Arthur was startled awake by a sharp pain in his stomach. A sickening feeling that he closed his eyes against.
He rolled over to the side of the bed, still in a fetal position. Britain felt a smooth touch from across the covers, a comforting tug, trying to pull him closer. That only stirred the sting in his belly, made him call out in discomfort, tears pricking his eyes. "Ahhh, not now Alfred."
"Mhm, why not babe?" The reply was groaned, tiredness still surrounding the situation.
"I'm hurting, now leave me be," and he just sat through the pain, like any good country would. It was fine, these quick throbs, lingering aches. He'd get used to them.
"Ah, Artie? What's a-matter?" He couldn't see the tears forming in green orbs, and he just thought his boyfriend was being moody, stubborn.
"Ah! Oh god, don't burn it!" His voice broke with emotion, and Arthur buried his head into the soft, warm pillow. Comforting, that pillow wouldn't leave him. The fluff of feathers would always be his friend.
Alfred was more awake now, and he searched through the sheets to find Arthur, crawled over and just hoovered.
England's face was red, it was moist with a trail of tears, some fitting in between the crevices of his jaw, and pooled around his nose. He laid on his side, hands wafting from knees to chest, taking deep breathes to relieve the agony going on in his body.
"Dude, what is going on? You've been complain' 'bout an ache for days, but it wasn't this bad!"
"They are ruining it Alfred. Destroying it."
"Ruining what? Words, babe." Still, America's voice was soft, despite the hard words.
"I don't want to talk about it." Arthur huffed, trying to look away.
Alfred didn't give up though, and just continued staring into Arthur's eyes. Then he let a finger wipe way all the wetness of England's face. It didn't belong.
America was delighted when the sobs ceased.
"Go away." The choked mumble from the Briton echoed around a silent room. Alfred had heard it, but that didn't mean he was going to listen to the words.
Carefully, as not to disturb Arthur and cause any discomfort, America moved even closer, resting his elbows on both sides of the green-eyed man in pain, towering over him. It wasn't meant to intimidate, his attempts were not made with malicious reasons, America just wanted to figure out was was going on.
But England didn't open up, he curled himself into a ball, shaking and dry heaving, his chest moving with raspy inhales.
"No one likes me, I'm pathetic, worthless."
"Stop it, don't say those things," America mumbled, leaning in closer, burying his head into the crook of England's neck.
"It's true, everyone hates me." Deep down somewhere Arthur could tell he was being a bit overdramatic. But it was partially right. His own people had started protests and strikes, proclaiming their hate for the country, for England. And Iran, only a few days ago they had declared the termination of the friendship between the two countries.
"Why? I try so hard," a tear-stained hiccup, "and no one likes me anyway." A cough. A refuel of cries.
"I should just give up."
There, he had said it, and he meant it.
England had never been loved, even as an awkward little country who confused life and fantasy and got lost somewhere in between and still hadn't found his way out. As a boy with wayward hair and a mess of eyebrows.
Oh sure, once he had been feared. On top of the world, controlling the seas. Yet, he was so alone even then. He'd been wanted, too. By many, but the most obvious would be France and that spoke well enough for that matter.
But never loved, or really truly loved.
Because everything he loved went away in the end.
America did once, and it seemed like he was going to again. For England felt a waft of cool air hit him, the American's chatter strangely absent.
Arthur should have seen it coming.
Who would want to sit through his pitiful crying? His degrading words of self truth? His awful-
"England, stop it."
Blurred green eyes made out a figure in the doorway. Glass on, frown placed, hands holding onto a mug with the up most care.
"A-Ameri-Alfred?" England managed to say between sniffles.
" 'Course," a sure smile now, blinding.
Arthur had to look away, the grin making him sick.
"Well, I knew you didn't mean it, 'sides, a hero wouldn't do that. Neither would a boyfriend." And he set the cup of what Arthur prayed to be tea on the counter, he carefully climbed back into the bed. Slowly he pulled Arthur into his arms, as he leaned against the headboard.
Silence.
Perpetual?
"I got a text from CNN. I'm real sorry Artie."
"You ruin every sweet moment by opening your mouth." Arthur sighed, snuggling into the hold, nearly forgetting the way his stomach ached or the soreness of abdomen.
"Love you," Alfred hummed, handing the Brit his tea.
"There's no milk." Arthur scrunched up his nose to complain, but drank it regardless.
Arthur Kirkland was back, well as back as someone could be after something like that.
Though the mushy moment wouldn't be dissolved by the Britain's acid tone.
"I'll love you, and I'll never leave you," America meant those words, and England could tell that. But he was just a boy still. He had much to learn. He'd learn that the Brit wasn't anything special, nothing worth loving.
Arthur turned to look into clear blue eyes, full of compassion and clouded with emotion of sincerity. All for him.
I'll love you, and I'll never leave you.
Maybe Arthur could believe it, just this once.
Maybe he wasn't valueless.
"What are you thinking about hun?"
"You."
A kiss on his neck, sweet, kind, cherishing.
"I love you too, Alfred."
I'll love you, and I'll never leave you.
A one-shot for the lovely Remula Black, winner of my contest. ^_^
(sorry for being so late with it... I am a horrible person)
Just a short fic about the strikes and things going on with Tehran in England, poor Iggy.
Well, I hope ya'll enjoyed it :)
~HarponMOO
