Author's Note: It's been ages since I last updated this. I guess I just got busy. No real excuse really. Anyways I think I'm going to have either one more chapter or maybe two or three... We'll see.

Disclaimer: I still don't own it.

Word Count: 2,343

Chapter 6:Confession,Pain,andHastyDecisions

America let out a sigh as he worked on making pancakes. What was he going to do now? Last night, after the chaos that was the world meeting, he had brought Arthur home and bandaged him up as best as he could. He hadn't broken anything, just some bruises and a pretty bad cut. He had to have stitches. But he was alright now. That wasn't what he was worried about though. America knew that he had to have a talk with England. He couldn't avoid it any longer. It just couldn't happen. But he had no idea what to say. That was when he had decided to make breakfast for England. Just some pancakes and tea. But making breakfast wasn't helping. The dread that settled in his stomach made him feel sick, but he tried to ignore it. There was really no point in worrying at all. He just had to do it.

He let out a sigh of defeat. He slowly put the plate of pancakes on the tray to go upstairs and started working on the tea. What if England was still mad at him? What then? He let out another sigh of defeat before setting the tea on the tray and finally making his way upstairs. "Just play it cool." America reminded himself quietly. He let out a deep breath before pushing open the door. Here goes everything.

England woke to the smell of something cooking. He attempted to sit up, but was met with a sudden sharp pain in his chest. He huffed, falling back onto the bed. He blinked surprised by the design of the blankets. These weren't his blankets. Was he in America's house? He distantly remembered falling asleep in America's arms. He must have brought me here then. His thoughts were cut short by the sound of the door opening. His head whipped around to meets America's surprised expression.

"I didn't expect you to be awake." America voice cracked a bit as he spoke. He seem surprised? Maybe worried? He quickly got out of whatever stupor he was in and moved forward, a smile plastered to his face once again. "I made you breakfast!" He said proudly. England struggled weakly to sit up only to feel America stopping him in his tracks. "You'll open your wounds like that." He said, his voice oddly soft. His face was serious, smile gone as if it had never existed. England didn't argue. America set the breakfast tray aside before gently helping England to sit up, propping pillows up behind him. He turned back to the breakfast then. He pulled it into England's lap, that silly smile had returned to his face. "You like pancakes, don't you?" He spoke as though he knew the answer to his question already, but England nodded anyways. He took a hesitant bite. America's pancakes were really good. He ate silently, a bit surprised that America hadn't broken the silence. That was really out of character for him.

Finally, America spoke. "Hey, Arthur? I need to talk to you about something. I have for awhile now, but I was afraid that you would get upset. So just… just hear me out alright…?" America seemed nervous which was really quite odd because it was America that he was talking about and America didn't get nervous.

"I'm listening." England was hesitant to say anything. America was freaking him out a bit. He chose to keep eating his breakfast instead of looking at the American in front of him. He felt like he wouldn't like what he saw if he did look.

"Well...It's about what happened a few weeks ago…" America's voice was oddly soft. An odd sort of careful lilt to it that seemed out of place coming from the happy go lucky American. "I…" He let out a sigh before continuing. "I know what happened. Everything that happened. Why you were so sick and… I… I just don't understand why you did it England." His voice seemed to stop working slowly getting quieter until finally stopping altogether. The words were left hanging in the air, heavy with tension. Despite how many times America had rehearsed the words in his head, he still felt as though he hadn't said the right thing.

England felt his heart hammering in his chest like a caged bird. America knew. Suddenly his breakfast didn't look the slightest bit appetizing. He swallowed thickly. He had no idea what to say. What could he do. Lie? Say it isn't true? Then what? He couldn't just sit here forever! But the idea was looking quite appealing right now. He felt like he was going to be sick. Maybe if he was sick Alfred would forget all about this. But then he would know that Alfred knew. He could feel his hands shaking.

"Arthur?" The voice cut through his thoughts.

Suddenly he couldn't take it anymore. The tension in the air was suffocating him. He couldn't breathe. "Thank you for your concern, America, but I'm fine. I really have to be going now. I have lots of work to do back home and I've already wasted to much time here as it is." His voice sounded panicked. The words tumbling from his lips like water from a flooded river. England felt as though he wasn't even the one in control anymore, like he was on autopilot. He was distantly aware that he had stood up and stumbled toward the door and America calling after him. What he said was completely lost to the Brit. The world seemed fuzzy on the edges. Was someone grabbing his arm? He spoke again, his own words a jumble in his head. Then he was moving again. Going just going and going. Everything seemed to be getting misplaced in his mind, a puzzle that had yet to be put together. He had to go home the thought was there through the disarray of puzzle pieces. It seemed as though so much time had passed yet none at all and the next thing he knew he was falling to the floor. Pain rocketed through him, but he didn't care. He was aware that he was crying but the realization hardly seemed note worthy by now. He was always crying these days. America is probably sick of you by now. His mind provided. Out of all the things he could have thought of right now that was the one he had decided on? He knows. He knows everything. England clutched at his head. Squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Why? Why did America have to know? He would hate him now. Want nothing to do with him. Who would want to be associated with someone like him? The world disappeared around him at last. The thoughts fading away with it until he was left in nothingness.

Alfred had screwed up. In fact, saying he had screwed up was a bit of an understatement. He had made England hate him. What was wrong with him? He was so stupid. He pulled England close to his chest, careful of his wounds. Despite England's best efforts, he hadn't made it very far before he had collapsed. Only down the hall and halfway down the stairs before he had tripped. Falling the rest of the way down the stairs. That was where he was now. And as much as Alfred wanted to sit there feeling sorry for himself, he had to make sure England hadn't hurt himself even worse. He had been crying, the wet trails standing out against his flushed cheeks. He was asleep now. America wasn't sure if that was a bad or good thing to be honest. He pulled England away from his chest carefully. He had a nasty looking cut on his head and he had opened up his injury from last night. He frowned. His head was burning up. He must be sick from sitting in the rain last night. America sighed. He would have to dress the wounds and then get the smaller nation some medicine.

England woke to a sharp pain in his head and warmth surrounding him. He blinked. America was laying beside him. No. It was more like he and America were cuddling. For some reason he found that he didn't care. Maybe it was because he was so tired. Yeah, that was probably it. He closed his eyes again before he remembered America's confession. He felt panic rise in his chest. He had to get out of here. He struggled against America's strong arms weakly, ignoring the pain shooting through his body.

"Hey." America's sleep filled voice reached England's ears. He needed to get out. He could feel his breath coming out in jagged gasps as he struggled in vain against the larger nation. "Hey, It's okay." America's voice was soft and gentle. England couldn't help but want to believe it. He felt a gentle hand caressing his cheek. He stopped struggling. He looked up at the American, his vision blurry. He was crying again. As if to confirm this, America gently wiped away the tears from the scared nation's face. England felt himself relaxing as he stared up into America's gentle, blue eyes. "I promise everything is going to be okay." America's voice reached his ears and he believed it. For some wild and crazy reason he couldn't begin to fathom he believed it. So he let himself cry. Pressing his face into America's neck. Suddenly wanting to be as close to the American as possible despite having just tried to get away from him moments before.

It seemed like ages before England moved again. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he must have because the bed was empty, besides himself, and he didn't remember America leaving. He rolled onto his back, wincing at the pain that shot through him. He thought of the last few days, desperate to feel like he understood what he needed to do. America had yelled at him at the World Conference, he had ran off, America had called him and apologized, America came and got him, and he had fallen asleep and awoke at America's house. He frowned. He should be mad at America for yelling at him like that but he wasn't, no couldn't, be mad at the American. Not at all. Why was that? Because America knew. His brain provided. He swallowed. That's right. America knew about everything that had happened. He pushed the thought to the back of his head. No time to think about that, he informed himself. He had long since decided that he wouldn't be going off of any sort of actual logic, because that would mean realizing he had plenty of time to think on the subject and he couldn't have that.

He let new thoughts drift into the forefront of his mind. America's one month seemed to pop up first, so he decided that he really did need to be thinking about that. How many days did he have left again? He hummed aloud, trying to configure the proper numbers. Only a couple days. He felt his heart speed up at the realization. Had America passed? He didn't know. America had hurt him, but he had also been there for him more times that he could count. But… America knew. He would hate him for that. Hate him so much. He'd never want to see him again after that. Never. His thoughts were cut off abruptly by the sound of the door opening. America walked in. He had a tray of food in his hands and it smelled good, really good. Despite that, he didn't move from his position. He didn't want to talk to America right now at all. He layed there, eyes closed. Maybe America would think he was sleeping? He hoped so. He felt the bed dip down beside him and a soft, cool hand on his forehead.

"You're burning up still, Artie." America spoke softly. His voice full of worry. He felt a hand run through his hair. It felt so good. "Artie?" America's voice called softly. "You gonna wake up?" England didn't move. "I got some food for you." England let his eyes open. He didn't want to talk to America but he was hungry and America's voice was so soft and gentle. "Hey, Artie." America had the most ridiculous smile on his face as he glanced at him lovingly.

"Hello." England's voice sounded like gravel. He swallowed, wincing at the pain in his throat. He spoke nothing else and neither did America. The tray of food was set down and America carefully helped him to sit up. He ate greedily. He was so hungry. America watched him sadly, making no comment. After England had finished, America left. England wanted to call out to him to stay, but didn't. Despite his previous thoughts of wanting to be as far away from America as possible, he wanted him here now. It was so odd.

He quickly reached the conclusion that America didn't care. He didn't care at all. He was done. He couldn't do this. The realization hit him hard. He was going to do it. End it once and for all. He could feel himself shaking. America left. He was just trying to be nice so he could use you. He flinched at his own thoughts. He couldn't live like this. He was done with it all. He couldn't wait the last couple of days. He couldn't. It had to end now. Once and for all.

He struggled weakly to stand. He felt pain shoot through him. He ignored it. He walked carefully from the room, locating America's gun cabinet with ease. He grabbed the first gun he saw. He didn't care what kind it was. It would get the job done. He walked quickly toward the bathroom. He locked the door behind him. Was he really going to do this? His hands were shaking. He held the gun to his head. He had to decide now.