Title: Drunken Call For Help
Pairing: US x UK! (Libertea~) Human!AU
Summary: Hungover, in pain, and on his bathroom floor, Arthur wakes up in pure post-drunken misery. Luckily for him, a certain American is on his way to help! (USUK Hangover!Fic)
(A/N): So I watched a certain video by Matthew Santoro on youtube about..uh... the six stages of hangovers, and let's just say I couldn't stop imagining APH England in the sixth, most hellish stage. Of course, what hungover!england fic would be complete without some American love? This is pretty much a sickfic too, so enjoy~
Coming to consciousness, the first thing Arthur would register was the feeling of his brain pulsating against his skull.
The throbbing headache knocked around in his cranium in time with his heartbeat, keeping a steady rhythm of nausea and agony flowing.
The second thing was the fact that he was most definitely not in his bed. In a vain attempt to grasp at something, Arthur found his fingernails sliding across a smooth, tiled floor. Ah, he was probably in his bathroom again.
It took a great deal of effort to confirm this, but after fighting the stinging process of opening his eyes, he did indeed find himself staring at his blaring white bathroom floor, with the gritty underside of his sink above him.
The closest thing Arthur could recall prior to his position at the moment was a vague memory of trying to press the proper buttons to the elevator of his apartment building. No doubt, he was flat-out drunk at the time. What had happened before that…?
Ah, right. He'd gone out to drink at a party the night before. He was invited by… Antonio, was it? Right, his and Lovino's engagement party. They'd gone to the Spanish man's impressively spacious manor where Gilbert and Francis had shown up with literal crates full of alcohol. No, he wasn't dumb enough to go of his own free will, he'd only gone because Alfred and Matthew had insisted he come along and chaperone them. Of course, the chaperoning was simply a loose excuse—they were old enough to supervise themselves—but then again, two wasted nineteen year olds found lying in the streets of Milan was not something Arthur would tolerate from the two.
How he got to accept the booze must've been a dare of some sort, or Francis somehow managing to trigger his pride with enough insults to get alcohol in his system. Then perhaps Alfred had jeered in support of a drinking contest, or maybe Gilbert had challenged him to one. Either way, he'd gotten completely wasted by the end of the night and had woken up on his bathroom floor.
Wonderful.
So his skull was being power-drilled from within, his mouth and throat felt like he'd gargled sand, he was on his bathroom floor, his hip was pressed painfully between the tiles and his body, and he could see that he had several bruises on his arms from what his sight would permit.
Attempting to lift his head to try and start the day, despite it probably already being mid-afternoon, Arthur found his head to suddenly weight a hundred tons. He thudded back down on the tiles and grunted, the action worsening his headache.
Well, there seemed to be no getting up on his own, and he didn't feel like staying there for the rest of the day either.
He decided he'd regret his poor choices later and opted to call someone for help— not Francis or Gilbert though, he'd rather choke on a chainsaw rather than have those two see him in his current state.
Not really thinking about what he was doing, his left hand weakly inched towards his pocket. His fingers felt mysterious dried blobs of liquid all over his shirt—and it was his favorite one too—before slipping out his phone with a finger, leather wallet tumbling out along with it. Once he had a firm grasp, he held it close and clicked it open only to be greeted by the blaring light of a thousand suns. He hissed in pain and shut his eyes immediately.
When did his phone screen get so bright? Did Alfred or Antonio screw with it the night before just to mess with him? Jesus, he didn't need this.
Doing his best, Arthur squinted through the entire process of remembering his password, unlocking his phone, and finding the contacts list. Not being able to look any further, he simply tapped on whichever contact his thumb happened to land on and held the phone to his ear.
One ring. Two rings.
His arm was getting tired.
Three rings. Four rings. Five rings. Six-
He heard a click, and then a faraway "Hello?"
"Unh."
"Arthur? That you?" Who did he call?
"Ye..yhello.."
"Dammit, old man, you're totally hammered, aren't you?"
Shit, it was Alfred. At least… he thought it was.
"L….Fred?"
"Yeah?"
Arthur cleared his throat. God, this was embarrassing. He couldn't let Alfred of all people see him this wasted! Granted, it wouldn't be the first time. But if the smell was anything to go by, he probably had some of his partially digested dinner dried up all over his shirt. No, no, no, Alfred was not going to find him like this—not again. He at least had to regain some semblance of dignity.
"Nothin'. I was simply… ch-checking in." He muttered, hoping his words weren't too slurred.
A sigh from the other end of the line. "Fine, I'll come over. 'Betcha fifty dollars I'll find you on the floor somewhere with your door unlocked."
"Ah… don't have that kind of money…"
A chuckle rang through the speaker. "Be there in fifteen minutes."
There was an abrupt click, quickly followed by loud, obnoxious beeping.
Arthur groaned and rolled over, letting his phone tumble to the floor still faintly beeping. He couldn't really process much of what happened, or much of his state of being. All he knew was that he wanted to die and Alfred was coming.
The floor seemed to be spinning underneath him. Since when has it been doing that? He tried pushing his arms up, but they fell flat back against the floor. Damn, his arms were awfully wobbly.
His hand then hit something next to his waist in the process. He grabbed it, grateful that he could still grasp things properly, then held it up to eye-level to find his wide, empty wallet hanging open in his face. Save for his credit cards, there wasn't a single trace of cash within.
"Bloody hell…" Where the fuck did all his money go?! The drinks were free, weren't they? Or maybe they weren't and Antonio simply sought take payment matters into his own hands. Wait, who brought the drinks again?
Arthur recalled a fuzzy, most likely half-made up memory of a vodka-wielding Gilbert mentioning that they were from Yao. Then in that case, that stingy man had probably been the one to blame for his missing money. Or maybe it was Kiku…?
Arthur groaned and let the wallet fall away.
Taking advantage of the slight ability to still move his one arm, he ran a wobbly hand through his hair, only for his fingers to get tangled in the dry mess and stay there. His arm fell back down, and now he was stuck in that awkward position.
In the muddy state of his mind, he couldn't pay too much attention to that. God, he really wanted to get up. And puke. And find some aspirin, then maybe stay in bed for a few days, seeing as his legs wouldn't respond to his commands.
When was Alfred going to get there?
Arthur was going drowsy again, having only the various pains in his body to keep him awake.
The hungover Englishman didn't know how much time had passed, but soon he heard a few loud thumps, then the loud creak of his front door swinging open.
Shit, he did leave his door unlocked. Well, at least he had closed it.
A minute later, he heard the much louder creak of the bathroom door swinging open and felt a cold rush of air sweep over him. A sigh came from above, and Arthur lifted his eyes to see a blurry, upside-down Alfred glaring at him from a blurry, upside-down doorway. He seemed to be wearing a simple blue and red shirt, his usual brown bomber jacket nowhere in sight. He had his arms folded over his chest as he stared down at the brit, with a look of either concern or exasperation—Arthur couldn't tell. Perhaps both, given his hammered state.
"Well?" Arthur grumbled, a little weaker than intended.
"I told you not to chug that vodka. When Ivan brings vodka, you can bet it has some other nasty shit in there."
"I don't….recall any vodka…" Or any Ivan for that matter. Was the Russian even present?
"That's because you're hungover as hell."
Alfred knelt down, slid his hands underneath Arthur, and, in a surprisingly gentle demeanor, got him to sit up and lean back against his chest. The brit nuzzled into his shoulder, thankful for the warmth. His mind was still muddy and his body still hurt, but the warm weight of the American's arms around him was enough to give him a good sense of comfort.
"You good enough to stand?"
"…no."
"Art, it would be best if we got you into your bed, yeah?"
Arthur was ready to settle for a weak protest, when a sudden wave of nausea overtook the comforting warmth. He shot up, scrambled for where he knew the toilet was, and shot out whatever vile contents remained in his stomach.
He was still lurching when he felt Alfred's hand on his back, rubbing comforting circles between his shoulder blades. Several lurches later, Arthur slumped back down wanting nothing more than to rinse out the unpleasant shit-salad aftermath in his mouth. He vaguely registered Alfred's hand moving to flush out the toilet, followed by a cruel chuckle and a remark of "I'll be back."
Not moments later after Alfred's hand left his back did the warmth return, now pressing comfortably around him. What seemed to be a damp cloth was wiped around Arthur's mouth and he grunted in both thanks and complaint. Alfred laughed.
"Jesus, how are you not as hungover?" Arthur mumbled, looking up to see mirthful blue eyes staring down at him. They certainly weren't bloodshot.
"That's because I don't succumb to petty drinking contests held by Francis. Especially not Francis." Alfred nodded to himself. "Pretty sure the guy spiked up that vodka."
Arthur only groaned and rolled his eyes, straining them and only serving to worsen the pounding in his skull.
"Come on, to bed with you."
With little effort, Alfred swiftly had the Englishman's upper back and knees supported with his arms, then promptly lifted him up into the air. Arthur gave a small shriek, a weak protest, something the other man easily ignored considering this wasn't the first time he'd had to care for the overly hungover Brit, before he felt himself being carried out of the bathroom.
After a few moments, Arthur found himself nestled into the soft sheets of his bed, with a thick comforter being pulled up around him. It kept him warm, but it wasn't as good as Alfred. Which was why he grunted for the man, holding feebly onto his wrist.
He felt lips briefly trace his knuckles, before they pulled away. "You need some food in you, alright? I'll cook up breakfast—err, late lunch, and then get you some aspirin. Sound good?"
"Nn….stay…"
The lips came back, pressing sweetly against his fingers, then broke fleetingly apart for a gentle laugh. "I'll be back, I promise. In the meantime, get some rest." Then he left.
Despite his usually carefree demeanor, Arthur couldn't deny that Alfred got awfully sweet and gentle in his times of need. Granted, he'd feel a little guilty for seemingly taking advantage of the boy, but Alfred wouldn't seem to have it any other away, and Arthur really, really liked how his boyfriend would transform into the most gentle, caring, kind-hearted guardian angel in the world.
It's not the he wasn't kind-hearted and caring whenever Arthur wasn't sick—actually, he very much was. He always brought Arthur gifts, made sure to offer an "I love you!" at least twice a day, and was generally always there for him. It was simply that his demeanor got a whole lot sweeter, Willy-Wonka-Factory sweeter.
Arthur made sure to enjoy these times—the only upside to being horribly ill-bodied and sick to the core.
The next time Arthur came to, it was to the steamy scents of Earl Grey and chicken soup accompanied by the clinking of dishes on the bedside table to his right.
Well, Arthur had never really fallen asleep during that time Alfred was gone. He'd entered something more like a conscious black-out, filled with nothing but the sensations of his brain pounding against his skull, his back throbbing like hell, and the pungent stench of day-old, alcohol-filled vomit. A wonderful experience, really.
Thankfully for him, his beloved perfume tea was enough to mask the horrid scent his unwashed body was emitting.
He had to squint past the annoying light spilling in from beyond the doorway, but he then saw the blurry image of a grinning Alfred staring down at him. The American's hair was slightly tousled, strands going every which way. His sapphire eyes sparkled like the summer sky above Arthur. And in one hand, Alfred held a spoon, which Arthur then realized was being pointed at him threateningly.
"W…What?"
"I said, sit up, Mister. Time to get some food in your system!"
Oh.
With more than a little help, Arthur had managed to get himself sitting up in bed. His back leant against some pillows which had been propped up on the headboard. The whole ordeal of getting him up sent the Englishman's migraine spiraling back to full force.
The mattress dipped next to his waist, and he soon felt that Alfred-like warmth he had craved for so much radiating against his side. Of course, this did nothing to ease-up his horrible headache, but it made for a good distraction.
A bowl of chicken soup was waved under his nose, allowing his mouth to water at the scent, before Alfred slowly filled up his spoon and held it to Arthur's lips. He took it gratefully, not at all minding the few stray droplets that dribbled past his lips. Alfred apologized anyway.
Not once did the normally prideful, prim-and-proper brit complain during the whole spoon feeding ordeal, apart from a small whine when Alfred took too long offering up another spoon. When it was empty, the bowl was put away and Arthur's hands were cupped around a warm cup of tea. He held it weakly under his nose, inhaling the intoxicating scent.
"You were out of milk, sorry. I just made it as-is," Alfred apologized.
"No, it's quite alright," Arthur mumbled back, his mind not as muddy now thanks to the food in his stomach. He drank the tea, reveling in its perfect hot-but-not-too-hot temperature. After years of practice, Alfred finally knew how to brew his tea right, despite the lack of milk.
"You know," Alfred said in a low hum. "You're not as openly grumpy when you're hungover." He pressed his lips to Arthur's temple, arm resting around his shoulders.
The brit smiled warmly into his tea. Never one to let the horrible headaches deter a sweet moment from his boyfriend, he hummed in agreement and allowed his body to relax.
"I really, really want to kiss you right now, love. But I'm afraid I'm still in need of a shower and some mouthwash."
Alfred laughed and squeezed his boyfriend closer. "Yeah, you really should go clean up after this," He agreed. "But it looks like you're not up for standing either."
Arthur eyed the doorway suspiciously. No, no, the bathroom was too far away. "Nn… I don't want to stand," He said. Alfred chuckled again.
By now the brit had finished his tea and Alfred had taken the cup out of his hands. Arthur looked up, his face mere inches away from the American's sweet, inviting lips curved up in sly smirk. Oh, screw the shower.
Arthur slunk down the bed, bringing the pillows with him, then yanked down his American so he could curl up properly into his chest.
"Fuck the shower. Stay here and cuddle." His arms wrapped around Alfred's torso and he tangled their legs together, firmly setting their position for the next hour or so.
The American's chest rumbled with a small laugh as strong arms curled over Arthur. "Alright, alright. But your aspirin-"
"No. Cuddle."
"Hehe, alright."
Then, it was nice and quiet. Finally, Arthur felt his headache slowly receding as the comforting warmth took over. His breathing had eased up, but his body was by no means fully cured of soreness. He'd be in pain all day, but at least his had a nice, comfy American by his side to make sure he didn't utterly die buried in bile.
"You're an idiot, Arthur," Alfred declared.
Arthur smiled. "I love you."
"I love you too."
Yeeee USUK sickfic ahoy! Hope you enjoyed. Leave a review~
~Nish