WARNING: Severe, hardcore non-con. Contains graphic scenes of a sexual nature, angst, violence, and blood…

Pairings: USUK and FrUK.

Disclaimer: I suppose I should do one of these… Hetalia is in no way mine, nor are any of the characters used in the following. Also; France will appear severely out of character at first, and this is for good reason. You'll understand why this is eventually - so don't be put off by his behaviour.

It's not for the faint hearted… so have fun!


I'll Take You Home

Chapter 1: Bomb In A Birdcage

There is nothing more upsetting than goodbyes; hearing the last final words of a person, knowing that deep within the hidden depths of your heart, you will ever see again as long as you both live on this earth. Sometimes, it seems that your last words to someone are something so trivial that you do not realize the pain that could be caused by just a small pitiful statement in the future. Coupling with moments like a sorrowful sudden passing from this world, there are times where you never realize that a single word is your last to that person; your love or assumption that they will one day return, soon or otherwise, drives you from the inevitable truth that you are just about to lose them forever.

So what is more devastating? Speaking to someone with such trivial words that have utterly no meaning, only to find themselves to disappear entirely from your life without keeping a single thread not severed – or to know that they are going to leave, your mind echoing your memories together wishfully before they are even gone, and you are driven through the painstaking experience of having to say goodbye to them with the most unsteady of hearts? It is a question that I have pondered for a very long time, and yet… it is one that I could never find the answer to.

I've experienced them both, I have lost everything that kept my soul connected to the world without disregard; everyone who has ever struck my heart with such resonating passion that it hurts me to even consider the lack of harmony that my mortality is clinging onto like a mere parasite without. Why did they, the only people who I loan the knowledge of the feelings of my entire being, wove my thread into the weave of this world with their own two hands – nurturing me when my thread became ever frayed – just disappear? Just like that.

Gone…

Now that they are no longer here, then how am I truly living? How is the world that I never wished to become entangled inside still suspending the derelict fabric of my essence, without their soft and kindly hands holding me intact? How could I really say… goodbye… when either my chest was collapsing within me, or when I had no idea that your sands of time were running out one little bead of sand at a time?

There are several questions that echo throughout my mind without any hope of being answered, or at least by mortality that binds me to the lack of true knowledge and interpretation that eludes my mind so stubbornly. Which, as I found myself querying so many times repeatedly, is more devastating – the loss of a loved one through a shock that cripples me till my body becomes as immobile as a statue commemorating the end of a tragedy, or the loss of a loved one through knowledge that they will be eradicated completely from everything I ever knew… the gap that is gouged from the capacity of my heart left to never be replaced for as long as I am able to hold up my own head and whisper forgiveness to the air – is only the simplest of the questions that entraps me.

The most important question of them all is…

Why…?

Why, when you all knew I was suffering so in your absence, begging the heavens for forgiveness and redemption, wishing beyond my soul that you could be revived from your carnal remains and return to me… did you both leave me behind, to fade to nothingness but black, intoxicated by the ferocity of my own nightmares without your steadily calming hand?

Why, am I the one who is to be alone… wandering constantly in the dark without the hope to see a single millimetre in front of me?

Why, is the light that you both removed from my world mocking me so harshly?

Why, did I ever have to fall in love, only to reawaken to a world devoid of any solitude for my lonely heart?

Why… did it have to be you?


"Oh God… Please…" The tears were already falling quickly from his emerald green eyes, each individual salty droplet straying off on its on defiant path away from the rest, living in solitude. Every individual tear stray away by their own will, or rejected from the rest – forced to walk a path attributed to them and them alone.

It was inevitable that another would soon walk in its footsteps. It was an accursed fate and a pointless existence. Tears granted no comfort. They would end, fall to the ground and disperse, without having any use. They accomplished nothing. They were absolutely meaningless.

Yet he still cried.

"Please don't do this to me…!" He begged; his voice turning husky from the screams shredding his throat apart. His throat was incredibly raw; vocal chords torn and stretched beyond any possible limits. The pain, a constant shrill ache burning away at his flesh, made him almost choke and gag. His body was trying to force him to lurch forwards and empty his bowels, prompted by the inordinate sensation tickling, stabbing, and ripping at his oesophagus. But he couldn't move. Paralyzed, frozen, immobilised… so he continued to shriek and whimper.

"You can't do this! You bloody ca-" He was suddenly silenced. A piece of cloth was yanked between his lips and jammed itself forcibly just behind his teeth, his head was shoved forwards and he felt his neck muscles groan in protest. The gag was tied aggressively behind his head; unruly blond locks getting torn and trapped in the immovable knot. He tried desperately to shake his head out of the cloth's entangling grasp, and gnawed strongly on the fabric shoved in his mouth. It was no use. He tried to speak; the shrill tone remained in nothing more than an inconceivable muffled murmur. He fell quiet, whimpering a little as he sobbed – pointless, cursed tears continuing to fall down his furiously scarlet cheeks.

Please. Anything… anything but this…!

He forced his eyes closed. He didn't want to see. He was too scared. He would feel every single second viciously… but if he couldn't see it, he could still pretend that it didn't exist. That none of this existed. It was just a dream – a nightmare. He would wake up. He would be able to nurse away his horrific sickening nerves, fears, screams. He squeezed them shut so tightly that all the little spots, dancing colours of light variations and little imprints, had been compressed away and discarded in favour of total darkness. The black was comforting… it was like nothingness - non-existence - death.

He kept trying to deny the truth - the truth that he was not sleeping. It was an impossible lie. No dream had caused him so much discomfort and pain. It was all a lie. He couldn't run. He couldn't reawaken in comfort. He couldn't hide. This was his fate.

A hand was holding his two wrists together over his head, dominating him completely. Nails were digging into his skin compellingly. He wouldn't have been surprised if they had pierced his husky shell of flesh, soaking blood onto the mattress. His own nails were digging into the very centre of his hands; squeezing hard whenever everything became too unbearable for him to take – and by that logic, his nails constantly stabbing himself by now. His body was drained of all strength; there was nothing he could do against the opponent's vigour. He was bound. Ropes ripping his wrists to shreds, tied so tightly that he couldn't feel any blood pumping to his hands, burning each cell until his arms were raw – all scratched and red. He had struggled so hard that his arms bled, but now… there was no point. He was vulnerable – helpless and pitiful. Rendered demeaning to the highest degree; whatever was left of his pride had shrivelled away. A once proud life, reduced to nothing.

Please…

Another hand, not belonging to him, was clutching a knife. He felt the metal touch the bottom of his chin; cold tang of the blade biting ever so threateningly over his exposed throat. If he didn't comply, they would kill him. No cautions for the weak. He whimpered underneath the gag, weeping to himself and still refusing to open his eyes.

The knife lowered, and he shivered as his captor ran the side down his neck and to his shoulders, every cold touch making him long desperately to wince and shrug it away. But he still couldn't move. He was weak, useless, and hopeless. Nobody could save him. Death or torment was his only choices; he was forced to endure.

Don't do this to me…!

He felt a tug in the fabric of his clothes as the knife ripped his shirt into two; blade dipping into his skin and ruining his chest as his constrictions, defence, comfort, were rendered useless. He felt his heart beat rise stubbornly, oscillating violently as he begun to lose even more blood. His head was dizzying him with a migraine that refused to dissipate. The knife was balanced on his chest as his opponent tore the shirt free of the victim, ripping the fabric into shreds and discarding it to the ground. The knife was picked up again. Seconds later, his belt had been sliced into two fragments and slipped around his waist, trousers dragged free of his legs, and boxers also removed. He was reduced to nothingness, stripped bare of all defences. He cried harder, moaning uncomfortably into the gag.

He didn't want this.

Not this. Not to him. Not with him.

He kept his eyes scrunched up tightly. He heard the knife hit the floor, clanging metal tapping repeatedly before it settled; every single little noise burst in his ears like a bullet. He gasped as that hand grabbed him roughly, stroking his vital regions hard and painfully, trying to force him into arousal. Cheeks flushed red as the fingers swirled over his dignity, running a cold finger down the underside and forcing a horrid shiver to spasm through his spine and make the hairs on his neck stand up on end. The talon-like hand keeping his bound arms away released, though the sensation of a little more freedom gave him absolutely no relief.

He felt his skin crawl as the enemy lowered his head, expelling hot breath all across his vital regions. His head kicked back involuntarily in pleasure; betraying every fibre of his own existence. It was wrong – so very, insanely wrong. The cheeks continued to burn red in blinding anger, directed at the other… but also mainly his own self. His own body was betraying him; erecting itself and preparing for the pleasure of impossible reproduction. He hated it. He hated that his body was detached so far from his emotions of pure fear, panic, distraught, and so many other synonyms that described the sheer discomfort and horror of what was happening. The hand wrapping his length slowed and parted, leaving him cold and lonely without the harsh grip. More tears fled him. The migraine continued to wipe out his senses one by one.

Someone… Anyone…!

The opponent engulfed him. It was pointless to struggle, but he tried to anyway – willing all of the remainder of his strength to fight back. But it was not enough. His attempts were quenched easily as hands seized his hips suddenly, forcing his legs apart. It was too far beyond hope. He screeched and whined under the fabric; body convulsing with both distress and gratification. A tongue flicked and caressed his tip, before swirling down and enveloping him… one excruciating inch at a time. His body burned with uncontrollable heat. It was utter torture. They deliberately forced him to endure for as long as possible. What did he ever do to deserve it? Why…?

Why was it all happening to him?

They forced him deep into their throat; sucking, licking, torturing, and forcing him to groan loudly and powerlessly without any signs of mercy. He squirmed under their grasp, trying to yank his hips away from the arousing warmth of the other's mouth and skilled tongue. They slammed him down, ruthlessly compressing him until he stilled. He drowned in the tears and gagging words of objection riding in his throat. Their teeth dug into his stimulated flesh, nipping violently away at him as punishment for his attempted resistance. He screamed into the cloth gag, flinching strongly, as they withdrew and begun to lap up the droplets of blood trickling down his length. The residues of pre-cum, blood, and saliva ran uncomfortably down his crotch, making him writhe even harder.

Help… p-please…

The enemy removed his gag. He screamed louder than he knew was physically possible to expel from a human's lungs. Not that he was human. Neither of them was. And that was why it was so horrible. His body would always heal, recover from the scars he was receiving and discard the pain… but his mind would be tainted forever, for thousands of years. No comfort. There would never be any hope for his sanity. He was broken from the very second that he was ripped away from what he knew of reality.

"Please…! D-Don't… don't do this… stop…" He gasped, loathing how breathless he sounded. He didn't need to open his eyes to know what they reaction would be. It was too late for the both of them. "I'll do bloody anything! Anything but this! PLEASE! D-d-don't! Think about what you're doing! Please!" He frantically lamented in distress.

They didn't care. They shoved him into position, ignoring his grousing pleas – telling them that he would forgive them if they stopped (a total lie, and obviously so) – and dragging his legs even further apart after he tried to curl up and protect himself. They nursed their hands roughly all across his body, absorbing the touch of every single nonchalant angle. He winced, shaking horrifically with unhappy expectation, when he heard them administering lubricant to their own arousal. They didn't even bother preparing him to ease away whatever pain would be caused. He was prised apart without warning. Their member teased his entrance for barely a second before they begun to ease inside.

"Ahnnn! Oh God…! Stop! STOP!" He choked, suffocating as his windpipe condensed and chest tightened – panic setting in so strongly that it was horrifically hard to even breathe. His chest rocketed up and down and he wheezed for breath, shrieking in agony at every opportunity. His inner walls were being torn, stretched too far beyond his capabilities – a harsh consequence of no preparation. The other moaned in delight, enjoying the warmth and delectable tightness constricting around them as they pushed inside their victim. The agony was too much for him to bear.

"H-help! Someone…! Please, someone help me! A-A-Ah..! Oh God, I'm begging you. Please… stop! HELP!" He shouted with an insanely shrill tone, hoping that someone – anyone – would hear his pleas for help. That too was pointless. If there was anyone, they would have come as soon as the first scream escaped his lips. There was no point begging to God neither. He was beyond saving, divine intervention or not. He was already violated; ruined, spoilt, impure.

"I'll do anything! Anything! Just not this! Anything but this!"

They withdrew, sparking a small twinge of hope in his heart – before ramming back inside harshly and making his chest explode with crumbled resolve and anger. The pain and embarrassment was so immense that everything was flashing white. His migraine continued, leaving him weak willed and light headed as they thrust inside and out in quick succession; bucking him repeatedly down into the mattress, slamming hips together and fingers grasping so tightly that his bones were getting crushed underneath the full blown force of their wrath and weight. His back arched and he groaned in excruciation. They fucked him senseless, pounding themselves in and out, in and out, in and out repeatedly with no foreseeable end. Blood marking the violent rape was sputtering on the mattress. Spots fluttered in the back of his eyes as his prostate was jabbed again and again.

"FUCK! F-F-fuck…" He yelled, sipping the air between thrusts to try condensing the excruciation. He bucked his hips along with the enemy's lead; doing anything to reduce the bite. They changed their pace and angle, deliberately distilling as much physical pain to him as possible. His cheeks flushed the most violent red he could have imagined to curse a man's body. He moaned repeatedly, unable to contain the horrific pleasure his body was forcing out of the experience while his mind was splitting in half.

The other factor moaned and laughed. He never wanted to throttle another person so much. They were spoiling him, ruining him in every single sense, and they still harboured the indecency to laugh. It was so wholehearted a laugh - devoid of guilt. The grievous torment, pain beyond his wildest imaginative fears and humiliation gripping him entirely, continued for what seemed to be an eternity. Finally the peak was reached, at least five minutes later. They came inside his body, riding out their orgasm till the absolute end – milking it for all that it was worth. He thrashed angrily under their body as the sticky fluid filled him; his tears had not stopped for a single second throughout the whole excruciating ordeal. They grasped his member roughly again, jerking him off until finally they nursed him through an orgasm of his own. He shrieked and panted as he came, hating himself even more every second. Spent. Breathing was too hard. The other finally withdrew, spilling blood and semen from inside of him onto the mattress.

He never knew so much pain. Both emotionally and physically. He was ridden through the highest degree of torment. He gasped, wheezing for as much air he could force into his small lungs. He finally opened his eyes; snapping them up to look pitifully towards his captor.

"…How could… you… do this to me? I thought we were friends… I thought you…" He couldn't bring himself to say another word. It was too much. They laughed, and leaned over to his ear.

Don't say it's my fault…!

"This is all your fault, slut. You seduced me with that pitiful anger and blush of yours. You brought this on yourself." Hot breath spread over his ear and ruthlessly embraced his cheek and neck; each word stabbing into him with more force that hurling daggers.

"N-no…" He whimpered.

"Clean yourself up, you look disgraceful. It breaks my heart seeing you like this." They left his side, still laughing sadistically as they sailed over to the doorway; leaving his victim absolutely helpless – naked, bloody, and spent – still shackled by his wrists with the constricting vines of rope… no strength whatsoever to help himself. And they both knew it. It was too cruel.

"…Y-you bastard…"

"I'll be leaving. Oh, and Arthur… if you mention this to anyone. I'll kill him. And then I'll come for you again. And again. Your body belongs to me. Don't you dare forget that. Did I make myself clear, mon cher?"

"…F-Fuck you! Fuck you and your damned country, you French twat! I hate you! You hear me? I hate you! I hate you Francis! Are you listening to me? Stay the hell away from him! Don't you fucking dare touch him! YOU HEAR ME? STAY AWAY FROM ALFRED!" He screamed out, lungs shredding into a million pieces. He choked, lurching forwards and spitting blood enveloping him from inside his lungs.

"Whether I touch Alfred or not is up to you, Arthur. If you don't want him to come to harm, then you don't say a word. It's that simple. You're mine, mon amour. All mine. I'll gladly come back and prove to you that again and again if needs be." The Frenchman smirked. Blackmail was a threat that the Brit responded to immensely. For his ex-colony's life, he would curse himself to secrecy without a single word uttering him from his lips. It didn't matter that he was raped. Alfred's life was more important than anything to him. Because he loved him. He endured because of him.

"I…" He whispered.

France… why did it have to be you…?

"Goodnight Arthur." Francis said darkly, flicking the light switch off and leaving the Brit engulfed in black – cold, alone, and worthless.

I loved you once…

So why… did you have to leave me?

How did this happen?


Two hours previously…

What is this…?

What the heck was going on? Arthur's head spun as he tried to remember something, anything, from before his vision had been compromised. When Arthur had awoken, he found a velvet blackness obscuring his sight completely; the feeling of silk brushing lightly at his cheeks. After a few minutes of breathing slowly, trying to calm his pounding heart…

Francis.

Francis did this.

He remembered reading a book, a usual occurrence for him and nothing surprising at all. He had read that particular volume so many times that he couldn't possibly count, and he was concentrating particularly hard not to crinkle the pages (he could not stand wrinkles in the beloved print of a book, and tears made him particular livid). Not that he really needed to be careful regardless; in the event of a misfortunate casualty, he always had a spare in his library. Just in case. He loved the beautiful body of literacy that much.

But yes, he was reading his book for the nine billionth time (possible under-exaggeration there, he wouldn't have been surprised); totally engrossed. When suddenly, that ignorant looming idiot of a frog swooped down from practically nowhere and smiled smugly at him... just before his vision was quickly stolen by silky fabric he saw held a millisecond before in Francis's hands. Of course… he tried desperately to shout and throw insults at the Frenchman, but he found immediately that half of his body was no longer responding to his brain.

"Ahh, Angleterre. That was too easy." He could still hear the Frenchman's words echo detestably in his ear, and imagine the smug face increasing to a painfully radiant smile. The image fogged his brain gave him barely any time to register, before the same sluggishness ceasing the rest of his body swarmed his mind… and he passed out.

He was drugged. That much was obvious, and his still lethargic thoughts and movements foretold that the effects were still not entirely quenched. Arthur murmured, trying to test whether his vocal chords were working to full effect again yet – though regrettably hardly any word escaped him, apart from a small whimper. Else, he would have been screaming bloody murder at whatever the hell was in front of him. A soft chuckle made it through the material which was partially covering his ears as well; hot breath spreading down his neck and making him shudder.

"Are you awake, mon cher?" Hearing the Frenchman's voice made Arthur wince, tugging aggressively at the ropes which bound his hands together. He finally began to realise the extent of his situation. He tried frantically to move, but his body was hampered by the lasting effects of the drugs. It was no use. He was just as a pitiful victim entangled formidably within a spider's silky web. Francis chucked again at England's attempted plight, and climbed on top of him; pushing his arms down and pinning him at the waist. He hummed happily to himself, liberating his hand inside of the Englishman's clothes – smoothly groping, stroking, and feeling the curvature of his torso to his hip; ignoring the Brit's frantic flailing and silent protests.

"...The...fuck...bastard..." And with that half garbled sentence Francis snapped and yanked Arthur's head back, clutching his unruly blond locks between his fingers, and ripping the blindfold off, causing Arthur to blink as the light burned his retinas which had become used to being engulfed in darkness.

Francis grinned down at the exasperated Englishman; his face illuminated by the ghostly looming ceiling light cascading only himself and Arthur within light - leaving the rest of the room as something to be desired. Arthur fought against Francis's grasp, tearing his hair away from the Frenchman's touch. His face was cursed with an agitated pout, sending daggers straight into the Frenchman's throat with his venomous emerald green eyes glaring. The realisation that there was nothing else he could do dawned on him. Francis sighed, and ran a long nimble finger across Arthur's cheek.

"Mm, mon cher, I love how you look when you're angry. It drives me crazy."

Arthur tried desperately to tear his head out of the Frenchman's reach, to no avail. His movements were beginning to become a little bit sharper, but it was no use - the ropes that bound him mercilessly to the wooden bane of the chair were far too tight for him to squirm out. He tried to struggle anyway, wincing as his wrists rubbed and scalded with rope burn. Francis continued to smile, and ran his finger underneath Arthur's chin; roughly turning his glance to the sky. When Arthur opened his mouth to object, the Frenchman's lips seized him strongly; forcing his tongue immediately inside to dominate his captive love. The Brit struggled, trying desperately to jerk his head back and away from the invasion – to no avail. The drugs gave him no strength to bite down or cause any sort of harm. He was forced to endure until the Frenchman withdrew to sip the air to regain his breath.

"Arthur… I'm sure you've realised by now that struggling is useless. Those drugs won't wear off for another two hours or so. I can have my way with you easily. You belong to me. Every, single, inch." The Frenchman dipped his head, licking the Englishman's neck – biting and nibbling at every exposed millimetre. "I'm going to violate you."

"Ah…Ah-agh… G-Get off me! Like hell do I belong to you! Let go of me Francis! Stop!"

"Never."


Oh God…Please…

Please don't do this to me…!

You can't do this! You bloody can't!

Please! Don't do this! Stop!

I'll do bloody anything! Anything but this! Please! Don't! Think about what you're doing! Please!

Oh God! Stop! Stop!

Help…! Someone…! Please, someone help me! Oh God, I'm begging you! Please… stop! Help!

I'll do anything! Anything! Just not this! Anything but this!

Fuck…! Fuck!

How could you do this to me? I thought we were friends! I thought you…

No…

You bastard…

I hate you.

I loved you.

Stay away from him.

Stay away.

Please… stay away…


Arthur murmured to himself in the banishing darkness, shifting his position a little. He gave out a mew of pain. Every inch of his body was writhing with displeasure and hatred, burning with the intense sting crippling him to the spot. The drugs were finally draining from his bloodstream and giving him a little more strength – yet his heart was detached. Even though he possessed the strength to move, ignoring the pain, he hadn't the will. There was no point in moving. It was all meaningless.

The tears had long dried up. Francis had fled the scene. He was left alone, trapped in darkness and solitude, unable to conjure the power to reach the doorway and switch on the light. The light made him sick regardless; migraines tearing his mind into pieces, burning his retinas and confusing his thoughts. The dark was, surprisingly, far more comforting. He couldn't see whatever horrors were awaiting him in the dark. That was good. That was better. He didn't want to be drowned in a world with light again. Not a world where that bastard rapist belongs.

The last remainder of his pride and will to live urged him to move. After several minutes lying in the black void, trying to breathe and prepare for an attempted liberation, he forced himself upright – groaning as his hips creaked and muscles burned. He glanced down at his lap –eyes adjusting well to the minimal level of light – and ran his bound fingers over the curvature of his bone. Arthur winced with a whine as he found countless points where applying pressure was purely horrific. The damned Frenchman must have crushed his bones… though he wasn't too surprised. The sheer force that was implemented upon him was far too tremendous.

He shook his head. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to remember the feeling as Francis thrust his body ruthlessly into the mattress. He didn't want to remember the formidable groaning of the bed, rocking back and forth in time. He didn't want to remember the laughter – that horrific Cheshire cat grin on his face. He wanted to forget… he needed to forget. It made him feel so sick. His hands clutched his mouth a second too late; his stomach finally drained itself, along with swarming blood gathering from the inside. He choked and spluttered, leaving the bedside as quickly as possible afterwards – before his knees buckled and he found himself collapsed on the floor.

The knife glinted at him, slowly dripping a baby line of his own blood. He glared at it hazily, like he was expecting it to suddenly start speaking to him. It took another few minutes for him to realise that he could unburden his ravished and raw wrists from their rope prison with the tang of the blade. He snapped it up quickly and rubbed it against his binding until finally it came lose. He cried out with relief as the cold air kissed his unshackled wrists better. At last, he could make his escape if he wished… but he still didn't possess the will.

Where was he anyway?

He didn't recognise the room… it wasn't somewhere he had ever seen before; it was run down, derelict, practically abandoned. One of those horrible hotel rooms that you see on television; the sort with one or two rooms alone to satisfy all needs; he knew the layout from the moment Francis removed his blindfold. The curtains were tattered with moth bites and cursed with an old pattern that had been unfashionable since the 1820s, bed only consisted of one pillow and a duvet with greyed 'white' sheets, a few cupboards and closets here and there. A makeshift kitchen was hidden away in the furthest corner; consisting of a little pathetic miniature fridge, sink, and the smallest stove he had ever seen. There was nothing significant. It really was a dilapidated place - barely worth a penny for a night.

He blinked as he remembered one of the features… an old style telephone – one of the ones you have to hook your finger in and wind the wheel until it fits the number you want – hanging in wait on the bedside table. Arthur practically flung himself to the little black phone, praying to whatever God laid in Heaven above that it worked… and that he remembered the number… He dialled frantically, and held the phone expectantly to his ear. He closed his eyes and clutched onto it as if it was his last ever hope. The heard someone on the other side pick up…

He was beyond saving… but if he could save someone else…

"Hello?" A voice muttered. A tremendous wave of relief struck him as he recognised the sweet sounds of the American. He couldn't describe how happy he felt that he was still alive. He expected Francis to have made his move already… he was already a criminal now. Murder was hardly much of a step up from rape.

"…A-Alfred…" Arthur whispered into the phone, loathing how husky and pathetic his voice sounded. He leaned against the bedside table, holding onto it for support. His head was suddenly pounding even harder, and he felt like he was going to be sick again or pass out any second without warning. He clutched hard onto the wood. Anything to stop him fainting was good… he needed to hear Alfred's voice. The American gave him unnatural reassurance. That was why he loved him…

"What the—Is that you Arthur? Damned, you sound like you're practically dead. Are you okay?" Alfred muttered into the phone, obvious worried panic setting into his voice. Arthur frowned, pressing the back of his hand against his lips in attempts to stop his body rejecting any more of his stomach's contents in a fit of panicked trauma.

"… Alfred, I need to…" He began to croak groggily before Alfred cut in.

"Where are you? I went to your house, but you weren't there. I phoned around everywhere… hell; I even talked to your boss. No one knows where you are! France said you were ill… so are you o-?"

"Alfred, shut the fuck up and listen to me… p-please…" Arthur shouted into the handset, voice trailing off at the end, interrupting the American just as abruptly as he had to him. He buried his head in his hand, massaging his sweating temples and trying to will more strength from inside – to no real avail.

"…Listening…" The American finally muttered after what felt like a century.

" Alfred… forget about me." Arthur whispered, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes again.

"What?"

"Forget I ever existed. I'm not good enough for you. Not anymore. Not… now." Arthur choked out, tears now running fully down his cheeks.

"Woah, woah, woah! What the heck are you talking about? You… you sound so serious… is this a joke? Cause it's really not funny!" Alfred barked into his phone, voice gone far beyond distress. It broke Arthur's heart to hear Alfred sound so shocked and confused by his words. Arthur privately thanked him for caring…

"I'm sorry. F-f-fuck, this hurts so much…" Arthur wept. His body was beginning to shake uncontrollably. He was definitely going to pass out any second. That would be nice… not having to live for a few moments of his life… he welcomed it rather than condemned it. But he didn't need it now… not right now… not when he was talking to him.

"Hu—Hurts? What hurts? Art… Arthur… what the hell happened? Were you attacked or something? Don't go silent on me now! What happened? Where are you?" Alfred was shouting. If Arthur was able to concentrate a little more, he would have realised that the American was trying to suppress that he was crying with panic.

"I can't... t-tell you. A-a-agh… Dammit… L-Listen… forget about me. Please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything." Arthur pleaded.

"Oh God. Oh God… What happened? You can tell me anything... Anything, okay? Whatever you think... don't think that you're alone, alright? Tell me where you are so I can find you, okay? ...You've been awfully quiet... Wait, if you're thinking of hanging up, don't!"

"…Listen… I've never told you before, and… I don't know if I'll have another ch-chance. Alfred—Alfred, I-I love you." Arthur confessed. The phone slipped through his fingers and cluttered onto the floor, followed shortly by the Englishman's limp body. The telephone handset buzzed with the screeching sound of Alfred's distressed voice.

"…Arthur? A-A-Arthur? …I… I think I love you too… so don't go!" Alfred murmured in distress, voice shakily buzzing from the other side. "…Don't go, please, don't go! Whatever happened, I'll take care of you, alright? I'll take care of you. I'm the hero, remember! I'll come save you! Arthur, come back! I'll love you despite whatever happened, okay? Okay?"

Silence.

"Arthur… Arthur—Are you listening to me?"

More Silence.

"I'll come find you… I'll find you! Hold on! Dammit. D-Damn it—What am I going to do—Whatever you do, Arthur, just hold on!"

The handset bleeped as the opposite side hung up…