"England...?"

Arthur jolted at the feeble sound as if a door had just been slammed. He was at Alfred's side in a moment, checking his forehead (god he was so warm—not warm, hot, too hot, his fever was getting worse) and adjusting the cool off-white cloth that sat there heavily, dripping cold water onto the pillow and sheets. But he couldn't care less about that. "What is it, love?" He asked, now messing with the mass of covers that were pulled up to Alfred's chin. "Are you alright? Do you need something to drink?"

Alfred gave him a tired smile, and he shook his head (he quickly regretted the action—his fever was making him dizzy and moving his head hurt). "No, just...wanna talk...'bout somethin'..."

Arthur nodded, running a pale hand through sweaty blonde hair (it wasn't shaking—it was shaking so badly—it couldn't be shaking, he had to be strong for—himself—Alfred—and himself, had to be strong, had to be, couldn't fall apart now, not ever—because he needed him). "Of course, what is it?"

"There's, um, somethin' I wan' you to know...I wanted you to know for a while..." Alfred said slowly (tired—why was he so tired?), frowning.

"Just tell me." Arthur said, and winced (don't snap at him, not now), quickly adding (gently, be gentle), "You can tell me anything, America."

Alfred looked up at him, those big blue eyes (weren't as bright as before, now they were duller, he was so ill) earnest and pleading. "Y-you know, when I was little, how I'd kiss you a lot?"

Arthur frowned a little (what an odd thing to bring up—he'd only been a child after all, couldn't have meant anything) and nodded. "Yes, of course I remember. I thought it was adorable. What of it?"

Alfred's smile was sad this time (so sad, why so sad?). "Well, back then...I was tryin' to tell you somethin'...but I was afraid to say it...so I hoped you'd get the hint, but you didn't..."

Arthur felt his heart speed up (couldn't be talking about that, surely not, he was only a boy, his feelings would never be returned) and he swallowed. "What were you trying to say, America?"

"See, I told myself that I'd prolly never tell you, 'cause I didn't want to ruin what we had, but now that I might be dying—"

"Don't talk like that!" Arthur interrupted (because it wasn't true—couldn't be true—he wasn't dying, he was only ill—he would get better and everything would be okay). "You aren't going to die, everything will be fine. Do you understand me?"

"England—"

"No! I won't hear a word of it. You're not dying, you'll be just—"

"Arthur."

Arthur shut up. Alfred continued. "I might be dying, and so I just wanted you to know 'cause...'cause it's really important and you need to know..."

"W-what's so important, then?" Arthur demanded (not dying, he isn't dying—oh god please don't die). "What's so important that I need to know so badly? What were you trying to tell me?"

"It's kinda part of why I separated from you..." Alfred dragged on (stalling, just stalling, don't want to say it—what if he hates me?) "So maybe you would take me more seriously 'cause I wouldn't be your little bro anymore. B-but then, I kept doing it, and y-ou...pushed me away." He winced as his voice broke (don't wanna say it—please don't hate me—but gotta say it). "And I never told you the truth 'cause I was afraid you would hate me so I just laughed. But I gotta say it now so you know, 'cause this might be my last chance."

"A-America—Alfred, please, stop talking nonsense..." Arthur said shakily (no, no shaking, don't shake—shaking so badly...). "Just go back to sleep, you need—"

"I love you."

Arthur felt tears start to prickle at the sides of his emerald eyes, but he blinked them away stubbornly. "Alfred, love, you—you're just delirious from the fever, you don't mean it that way—"

"I love you." Alfred insisted, and Arthur could see his eyes were glistening with tears as well (no, please, don't cry, I love you too, please don't cry) because that very well could have been his last chance to say it, and Arthur knew he was being serious. "Ever since I was little, and all this time I've been tryin' to tell you, but you just don't get it, a-and I need you to know so...so you know before I...die..." He blinked, and a tear slid down his face and onto the pillow, and Arthur reached out to wipe it away (no, he wasn't going to die—he can't die, he's America, he can't...) and if he felt his cheeks start to get wet, he ignored it.

"You...you idiot..." He sniffled despite himself (supposed to stay strong, don't cry, stay strong, he needs you), and leaned down to press a kiss against Alfred's warm lips. "I love you too. I love you, I love you..." He whispered, emphasizing it each time with another desperate kiss (don't die, please, don't die).

Alfred closed his eyes, just as desperate (I don't want to die, please don't let me die, I don't want to die) because he'd been waiting so long (so long, too long, just want to hold him, kiss him—please don't let me die!). Only when Arthur pulled away did he open his eyes (it was so hard, why was it so hard to open his eyes?), barely managing to get his eyelids halfway up. "I l-ove you..."

"I love you too." Arthur said, removing the cloth briefly and pressing a kiss to Alfred's forehead (so hot, too hot) before turning the cloth to the other, cooler side, and placing it gently back on Alfred's head. "Go back to sleep now, love. You need rest. I love you..."

Alfred couldn't find the strength to utter a response, his eyes closing seemingly of their own accord. It was done. He'd told Arthur, and now Arthur knew, and Arthur loved him too (he loved him too, didn't hate him, loved him, so happy...), and now he could rest.

Alfred fell asleep once more.

He never woke up.

...I'm a horrible person. I am a horrible, horrible person.

I don't actually know why Alfred's sick, or why he died. Maybe his economy, maybe it was the Depression, maybe a third World War, maybe something else, I don't know. But I guess it's not that important anyway. All you need to know is pretty much up there.

...-Cries forever in a corner-