Two.

"… England…?"

Young fingers grasped at the edge of the table. Bright, unblighted eyes looked upwards, a mouth posing half open. His expression furrowed as he gently reached forward and clung gently to the fabric of the man sat in front of him. There was a light tug.

The other male, his back a bit more rigid than usual, had his arm laid out in front of him, resting over a bowl. A bundle of cloth was pressed over part of his skin, green eyes wincing as he dabbed at it.

The tugging came again, a little more urgent. Blue eyes wavered.

"…England…!"

His arm was showing red. Why was he turned away? Why did he seem so fragile? Alfred didn't realise he noticed these things, but all he knew was that England wasn't right and that really quite made him uncomfortable. He knew he'd just come back and there were some different people about – what had happened?

The taller figure finally looked up sharply, a second before his expression quickly relaxed into something more soft; a façade. He managed a small smile.

"Ah, America. How are you?"

The child frowned, and pointed almost accusingly.

".. Your arm…!"

Arthur glanced down at the accused limb. He seemed to give it the expression as though he'd only just realised it was there.

"… Ah, yes. Quite a nasty cut."

America frowned, unimpressed.

"But.. but hoooow?..."

The arm was moved so it rest on the Briton's knee; it had stopped bleeding by now but by looking at the cloth, he'd had to have it on for quite some time. Arthur turned around to face the other, leaning down so he was on relative level with the colony.

"Some horrible people do not like us living here. They were trying to attack you."

As though in response, Alfred held out his arms at the same time Arthur went to pick him up, setting him on his lap. He patted him.

"But I fought them off. Its okay, they're gone now. They got a bad cut on me, but I'm alright. See?" He ruffled the other's hair with the same arm, but faltered when he saw that the other looked more annoyed than overjoyed to be safe.

"W-Why did you have to save me and and get hurt, England! T-That's not fair! I should.. I should be able to look after me, after—after you!" the other suddenly exclaimed, showing his anger by promptly shoving the other in the chest, which the other winced at again. He looked down at the child, blinking.

He suddenly smiled.

Pushing the bowl back on the table, he placed the other on it, looking at him. There was a sort of soft aura about him. Safe. He held eye contact with the other, firm but understanding.

"America, you're my brother, alright? I am going to protect you. I made that promise when you became my family." He petted the other's hair again, this time absentmindedly rubbing a bit of a smudge off the other's cheek with his thumb. "I want you to promise me you'll trust me. You are my brother.

'I'll take the pain for you.'"

"…A-Arthur…!"

The room was dark. Curtains were drawn, thrown tightly shut. Clothes were scattered carelessly on the floor, highly unusual for someone as pristine as Arthur. A mug was left, the tea gone cold, on the bedside table.

In the middle of the room was a bed.

The covers were rolled up on in themselves, a mound in the middle of the mattress.

There was a body.

Alfred's eyes widened.

"…A-Arthur!"

He rushed into the room, stumbling over his own feet. The figure lay there, curled up upon himself. His hair was mussed, as though he'd been tossing and turning, and his skin was pale. It glistened slightly, as though he was breaking out in a cold sweat.

America didn't know what to do. As soon as his eyes had rest on the lump all sense of responsibility and maturity had left him. Something was wrong with Arthur.

An overwhelming urge to run to him and cry struck the teen.

He quickly snapped himself out of it as he heard a small gasp coming from the bed. His eyes quickly widened and he lurched towards the middle of the room, practically toppling onto the bed itself.

The bed-ridden lump's eyes were closed tight. Lips, open just slightly, eventually seemed to twitch in just the slightest form of words.

Alfred, whose glasses were practically hanging off his face, felt his throat go dry.

Something was so wrong.

"…A-Arthur? Can.. can you hear me?"

There was a grunt.

Alfred hid at the edge of the bed a little, before tentatively reaching out and gently touching the top of his shoulder. He was trembling.

"..A-Arthur, oh g-gosh, Arthur… England!"

Desperately, he nudged the shoulder in an attempt to rouse him. Big mistake.

A scream shot out from between those lips, before choking followed it. Alfred had fallen back in surprise before he could see the other's eyes finally flitting open, muted in his own pain.

What was happening?...

Alfred recovered a little, but took a while for him to realise that his heavy breathing was not alone. Blinking, he looked up.

The covers were shifting, slowly. A voice rasped. The American couldn't understand it.

Slowly, slowly, the covers rose up and slowly slid off.

Arthur and Alfred stared at each other.

They both shook.

Arthur's expression was pale. His eyes were flat, the gleam of the emerald having reduced to a dull stare. They were circled by a slight redness, smudges smeared under his eyes upon closer inspection. His shirt hung off him, drenched in sweat.

The Briton's knuckles went white as he clutched the covers, tightly. He winced. A tear rolled against his cheek in response, indifferent.

Eyebrows furrowed, deeply. Arthur's lips quivered. His voice hung in the silence.

"get out."

It was barely a murmur.

Alfred looked up, his muscles barely being able to contract and swallow due to just how stunned he was. He managed out a small squeak in response.

"…W-wha—"

"get out."

"…N-No, A-arthur, What—"

"get out."

Arthur's expression had gone dark. Slowly, slowly, his legs shifted to the edge of the bed, but it seemed quite an effort to keep himself upright.

"move."

America could barely believe he was hearing this.

"..W-what? N-No, Arthur, there's something so wrong with you and I can't leave—" He was up onto his feet by now, having to take some effort from his knees shaking. There was something stopping him from moving closer to the Briton in question. "—And I need to help and—"

"move or i'll do it myself."

Alfred didn't move.

Arthur's expression grew dangerous. With a small, small whimper which he desperately held back against his throat, England staggered onto his feet. He was slow, his footsteps swinging almost in clockwork till he reached the other.

Alfred remained frozen.

"Arthur—"

"go."

The smaller nation kept his head low, silently, successfully, pushing the other towards the door. It was meant to be forceful yet he doubted he could lift a book with that strength. However, it managed to work Alfred and nudge him back towards the door due to being simply too astounded and scared to do anything. His eyes were wide, his mouth gaped open, pupils shook, and he was unable to simply comprehend what he was seeing; He did notice, though, that Arthur was limping a little. He was also only using one arm to push him towards the door – the other hung almost loosely by his side, clenched almost in an agonising fist.

That still didn't explain what had happened to his brother.

"A-Arthur, no—"

"go."

England's teeth gritted, fighting down another cry; his shoulders heavily trembled.

"don't come back."

With one weak push, Arthur managed to make Alfred trip back out of the door. It gently swung closed. A moment later, and a large thud was heard, a deep sob accompanying the shock that echoed across his mind.

Alfred stood there, numb.

England…