Regular font indicates the present.
Italic font indicates flashbacking or dreaming; whether it's a flashback or a dream will be clarified.
Bold italic font indicates thought.
Bold regular font indicates writing/typing.
Warning: contains vague descriptions of scars and tending to wounds. Just saying's all.
At this point in the evening, Alfred was so used to the burn in his legs that he was barely affected by it, anymore. He pushed his lead-like limbs forward in a slow, quiet walk and tried not to think of how sore he would be the next morning, his blue eyes darting around from behind his mask in a (presumably) vain effort to find his nemesis.
No matter how you look at it, it's unusual to suddenly hear sounds from the ceiling, the American thought, quickening his pace a miniscule amount to keep up with the nearly-silent scuffling noises above his head. Now that he was further away from the room where the security guards were, he could clearly hear what sounded like fabric lightly shuffling against metal, bringing the superhero to suspect that there was something—or someone—in the air vents high-up in the ceiling. And I wouldn't put it past England to use methods as risky as air vents to get around unnoticed. He won't hesitate to use whatever he can to his advantage.
In all forms of media, whether through movies or television, it wasn't unheard of for fictional characters to travel through air vents in order to sneak about incognito, as ventilation systems were usually soundproof, away from security cameras, and could access wide assortments of rooms. However, none of that deterred how dangerous it was to travel through vents; not only was it illegal (a fact that England most likely disregarded as everything he did was illegal), it was also hazardous in that the spaces were usually cramped and hot. Regardless of how convenient it would be to have admission inside and outside of the museum, Alfred was reluctant to personally use air vents as means of exploration, considering he was slim yet muscular (making it difficult for him to fit), and claustrophobic (therefore he had serious qualms towards being shoved into constricting places). To use such methods likely knowing the downsides, one must have been either naïve, desperate, or crazy.
Knowing England, it was probably the latter.
Alfred's frown vanished as he stopped his pace. He could hear the sounds venturing into a room on his right with a set of open double-doors, meaning that the criminal was planning to steal an artifact from that location. The American resumed his walk with steady, hushed footsteps in the instance his enemy was aware of his presence (if he wasn't already), pressing his back against one of the double-doors and peeking out from the side to get a brief glimpse into the room.
His eyes caught a swift flicker of movement in the ceiling tiles, confirming his suspicions when he saw a section of barred metal amongst the tiles lift up and seemingly vanish into the darkness. After a moment, a slim form shrouded in a black tailcoat dropped from the opening and landed on the ground with the prowess of a tiger, resulting in the hero releasing a shaky breath he had no idea he was holding.
There he is.
It really had been far too long since he had encountered England face-to-face. All of his nonsense relating to the press and the NYPD had begun on June 1st with the first Metropolitan Heist, meaning that it had been about eighteen days since they had genuinely seen one another. Up until then, it had been like throwing a grenade at a far-off target; you heard, saw, and received the minor backlash of the explosion since you weren't entirely away from it, yet you weren't affected as badly as the target in question. Up until then, he and England had undoubtedly made moves and decisions that impacted the other from afar, but it wasn't nearly as affective as being up-close and personal.
Alfred kept his gaze trained on the criminal, who went through the motions of swiping a security card into the case holding the artifact (a necklace made of gold, natural pearls, demantoid garnet, and enamel), and removing it. He felt his nervous system start to coat itself in adrenaline when he saw the muscles in the thief's neck twitch, signaling he was going to look over his shoulder, as Alfred stopped spying into the room and placed himself back against the door. He could feel a small smile work itself onto his angular features—he was unable to help it, he loved the thrill of catching villains in the act—and counted down the seconds until he could remove himself from the wall and head inside the room.
Five.
His senses had heightened to the point where they could be considered animalistic.
Four.
His ears could pick up the practically-soundless rustle of fabric as England wrapped the jewelry and stored it inside his bag. Far away, he could still hear the alarm ringing.
Three.
His fingers twitched beneath his white gloves in case he had to either punch someone or protect himself, itching to do something. His hands felt a tad constricted, almost shaky due to lack of action.
Two.
His eyes fluttered closed behind his mask as he took deep breaths, visualizing what was going on in the room. England had his back turned to him, already mentally congratulating himself on a job well-done, distracting himself thanks to his tendency to dwell in his own mind. Perfect.
One.
Alfred opened his eyes and replaced his present grin with a look of seriousness, as to evoke a no-nonsense aura around himself. He didn't want to have England thinking he was all fun and games, now did he? Cynicism and overall Britishness aside, England was still a criminal that America had to take down. He wasn't like Arthur, someone he could let loose and mess around with—no, England was a separate entity, a separate evil, from Arthur.
"England!"
The thief slung his heist bag over his shoulder and spun on his heel, looking just as Alfred last remembered him; devious, egotistical, and calculating. As if he was playing a game of chess that he knew he had already won, arrogance as thick as his sarcasm when he said "Keep it down would you? We're in a museum, a place that's supposed to be quiet, something you must struggle with immensely".
To be honest, something about that look reminded him of Arthur. Just a little bit, most likely because of the aforementioned chess simile.
Alfred allowed his poker face to drop, to give the Brit a false sense of security. Lure him into a situation he's pre-determined, and throw him off his guard when he least expects it. That was the tactic that cost America his win during the second Metropolitan Heist, one he wanted to use to his advantage, now.
"You're one to talk since you set off that alarm. You're not very subtle for someone who's supposed to be a thief, now are you?" He mentioned, deciding to humor the criminal for a small amount of time. Might as well get in some laughs before England got carted off to jail, since England would be rendered strategically-injured without Japan, who was still captured by Vash's hand.
"I'd mention how you're not very subtle for someone who's supposed to be a superhero, but I covered that the last time we met face-to-face." England shrugged, resulting in the American letting his poker face down more by appearing angered with his statement. He had never been as good as Arthur or Kiku with concealing his emotions, but now he was using that to his advantage by lowering England's guard. Perfect. "By the way, did you happen to like my message I sent to you and your merry band of misfits?"
Now time to throw him off a little bit.
At least, that was what Alfred reasoned within himself. He didn't want to admit that England's reminder of the NYPD message had touched a nerve (since he had been played out to look like a fool and had fallen for it); he wanted to think he had a little more control over the situation by allowing his anger to become a bit more visible.
His eyes darkened behind his mask, though he was unable to tell whether or not he intended it to happen. "I've been meaning to repay you for that. For all you've done, as of late."
England smirked. "I've done a lot as of late, I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific. However, I must say your reaction to that message is the ultimate jewel in my collection."
Once that sentence was spoken, Alfred couldn't justify the pure fear that spiked his senses and bared its fangs at him. Just…it seemed so familiar. That phrase was so achingly familiar, burned into his brain until it made him want to claw his skull and scream. Waves of panic washed over him as he looked at England and imagined a patchwork of skin beneath his mask, green eyes reflecting Arthur's eyes jabbed messily into a psychopath's skull-!
'"He died screaming for you to rescue him."'
'"He died believing you would find him in time and save him like the 'hero' you claim to be."'
'"And I must say…his eyes are the ultimate jewels in my collection."'
Alfred knew it was only a nightmare. He knew it was a figment of his imagination, manufactured due to the stress of having dealt with the backlash from the second Metropolitan Heist and having stolen a kiss from Arthur in his sleep. Yet he was unable to stop remembering the unadulterated terror that spread like poison in the bloodstream when he first woke up, the sweat that dotted his brow, the roar of his pulse in his ears, the shakiness of his hands as he had peered into the blackness of his room and saw those dull green eyes and Frankenstein face.
The sickening nostalgia nearly sent him on his knees, but he swallowed all signs of his panic and forced on his steely persona of America. America, the hero of New York, who had to take down the bad guys to make the world a better place for his Arthur. Alfred smirked, as if something like a smirk could somehow make him feel better. "Did you have a nice first meeting with 'O'?"
England's cockiness seemingly-dropped for a split-second, allowing fear to become visible in his expression. That showing of fear surprised the American, as the thief always tried to keep his emotions under control to prevent people from predicting him. It was obscure to see a shred of humanity in him, as it was easy to forget England was also human.
Nevertheless, that fear vanished after a split-second, the arrogance returning as if it had never left. Of course, Alfred had seen it. And he could use that fear if he played his cards right. "Did you have a nice first meeting with Japan?"
He's obviously insecure at the moment, letting his feelings be revealed for a short time and all, 'America' noted internally, considering his options. If England wasn't keeping his emotions as close in check, that meant something in his plan had gone wrong. By asking if I had a good first meeting with Japan, was the thief trying to find out what happened to his partner? It's a gamble, but I can definitely manipulate his temporary weaknesses.
A part of him felt bad at even considering that idea. By exploiting one's kryptonite, wouldn't that make him no better than England? He used people's flaws against them, tripping them over and laughing at them for their shortcomings. He profited off their misfortunes, and had the gall to insult the NYPD for doing the same thing. By all means, America shouldn't have thought twice about giving England a taste of his own medicine.
But Alfred F. Jones felt the guilt rot his heart from the inside-out.
"You've gotten ahold of quite the fighter," America said nonchalantly, reaching into his white fabric boot and pulling out a gun. "Unfortunately, I was better."
He could see England's fingernails dig into his black gloves, almost breaking through the skin and fabric. It felt weird, seeing a strange reversal-of-roles, as America was using England's tactics while England was psychologically-exposed. The thief had to force his voice to remain steady. "What did you do to him?"
America rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers, still uncomfortable with the heavy weight of the gun in his hand. It was so scary to think that the power to kill the masked man before him was just a finger-pull away on the trigger. Though the Englishman would probably never understand it, Alfred decided to quote what the England from his horrible nightmare had said.
"The better question would be what I haven't done to him," Alfred acknowledged, shoving his guilt away when he saw England's eyes widen. Those eyes that resembled his beloved Brit's, ones that were hollow and dead in his nightmare from two days ago. "Would you prefer to know that, instead?"
It seemed like that statement was the straw that broke the camel's back, as England shot his fist forward and collided it with Alfred's jaw, sending him on his back a few feet away. Pain exploded across the left side of his face, the American grimacing when he tasted the iron of blood. He swirled his tongue around his mouth to check for any injuries, a mental sigh of relief escaping him when there were no teeth broken/dislodged. England had good aim, but his upper-arm abilities were severely lacking in terms of causing physical damage.
Without another minute to waste, the hero shakily stood up (he was definitely going to be sore, tomorrow) and dashed towards the air vent where England's legs were dangling from. He grabbed ahold of the criminal's ankles and pulled, sending the masked man crashing down onto the floor thanks to America's superhuman strength.
Unable to think of England without seeing the horrendous image of Arthur's patchwork face in his mind, Alfred managed to get the blond onto his back. He straddled the villain by the waist and pinned his thin wrists above his head using one hand, and pre-occupied his other hand with slipping his fingers beneath the black masquerade mask and tugging upwards to reveal England's true identity.
He was able to get a brief glimpse of a nearly-faded scar on England's right cheek, one which he couldn't remember from where he had seen it, before England ripped one of his hands from Alfred's grip, grabbed something, and smashed (what was probably) a smoke bomb, based on the vast amounts of darkness that caged the area with a thunderous 'BOOM'.
Alfred felt a hand press against his chest and shove him off, resulting in him losing his balance and falling onto his back a second time. He bit his lip to prevent himself from cursing when he felt some shards of glass penetrate his shoulder blades—he must have landed on some broken glass from the bomb—and grabbed his gun from where it resided a few feet away on the floor. When he registered the sound of footsteps quickly fading away, he got back up on his feet with a barely-concealed groan and started running again.
He tuned out the sounds of the alarms ringing, focusing his attention on loading the ammo while he ran. If he ended up having to threaten England, he would do it right; if he didn't load his gun and England realized that, he could call him out on his bluff and run away without any problems, making everything pointless. While the concept of actually…shooting someone made him weak-kneed and nauseous, he couldn't afford to slip up. If he caught England, whatever war that was beginning to brew would be finished, New York would become safer when criminals realized the NYPD meant business by taking down criminals, and Arthur would be safer as a result.
Because, in the end, he was doing it all for Arthur. He had to take down England for Arthur's sake; if he didn't, who else would?
"England!" He yelled, probing the thief to run even faster. He turned pale at the sight of the marble staircase, wishing the thief would have at least taken an elevator or something, to prevent them from awkwardly clobbering down the stairs. Though it was easier to go down the stairs than up, right? "I won't let you get away with this!"
He was so close to reaching him-! If England would only slow down his pace just a little bit, he could grab ahold of his arm and capture him on the last few steps leading onto the second floor! After that, he could run downstairs, grab Vash and Japan, and use either of the secret passageways (whether the one on the first floor, or the one on the second floor) to get to the NYPD's headquarters!
But how? Alfred wondered, having the most difficult time getting down the stairs between trying to catch England and trying to not fall flat on his face (whose brilliant idea was it to make marble stairs?!), therefore limiting the amount of brain activity he could devote to concocting a plan. I can't think of anything that would make him falter-
"England-san!"
Well, that'll work.
Internally thanking every deity he could think of (plus a few he had made up on the spot), Alfred reached forward and grabbed ahold of England's wrist, cringing slightly as he did so out of habit (he couldn't explain why England seemed to do the same thing, however) and pulling him close. Before the thief could even blink, America held his gun to the side of England's temple, forcing the masked blond (and his partner, Japan—how he managed to escape Vash, Alfred had no idea) to stop in place.
He could feel the criminal stiffen up beside him, but he refused to acknowledge the guilt piling up in his ribcage. There was no doubt in his mind that, if England had a gun, he wouldn't hesitate to use it on him. But as England didn't have one, he had the upper-hand. He had to use it while he still had the chance by finally cutting the weed by its roots.
"No sudden moves, Japan." America warned, tugging the Brit closer. While he saw the Asian's katana lower from its initial threatening-to-strike pose, he couldn't help but notice how much the villain beside him seemed to be…frightened?
He dared to cast a quick glance towards the Briton, and nearly dropped his gun in the process.
His green eyes were wide behind his mask, tears threatening to trickle down his dark lashes, and he was shaking like a leaf in America's firm grip. It was so startling to see him showing so much emotion! America had no idea whether England was playing the pathos card or if it was all legitimate, all he could feel was the utter regret that hit his heart like an anvil and decomposed (what semblance of) his rational mindset. He was scaring him. As in he—the hero, New York's golden boy, the NYPD's trump card—was scaring England!
Of course, the concept of actually scaring a criminal wasn't alien to him; he had to intimidate villains into submitting and surrendering, after all. But the Englishman was always so stubborn and prideful, he never let his true feelings surface as easily, before! To show weakness was to render him open for being attacked, his kryptonite capable of being used against him! So for him to have been trembling and on the brink of tears (especially in the face of his enemy), he must have been truly afraid.
His suspicions were confirmed when he heard the Briton say something he would have never imagined hearing in his life:
"P-please don't. Please."
I shouldn't feel bad about this, America reasoned within his mind, forcing himself to look away. He didn't want his resolve to keep deteriorating, especially if it meant that England would win again! The American's confidence had taken collateral damage in the past few weeks, weeks of being bombarded by the press, public, and police, all for the mistakes that England had resulted in him making! Why am I feeling bad about this?!
Arthur wouldn't want this, the little voice in the back of his head spoke, making the hero freeze. His eyes dilated as the fact drenched his nerves in ice-cold water. Your parents wouldn't want this, either. How would they all react to you doing this, holding this man hostage?
America tried to reinstate his beliefs relating to England. That, regardless of his possible identity/background, he was a criminal who posed a threat to the NYPD and to Arthur, making it a necessity that he was imprisoned ASAP. Alfred, on the other hand, was torn. He wanted to make England pay for what he had done, receive the swift hand of justice in the form of a prison cell, and put an end to the raging conflict storming up both New York and himself. But was this really the way to do it? With a gun to England's head, the Brit as defenseless as Alfred's parents were when they were killed?!
England was a thief, a thief who had the potential to turn people upon each other with a smoke bomb or a set of pictures leaked online from a security camera. A thief who had to be stopped.
But he was just as human as America was, as Alfred was, as Arthur was. He was simply better at concealing it, though flesh and bone could not be concealed by smirks and schemes alone. Whether England hadn't realized that or not, both America and Alfred had no idea.
Which is why Alfred lowered his gun, much to the Englishman's (poorly-concealed) surprise.
England slipped his wrist away, taking a few steps back with wide, wide eyes. Eyes that reminded him of his best friend, though the American hated to acknowledge that fact.
Unable to look at him and not think of Arthur, Alfred turned his head and cascaded his gaze elsewhere as he removed the ammo from his gun. He loathed how weak he felt, removing the metal from the Glock 19 without having used it at all. Vash would be disappointed in him for releasing a criminal intentionally and not even using his gun when he clearly had the chance.
"I can't do it." He murmured, his voice low out of anger towards himself for being so weak, and anger towards England for making him so weak. "No matter what, I won't do it. I won't become like you, England."
I won't become heartless like you. Heartless like your brand of criminal, the same brand of criminal that changed my life: a thief.
He didn't want to look up and see England's face. He didn't want to see the villain smirk that condescending smirk at the sight of the 'hero for justice' being reduced to a mere infant. He didn't want to see him cross his arms over his chest, shaking his head in a 'tsk'ing way. He didn't want to see him point and laugh, as the NYPD's trump card was so cowardly he couldn't even pull the trigger of a gun.
But he abandoned all hopes of not looking at England when, again, he heard the Briton say something he would have never imagined hearing in his life:
"I owe you one. Thank you."
After that, England turned his back and left with his helper in tow, engulfing Alfred in silence when the two criminals left through the secret entrance Vash had used on the second floor.
The events proceeding that were a blur: he vaguely remembered rushing down the stairs to the first floor and finding Vash handcuffed and trying to pick his way out with a shuriken (nearly slicing his fingers off in the process, as he was better with handling guns than knives). He could reminisce releasing Vash and lying to him, saying that England had gotten away by the time he had made it to the third floor. He could only recall going through the second floor secret passage, trudging through tunnels akin to that of the first floor's passage, and changing out of his superhero attire into his tuxedo from the earlier wedding rehearsal.
At some point, he ventured down some form of metal slide that led out to the museum's gardens, so that was a strange experience overall. When he stood back up, he could see black dots start to cloud his vision, so he decided to stick with a cab as opposed to running. The remainder of the trip passed by in a particularly-colorful blur, as he was taxied through Times Square and ended up at his university dorm complex in what seemed like a split-second. From there, he entered the complex and made his way up the stairs, relying heavily on the railing as his body was exhausted and aching profusely. His jaw was pulsing with pain (leading him to suspect that perhaps England did somehow dislodge a tooth), his shoulders still had chunks of glass embedded into his flesh, and lifting his legs were like trying to lift multiple sets of 100-pound weights.
If he had to pick the reason for him making it to his dorm room without losing consciousness, it would have had to be Arthur.
Arthur had left Matthew's wedding rehearsal, leaving obscurity in his wake. Alfred had been so pre-occupied with England that he hadn't given any consideration towards where Arthur had suddenly vanished to. All he had said was that he needed to go. Other than that, he left no indication. Alfred didn't have enough physical or mental strength to think of the possibilities, and doubted he was physically/mentally strong enough to handle thinking of the worst-case scenarios.
The American wandered up to his dorm for the sole purpose of depositing his super hero attire. He would need to make repairs to the outfit as it had been ripped and covered in blood, but that was something he would do at a later time. For now, whatever semblance of his coherent mind was focused on going downstairs and making sure Arthur was safe. If he wasn't, Alfred wouldn't hesitate to venture out on the streets again, regardless of his own aforementioned physical/mental exhaustion.
The last thing he remembered was knocking on the door three solid times. He had used up his energy into those knocks, that, by the time Arthur opened the door, Alfred had already crumbled onto the floor and his world turned to black.
~ na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na~
It had truly been a long night.
For the first (and probably only) time ever, Arthur was reluctant to leave America's side while masquerading as 'England'. Throughout his entire life, Arthur had prided himself on being able to read people like he read books; effortlessly, and recalling every last detail. But…he hadn't anticipated America actually letting England—as in, the same enemy who stressed him out and made him out to be a fool—free when he had him right where he wanted him. He had a gun to his head, for crying out loud!
So why did he let him go when he had the chance to end everything, whether with England ending up in a prison cell or six feet underground?
His honor-before-reason mindset will likely be taken advantage of, Arthur thought as he dried himself off from the shower, changing into comfortable jeans and an oversized Joker T-shirt when he finished. They had taken the second passage that 'Japan' overheard Department Chief Vash Zwingli (from where had he heard that name before?) talk about to America, and used that confined space to change back into their normal attire, even though Arthur's 'normal' attire still consisted of a bridesmaid dress. After that, they had taken a taxi and ventured back to their university dorm complex, where they resided at the moment. If not by me, then someone else.
The Brit wiped off the fog that gathered on his bathroom mirror, tentatively eyeing the scar on his left cheek from the second Metropolitan Heist. It had mostly healed, but it was still visible if someone got up-close and personal in his face, like America had earlier in the evening. He contemplated whether he should apply miniscule amounts of concealer to cover it up, but decided against it as it was unlikely anyone in his personal life would try invading his bubble.
"I can't do it. No matter what, I won't do it. I won't become like you, England."
Arthur stopped erasing the shower-fog, those words bouncing around in his skull as his hand turned to a fist on the mirror, his eyes half-lidded when recalling that. What did America mean, becoming like him? He knew that the hero held a grudge towards thieves in particular—that was one of the major reasons why he had become a thief to begin with! To catch America's attention so he could get the hero under the public's spotlight even more than before, and reduce his public image. But still, for what reason did he say that sentence with such…venomous hatred?
He tried not to dwell on the other reason he became a thief, as his fingernails were threatening to cut into his palm and he didn't want to bandage more wounds. He had just finished removing the two bullets from Kiku's right hand and foot (an unpleasant experience with much more blood than he wanted to see) and took a shower to cleanse himself, after all.
Whatever the reason, I won't have to dwell on for too long, the Englishman thought as he unlocked the door and exited the restroom. He snuck a peek inside Kiku's room and visibly relaxed at the sight of the Japanese sleeping. His bandages were fresh so he wouldn't need to change them for a while, and the disinfectant seemed to be working fine. A shiver went down his spine at the thought of what might have happened had the Department Chief somehow missed his shots. With a shake of his head, Arthur closed the door and ventured into the living room, opening his laptop when he sat down on the couch. I'll message Russia privately on Ailateh to inform him the three specified artifacts have been stolen and are in perfect condition. It'll take a good portion of time to sneak those three items to him, along with the Ganymede and Etruscan artifacts. By the time he's notified Kiku and I of our next assignment, both of us will be healed enough to commit another heist and America will have probably forgotten about my debt.
He outwardly cringed when reminiscing that. He knew it was going to come back and haunt him later on, as pride was as bipolar of a mistress as fate, especially when it came to saving one's life. Just because America was a hero didn't mean England had to live up to his I.O.Y, right?
Again, it'll hopefully be a while until I have to commit another heist, Arthur decided, typing up a quick-yet-formal message to Russia pertaining to the aforementioned facts relating to the artifacts and closing his laptop when he finished. He stretched in his seat, cursing a tad when he felt shockwaves of pain shoot up his right arm from where he had punched America. The man was strong—ridiculously strong, reflecting even in the sturdiness of his jaw structure! So, even if he does remember that and expects me to live up to it, I won't have to deal with it just yet.
Even so, he couldn't stop himself from jumping when he heard three solid knocks on the door.
"Who could that be?" He wondered out loud, slowly standing up from his seat and making his way to the front door. He peered through the eyehole, blushing when seeing Alfred on the other side. A content smile made its way onto his face as he opened the door, that smile vanishing when seeing the American drop onto the floor like a sack of flour.
"A-Alfred?!" Arthur stammered, getting onto his knees and taking the male's face into his hands. He placed a thumb on his neck to check for a pulse, a relieved sigh escaping his pale lips when feeling a firm (albeit quick) heartbeat. His mind went in a frenzy as he tried recalling all the information he learned from his mandatory health classes at NYU. Knowing it wasn't the wisest decision to make, yet it would be far easier tending to the bespectacled blond on a bed instead of outside in the hallway, Arthur wrapped his arms around Alfred's upper-torso and dragged him inside.
Should I put him on the sofa? No, it's too uncomfortable, not to mention he could open up my laptop and uncover my Ailateh files. He's good enough with computers that he could hack my passwords if he wanted to, Arthur dwelled, grinding his teeth together as he tugged Alfred down the hall as quietly as he could. But he's not as good as Kiku when it comes to things like that.
The Englishman reached his room and managed to lift the American onto his bed, thanking himself for having enough hindsight to hide both the stolen artifacts and his England attire as soon as he arrived at the dorm with Kiku. He removed all his pillows from his bed and set Alfred's head down on a level mattress, pressing another finger to his neck to check on his pulse, a ghost of a smile etching itself onto his face when realizing how much Alfred had stabilized in the past few minutes.
"Thank God you're alright," Arthur breathed, running a hand through Alfred's soft gold locks, trying/failing to ignore the scratches and droplets of crimson dotting his face. "Though what happened to you?"
He bit his lip as he stared at the unconscious male. It was obvious that he had passed out due to exhaustion, though from what? He saw Alfred talking to someone on his phone when he left St. Patrick's Cathedral earlier in the evening. After that, he had no idea what had happened to him that caused him to be so beaten up. He lightly skimmed his fingers across the American's neck again, jolting in surprise when the unconscious man let out a small moan of pain.
His brow knit together in confusion as he carefully rubbed near the base of Alfred's neck, wondering where he was hurting. His eyes grew wide as he peeled back the dress shirt the bespectacled blond was still wearing from the wedding rehearsal and saw large shards of glass sticking out from his skin.
Arthur began to panic when he saw the glass, his face draining of color when he cautiously removed the American's shirt and saw scars, and lots of them. Small, insignificant scars that resembled birthmarks more than anything else, and gigantic, long scars that practically tattooed Alfred's chest and back. Some of them were old, practically lost against his natural tan, while some had just begun healing, standing out like a sore thumb against his otherwise-flawless skin. There was one scar in particular that made Arthur's eyes grow until he feared they'd pop out of his head; it was on Alfred's chest, and looked both the longest and the oldest by far. It stretched diagonally, from the blond's right shoulder to his lower left rib, about an inch away from encountering his heart. The sight of it was enough to make the Brit's vision blurry with saltwater.
"What happened to you?" Arthur repeated sadly, grabbing some linen, tweezers, and disinfectant to remove the glass. He took great care in turning the American onto his chest, to alleviate the pressure pushing the glass deeper into his skin and to give him better access to remove the harmful shards, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand to get rid of possible tears. "How have you gotten those scars?"
I feel so terrible, Arthur noted within his mind as he took the tweezers and began removing the glass with one hand, rubbing soothing circles into the small of Alfred's back to try lessening the pain with his other hand. He's been getting hurt for a while and I haven't even noticed. He's just kept it all to himself for whatever reasoning.
He ignored the sensation of tears spilling down his cheeks, too focused on getting rid of the glass and mopping up the blood. When he had finally finished, there was a decently-sized pile of shards on a paper towel tinted with pink, and a large amount of red holes in the American's back Thankfully, the injuries weren't deep, therefore he didn't require much disinfectant to apply to the cuts. However, as a matter of precaution, he took strenuous effort to wrap the linen safely over Alfred's wounds to prevent them from getting infected.
Arthur released a breath he had no idea he was holding when he ventured off to the restroom to wash his hands and returned to see Alfred resting devoid of blood staining his back. For a good portion of time, the bespectacled blond's features were scrunched up faintly, but now his expression had relaxed and his breathing had regulated. Based on the quiet snores that escaped Alfred, he had enough oxygen to fall into a deep slumber as opposed to his previous state of unconsciousness.
The Brit's eyes grew half-lidded at the sight of the American in a significantly-better state than he was earlier, a tired smile working its way onto his face. Arthur wanted to keep an eye on him to make sure his pulse was normal and his wounds weren't bleeding as bad later on, though he could feel his head start to spin with drowsiness and exhaustion (much to his chagrin).
Although he was extremely tempted to crawl into bed (which looked unusually fluffy and resembled a luxurious cloud as opposed to a heap of fabric stuffed with cotton) alongside Alfred, he knew it was better for the injured male to have the whole bed to himself so that he could rest properly. Not to mention it would be extremely awkward (though…nice) to wake up in Alfred's embrace the coming morning.
How the tables have turned, he thought with a victorious smirk as he pulled up a chair beside the bed and readjusted the blankets around Alfred's form to make him more comfortable. After all those years of being restricted to my bed and you staying by my side until morning, it's now time for me to return the favor, twat.
His smirk was replaced with a small smile as he reached forward, tenderly brushed aside some of the American's blond bangs away, and, after some internal debating, pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to his forehead.
Arthur pulled back after a moment, already feeling regret eat his conscious even though the man of his affections was (not quite anymore, but still essentially) unconscious. Similar to the day where he had visited his parents' graves, he felt like his heart was rotting from the inside-out. So much of him yearned to give into his dreams and love Alfred, but that was the more emotional aspect of his brain. The logical aspect was chaining him to the ground, using fear and guilt to bait him into not making a move.
'You're so selfish,' it'd say, twisting the Englishman's morals into knots. 'You should be satisfied with simply being around him. Don't be greedy in wanting to be more than friends, especially when you have no guarantee he'd even swing your way.'
As deeply as it cut him, as frustrated and half-mad as it made him, he knew that aspect of his mind was right. What he and Alfred had in terms of relationships' was good. They had maintained a solid friendship over the years, overcoming obstacles one associates with growing up with ease and becoming stronger. Yet it had become frail, to the point where one wrong move could destroy it beyond repair. It was like a rose in that its scent was beautiful and its petals bore a deep shade of crimson, but its thorns could draw blood if one came too close to it.
If Arthur tried to change anything, change the happy relationship he and Alfred had because of his own fruitless hopes…he was scared it would all fall apart, and he would lose Alfred completely. He would lose the one person who had stayed with him throughout his life, throughout his shortcomings and misfortunes, completely.
He didn't realize he had reached out towards Alfred until he felt his arm touch the soft fabric of the mattress. Until he felt his hand delicately take hold of Alfred's hand. Until he felt Alfred's fingers lace between his own, in his sleep.
"Goodnight, Alfred." Arthur whispered, his eyelids closing against their will as his head rolled onto one of his own shoulders, uncaring for once of his poor posture in his chair beside the bed as he gave a comforting squeeze to his childhood friend's hand.
I love you.
Author's Note: And some people I know say I can't write fluff…HA! I bet you all got cavities from how sickeningly-sweet that was; I know I did. Anyway, thanks for reading this longer-than-normal chapter, I'm glad we've made it to 25 CHAPTERS, YESSSSSSS~! We reached this milestone in…four months, 26/27 days, wow. I still can't believe this. It's been four months and I STILL can't believe any of this. Just…the amount of love/support this fanfiction's been getting as of late, I'm appalled (in a good way). Thank you all so much for reading/favoriting/following/reviewing this nonsensical mess of fiction, I'm so happy to have gotten so far in so short a time span with you guys~
Big shout-outs to the following (fabulous) readers: HiItsUriChan, Miyagino 'Mikura' Asakura, usukonly, laurachangchoclate, OutToGarden, DemonWolf37, meapzilla2mouse, yeet333, Maya5392, AoiCherry, Adri-Swan, pompom1124, and Harrenwolf~! I'm glad to see some old&new faces 'round these parts, it makes me so happy to see so much feedback (whether positive/negative) on my story.
I apologize if this chapter was confusing/overly-boring/gruesome(?)/something-negative, though I do feel like it was necessary. You'll see soon, trust me. Anyway, I'm pretty sure that you're not supposed to do what Arthur did in regards to what one does when someone falls unconscious, so keep in mind that I'm a physicist, not a doctor, 'kay? (I'm neither of those things, actually; if anything, I'm a liar. Though it's said the best liars are the best writers, so~~~). Don't sue me, please.
I actually DO have some bloopers, this time. Sorry if they're bad, it's kind of late where I am and I suffer from bouts of insomnia, so…yeah.
Blooper #1: For the first (and probably only) time ever, Arthur was reluctant to leave America's side while masquerading as 'England'. Throughout his entire life, Arthur had prided himself on being able to read people like he read his Harry Potter books; remembering every little detail and crying like a baby with the death of Dumbledore in book 6 and the death of Dobby in book 7.
#2: Should I put him on the sofa? No, it's too uncomfortable, not to mention he could open up my laptop and uncover my Ailateh files. He's good enough with computers that he could hack my passwords if he wanted to, Arthur dwelled, grinding his teeth together as he tugged Alfred down the hall as quietly as he could. Once, he hacked my Facebook profile and changed my relationship status to 'Alfred F. Jones's Waifu'. Kiku doesn't even know how the bloody hell he did it!
#3: Should I put him on the sofa? No, it's too uncomfortable, not to mention he could open up my laptop and uncover my Ailateh files. He's good enough with computers that he could hack my passwords if he wanted to, Arthur dwelled, grinding his teeth together as he tugged Alfred down the hall as quietly as he could. The Englishman reached his room and managed to lift the American onto his bed, thanking himself for having enough hindsight to hide both the stolen artifacts and his England attire as soon as he arrived at the dorm with Kiku. Ugh. Arthur didn't want to imagine the scandalous fanfiction and doujinshis that would arise if Kiku got his camera and decided to do some snooping around in his room while Alfred was here. As if the USUK part of the Hetalia fandom needed more encouragement.
#4: The Englishman reached his room and managed to lift the American onto his bed, thanking himself for having enough hindsight to hide both the stolen artifacts and his England attire as soon as he arrived at the dorm with Kiku. He removed all his pillows from his bed and set Alfred's head down on a level mattress, trying to ignore how the moonlight made his hair look like liquid sunshine—really, liquid sunshine? Good God, he was losing it.
#5: "What happened to you?" Arthur repeated sadly, grabbing some linen, tweezers, and disinfectant to remove the glass. He took great care in turning the American onto his chest, to alleviate the pressure pushing the glass deeper into his skin and to give him better access to remove the harmful shards, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand to get rid of possible tears. "How have you gotten those scars?"
He groaned from the irony of the situation. Here he was wearing a Joker T-shirt, and here he was asking someone how they came to have scars. Brilliant.
#6: "What happened to you?" Arthur repeated sadly, grabbing some linen, tweezers, and disinfectant to remove the glass. He took great care in turning the American onto his chest, to alleviate the pressure pushing the glass deeper into his skin and to give him better access to remove the harmful shards, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand to get rid of possible tears. "How have you gotten those scars?"
Arthur paused, blinking a few times.
If someone asked Kiku how he abruptly woke up that morning, he would have said his sleep was interrupted by a rather shrill, British scream of "YOU'VE BEEN MARKED BY HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED!"
#7: "What happened to you?" Arthur repeated sadly, grabbing some linen, tweezers, and disinfectant to remove the glass. He took great care in turning the American onto his chest, to alleviate the pressure pushing the glass deeper into his skin and to give him better access to remove the harmful shards, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand to get rid of possible tears. "How have you gotten those scars?"
"Oh who do you think you areee, running around leaving scarrrs, collecting your jar of hearts, tearing love apaaarrrrt~"
"Oh, shut it, Jones."
Yup. That's a brief glimpse into my mind. Trust me, it's a strange, strange little place with too many references and not enough therapy sessions. Just saying's all.
Anyway, thanks again for reading/favoriting/following/reviewing this story, I'll try to update soon with 26. Please favorite/follow at your leisure as I'd like you all to continue on this (strange, strange little) journey with me. Please don't hesitate to leave a review (whether positive or negative, as I appreciate constructive criticism) as my heart leaps with joy whenever someone comments on my work~!
Until then? Stay awesome.