Everything was moving so slowly, it was loud, and as semi-conscious as Alfred had been, he made out the IV shoved in his arm as well as the constant yelling it seemed dependent. The smell of death lingered though, it was making his nostrils sneer but he was tired.

A hand brushed his head though.

'..'re… help you…'

He couldn't understand the grave was finally rising though, the warm hand made him feel warm and scared because he barely made out the voice of Arthur, his father. The remorse he felt was the worst part. Loneliness was a friend though.

The last thing he remembers is a feeling of a kiss on his forehead.

"He's stable."

"When will he wake up?"

The nurse hesitated as she looked at the near lackluster sleeping body laid on the hospital bed. It someone were to describe the atmosphere in the room, one would consider it tense and displeasuring. But fingers graced the clipboard that held a few bits of papers. Documents about the surgery and maybe a bit of his medical history. But mostly it contained his stability at the moment and much need information about him.

"Hopefully not long, the anesthetics hasn't worn off completely but estimate an hour or two depending how he's hold up with the NG tube." Walking over to the side of his bed she examined the stiches for a moment. Flexing his arm in gentle directions and sighs, placing it down, palm first. "We also need to make sure his arm doesn't become too infected, but when he does wake up, we'll contact the social worker and they'll discuss outpatient help, like therapy and the sort."

Arthur nodded and his fingers drag through his hair. Wet, greasy, tangled and unprofessional. Not very forthcoming of himself.

"-If we feel he's still a danger to himself or others he may be admitted into the psych-ward with consent it seems."

Silence loomed through the air uncomfortably, the nurse had made her way back to the computer tight-lipped.

The hospital room is as devoid of beauty as Arthur (arguably Francis) was of hope. Its walls are simply cream, not peeling or dirty, just cream. There is no decoration at all save the limp curtain that can separate my bed from the three others in here. It was perhaps once the kind of green that reminds people of spring-time and hope, but it's faded so much that the hue is insipid. The room as an undertone of bleach and the floor is simply grey. At the far end are windows in brown metal frames, only openable at the top. Not a single person has flowers, cards or home brought food. They are sleeping to pass the time or staring at nothing at all. There are stands for intravenous drips and monitors. At the door are dispensers for rubber gloves, hand sanitizer and soap. These items only reinforce my fear of germs, they are so ubiquitous here that cleaning is mandatory every time a doorway is passed or a patient is touched. But maybe the nurses will forget, or not wash properly, then what? Will he get even sicker?

Ripped from his thoughts the same nurse had somehow made her way over and laid a hand on his shoulder, calming and with a small smile.

"If I'm going to be honest, you're lucky he's not too far gone."

"I'm sorry?"

"Well," He let go and stepped back fluently flipping through the clipboard once again, "He's underweight – malnourished even, and not only did he cut himself to where we almost lost him twice due to severe blood loss, he… survived." The woman carefully trudged verbally, discouraging any form of eye contact as her petite figure seemed to sway nervously. It had gone completely blank around the room, the constant beeping from the heart monitor seemed to clear the white noise gracefully but sadly.

The blond nurse had cleared her throat before placing the clipboard back on the footboard of the hospital bed, "When he wakes up enough, press the call button Hun," she turned and Arthur heard footsteps disappear and blend with the constant chatter in the hall.

The worst part was the fact he was home, he should have known what was going on. Arthur understood what it was like being held up in the hospital, the sheer fact that Alfred was suffering, and Arthur not realizing, not knowing, or paying attention, made him angry. Angry at himself, angry at the persona of a perfect life, when it wasn't. It fucking wasn't, and it was his fault that his son was suffering. A near lifeless body was laying on a hospital bed, elongated fingers had lightly held the limp hand in a warm stronghold. If Alfred woke up, he'd know he wouldn't be alone, he was never alone.

Right now though, he'll just make the taste of burnt coffee, and the smell of bleach justify his bitterness at himself. It was easier; and it didn't consume so much of his energy.

Arthur was utterly lost though. The presents of blood was the most jarring sight of all. It was a lingering smell that the Brit just couldn't detest any of the sort, but – he was necessarily starving for pleasure at the moment, it was a surprise that even the water that was originally handed to him as a way of comfort was so incredibly bland. And the atmosphere of the hospital in general didn't help the overwhelming hatred

"He'll be okay-"

Francis was stern but somehow, all too caring, something no one should be towards himself, the breath of a calming atmosphere seemed to be welcomed, but judging by the constant beating of Alfred's heart in the background. "I let this happen…" Arthur seemed to struggle; frantically trying to wipe the tears away, he sat up more in the uncomfortable hospital chair, it would more than likely be his willful bed for the next couple days.
"Non, we let this happen, we're in this together."

"But I'm the one that's always home…"

The air grew slightly more cold as they sat there, Francis wasn't agreeing with him, but he wasn't denying it either, whether it made things better or worse was up to the both of them in the future. But, Arthur was visibly distressed (to be honest, that was an understatement of the century).

When he was anxious though, the Brit had a tendency to sometimes unconsciously stare unwillingly into blank spare while gripping and stroking either his leg, or picking at his jacket, thread, even picking his own hand until it began to grow red, and sometimes even bleed if Francis hadn't stopped him. The Frenchman could compare it generously to chewing ones nails, to which he does so, Arthur just does it more frequently, and sometimes annoyingly worse.

It was continuous though, and Francis should have been paying attention to his husband's movements, because he lacked the realization that he had moved his hand to Alfred's and well, anxiety forced him to stroke. Alfred had caught him doing that many times in the past, usually in majorly populated places, or watching something on television, even he found it extremely annoying. It was a tick that Francis even had when he did it, but even at this moment, he could see as to why Arthur would take to past annoyances.

He wants to be grateful for his actions at the moment, but even he knows it wouldn't help for the futures.

"Where's Matthew?" Arthur finally breaks the silence.

"Ludwig and Feliciano agreed to take him – especially on the short notice, but I'm not complaining."

It went quiet again, but the constant heart monitor beeping away kept the tension to a high but even more keeping the reminder that Alfred was still alive and breathing. Arthur wondered what Francis was thinking. Anger, Sadness, remorse? But through the harsh breaths and the constant cue of every IV connected to him. Francis seemed to be the only one that could keep strong, provide comfort and some kind of sanity at best.

Francis loved his family, and honestly, he couldn't imagine a life without all three of them. These were the people he felt the need to provide as well as care for.

He needed to be strong. For Matthew and Alfred, but at this point mostly for Arthur it seemed.

Lost in his over bearing thoughts though he failed to notice the sudden motion from…

"…Alfred?" He clutched his hand tight. Arthur choked, barely above a whisper.

The teen attempted to open his eyes. Blue orbs precariously opening, wilted and damaged somehow. An exasperated breath of frustration from Alfred hilted his daunting attempt and made him oddly disoriented. Not only that, but he was not very comfortable.

He could feel it though. Long fingers over his hands. Like a protection, like a unneeded advantage to witness a calming arrival, but was sadly underwhelmed because maybe nerving temptations to scrape were some form of procrastination the a harsh reality.

"You're awake…"

Alfred was stirring, albeit slightly, but he attempted to sit-up, unfortunately he was beginning to feel a migraine forming.

"…Yeah," He scuffed, slightly irritated and halfway delirious.

Alfred carefully sighed. Fingers beginning to finally function properly as he lightly gripped the harsh scratchy bedsheets that laid upon his body. He wasn't cold, he just wasn't accustomed to the smell of lasting bleach and Pine Sol. Maybe that is what was making so irritable.

His head was still blurred, and it seemed every movement he made, he felt like he was floating, numb was the best way to describe it. It could also be the pain. His head was aching horribly so, and he could just feel the stitches lacing his left arm. Infected maybe, but nevertheless painful. Sadly not the comforting pain he thought he wanted to feel nearly a couple hours ago. Still…

This wasn't supposed to happen.

"Are you feeling at least decent?" Arthur leaned back a little bit. Cool fingers that laid dormant for several hours asleep turned to be nearly giddy the hot irritatingly soft hands left him, giving him the independence to finally breathe without a panic attack.

"…sure." He stayed quiet, just like the moments before storm on a summer day. Silent, uncomfortable, and just the hint of sadness. Could it be regret?

"…your lack of response is alarming." Francis said and refused to let his own warm comforting touch leave Arthur. He could feel the tense and aching shutters radiate out of his husband.

"…well, what else am I supposed to…say?" His voice gave out as he finally gained the momentum to move his damaged arm over his eyes, nearly knocking the feeding tube in his nose to cover the beaming lights.

He felt embarrassed – ashamed, even self-conscious. For, he was reminded by the horrible pang in his head and on his body. Tears were too humiliated to leave their hiding place, his mouth was dry and begged for water. Alfred felt gross and dirty. Sweat could possibly bleed from his head soon. The teen was still tired and a little confused. It was a whole range of emotion that Alfred shouldn't try to explain.

Arthur pressed the call button. And Alfred considered himself a loss cause.

Clearing his throat, again killing the silence, the Frenchman raised from his seat, "-I'll get you some coffee-"

"…that's fine."

Francis attempted to walk on the other side of the hospital bed. The sheer guilt that his son seemed to give off was disheartening. He leaned forward though, and planted a kiss on his forehead. Alfred didn't react like his father had expected. Alfred promptly back away from it the best he could.

His heart broke. But he didn't pressure.

The Brit hated coffee, it was always bitter, always black and dull – even with sugar and cream, he could never find the right taste to suit himself. Black coffee was what he preferred though, 'go big or go home'. Tea was calming, soothing. Different blends and different flavours made ventures into the world of short parts of his past seem almost bearable to remember, through all the teasing, everything seemed to change. Tea never seemed to want to. Earl Grey, will always taste like Earl Grey.

He was kicked out of his thoughts from a knock at the bare door and a nurse walked in. Dull blue scrubs walked in, it was the same nurse, and it was just that Arthur never noticed what she was wearing before. Maybe because it didn't matter, but it was also noted.

"Good afternoon to the both of you-" The nurse pushed herself towards the computer lying idle next to the bed. "How are you feeling?"

A harsh breath through his mouth, making the sudden dryness worse, he spoke, "…fine…" He said, lowly.

"That's good," the blond nurse stood up again and lightly took the arm that was being hung over his eyes to dim the unnecessarily bright lights. Maneuvering the arm slightly and examining the stitches.

"Good news, there seems to be no infection, but we're going to have to see if we can either replace or tighten these stitches," Long nails applied pressure towards the outer edge of the wound, making Alfred flinch and back away. She gave a soft hum and placed the arm down gently at his side. She wrote or typed something down, to which, the room again grew hushed and awkward. Francis walked in to break this.

The Nurse had yet to meet Frenchman properly, never really catching themselves when they should.
"Hello, you must be Mr. Bonnefoy, the husband?" Her business like attitude seemed to be slightly contrasting to the male as he sat down the two cups of coffee.

"Oui, that is me."

She held out her hand for a shake-

"I am Nurse Zwingli, uh, can I speak to the both of you in the hallway?"

Arthur seemed slightly confused for a moment. He agreed, as well as Francis. Forcing himself from his seat, Alfred was dragged out into the hall. It seemed to be littered with patients and guests, nurses and doctors.