These chapters are done way too quickly... but does it matter?

Crossfire, thanks for yet another review! And I'm sorry for all the sadness (again)! Hehe... And I'm glad you've accepted 'papa' Ireland now, too! It took you about as long as it did North, hm? XD Though, still, I'm not going either way definitively. Not with biological proof, at least.

Well then, here you go, chapter 37:

Days passed and turned into a week, and then another one. And still Ireland hadn't moved an inch, only been moved to Dublin. And that was where the family and their two southern guests were staying now. They had been visiting their brother every day, not having missed even a single one, even if they started to doubt he even knew they were there. Northern Ireland, finding distraction in talking with New Zealand, was recovering from his trauma slowly, and just as slowly did the family recover from the worst of their shock and grief at the possibility of losing Ireland. No one was looking forward to it, every single one of them loathed the thought still, but they had also decided, all of them, that if the day came their oldest brother would draw his last breath... then so be it. They would survive it.

All but Scotland. He hadn't left Wales' side much those two weeks, and if he wasn't with Wales then he could be found with England or even Australia now. He was never alone these days. But he was also never truly there. He was taking care of himself, but that was just about it, and it was starting to really bother everyone else. But of all the close family around him then, it was Australia that took the initiative. "Al," he began with a sigh on the sixth day he and his little brother were with their cousins. "Al, would ya look a'me for a bit, mate? Just... just look at me." Though not too enthusiastically, Scotland did, and Australia nearly flinched at seeing his empty gaze. "Oi, Allistair, tell me honestly... Have ya even taken the time to let the emotions out? Even a second?" Scotland only sighed and closed his eyes, and he wouldn't even have needed to shake his head like he did a second later. Still he said not a word, and looked away again. Australia wouldn't let it slide as easily, though, to the relief of the other family members gathered in the livingroom with them. "Ah, tough guy act. I thought ya knew better than that, mate. I know some humans still cling to the notion that, as 'real men', we have to stay tough and may not shed a single tear over anything, but we're all old enough to know that's suicide. Especially now. We all know how much ya love your brother, how much ya want him back, how heartbroken ya're everytime we go to see him. And we all feel exactly the same way!" Scotland had gotten tense at this point, but still refused to say a word, clenching his jaws and keeping his eyes closed. "Every one of us has been talking about this," Australia insisted. "We've all talked about him and about our feelings concerning all this. Most importantly, we've all cried, letting the emotions out. Dylan has, Arthur has, lil' Coineach, Kiwi an' even I have cried! Goddamn, Allistair, how stubborn are ya gonna be? You need to let it out once in a while, ya know."

"I won't," Scotland answered, as stubbornly as his cousin had just described him to be, fixing his gaze on the wall rather than anyone else in the room.
"Give me one good reason, an' I'll let ya off."
Scotland then turned to look at him, sending his younger cousin a glare filled more with despair than anger. "I will not be shedding a single tear," he said slowly, making every word extra clear, "over someone who isn't dying." And with that he promptly looked away again and kept his mouth shut. Australia sighed, staring at him a moment longer, clearly dreading the words he had to say next.
"How do ya know he's not?" he asked, and Scotland stiffened at those words. And not just him -Wales did, too, and Northern Ireland stared at him in horrified silence, wondering how he could even bring it up now. Still, he insisted. "How do ya know for sure he's not dying, Allistair? Tell me. I'd love to know."
Scotland turned to him again and stared at him as if he were the dumbest creature alive. "He's my big brother," he said simply, "and I have faith in him: he will never give up. The thought won't even cross his mind, no matter what state he is in." Oh no? Northern Ireland could practically see the words burning inside England's mind then, the older nation staring at the Scot in silence. And what about his suicidal months, back in '16? But he dared not say the words aloud. Australia was doing a perfect job by himself, driving the oldest of the six nations to long-overdue tears.
"I'm not sayin' he will give up, mate," he answered simply, trying very hard to keep his voice steady, as he knew that worked better on Scotland. "I never said he would, and I never will. If he goes, he will die fighting, everyone knows that. But even so, dying is not impossible, especially not in his situation. Look, Al, I know that he's your big brother and he's the most important thing in the world to ya, but that alone won't give him some magical power to survive everything." Scotland was biting his lip at this point, eyes closed and hands clenched into fists. Well, Northern Ireland thought, watching with pity, Australia was working a miracle here.

"None of you would even understand," Scotland eventually muttered, his voice barely loud enough for North to hear. Though it seemed clear enough to Australia. "None of you. You all have an older brother besides him! And you," he added, looking at Australia, "you have us as your older cousins! All of you have someone older than you, more mature than you, someone to look up to and someone to lean on even when he's gone. I don't. He's all I have!" He clenched his fists even tighter then, turning his gaze to the floor, which was the only place to look at if he didn't want to see anyone at this point. "Of each of you, we know your exact age," he then said, surprising and confusing the others. "But not me. I'm so old, I can only estimate my age. And every single day of every single year I've lived, he's been there. Whether he was close or far away, it didn't matter. I always knew he was there for me when I needed him. And the thought that he might not be there anymore soon... is a thought that now crosses my mind for the first time in over two-thousand years." His voice faltered then, and finally it appeared that Australia's approach had worked. "I thought I lost him once," Scotland choked out, his eyes flooding with tears and his shoulders trembling. "I can't lose him again..."
Beside North, Wales shifted, and he suspected the older nation wanted to go over to Scotland now, but England was already a step ahead of him, sitting down beside his older brother and wrapping his arms around him. Scotland gritted his teeth, trying hard to bite back his tears no matter what, but all that was needed to break down the remaining part of his wall now was for England to simply tell him to let it out for once. Northern Ireland stared, somewhat shocked. He'd known Scotland was as capable of crying, of showing his emotions as any of them was, though he didn't do it much compared to them. He'd seen him cry once before. But somehow he'd never thought his big brother could cry so heartbreakingly as he did then. Ireland was really important to him. Another reason why you can't leave us, Northern Ireland told his oldest brother in silence. You have to stay, if only for his sake.

"Eire," came a voice, gently waking him. "Eire, open your eyes, sweetheart." He could see the light falling on his closed eyeslids, keeping him from falling asleep again. But, somehow, he wasn't tired anymore, though only minutes ago he'd felt like he was dragging his feet every step he took. When the voice called him again, he finally listened, and opened his eyes to slits. For a moment, he was blinded by the light of the sun shining right in his face. He closed his eyes again, turned his head a little, away from the light, and tried again. He was then greeted by the sight of a rather familiar white cloth, and, blinking, he looked up. Brittania sat on her knees beside him, looking at him with a mixture of too many emotions to count. Love, sadness, pride, regret... Now that he thought about it, the negative emotions were dominating, though not by much.
Well, he thought vaguely, sitting up. At least this explains why I'm not tired anymore... I'm dreaming. Once he sat, Ireland rubbed his forehead, eyes shut tight. It was strange, but he felt like he had a terrible headache, only without the pain. Some strange sort of pressure on his skull. It felt very uncomfortable, but it didn't hurt. Deciding that this didn't work, he simply stopped and looked at his mother. She met his gaze for a moment, then leaned forward and hugged him. He was stunned for a moment, but then forced himself to relax. "What's the hug for?" he asked her, laughing for a moment. But his laughter faded soon enough, and his expression turned grim. "It's not like we haven't seen each other in a while." No, in fact, they had seen each other very recently, just before he and Scotland had entered the building where North was being kept for the raid to save the boy. Anger flared up in him as he remembered hearing Northern Ireland's screams, saw the indifferent, no, even frustrated expressions of the humans torturing him. He felt no regret killing one of them, and hoped the other was dead, too. But he couldn't quite remember how the day had ended. Well, I was exhausted, after all. He must've fallen asleep just as soon as they got home. For all his scolding his younger brother for not resting, in those three days, he'd only slept a meager four hours himself. But he was sick, he tried to justify it to himself, and I wasn't.

Brittania moved away from him again, but still held him by the shoulders, looking him deep in the eyes. "Oh, Eire..." she whispered to him. "Sweetheart..."
And then he realised something was off about this dream. Tentatively, he reached for his mother's hand on his shoulder, brushing his fingertips against her skin, then pulling away again in pure shock. "M-mom..." he choked out, a certain pressure on his chest that made breathing difficult. "W-we're not supposed to be able to touch each other in these dreams... are we?" He clearly remembered that she hadn't touched him even once in de hundreds of years he had seen her in dreams. When he looked her in the eyes, saw the pure sadness and grief in her emerald eyes, he felt sick, his insides twisting at the sudden realisation that something wasn't just wrong: it was horribly wrong. "I-I... I'm... dead?" he whispered in horror, beginning to tremble. "No, right? I... I can't be... I can't be dead... Am I?"
Brittania closed her eyes, sighing, before looking up at him again. "Sweetheart-"
"No!"
"Eire, please, listen-"
"Goddammit, no! W-what happened?"
"Listen to me, Eire!" the ancient country then demanded, raising her voice, and Ireland flinched. She'd never done that, not since she'd been alive. "You're not dead, sweetheart," she told him calmly, still holding him. "But right now, your heart isn't beating-"
"I am dead!"
"No, you're not. You're in an ambulance, that's all. They're working very hard to get your heart to beat again, rushing you and Northern Ireland to a hospital. You're not dead until they give up, you hear me?" A slight desperation was audible in her voice, and he knew she was as convinced as he was -not at all. "You're not dead." He then took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He didn't believe her. Why would he be here, if he was alive? How could he be alive, if his heart had stopped?
"I there anything I can do?" he then asked softly. "How can I... make sure I'll live?"
Brittania stared at him for a moment, calming herself as well. She wanted him there as much as he wanted it -not. "You chose the name Cearul for a reason, did you not?" she mumbled eventually. "Fierce in battle. You don't give up your battles, my boy. This is the most important battle you'll ever fight -so fight it. Your brothers need you." They did, he was sure of it. He wouldn't be able to live without them... surely it was the same for them? I'll fight, he decided, closing his eyes. I have to. I have to get back to them! For a moment, he felt the warmth of his mother's embrace again, calming him just enough to be able to concentrate, and then he felt a jolt of terrible pain, and darkness engulfed him. His consciousness faded.

That had been a while ago. From then on, everything came in a haze. His senses didn't seem to work properly anymore. Sometimes he heard things, sometimes he smelled things or felt things. But he never saw anything. He was surrounded by darkness, silence, a void. And only rarely did anything penetrate that void and reach him. He had no sense of time at all. It felt like seconds since he'd been with Brittania. It felt like years. Sometimes his mind worked, sometimes he couldn't even think. He didn't know how long he'd been like that. He didn't even know that he was like that. He didn't really know anything anymore.
"Are you really certain we should do this?" a voice came to him, from far away. Then snippets of memories came, words once spoken to him. Or were they spoken now? I thought I would be fine with it if you... if you died. "We have to try sometime. He's recovering well, though slowly. It should be fine." Sleep well, Cearul. "We're right beside him, at that. Should anything go wrong..." I know now that I was wrong. "Alright. Remove the oxygen mask."
Suddenly he couldn't breathe. He was choking, his lungs burning. "Come on now, Ireland," came another voice. "Breathe." You bloody wanker, worrying us like that. "You can do it. Breathe... breathe..." Promise me you'll come back to us, Cearul. "Sir, shouldn't we place the oxygen mask again?"
"Give him a few more seconds. He's a fighter."
So fight it!
I should have given you a chance...
So wait for me until then, hm?
But I can't lose you... None of us can.
I love you, papa.
He couldn't give up so easily! Growing desperate, he forced his body to work again, to listen to him as he tried to explain to it how to breathe. I'ts not hard, he told himself. I've been doing it all my life. If only he could bring himself to breathe in... "Sir-!"
"Not yet!"
Then he gasped. His lungs filled with oxygen, extinguishing the flames that had grown inside it during all the time he couldn't breathe. His whole body felt better now that he was drawing in air again. And for the first time, he felt something vital. His heartbeat.
"See? Thank goodness. Good job, Ireland." He felt a hand on his shoulder then. "Keep that up now." The hand disappeared again, and he felt somewhat relieved and at the same time disappointed by it. "His time is running out. Now that he can breathe on his own again, maybe the president will reconsider the time limit. He'll need more than a month to wake up."
At least in a few weeks you'll be back, hm?
I will be, he promised. I will be.

Northern Ireland watched as Wales carefully moved the razor. He and the Welshman were the only ones in Dublin now. England and Scotland had to go back to their own capitals and resume their work as nations. Northern Ireland was only visiting, and Wales, due to circumstances, was still taking Ireland's place for now. Two months had passed since the accident, and Ireland was now able to breathe on his own. Northern Ireland hadn't felt this good in a long time, his mind flooding with hope as he looked at his brother. He would awake. He would.
And had only one month left to do so.
Dammit. Whatever he did, that thought could ruin his mood every time. Ireland was recovering, but at so slow a pace, the family was beginning to lose hope that he would wake in time. At least, now that he could breathe, Hillery was willing to rethink his decision. Though no final decision had been made yet.

Right now, Wales sat leaned over Ireland's face, carefully shaving him a bit. After two months, that was getting necessary, and now that the oxygen mask was out of the way, they finally had the opportunity to do so. "He won't appreciate it if we'd have let him grow a beard by the time he wakes up!" Wales had joked that morning as he'd grabbed a razor before they went to see their brother. Northern Ireland had laughed, imagining what that would look like. The thick layer of stubble Ireland had now was weird to him already, and he was glad it would be removed. And now he was watching this as if it were a lesson: he hoped he would grow just a little older yet, and that it wouldn't be too long before he did. At least until he was physically 18 or something like that. He didn't want to be a kid for the rest of his life. But he wouldn't tell his brothers that: they'd only think it was childish, and that was the complete opposite of what he wanted.
"Ah, damn," Wales muttered under his breath then, and Northern Ireland tried to see what went wrong. "I cut him... ah well, that'll heal within minutes, even if it came from me. Tiny little cut... no problem." Then he laughed, and North chuckled along with him. "Sorry for that, Cearul!"
"He's not going to like that, Dylan!" North said, still shaking with laughter. "But you're right... And besides, he'll be grateful you even took the time for this." Wales nodded, finished quickly and put his stuff away again. "There," he said to his older brother. "Now you look like yourself again." Then he turned to Northern Ireland, sighing. "I'm afraid we have to leave again soon, lil' brother," he mumbled softly. "I still have a lot of work to do..."
"I'll help you out," North promised, getting up already and putting his chair away. "Don't worry, we'll have time to spare." Walking over to Ireland, he felt both joy and despair fluttering about inside of him. Wales had described it well: Ireland finally looked like himself again, now that the bandages, the oxygen mask, the bruises, stitches and even stubble was gone. Only the tiny end of a scar was visible just under a lock of his ginger hair. A thin scar ran over the top of his skull, in fact a bald strip, but his hair hid it well enough. Maybe the UK's hope would come true: maybe Ireland would wake up in time for the next EU meeting three months from now, be fit enough to go there, hide the scar, and no one would have to know what had happened. They were worried it would make Ireland look weakened somehow, make him a target of either physical or mental torment from other nations, by giving him a hard time politically or economically for example, when he really couldn't have that. They also worried that it would raise questions they'd rather not answer, England had told him, but when Northern Ireland had asked him what he meant with that, he'd kept his lips tightly shut as if that had just been a slip of the tongue. He was still curious about it, but didn't ask. He knew his brothers wouldn't tell him no matter what if they didn't want to, and that was as clear as day.

He then pushed those thoughts to the back of his head, leaning over Ireland and hugging him, glad that the oxygen mask was gone, which gave him more freedom to hold his brother. "Sleep well, Cearul," he whispered. "I'll be back tomorrow." The he gave a soft kiss, and walked away, Wales following after he'd said goodbye too.

"So what will we do if Cearul isn't well enough for the next EU meeting?" North asked when he and Wales got home -in Ireland's home, that is. They both thought it was weird to be in Dublin when Ireland wasn't there, though now, after two months, they were finally starting to get used to it. "Will one of us take his place, or...?"
Wales shrugged. "I guess we'll just tell them the economy isn't doing so well, and he's too sick to come. That must be believable, considering his economy is terrible right now." He paused then, thinking for a moment, musing to himself, "I wonder if that affects his recovery now, as well...?" But Northern Ireland shook his head, insisting that the economy wouldn't be a good excuse, true as it was.
"You should have seen him at the previous UN meeting," he told his older brother. "Those hallucinations he had... I don't think anyone will believe it if we use the economy as an excuse. They'll just think it has something to do with what happened then. And besides," he added with a sigh, "he's always been too stubborn to stay home, no matter the condition he's in." Wales nodded solemnly, saying that they would find something. Adding, that if they were lucky, they wouldn't even need an excuse for his absence. Because he would be there.

Five weeks after that, England and Scotland were in London together. Relieved that his nation could breathe on his own again, the president had given Ireland a month longer to wake up. And after the human had explained his reasons directly to the UK nations, they had forgiven him for his earlier decision: his reasoning had been very good. The people needed their nation again, not a comatose patient.
At first England had found it almost scary how life just went on without Ireland there, but then he told himself that he'd gone longer without seeing his brother or talking to him before, and this wouldn't be a problem. He was certain that Ireland would recover, so he didn't worry anymore. Well, not about him, anyway. Every day without Ireland was still a hard blow for Scotland, and if it weren't for his younger brothers helping him, he'd have sunk in a dark pit of depression for sure. Now he was merely teetering on the edge of it. But as long as England kept him busy, he seemed to be alright, and that was just what he did. Right now he was keeping an eye on him as they were cleaning up together. They had more or less neglected the house for three weeks, and it was about time they at least got rid of the dust. Scotland didn't say a word as he worked, completely concentrated on his task. He probably didn't even notice England staring at him every few minutes. To the Englishman, it was still a bittersweet sight to see Scotland wear Ireland's rosary, his oldest posession. He was keeping it safe for their brother, hoping he would soon be wearing it again, but refused to give it to him before he woke up. "He needs to earn it back," he'd said to England once, the only thing he'd said on the matter.

"Coineach is doing well, isn't he?" he asked the Scot casually, wanting to just talk, instead of hearing only silence all the time. "He lets Dylan cook now, I heard. And he has no trouble with any of the knives anymore, not even the ones with the size of a dagger." He sighed then, adding, "the only thing he still has trouble with according to Dylan, is electricity. He refuses to touch cables of any kind. But he's doing very well, right?"
"He is," Scotland mumbled absent-mindedly. "I'm proud of the lad..." But even so, England knew he was speaking the truth. He was really proud of Northern Ireland, and very happy that he was recovering from his trauma so quickly. He was just busy now, that was all, England was sure.
"You know," he told him then, smirking, "you can concentrate too much on something. Shall we just take a break for now?"
But Scotland shook his head. "We're doing this now," he said. "Might as well finish, right?" England sighed. "You know what? I'll just make some tea now. And you don't have to take a break if you don't want to, no worries. But I will."

But he'd only just set the kettle on the stove to heat, when the phone rang, and annoyed, he picked it up, expecting work-related stuff. 80% of the time it was work-related stuff. But instead, he heard Wales' voice. "Arthur?" he asked, and England hummed, listening intently. He thought he could hear something on the background, though he wasn't sure yet what. "Is Allistair with you?"
"Yes, he's in the livingroom. Why?"
"Get him with you, he needs to hear this, too." Then England realised what it was he heard on the background, and his heart sank. Wales was calling him, telling him to get Scotland to listen as well, it was something important they both needed to hear, and... "Is Coineach crying?" he asked, worried. Wales only hummed and said that, yes, he was. But he also added that England shouldn't worry. Yeah, right. This was it, then. Ireland was dead. His hands beginning to shake, he called out to Scotland. The older nation came running to him, nervous after hearing England's tone. Shaking, the English nation held the phone inbetween them, saying to Wales that Scotland was there now. They were ready for the news.
"Okay, so I just got a call from the hospital, and..." Dammit, dammit, dammit. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't happening. "...well, would you be here by tomorrow, please?" No, no, no! England willed him to shut up with all the willpower he had in him. He wasn't ready for this new yet. He couldn't hear this, not now. Not ever.
But his fears didn't become reality then. In fact, it was quite the opposite. And now he realised why Northern Ireland was crying in the background. He was crying in joy.
"He's awake."

He's awake!

And, honestly, that part from Ireland's point of view was hard! I wasn't sure how to write something from a comatosed's PoV... so I first had this checked by my father before posting it. I hope it somehow makes sense...?

Oh well, I'm just glad Ireland's awake. At least now I can move on to the next point! XD

I hope you liked it (and that this healed the heartbreak of the last three chapters, Crossfire) and please leave a review!