sprinted across the room to where Arthur had crumpled to a boneless heap on the carpet, his skin pale and his head lolling. Alfred scooped him into his arms but didn't move from where he knelt on the carpet, staring at Arthur's pale face and swollen lips. It was like the elder was suffocating from nothing in his arms. Alfred had followed Arthur upstairs to steal a few private moments... not to freeze in horror as he heard Arthur's body hit the floor in the next room.
Arthur choked and opened his eyes, pupils dilated, his chest heaving, staring straight up at Alfred with wild eyes.
"A-Al..." he mumbled. He tried to reach up but he couldn't, his arm fell limply at his side. Alfred's eyes roamed Arthur's thin body, trying to find a source for his sudden ill health and collapse. He was fine the day before, and the day before that—sure he always looked a little paler and a little thinner in the winter, but nothing out of the ordinary had happened, just the dissolution of—
"Stay awake, Arthur, Goddamnit, don't you dare close your eyes—Matthew!" Alfred called out into the bowels of the house. Arthur followed Alfred's pained expression to the doorway, coughed again, and gave a bubbly sigh, as if something was clogging his lungs.
"Alf..."
"Talk more," Alfred pleaded. He cradled Arthur's head in his arms. All of this was so sudden, so fast—this wasn't what he was meant to be doing, they were supposed to be celebrating, this was a joyous day, Arthur had come up here for his best tea set— "Say something else. Matthew? Where the fuck are you? Francis? Feli, Ludwig?" But no one else was on the same floor. Everyone else was downstairs, in the parlor, waiting.
"Art, look, I-I'm gonna go call someone for help, okay? You just—you just stay awake," Alfred ordered. Arthur just stared at the tears rolling down Alfred's face, the ones he wasn't even aware of. "J-just stay awake, please. Oh, I know, why don't you sing something for me?" Arthur turned his emerald eyes up at Alfred, large and round and terrified, because he hadn't expected this either, not even when he woke up feeling weak that morning.
Alfred stroked Arthur's forehead as he lay him back down on the carpet. Arthur weakly coughed into his hand, dropping his hand back down on the floor, streaked with blood. Alfred leaned down and pressed warm kisses to Arthur's blazing forehead, stroking his hair as he did.
"Sweetheart, sing 'God Save the Queen' for me," Alfred demanded. He leaned back on his haunches, wondering how fast he could run down the stairs to get some help. If only he hadn't left his cellphone in the parlor...
"God... God save our gr... gracious Queen," Arthur murmured in a weak voice. Alfred turned sharply to look down at him, nearly laughing with excitement at the utterance of a sentence. "L...long live our... n-noble Queen..."
"...all I can hear is 'My Country, 'Tis of Thee' in my head," Alfred admitted, smiling broadly at Arthur. He jumped to his feet, looking for an immediate fix. He had to get help, but he couldn't well leave Arthur lying on the floor, even if it would take him less than a minute to run downstairs. He silently cursed every old house in London, every tiny servant staircase that made it difficult to contact between floors, and every brain cell that made the decision to leave his cellphone in the pocket of his bomber.
"...God save... the... Queen. S-send her vic... victorious, happy and..." Arthur leaned his head back and closed his eyes, gripping at the carpet, his left leg twitching, voice dying in his throat. Alfred immediately ran back to his side, holding his hand and stroking his forehead.
"I know it's no longer your national anthem but, c'mon, maybe you can convince the PM to re-instate just for England, huh?" Alfred suggested. Arthur didn't respond, instead turning his head slightly to the sound of Alfred's voice and opening his eyes to half-mast. His eyes were clouded over, unfocused and dazed, like someone had hit him over the head, and hard.
"C'mon, only a few more lines, Arthur, sweetheart," Alfred begged. He decided he'd just have to bring Arthur downstairs with him in order to get help, and he dug his arm underneath Arthur's torso. "C'mon, what's the rest of the song?" Arthur took a shallow breath, and Alfred was struck just by how much his skin resembled that of parchment.
"L-long to..." Arthur murmured in a voice just above a whisper. Alfred froze, staring straight down at Arthur, who no longer seemed to be able to see him. "...to reign..."
"Yeah...?" Alfred said, tears splashing on Arthur's cheek and neck.
"...over..." Arthur murmured in a whispered gasp, and his eyes rolled back and his body slumped into the carpet, unmoving. The weak grip he'd had on Alfred's hand released and he lay completely still, his lips coated in blood, eyes open and staring into an expanse, body slightly warm and completely devoid of life.
Alfred had no recollection of how much time had passed between the moment of Arthur's death and when the others finally realized something was wrong. Maybe only minutes, maybe hours, but at some point someone had grabbed him by the waist, pulled him off of Arthur's still body and pressed him against a broad chest, a soothing hand running through his hair. That was the day the throbbing started in the back of his head, a nagging reminder of the events of what was supposed to be a happy, happy day.
Looking back, he was told the first person who came into the room was Logan, and Logan had pressed him to his chest because if he hadn't, he probably also would have collapsed into the carpet. The last thing Alfred could recall was Ludwig bending down and scooping Arthur's body into his arms, trembling from head to toe, and Francis leaning over and closing those staring eyes for good.
The tea set was left undisturbed, and soon the room filled with nations, mouths agape, in utter shock of the events before them. What had been a healthy, living empire-turned-sole-country that morning was only a sheath of bones and flesh by evening.
"So, speaking of, um, England," Logan said in the meeting, interrupting Ludwig's tirade. The other nations glanced up as Logan gave a harried glance to his brothers. "There's something that we need to tell you all."
"It seems that, well, a child has been spotted near the outskirts of Westminster," William said, looking at Logan apprehensively. "There's a school near there and he's become friends with the youngest children. No one knows where he came from and he doesn't seem to have a name."
"We have a photo," Michael offered, and he pulled a print-out from his folder and passed it to Ludwig, whose eyes widened in surprise. "He's got dark blonde hair and, apparently, really big hazel eyes." The brothers Kirkland all looked at each other once more, as the rest of the nations waited, predicting what they were going to say but waiting all the same.
"When one of the little kids asked what he was doing, he said he was waiting for his daddy to come get him. That's why they told the teachers about him," Logan explained. Ludwig was still staring at the photo, and he showed it to Vash, who also widened his eyes in shock.
"He calls himself 'little England' and, frankly... he looks like Alfred."
God save the Queen.
Some notes:
- Headcanon dictates that Arthur Kirkland has become synonymous with the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland over time. Thus, if the UK is dissolved (as what happened in this fic, basically Welsh and Scottish Home Rule) he would die, although everyone expected him to become the personification of only England and hence why they were all so surprised.
- The head-throbbing-concentrating-and-not-breathing-until-you-pass-out is a thing I've done in grief. It was years ago; I drew upon my own experiences with death and grief to make this more realistic.
- Another theory I have is that the song 'God Save the Queen/King' was for the British Empire, so once Britannia falls, it really won't be relevant.
Originally posted on Livejournal on Nov 9 2011