Recently a friend of mine got me into Hetalia and since then all I can say is that I've had a severe case of Hetalia on the mind, in particular the relationship between Alfred and Arthur. And, well, now I'm writing fanfiction for it so I guess that says it all, huh.

The only warnings are for some minor bad language and non graphic descriptions of deaths, plus a few of my weird head canons concerning the nations.

Throughout his existence Arthur has had many encounters with humans, not all of them good. His current situation is the result of one of those less than fortunate encounters, and perhaps one of the more humiliating as well. If any of the other nations caught wind of this, he'd never live it down: the once mighty Arthur Kirkland surprised then felled by a mere human, and one barely even into adulthood. He'd be a laughing stock.

It's the pounding in his head that registers first upon awakening, not the horrible cloying 'my skull is a shattered egg and my brains are leaking over the floor' pounding that usually accompanies one of his infamous hangovers, but a deeper though less acute one, as if someone has stuck their fingers into his grey matter and is slowly twisting and pulling it out bit by bit. Even if it is less common than the former, he still recognises it as an old friend.

It's the one that follows a death.

With a soft groan that only brings more pain, he allows his eyes to flick open then just as quickly slams them shut against the onslaught of life. They slip open again, more slowly this time, and as they adjust, his location starts to come into focus. It's not the hotel, that's for certain. He wonders if he's still even in the city. Plant matter obscures most of his vision – he brushes it away with a shaky hand to reveal an archway of bricks far above him, coated in a variety of multi-coloured fungus. At any other time, he probably would have been quite happy to examine some of the more fascinating specimens: today all he wants to do is clamber out of his current resting place, drag himself back to his hotel and fall into a soft warm bed.

As he moves, he feels the fabric of his suit cling to his skin and another groan is made when he realises he's soaked to the bone: in fact he can still feel rushing water encasing his lower legs. Okay, scrap first plan: add shower in between hotel and bed. Arthur raises his head, confirming that he is indeed sprawled on the bank of a river underneath a bridge, no doubt brought here by the current.

God, as if it couldn't get any worse.

It's not the first time he's 'died', though the state is only ever temporary. He's been killed in battle a fair few times, once during the Great Fire of London, another during the Blitz. The Black Death certainly had gotten him more than once, though he hadn't been alone in his suffering on that account. There was that time he tripped and fell down the stairs whilst drunk – a particularly memorable one as the combined headaches of death and overindulgence in alcohol had left him bedridden for days. And then... then there were the thankfully few murders he'd been put through.

He doubted there was a nation alive who hadn't been murdered at least once: it was a risk they all faced, especially in this age of increasing violence and decreasing morality. Arthur supposed he had been particularly lucky to have never experienced any of the more brutal attacks, at least up until now.

As he pulls himself free of the mud, sludge and plant matter, he rubs his neck with a wince, feeling each of the newly acquired bruises throb at his gentle touch. Going by the even more abyssal ache within, the bones are still knitting back together – he isn't surprised, considering what happened.

Giving the area one last massage, he succeeds in clambering to his feet and stares up the banking to where he can see the edge of a wall. It seems so far away and he gives a sigh. Just how he wanted his day to begin.

~~~hetalia~~~

He can barely remember making it back to the hotel or figure out how he avoided being carted off by either police or paramedics whilst wandering the streets looking like the murder victim he was. He had been completely stripped of any valuables he had had on his person during the act yet could recall sitting in the back of a taxi, summoning up croaked answers to the driver's questions. So someone had taken pity on him then. His pride squirms at the thought but the rest of him offers forth no complaints.

Having been let into his room by a sympathetic concierge and her gaze of pity, he's looking forward to a shower, to washing the filth, the grime and a shame away (they hadn't touched him, at least not that he was aware of, and he doubted his attackers were into necrophilia so he at least has that).

All his plans are dashed by the solitary sight of his phone perched on the dresser, flashing quietly to indicate a packed inbox and an almost drained battery. Of course, he'd left it here last night, having only planned to be away an hour at the most, just to get a sense of the city and the changes that occurred since he'd last visited. He checks his messages and sighs. One from Francis, demanding that he actually answer his phone for once, one from Alfred stating the exact same with added hamburgers. Alfred again, informing him that the Conference (stupid bloody world conference that is the last thing he wants to go at this time) is about to start, another from the American, this one less serious... Okay, make that at least 10 from Alfred. At the very bottom of the list, there's one from Ludwig that is frighteningly calm and far too short, making him feel like a wayward toddler being scolded by Francis all over again.

He stares at the phone then stares at the bed, calculating his chances. Then, huffing, he begins to change.

~~~hetalia~~~

Arthur slouches into the meeting a whole 4 and 3/4 hours late, not even bothering with excuses and instead offering forth only a muttered apology. He says slouches because, truthfully, he hasn't got the energy to do anything else: acting like his normal brash self is just another thing on the long list of that which he is currently incapable of.

Watchful eyes follow his movement across the room: some curious, some concerned and many with the glazed interest of those who have spent the last hour staring at a crack in the ceiling and then have suddenly been confronted with entertainment. All the attention makes him slightly uncomfortable but he slides into a chair beside Matthew, schools his expression into neutral and tries to look at least moderately awake.

A full 22 seconds pass before Ludwig stops glaring and returns to the matter at hand, namely that giant superheroes are still not the answer to global warming, pollution or world poverty and no, they can't build a robot army either. Now he only has Francis to contend with. The Frenchman sits two seats down from him and wastes no time in castigating him for his tawdriness, alongside other things.

"You promised you wouldn't drink before a meeting!" he hisses angrily, having clearly taken Arthur's exhaustion for a hangover. He ignores the Brit's muttered "Not drunk," and continues on a whispered rant about the perils of alcohol, and of taking everything in moderation, like he's a bloody saint or something. Hypocritical wanker.

"Stop this already, Angleterre!" Francis says, and doesn't he ever shut up? Every single syllable out of his mouth is drilling through Arthur's ears to join the monstrous hands in inflicting further torture upon his head. "Are you on some mission to destroy yourself: is there something you're not telling me?"

That's it. "I am not drunk! I didn't touch a single drop last night or, in fact, for the last few months! Not that you'd know that of course. Is that all I am to you: some has-been drunkard of little use other than for a laughing stock?" Okay, he has no idea what's possessed him to spout all this but on the plus side, it's shut his brother up.

On the downside, it's also silenced every other nation in the room.

"Is everything all right, Arthur?" Kiku asks after an appropriate length of shocked quiescence. The blond question stares at him mutely then simply nods before pillowing his head in his arms, briefly allowing his weakness to overcome him.

"Tired, that's all," he mumbles into his arm, closing his eyes for a few all too brief seconds. "Rough night." He doesn't elaborate any further.

As he raises his head, Arthur takes the opportunity to give his much abused neck one sharp twist, humming contentedly when he feels the last sliver of displaced bone slide back into place and knit together with its comrades. God but that man had been an amateur... Fortunately, at that point, everyone had realised that a tired Brit equalled a cranky Brit and a cranky Brit usually meant someone was going to have their head torn off unless they let aforementioned cranky Brit be. Of course, he couldn't shake off the more persistent of his... - acquaintances? Friends? - but he gave Francis the finger and returned to his previous task of counting the pigeons flying past the window opposite him.

~~~hetalia~~~

Events...blur after that. He has vague memories of Alfred materialising at his side, having swapped places with Sweden or Finland or whoever the hell had previously been on his left (Matthew remains on his right, occasionally prodding him when it looks like he's seconds from toppling over). Every so often, the American hisses a question at him and sometimes Arthur hums a response but eventually the pair of them settle into the comfortable routine of wall staring in the men's double category, going for gold of course.

The last clear memory is of Matthew being called up to speak, leaving Arthur free to do whatever the hell he wants, which this time is sink head first onto the table and shut the world out.

Next thing he knows, someone is roughly shaking his shoulder and instructing him to wake up before Germany can notice because we all know what Germany's like for military style rules. He shrugs off the hand and tells its owner to sod off or maybe he just throws a few slurred syllables their way. Fuck but his neck's sore...

Argghh... Someone's prodding his neck now, attempting to be as gentle as possible but at this point even the most well-meaning of touches is agony on the tender flesh. If he had the energy, Arthur would reach up and slap away the offending hand: as it is, he settles for a protesting moan instead. And his head, don't forget his head. It's pounding its own custom disco beat and each throb is punctuated by an arrow stab of unadulterated pain. He vaguely notes the voices floating through the veil.

"Uh, guys? He's not waking up! What do'ah do; what do'ah do; what do'ah do!?"

There is a long suffering sigh: "Calm down for starters, Al: panicking won't solve anything."

Another sigh, this one a dismissive snort of air. "Leave him.'e is hung-over I would say: let sleeping Brits lies if you know what iz good for you."

"Uh, if you don't mind me saying, I don't think he's drunk or hung-over. Look at his neck - drink doesn't cause that."

Right, this is ridiculous: doesn't anyone have any sense of decency these days? It's generally common courtesy to allow someone to sleep when they're tired: obviously many of the nations present skipped that memo. He cracks open an eye and in a breeze of perfume and curls, Francis is suddenly there, far too close for comfort.

Arthur starts, throwing himself out of his seat with the crazed air of one determined not to fall for the same trick twice. It's all too reminiscent of last night, of the wannabe thug getting the jump on him – a sheer fluke for if the Brit hadn't been lost in thought, he would have heard him coming from a mile away. Truthfully he feels sorry for the poor man, boy really. He was the one who would wake up realising he had murdered a man the previous night (even if Arthur was practically immortal and resurrected several hours later, not that the guy would know that) and he was the one who would have to live with the consequences of that decision. It is for that reason that Arthur has already forgiven his killer for the burden of such knowledge is punishment enough.

Yes, Arthur's generally fairly forgiving, not that anyone would think it, but if Francis continues down the path he appears to have chosen...

The Frenchman is taking his time in roving the Brit's figure, only this time there is nothing perverted in his gaze. Confusion, perhaps, with maybe the slightest scattering of guilt, and fuck, that's definitely pity there. But it's soon replaced with understanding.

"Attempted or successful?" his friend, maybe brother, asks and Arthur croaks an affirmative to the second option, having sourly realised there was no longer a backdoor out of this available. Francis' sigh is audible: he raises his fingers to message his temples.

"You silly stupid man. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I did..." The table looks comfortable: maybe he'll just take another nap. Unconsciousness comes with not only zero pain but the added bonus of utter obliviousness to any incoming chances of mortification. Sounds like a good plan to him.

Somewhere above, Francis continues to rant - 'police' is mentioned several times alongside something about a river trawl carried out based on the statement given by a self proclaimed murderer who had handed himself into custody this very morning. The description given of the body sounds awfully familiar...

But then it's all going dark again and for a moment he's scared, he's bloody terrified that it's happening again. Nothing arrives to combat that fear.

~~~hetalia~~~

Warmth. There's definitely warmth when he wakes this time, a far cry from his earlier morning awakening. And nearby the soft slow breaths of one lost in the depths of sleep, bringing with it that lulling atmosphere he hasn't felt in so long. God...When was the last time he had slept with someone nearby? He doesn't want to think of the answer to that question.

A slow stretch reveals that yes, a good rest was indeed what he needed - his neck is stiff, yes, but not the crushing can't breathe pain of earlier...yesterday...whenever. The headache too has disappeared: a welcome relief. Any more of that and if Francis had offered pain killers, he would have openly grovelled at his feet.

A heavy weight lies across Arthur's chest: when he attempts to push it off, it gives a distinct grumble and cuddles closer, soft hair tickling his nose. Wait a moment...hair?

He opens its eyes and its all he can do not to scream at the figure slumped across his chest, carding its fingers into the material of Arthur's pyjamas. And that's another thing, pyjamas? He doesn't remember putting them on or indeed going back to the hotel and really this is quite frankly getting ridiculous. ... This means he passed out at the World Conference then. Well done Arthur: inspiring work. He was doing in such a grand job in regaining the respect other nations used to hold for him.

But back to the matter at hand - the mysterious figure. Male, he thinks: fairly tall and with floppy blond hair, though a lock curls upwards, that being the lock currently poking into his face. A name immediately springs to mind but then Arthur takes a closer look.

"Matthew?"

The Canadian jerks awake at his voice and lunges upwards just in time to crack heads with Arthur, the pair reeling away with twin cries of surprise. Matthew rubs his forehead with one hand, the other fumbling towards the bedside dresser for glasses. He grabs them, shoves them onto his nose upside down, rights them then peers at Arthur owlishly.

"Oh," he comments, looking quietly pleased. "You're awake."

Arthur ignores the undoubtedly sarcastic response ready to spring loose in favour of the more important question, that being: "What are you doing in my bed?"

Comprehension takes a while to dawn on Matthew. "What? ...Oh. Uh, well, Al brought you back - you were pretty out of it - and we didn't want to leave you on your own and there wasn't anywhere else to sleep and there was no way I was sleeping on the floor."

Arthur blinks at him, brain not quite up to processing that bulk-load of information just yet. At the very least its actual information: had it been Alfred, he would have been picking out the occasional snippet of fact from a mountain of meaningless drivel. And speaking of the producer of meaningless drivel, where is...

His unspoken question is suddenly answered as, like a misshapen creature emerging from the depths, a sheet monster rises up behind them with a wordless groan, making unintelligible hand gestures that mean absolutely nothing to either Arthur or Matthew. They exchange a glance as the thing at long last finds words:

"Shuddup: 'm tryin' to sleep." With a soft sigh of relief at their confused silence, the figure sinks back down into its duvet cavern. Arthur stares; Matthew stares. Alfred yawns loudly and turns over.

"You know what, I've given up wondering about him," Arthur admits finally before pulling himself fully into sitting position. He reaches up to his neck to carefully feel the still tender flesh, attempting to gauge the extent of the remaining damage. It actually feels okay - it's healing at his normal rate now that he's past the initial slump. Matthew watches him curiously

"Did you really die?" he abruptly blurts out, a faint blush colouring his cheeks at the impulsiveness of his question. Arthur's nods distractedly, running over his last clear memories in case he really did do something embarrassing such as grovel at Francis' feet. He vaguely hears Matthew's next question and nods again, more out of instinct than anything. He looks up just in time to catch his brother's horrified expression.

"What?... Wait, what did you say?"

"I asked if it was painful."

"..." For a moment, Arthur is taken back to what feels like an era ago, kneeling in the hallway before a young Alfred who stares wide eyed at a rather nasty head wound Arthur had sustained the previous night. The American reaches out with trembling fingers, stopping just short. Arthur catches that hand, lowering it back to Alfred's side.

"See, I'm fine," the Brit reassures gently, pulling his younger brother into a hug. "I tripped: that's all. It'll heal up in a few days." He has to suppress a wince when the boy's voice sounds directly in his ear: the headache is just reaching its peak.

"Does it hurt?"

Arthur gives a tight smile. "Not at all, dear." He sees no need to tell the child the 'gash' is actually the remnants of a partially healed gunshot wound or that the post-resurrection hangover makes him feel like his head is being kicked in. He'll find out one day but for now... "Why don't you go and play now? I'll join you later, okay?"

"Okay,"

With a wrench, he's back in the present and instead of Alfred, it's Matthew he's facing. Matthew who, along with his brother, is now too old to be deflected away from the matter, too knowledgeable to simply accept ' Yes' as an answer and leave it at that.

He'll give it a try anyway.

"Yes,"

Matthew's long expectant stare is answer enough to the prospects of that particular avenue. He doesn't even open his mouth: he just stares.

"Strangulation isn't exactly the most pleasant way to go and even if the guy had been aiming for mere incapacitation, it was going to go wrong anyway. He was a complete amateur, a wannabe thug drunk on his own ego who didn't know his own strength. The world's full of them in case you didn't realise." He hates how bitter he sounds at that moment and for a moment, wishes Alfred and Matthew would go away and leave an old has-been nation to his thoughts. At the same time, he wants to be selfish and keep them here, enjoy their presence whilst it lasts for he knows as soon as he is fully recovered, they'll be gone and he'll be alone again.

Matthew is smiling the amused smile of one who has predicted what has coming and has a retort ready prepared but before he can even open his mouth, someone beats him to it.

"You got that look on your face," Alfred drawls into the pillow, revealing himself to be more awake than previously thought. Apparently he's been listening all along. "That sort of...well, not quite kicked puppy look but approaching it. You know, the look you kept giving me whenever you saw me during the whatdyacallit... the, uh, the Blitz!"

Arthur winces because one, being compared to a puppy is not a reassuring thing and two, that time certainly wasn't when he was at his best and he would most definitely prefer for Alfred to remain silent on that matter. It was, as usual, expecting too much.

"You kept pushing me away and stuff but you always looked like you wanted me to stay. You looked young, too – well younger than usual. Hey, Iggy, do nations, like, de-age or something when bad stuff happens to their country?"

Arthur is fairly certain he's bright crimson at this point but he can't quite bring himself to care, for the last vestiges of the exhaustion have chosen that moment to sneak up upon him, and a sudden wave of vertigo overtakes him. Without even realising, he lunges for Matthew, clutching at the younger man in an effort to keep himself upright whilst waiting out the dizzy spell. He can feel the concern emanating of his two brothers as he gently tips forward to rest his head against Matthew's shoulder, allowing himself a sigh.

"Just aftershocks of sorts," he explains quietly without prompting. "If the death was particularly...brutal, it can take a few days for the effects to pass."

He feels warm arms encompass him, followed by the sounds of a body dragging itself up from its resting place to half throw half slump its way into the hug of sorts, huffing morning breath into Arthur's ear. It's an uncomfortable position - hot, sweaty and like he said, morning breath - but strangely, not unpleasant. He allows it to last for approximately 10 seconds before attempting to pull free, not willing to chance the ever growing risk of Francis deciding to barge in uninvited. Of course, he forgets he is contending with two other men, both of whom are bigger than him and most definitely stronger. When Alfred doesn't want to let go of something, you can be damn well sure you've got no chance of reclaiming it.

Just this once, he's willing to go with the flow, permitting Alfred to drag him back down onto the bed and only letting out the smallest of complaints when Matthew suffers the same treatment and is rather unceremoniously pulled on top of him. Whilst Matthew is busy righting himself and Alfred seems to have settled back down into his state of semi-hibernation, Arthur takes advantage of the golden opportunity to act as he seldom does: that is, actively burrow up against Alfred's shoulder. However, he immediately knows he's been rumbled when his 'pillow' rumbles with laughter, swinging around to fix him with a triumphant gaze.

"Told ya!" the American proclaims, reaching over to bump fists with Matthew, before turning suddenly contemplative. "Hey, why were we never like this before? You know, a proper family."

Arthur's eyes have slid shut: he trusts Matthew to prevent his twin from doing anything particularly irritating. "The first time you met him, you decided Matthew was 'boring', left him by himself and spent the rest of the day terrorising visitors."

"...It could have been worse. I mean, I could have brought out the cutlass."

"You did. You announced a game of slaves and pirates and tried to make him 'walk the plank'. I think I told you too many stories... Where did you hide the cutlass by the way?" The little brat had hidden it that day: he never could find it.

Alfred guffaws: "You don't know where it is? Ha! ... Uh, as a matter of fact, when I think about it..."

"Yes?"

"I, uh, I don't know where it is either."

There is a moment of silence during which both nations process this then as one, they turn to Canada. "Matthew?"

The blond, having settled down on Arthur's right, wears an amused yet slightly exasperated look. "It's hanging above the mantelpiece in my lodge: the one you commented on the last time you visited."

Both Arthur and Alfred stare. "That's been missing for over 300 years and you've had it all along?"

There is a shrug. "I thought it was appropriate loot considering I won the game."

Silence, then slowly, the three of them begin to laugh, chuckling widely until abruptly the Brit is cut short by a series of choking coughs, leaving him curled in on himself. "I'm alright," he murmurs softly, for once not lying. Though he probably hasn't even been awake for half an hour, suddenly all he wants to do his sleep again. "Just need to-" The sentence is interrupted by a yawn and is answered by chuckles.

"It's cool – Italy pestered Germany into postponing the meeting anyway so you're fine for the next-" Matthew quickly checks his watch, ending the statement with a grin. "- day and a bit,"

Oh joys, so he hasn't escaped the Conference then. Someone must really hate him.

"You know, if you wanted, " Alfred begins hesitantly, with the air of one who knows they're going to be refused before they've even posed their question. "You could maybe come stay at mine? You and Mattie both. Promise I won't let Tony attack you!"

...Arthur is surprised. Sure, he's stayed with Alfred before but only under official business, never an actual invitation. He's always thought the super nation at best disliked him: he had never be so stupidly optimistic as to assume they could salvage what was left of their relationship.

He certainly doesn't miss the quiet whisper of, "Maybe we could be brothers again?"

Arthur has spoken before he's even thought about it - he winces and braces himself for the fallout because skipping the vocal filters never ends well for him. But there's no angry retort or sulky retreat: instead there are grins and a strong sense of affection that takes him by surprise.

"One condition though," Alfred interjects with. "Never ever make me drink tea again!"

Arthur thinks about it: "...I can live with that."

...Okay, I admit it was mainly an excuse to hurt Iggy then add in some brotherly love. But then again, doesn't hurting characters come under the definition of 'fangirl'? Hope you enjoyed!