A/N: I was not expecting the overwhelming amount of favs and alerts guys. Thanks so much! And to anon who left a review: Yes, I will be updating this. I have no idea where it's going, but here's something!
...
He's sick. Again.
Fleetingly he envisions a not-so-distant past, less than an average human's lifespan, himself and England, positions reversed as England sneezes and sniffles and fretfully tosses and turns in an ill state. He remembers ignorance.
Alfred is well aware of the nature of a cold now. Presently he's stuffed up and generally miserable even as he shovels down another tasteless burger. He hates himself that much more with each soppy, greasy bite that generates various glances of disgust and disapproval from the respective countries, sans Japan, who is, well, too polite to visibly reveal his inner thoughts.
Instead, he inquires on Alfred's health.
"How are your people reacting to your redesigned nutrition program?"Japan is, of course, questioning the handful of fries Alfred uses to blot at a mini puddle of grease from his burger wrapper. Some of the western nations snigger at the carefully composed queries about the Choose My Plate program.
Alfred waves a hand containing a large milkshake. "It's all about moderation". Alfred says breezily. He ignores the blatant laughter of England and Germany as he presents the newest data regarding nutrition amidst errant sniffles.
He coughs and sneezes his way through his speech, completing it with one last slurp of his shamrock milkshake. He coughs again, a prelude to a gag, and excuses himself before anyone else mocks his health/nutrition/obesity epidemic. His heart beats a pantomime in his chest and he can't quite catch his breath and it all boils down to this... It's like he forgets, the days stretching and elongating in a blur of soreness emanating from his jaw and the constant thrum in his chest: a damned reminder this-exciting and desperate-act is killing him.
If not physically, it's draining him, depleting his resources, shrinking his emotional wellbeing, but that's fine. Presently, in the here and now as his fingers tremble, that's a-okay.
A mixture of anticipation and relief is forcefully expelled as half digested and still slightly cool green sludge dribbles down his fingers, and he remembers-remembers the past, remembers the brink of the First World War... He closes his eyes and pictures himself, seventy years past yet barely younger intellectually, laughing (laughing?) over England's sick bed, bedside manner complete with one of his famed burgers. "What's a cold?" He's the boy who cried wolf, or some rot-or he's the idiot with his fingers down his throat, forcing out any iota of nutrition he managed to swallow.
But, he can breathe clearly: the cacophony of insults, his own and the other nations', silenced against the burning of his throat. He wipes the majority of vomit from his hands, flushes, and exits the individual stall to greet the overly large furrowing eyebrows of England.
Arthur narrows his eyes, setting his face into a pinched demeanor. Alfred wants to barf again (regardless of his empty stomach); instead he sniffs against a glob of mucus dripping down his sinus cavity. Yeah, he's sick alright.