AN: Something that I wrote a while ago, inspired by something my teacher told us in assembly, only I ended up changing a lot because I zoned out during the assembly. But Im happy with how it turned out, one of my longest pieces!

WARNING: Character death... somewhere~ Also, I have no medical knowledge at all, so that might be totally inaccurate XD

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia, nor the original idea to this story, I believe it was a tale before this? Anyway, I only switched in characters, I own neither the idea nor characters.

When Alfred F. Jones turned 17, his parents finally caved and brought him a car. It was nothing special, but it ran perfectly and got him from A to B, normally on time. When he had turned 18 the following year, he may have drunk a little more than he had meant to - and had handed the keys to the car over to his brother, Matthew, who had spent the night on lemonade and cola instead.

In hindsight, maybe they should have got a taxi and saved the hassle. In hindsight, annoying his brother, who was trying to navigate the long winding roads in the dark, was probably not the best idea. So in hindsight, he shouldn't really have been surprised that he had been flung through the windshield when the car was thrown from the road.

In a blur of red, white and black, Alfred and his brother arrived at the hospital. Alfred thanked God, thanked anyone he could think of that Matthew had survived. The Canadian had pulled through. Although he was hospitalised for a week, and even now relied on a cane sometimes, he had made it.

Alfred hadn't been quite so lucky. Whether it was the way the car landed, or the fact he had been twisting in his seat he didn't know, but when Alfred came around two days later on the white linen of hospital bed sheet, he could not move his legs. In fact, he struggled to move anything lower than his waist. He had bolted up right, or at least tried to, instead falling miserably back onto his pillow. Panic washed over him, and he was ready to yell out to someone that he couldn't move, when a soft voice called over to him.

"Mr. Jones, please don't panic - you'll only hurt yourself more," Alfred's head whipped around to find a man sitting in a bed across from him. He fumbled on the nightstand for his glasses, hastily shoving them onto his nose. The blonde blob in front of him suddenly became the man from whom the words had come from. He was small, Alfred noticed, very small. He looked almost lost, trapped between the pillows that were holding him upright. Thick, bushy eyebrows sat atop green eyes that dropped at Alfred's sudden silence.

"D-Dude... Who're you? Where's Mattie, and the doc - wait, what day is it? What's ha-" The man held up a hand, silencing him.

"I know a little about your predicament, if you'd let me explain?" Alfred wriggled where he sat, trying to sit up again, but to no avail. He settled for peering over at the man, nodding.

"Sure... What's been happening?"

The man, who introduced himself as Arthur Kirkland, explained to him what he had heard from the doctors. Alfred was paralyzed, unable to feel or move either of his legs, and it looked to be permanent. Arthur frowned as he spoke,

"I know it must be terrible to find out, but they have been talking of trying physiotherapy - you may walk yet again. Your brother is in another ward, with less serious injuries... he's come to visit you a few times already, as have your parents," at this, the Brit had flushed slightly. "I tried hard to avoid listening in, but I seem to hear most everything, whether I want to or not."

Alfred, throughout Arthur's whole explanation, had stayed silent, something Arthur would soon come to know as unusual for the boy. As Arthur came to the end of his speech, the clock turned 12, and a doctor soon appeared in the doorway. Noticing that the American was awake, he had nurses flooding the room, and he was carted off for ominously named tests.

Within a few hours, Alfred was returned to his bed having been poked and prodded for at least two hours and then meeting with his concerned family. Yet visiting hours soon ended and so Alfred found himself back in the room with the mysterious Arthur Kirkland. The man dipped his head towards him, greeting him quietly. He was ready to question the Brit, asking about his reasons for being here, who he was, what he liked to do - but he was hit with a wave of exhaustion. He managed a hello and a "Call me Al," before he succumbed to the darkness.

"Goodnight... Alfred,"

Dawn crept up on them slowly, and Alfred woke long before his roommate, who was curled into his pillows still. Seeking out his glasses again, Alfred gave himself time to look around their rather modest room; after all he'd be spending some time here. The room wasn't too large, but there was space by either of the two beds to get a few family members. Alfred was tucked into the corner left of the door, Arthur across to the right. Being flat on his back as he was, there wasn't much else at eye level to see. He could only just see Arthur over his toes, and the ledge that ran along the wall next to him - a window? No light filled the room, but then again he had awoke at such an ungodly hour, he wasn't surprised. With a sigh, his eyes flickered back to the ceiling where he traced patterns out until he fell back into a dreamless sleep.

Over the days, Alfred slowly gained his strength. He became talkative again, and the two men ended up filling their hours with conversation. Alfred spoke at length of his brother, their house on the edge of Washington, with it's large grounds that he had spent countless evenings hiding out in. He spoke at length of his family, the holidays to New York and California and countless Christmas stories from when he and Matthew were so much younger. He spent a fair few hours moaning about school, the tiresome teachers, but also spent time to recall his friends, telling Arthur about the Italian brothers who had moved into the neighborhood, and the red-eyed Prussian boy he'd spoken to. One evening they spoke of their dreams.

"Suppose I'll never get to visit England," he said quietly, after Arthur had asked where he planned to go.

"You will, one day," Arthur replied and Alfred scoffed.

"As if, you've seen the state I'm in - I can barely sit up! I'm not getting out of here for a long time, Artie..."

"So maybe it'll be a few years, but trust me - you'll see London. It's really quite exquisite you know," he said, and he began describing the city, Alfred listening in awe. Arthur described the view from the Eye, the sprawling city that blossomed around the Thames. He recalled every minute detail of Big Ben and the infamous clock tower that surrounded it, and the feeling of exhilaration one felt when leaning from one of the many bridges to watch the city rush by. He described the magnificent art in the National Gallery, and the laughter of children that was found in the basement of the science museum, among the exhibits and games.

He ended up revealing his own history too, talking about his older brothers and how they had poked fun of him relentlessly - yet they still loved each other somehow, and the old school friends. The calm German boy he'd lived next door to, and the annoying Frenchman he'd gone through both primary and secondary school with. As much as he proclaimed to detest the boy, he spoke with some fondness when he told Alfred about the time they'd spent the night up a tree. He described the small house he'd grown up in, and the smart apartment he'd settled into when he made the move into the city.

"Then I came over here, to America, on business, which is when the... accident happened - seven months ago," he finished, lying back against his pillows. A small frown graced his lips, but he quickly masked it. Alfred, still flat out on his back, grinned. Arthur was a wonderful storyteller, and Alfred could easily see the city in his minds eye. He had followed Arthur on his 'tour' of London and was amazed a city could be so amazing!

"It... it sounds totally awesome Artie! Ah, I gotta go! One day - one day you've gotta take me!" Arthur merely chuckled as a nurse came in to turn out the lights. Little did they know, they'd spent yet another evening talking well into the night. As they settled back into their pillows Arthur smiled. Things weren't so bad with Alfred around...

During the first month they shared in the small hospital room, they shared much, and by the end of that month, they had near enough exhausted all topics. They had discussed everything and everything; books, movies, politics, music and history - a subject both men seemed amazed by. Yet they soon ran out of stories to tell, and knew each other like the back of their hands.

So one day Alfred asked Arthur about the window by his bed. In his state, Alfred saw only the ledge, not the outside world. He would catch glimpses of sunlight if he pushed himself up but it, but that was it.

"Yes, there's a window here, a large one... you can get quite a view. Right now for instance - there's a lake outside, with geese and ducks..." he went on to describe every detail of the world outside for Alfred, making the American grin happily.

So became their routine; wake with the sun, then sit, or lie, through breakfast in almost silence, for Alfred soon found Arthur was not a morning person. Then Arthur would take time to tell Alfred about the happenings by the lake; the couples shyly cuddling, the children skimming rocks while parents looked on happily. Lunch would arrive for he two of them, and it was after this that Alfred was taken down to the gym, where he would spend hours with doctors trying to repair his lower back and legs.

Arthur sat alone in his room, but didn't mind the silence. Though he enjoyed the American's presence, and deep down cared for him, he could get rather irritating. He would babble on for hours after training, even more so if his parents or Matthew had visited. Arthur would relish in the few private hours - sometimes he simply napped, others had him playing music, or calling family; he'd even received calls from that frog sometimes.

After Alfred's return, they would talk again, and Arthur would occasionally treat Alfred to a night-time description of their lake. As Alfred's work progressed, his hope grew. With each moment he spent listening to Arthur's wonderful tales, the bigger his ambition of seeing the world again grew. He wanted to see the lake, escape the confines of the hospital finally, and sit by that lake. He wanted to see the city skyline Arthur told him about, and the people who gathered by the lake.

It became his mission, his ambition to see it, but there was one condition - he would see it with Arthur. He needed Arthur to show him the sights, he wanted Arthur to take him around Washington, around London! He wanted...

To loop hands with the Brit as they crossed Tower bridge, and explored the city. To cling to his jacket as they walked along the edge of the Thames, to cross Westminster bridge and see London from the top of the Eye. To find Arthur's favourite cafe, the one with the faded armchairs, and sit there as it rained with a cup of something hot in his hands.

To kiss Arthur under the stars.

Alfred was healing. He could feel it, his legs slowly but surely gaining strength. He came back from a session one afternoon, yelling to Arthur at the top of his lungs that he had wriggled a toe, and another a few weeks later, when he had managed to get one foot off his wheelchair. Arthur smiled at every announcement, congratulated Alfred on his strength. Each smile pushed him that little bit further to his goal. Alfred was getting better.

Arthur had been getting better too, hadn't he? The Brit in the opposite bed, he had been healthy... right? Then why, why... why did Alfred wake to an empty room? Hadn't it been only hours ago, after light-out, that he had given Alfred a full description of the stars that night? Hadn't he only just finished the story of those two kissing under the stars?

Nothing was wrong, nothing at all Alfred told himself. The flurry or nurses he vaguely remembered - that had been another weird dream, of course! The hushed voices he had caught, he was recalling the movie they had been talking about... yes?

That's right, his mind was playing tricks on him, because there was no way on Earth that Arthur-

"-Kikland passed away last night, Mr. Jones. I'm sorry."

"Can... can I see his bed?" he asked, pushing himself from the pillows. The doctor looked at him sadly.

"Sure, why not? Come on," he said, helping Alfred into the wheelchair. In his six months here, Alfred had never been over to Arthur's bed. He felt a pang of guilt - he'd never came over to properly thank him. Tears swirled in his eyes as they moved across the room, the three second crossing stretching into years. He would finally see through the window...

... and see nothing. A wall, that's what he saw. The rough brick of another wall blocked the window, sunlight only just managing to worm its way through.

"What?! Where's... where's the lake? Doc?" Alfred turned to the doctor, who was just as bewildered as him.

"Mr. Jones, what lake? This window's been blocked for years now, ever since the new wing was added - what are you talking about?" Alfred scrambled for words, confusion threatening to drown him - Arthur's descriptions, they were so vivid! So real!

"The one... the one Arthur used to look at, he'd tell me about it because I can't see out from my bed..." The doctor frowned.

"Mr. Kirkland... was blind, Alfred, didn't you know?"

Blind?! Then how had he... why?

"I don't... understand, Doc - why did he..." he swallowed thickly. "Why'd he bother? Describin' it all... tellin' me about London?"

"Maybe," the doctor said, a sad smile on his lips, "Maybe he wanted to encourage you."

Atop a hill in the quiet English countryside, sat a tombstone. It was simple, elegant and sat by it was a sandy-haired American. He sat in silence in the chair, watching the world go by. After a while, he spoke.

"Arthur... I made it. Told you, eh? I made it to England... Been into the city, to buy these," he thumbed the lapel of his freshly pressed blazer. "And we saw... we saw Wicked, your favourite, right? /it's pretty awesome... Your family's really nice too, and I even met Francis," he chuckled gently. "He's not as bad as you make out. He really misses you, y'know that? We all do... a lot."

Hands gripping the arms of his chair, he looked down at the grave.

"But what I really came here for... Artie - I wanted you there I wanted to be with you when I took my first steps..."

Pushing himself up, Alfred slowly got to his feet. With trembling legs, he took a shaky step forward.

"Thank you Arthur... for being my dream..."