Title: Moonlight Shadow
Summary: America/England. Arthur is in a coma and Alfred is stricken with grief as he prays and hopes that Arthur will wake up.
Disclaimer: I do not own and never will.
Warning: Slash, don't like don't read.
A/N: If you have seen Red Dwarf - you may be able to tell i grew up watching it. ^_^
…
Arguing was something that was nothing new between Arthur and Alfred.
"Of course I revoke your idea to install a giant toupee over the hole in the earth's ozone, you prat". Arthur spat at Alfred. This was just one of the latest world class ideas from Alfred, and Arthur thought he had heard everything until this latest idea. If being blown literally out of ones chair with horror and surprise at a former colonies daft, hair-brain scheme was an Olympic sport – Arthur would have run home with the gold for sure.
Alfred was about to defend his idea (which he thought was a work of genius and Arthur was just being touchy) when both himself and Arthur noticed that there was a masked gun man in front of them, a crimson light dancing on Alfred's stomach.
What made Arthur jump in front of Alfred and shield him was something Alfred at the time had no conception of. Arthur had always made it clear that he was not going to be pulled into anything that was not of his doing just to defend Alfred. Alfred had made his independence very clear to him.
Alfred could hear the audible gasp from Arthur as the bullet struck him. Alfred flinched with the anticipation that the bullet was also going to hit him, and this made the shooter think he had hit both before running off. Alfred hands shot to his own stomach on reflex. He knew he was uninjured on instincts. Arthur turned slightly to his side so he could see him, the colour in his face from their argument gone. Alfred's eyes caught sight of Arthur's blood saturating his while shirt and he felt his world stop. Arthur 's hands went to his wound that was bleeding profusely and raised them so he could see them. They were red.
Arthur's emerald green eyes shone fear. Alfred found himself unable to move. He had never seen England terrified. He had grown up thinking England wasn't scared of anybody or anything. This new side of Arthur horrified him.
However, when he saw Arthur collapse and fall to the ground, his legs no longer able to hold his weight, Alfred snapped out of his reverie and panic surged through him as he dropped to his knees next to his former carer. When Arthur had collapsed, a dull thud was heard by Alfred as his head made contact with the concrete ground.
"Arthur!" Alfred shouted distressed as he wrapped his arms around Arthur's now still form and gently manoeuvred him so he could rest in the crook of his arm. "Arthur!" His hand shot to his neck to check for a pulse. When he found it, it was slow and lethargic. Fighting tears of both grief and frustration, Alfred applied pressure to the wound, his eyes focusing in on Arthur's now ashen skin and the little and far between movements of his chest. He could feel the blood leaving Arthur as his life seeped away between his fingers.
"Arthur". Alfred chocked back a sob. "Arthur!"
Alfred woke up covered in cold sweat, his shirt and shorts sticking to his body as his heart hammered violently and hot tears rolled down his face. The cold moon light streamed in through the window, drenching him in a white, surreal light. Breathing heavily, he wiped away the tears with the back of his hand before climbing out of bed to shut the curtains. He would never get back to sleep with the moon light intruding in his room and glaring in his eyes.
After shutting the curtains, he sat on the edge of his bed and rested his head in his hands, his elbows causing discomfort as they dug into his legs, but he paid it little heed. He licked his dry lips in thought. He thought he was becoming something of an obsessive compulsive, but, like every night, he relented. He stood and left his room in silence.
Alfred padded down the hall towards the guest room that he had put Arthur in. He made this trip every night, but the hope that he harboured that something would have changed was beginning to dim and fade away into nothingness. He would have loved nothing more than to discover that Arthur had woken up, even if it did mean Arthur was going to clout him around the head for putting him in such a situation. Alfred, despite the physical discomfort that the situation would bring him, would have welcomed Arthur trying to strike him and, knowing Arthur, probably succeeding in it too.
But he was never awake when he stepped into the guest room.
Arriving at the Arthur's door, Alfred knocked. It was becoming a habit, but it kept the hope alive. Every night that he would knock on the door, he would strain his ears, listening for the British accented voice from within the room to give him clearance to enter.
But as usual, there was no voice, nor was there the rustling of covers and the soft sound of footsteps as Arthur walked to open the door.
Sighing sadly, Alfred pushed open the door and stepped inside the dark room. Everything was gloomy, as though in mourning. Even the furniture had was downcast, silent and sombre. Quietly closing the door behind himself, Alfred moved through the room with an awareness that came from knowing the layout of the furniture in the room like the back of his own hand. Slowly, he sat at the edge of the bed and and took Arthur's cold, limp hand in his own. Alfred had taken charge over Arthur after realising that he did not trust anyone else to do it.
Arthur was a pitiful sight. His bones were protruding through his clothes as both weight and muscle left him; his skin was grey and his once vibrant ash blonde hair was now dull and limp. His eyes had black circles around them and he looked fragile and easily breakable.
It had never occurred to Alfred since his decision to become independent of England that he was actually still dependent on him. He may have mocked and tormented England, especially with his inflated ego, but Arthur was always there to receive them and shoot back insults. Now Arthur was not there, not even at the end of the phone, Alfred's world had lost its shine. The effect of having Arthur laid in a coma showed, most notably at conferences where Alfred was no longer remarking with great enthusiasm how great he was or ranting on about impossible schemes that he for some reason believed could be achieved. Other nations had learned not to mention Arthur, either in absence or to see if his condition had changed. This had come after Canada had inquired into Arthur and was attacked by Alfred while he sobbed bitterly.
Even Russia didn't ask.
Alfred turned down anything that took him away from Arthur's side for too long. He wanted to be there when he finally woke up, but as days turned into week, he began to feel as though Arthur was never going to wake up. Everyday he woke up and raced to Arthur's side, believing that that was the day that he was going to see Arthur awake and smiling at him, his green eyes alive and no longer looking as though he was apart of the dead. Alfred prayed for the day he could see those emerald green eyes again. Glittering with tears, blazing with anger or shining with confusion, he didn't care, he simply wanted to see them again.
Alfred understood that if Arthur woke up again, Arthur may not recognise him. He may have no memory of him at all; he may not even remember he was a nation. There was defiantly going to be trouble with getting Arthur to walk on his own again, but that was definite, a proven fact. It was the uncertainties that kept him awake at nights, his imagination twisting and sculpting the worst possible outcome, then making it worse still.
What if Arthur was reduced to little more than a child?
Alfred, watching Arthur, brushed all thoughts aside and decided that he was going to spend the night by Arthur's side. Leaning in, he delicately brushed aside Arthur's ash blonde hair before placing a gentle kiss to his cold forehead and climbed under the covers with him. He pulled Arthur into his arms and held him tightly. Arthur's head rolled to the side as Alfred moved him so he could wrap his arms around his gaunt frame so he could keep him in a protective embrace.
"I love you, you bloody fool". Alfred chocked before burying his head in the crook of Arthur's neck, his hot tears saturating Arthur's clothing. Feeling Arthur's cold, ashen, gaunt cheek against his forehead just made the tears flow harder.
There was no response to his words.
Their never was.
End.
A/N: Should I write one where Arthur wakes up? Maybe Alfred could help Arthur to walk again (and we all know hilarity will ensue with that one). ^o^