My Love Won't Fade Away Chapter 7, a hetalia - axis powers fanfic

It was that cold morning in October all over again.

Arthur raced in a blind rush down the barren midnight streets with his cellphone pressed against his ear.

"Come on, come on," he hissed, slamming his foot on the break as a stoplight made an unexpected flash to red, "answer your fucking phone, dammit!"

The high pitched drone of the ring echoed throughout his wild mind. It was taunting him, playing little mind-tricks on him. The noise carried on and on and Arthur grew more and more restless.

Riiiing.

He was about ready to hang up and phone again- fourth time's the charm- until he finally heard what he had been aching desperately for.

"Look who decided to care," Matthew's voice was as cold as the December air and the pure hostility of it sent a chill into Arthur's core.

"Where are you," Arthur caught himself screaming. It felt as though he had little to no control over his actions and the thought frightened him, "Is he okay?"

There was an eerie pause on the other line. White noise blacked out Arthur's mad thoughts as he tried to focus on driving. His heart pounded rapidly against his chest over and over again like some sick tune he couldn't escape. His breath was short and his throat was beginning to constrict. He felt as though he was suffocating. He was losing his mind.

"Matthew," he demanded, gruff and breathless.

"I'm at my house," Matthew finally replied, his voice hoarse and quiet. It took Arthur all of two seconds to realize that the man on the other line was crying.

"I'll be there in a few minutes," Arthur announced, quickly switching lanes. Afraid of Matthew's reply, the Briton briskly ended the call and tossed his phone to the passenger seat to be forgotten. Arthur gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned a sickly white and sped through intersections and neighborhoods, chanting a familiar phrase under his shaky breath:

Please don't fade away.

He was so sick of the universe playing these silly games with him. All Arthur wanted was just a day, just one bloody day where he could turn blind to the memories and forgot that he had spent the last two months of his life utterly and desperately alone. But no, of course not; God forbid that Arthur Kirkland fellow have any good in his life.

"No, don't you dare put yourself down," he spat, "not after what happened today. Be strong. For Alfred."

'For Alfred,' his mind agreed. The promise blessed Arthur with a welcomed sense of serenity that maybe, just maybe, everything will be alright.

For Alfred.

Arthur's knuckles rapped the door only once before it swung open.

Matthew glared down at him. Arthur didn't know what was colder; the younger man's stare or the air outside. Underneath his fiery facade, Arthur noted deep, dark circles beneath Matthew's soft eyes. He looked so frail and it stung the Briton to see him look so broken.

The taller of the two stepped away, allowing Arthur entrance to his home. Unable to fathom any sort of a greeting, the Englishman simply nodded and stepped into the dim light of the house he had visited only a handful of times.

"Why didn't you answer my calls," Matthew spat, closing the door with an unusual amount of force. Arthur froze in surprise and narrowed his eyes, "I called you so many goddamn times, Arthur, and you just turned off your phone? Why? Who does that? I thought Alfred was important to you."

"Don't you dare play that card!" Arthur didn't even miss a beat. He swung himself towards Matthew and met his threatening glare. The older man creased his large eyebrows and silently hoped his own stare looked just as menacing, "Don't act like it's always my fault! I'm trying to change, I'll have you know!"

"No," Matthew barked, leaning towards the man he was practically forced to grow up with, "That's not how it works. You can't just wake up and decide to be a good person, Arthur!"

"And do you think you're not in the wrong? You sit there and allow him to baby you. He puts you in front of everything, including himself!"

"I don't have anyone else, Arthur, he is all I have! Why can't you understand that you are not the only person who loves him," Matthew countered, the fire in his eyes beginning to simmer everso slightly. They glistened with the threat of tears, and Arthur felt a pang of guilt in his gut.

"I don't want to go on without him," Matthew whispered under his breath, his penetrating gaze finally faltering as wetness clouded his vision. Arthur's features dropped as Matthew's words trickled under his skin. His shoulders fell and he blinked a few times, trying to catch reality in fear that it would slip away.

"What... What do you mean," he asked cautiously. Matthew sniffed softly and refused to make the contact he was once so fixed on holding. The silence enveloped them and cast its dark, gloomy shadow over them. The silence grew louder and louder as time began to halt. Arthur's heart thundered in his aching chest. He wanted to speak, to tell Matthew to open his damn mouth, but words set fire to his throat. Thoughts became less and less coherent and he was afraid to peel his worried gaze from Matthew; the hate and anger long since vanquished.

It was then that Arthur noticed Matthew's shoulders quivering. His dirty, unkempt curls hung over his eyes and bounced with the rhythm.

"Matthew," he managed to choke out. The words tasted like venom.

"I was there early," it was quiet, a beat just above a whisper, but it roared out against the dark silence of the hallway, "I told Francis that I would celebrate Christmas with him tomorrow. Alfred loved Christmas; I wanted to be there with him for it. Mom didn't show up, big surprise, so I stayed in his room."

Arthur couldn't help but prickle with jealousy. Matthew peered up at him before continuing, "He stirred. It was slow, I barely noticed it at first, but he started to move a little bit. He grumbled something. I have no clue what he was trying to say and I don't think he knew either. I called the nurse over and she told me to wait outside- something about having too many people in the room for Al's comfort. So I waited."

Matthew's hand crawled up to meet his lips and he began to nip at his nails, a nervous habit, and continued, his voice muffled, "God, I was in there forever. I have no idea how long I paced that hallway. It was driving me insane. I must've walked back and forth for half an hour until the nurse- Katyusha, you remember her right? She came out of his room. She told me... She..."

The blond shook his head and chuckled grimly. The hair on the back on Arthur's neck flicked upwards. He was beginning to grow impatient with the anxiety of waiting for the bloody resolution. Matthew must have noted that, because he turned his gaze away from view and continued, "They said it took him a very, very long time to form words. When he seemed... ready, they asked for his name and they asked him to name his family and friends. He couldn't, Arthur, he doesn't fucking remember."

He doesn't remember.

The phrase echoed throughout Arthur's racing mind as he stared at Alfred's beloved brother with a blank regard.

"What," Arthur gasped, "what do you mean 'he doesn't remember'? He... He knows who he is. He knows all of us. He knows me."

With that, a frown creased Matthew's round face. He swiped the wetness from his cheeks as the pain in his eyes slowly transformed into a blacker emotion, "He doesn't remember anyone, Arthur. They said it had something to do with... With his collision. They couldn't tell me too much because they don't know everything just yet. Alfred apparently just stared at everything. She said he reminded her of a little kid. He fell right back asleep, though, something about patients who have been comatose sleep a lot..."

Arthur took a step back, nearly tripping over his bulky boots. He shook his head rapidly and furrowed his brows together, "No, no, that's silly! It was probably shock or something. He was in a coma for almost three months. He should be fine by tomorrow... He can't..."

"Arthur..."

"He has to remember me. He would recognize me as soon as he saw me. He would remember; there's no way he can just for-"

"Arthur!"

At the fierce cry of his name, the Briton snapped his gaze on to Matthew. The younger blond wore an unreadable expression, "I know it's hard, I know, but you can't sit around in denial. Not about this. Not about Alfred."

Anger instantly struck Arthur, much like lightning. Matthew had no right to tell him how to feel nor had he the right to accuse him of being in denial. His hands began to tremor and he took a strong step towards the lanky man.

"I know Alfred better than anyone," he hissed, his brilliant eyes sharp and piercing, "He can't just forget. He can't just forget our ten years, he can't just forget me. I-"

"Stop being so selfish!"

He was taken aback by the sheer amount of blades in Matthew's voice. They struck Arthur with such force that he took a hesitant step back in shock. The youngest of the Jones-William's family was never one for fighting, but God, he sure knew how to raise his voice and stand his ground.

"You're not the only person who was important to him," Matthew hissed, the anger bubbling inside him yet again. He fixed his daggers on Arthur. The British man stayed perfectly still and sent his own blades up at Matthew.

"You were the most important person in his life. It was always 'Matthew this' and 'Matthew that'. It was always you, everything always led back to you," the words left a bitter taste on his tongue and Arthur was about ready to heave. His heart weighed him down like a brick. Everything hurt.

"If I was so damn important to him, then why doesn't he remember me," Matthew shot as fat tears crawled down his pink cheeks, "you're so self-centered, Arthur. God, why can't you ever be happy with anything? Alfred doesn't remember anyone and here we are screaming at each other like children!"

Matthew was fuming at this point. A deadly mix of anger and sorrow scrambled throughout his veins as he glared down at Arthur. His teeth dug into the pale flesh of his lips as he tried to gather his thoughts. With a shaky sigh, Matthew balled his fists and aggressively rubbed the tears from his cheeks. It didn't stop them from shedding.

"I tried to help you, Arthur. For Alfred. I'm trying to understand, but I can't. I can't! I don't understand anything you do. I don't know what someone like Alfred ever saw in such a bitter person!"

Arthur blinked. The fire that warmed his body came to a sudden simmer and he grew cold again. Green orbs danced around the room in confusion as Matthew's words sunk in. He was awfully sure he knew exactly what Matthew meant, but he was terrified to confirm something such as that.

"What... What do you mean by that," he tried, allowing his sick curiosity to get the better him.

Matthew's nostrils flared in irritation. He was so sick of this game, "He loved you, Arthur, okay? He fucking loved you, but you were so immersed in your stupid self-pity to realize it."

Time came to a standstill yet again. Ice began to settle between the men and Arthur felt cold, so very cold. His mouth gaped open like a guppy, but words refused to form. They were stuck in his throat; one wrong move and he would choke. He ached to scream, to do something. He was lost in this frozen feeling of bitter understanding. Alfred loved him. He actually loved him. Arthur had spent years upon years of his life assuming his feelings were unrequited and spilling his poison on Matthew. He had been such an ass to the younger boy for as long as he had known him, and for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.

God, what a shitty being he was.

Arthur's crazed eyes met Matthew's. The boy looked so afraid and so fragile. Matthew was far from weak, but he had depended upon Alfred his whole life. He had grown attached to him, and God, Arthur cursed his every existence for turning blind to it. The anger in Matthew's gentle face was gone, replaced with sorrow. His shoulders fell in defeat.

Matthew hurt all his life and all Arthur ever did was contribute more fuel to the fire. He never had a true reason to resent Matthew. The guilt clung to his heart as he finally began to realize what he had done.

"Matthew... Matthew, I-"

"Please," he interrupted, his voice low and sad, "go home."

"Matthew, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

It was quiet. Silence had made home between the pair yet again. Arthur was beginning to detest that sound.

"Go home, Arthur," Matthew nodded, forcing a weak smile. It didn't even reach his eyes, "I think we both need to rest, now."

The British man wet his chapped lips and nodded. His hand pulled at his sandy locks for a sense of comfort and he drew back inside himself. Unable to form any coherent sentences beyond a meek apology, the older of the two embraced the chill of the silence and stepped outside. He didn't bother turning around; he was too afraid to meet those eyes again, too afraid to admit to the damage he had caused. Arthur was a terrible human being, he could admit that much.

As the door creaked closed, Matthew retrieved his mobile from the glass coffee table and made a call. He was crying again.

The drive home was antagonizing. Arthur's mind was as blank as it had ever been as he drove slowly and without purpose. The storm in his mind had reached a new high; it was so intense that it felt surreal. Blank. Emotionless. The Briton felt as though there was nothing left in his mind expect for static.

His swelled heart stopped in its slow tracks as he pulled up to his driveway. There was a familiar white vehicle parked near his mailbox. Arthur felt sick to his stomach as he parked his car and quickly scrambled out.

He made a point to ignore Francis as he exited his own automobile and took the long strides through the thick snow to meet the Englishman.

"Arthur," he begged, tailing the shorter man as he approached his front door. The man in question knitted his dark eyebrows in frustration and fished in his coat pocket for his keys.

"Sod off, git," he growled, "I'm really not in the mood for this."

"Arthur, mon ami, please," he tried, placing a calloused hand upon Arthur's shoulder. His eyes burnt into the back of his friend's head in hopes that the younger would feel his desperation. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, feeling vulnerable and on the verge of tears. Francis had come all this way for him despite everything that had happened the past few months- despite the way he treated the Frenchman's own boyfriend. Hell, he hadn't even spoken to the fool in ages, and yet here he was clinging to his shoulder and pleading to grant him company like some sort of lost child.

Somewhere in his heart, he found that comforting.

"I care about you, Arthur," he whispered, dragging the other man from his melancholy thoughts, "you deserve to have someone there for you, and that position belongs to me. Please."

"Fine, Francis, fine," the click of the door called out into the silence of the cold, cold night as he spoke. Arthur gently pushed the door open and ushered his guest inside, quickly following suit. The pair removed their coats in a bitter, awkward silence. Arthur made a point to avoid eye contact; he didn't think he was ready for that kind of intimacy.

Longing for a familiar comfort, Arthur shot off through the living room and soon found himself in the kitchen. Without effort, he found a bottle of whiskey almost immediately and swiped for it.

"Arthur," his guest called gently, halting near the archway of the kitchen, "are you sure-"

"Shut up, frog," Arthur snapped, his voice cracking with the sudden intensity of his words. Francis' expression softened, and guilt quickly washed over the Brit, "I just... I need to cope, and this is how I go about it. You can stay if you truly wish to, but I... Let me do my own thing. Please."

Francis, having known Arthur all his life, nodded and granted the Briton the space he required. Arthur gave him a grateful stare and quickly placed the bottle up to his pale lips. The warm liquid enveloped his being and God, he missed it, he ached for it. He was well aware that he was certainly a borderline alcoholic, but that proved to be the least of his many concerns. He just wanted to rid himself of the memories. He wanted to be free of the hurt he was so ill of suffering from. He craved to rid his mind of all the pitiful memories of Alfred, of Matthew, of himself, of everything.

"I want to forget," he squeaked, staring down into the amber liquid. If he could drown himself in it, he would.

"Arthur," he was hesitant, approaching his long-time friend with a certain caution. It made Arthur feel ill. He took another swing, "I know it hurts. It hurts us all, but you cannot do this to yoursel-"

"And why not!"

His cry dripped with emotion. Arthur whipped his head towards Francis, nearly tossing the tall glass to the tile as he stared pleadingly into Francis' blue orbs. God, he was so tired of the color blue. He decided at that moment to hate it. There would never be another blue like Alfred's.

Arthur began to shake. He glared deeply into his friend's eyes with a certain hatred, convinced that he could see himself in the crystal orbs. His eyes burned with tears waiting to be shed as his body shook lightly.

"I am so bloody sick of crying," he choked, slamming the bottle to the table. A splash of amber tainted the counter.

With a soft, compassionate stare, Francis quickly strode to his friend and placed both his hands upon his quivering shoulders, "There is nothing wrong with crying, mon chérie, don't you dare put yourself down; that is my job," he forced a smile, "We all cry sometimes. It's how people deal with pain."

Without warning, Arthur fell against the Frenchman's frame, his hands fumbling for the expensive cloth of Francis' shirt. Taken aback, the older blond tentatively wrapped his long arms around his short friend and balanced his stubbly chin on Arthur's head.

Had this had been a normal day, Arthur would never be caught dead in the arms of an amphibian such as Francis. But today was far from a normal day; those times were locked away in the past. Arthur knew he could never get it back no matter how desperately he clawed for it. There was no harm in a little friendly comfort.

"Why am I such an asshole," Arthur muttered, his voice muffled against the fabric of his friend's designer clothes. Francis released his grip on the smaller man and smirked down at him.

"You were born with a stick up your ass, Arthur," he teased. Arthur shot daggers up at the twit, but he smiled despite himself.

"You're a dick," he decided, freeing himself from the embrace. His tired eyes found interest in the old clock hanging from the wall as a familiar silence greeted them. The hands were frozen.

"Arthur?"

"He loved me, you know," he whispered dully, closing his eyes. He nibbled at his bottom lip in a grim attempt to keep himself from shedding anymore tears. He heard Francis sigh softly.

"I know that, Arthur. Everyone knew that... Well, minus you two, of course," he explained, keeping his eyes attached to Arthur. The Briton snaked his long fingers into his unruly mop of sandy blond hair and tugged.

"It's... not fair...!"

The tears were nipping at his eyes again. He was growing so truly sick of crying. In a fit of anger, Arthur reached for his forgotten bottle and reacquainted himself with the bitter liquid. The booze trailed down his constricting throat and he squeezed his eyes shut, relishing in the promised comfort of alcohol.

Francis remained by his side, a deep frown creasing his face. It was never something he would admit aloud, but he did not enjoy Arthur's excessive "pity drinking", as the Frenchman deemed it. Sure, stopping by a local bar for a few shots was all fine and well, but his little British friend was a depressed drunk. Even when he had nothing to anguish over, a drunk Arthur always found something to complain about one way or another. Now, an already depressed Arthur wishing away his sorrows in booze... It was never a healthy mix.

"Mon cher," Francis whispered, taking precaution with his word choice, as Arthur was known to blow up if the wrong word was uttered, "perhaps we should sit down, oui?"

The Englishman emitted a gruff noise of approval and nodded towards the walkway of the kitchen. Francis allowed his friend to lead just in case he would stumble. While it would be quite hilarious and serve as beautiful blackmail, Francis knew it was not the time for their old shenanigans.

Arthur plopped himself heavily upon the couch. He stretched out his long legs and laid his clad feet on the coffee table- a mannerism only drunk Arthur possessed.

"Hey frog," he slurred, his forest eyes tailing Francis as he seated himself, "when do you think his memory's gonna come back?"

Francis smiled sympathetically and crossed his legs in thought, "I am unable to answer that question, I'm afraid. We should just take one day at a time and be happy that Alfred is still here with us."

His companion frowned deeply and downed what was left of the whiskey. He leaned over to set it on the table and missed, "I can't do that. I feel like I'm goin' crazy, Francis."

The alcohol was consuming him, Francis noted. It honestly didn't take much to get Arthur drunk.

"We all know you're crazy, but that never stopped Alfred from loving you, for whatever reason."

He smirked as Arthur's fist collided with his arm.

"Belt up," he grumbled, leaning back to recline against the cushions. The pair sat in a comfortable silence for a long while. The room was noiseless; it was as if the air around them had froze. Francis found himself feeling drowsy. His long, blond lashes fluttered as he struggled to stay awake.

"Does Matthew hate me?"

The question was soft and timid, asked in a tone no louder than a careful whisper. Francis probably wouldn't have caught it if it wasn't for the sheer amount of silence in the small house. Francis sighed heavily and twirled a soft, bouncy curl around his dainty finger.

"I can't speak for Matthew, you know that," he replied gently, "He just... He gets... fed up with you. You're a lot to handle, cher, it takes a special type of person, but do not fret. He cares about you at least somewhat; he's the one who asked me to watch over you tonight, afterall."

Arthur froze as his intoxicated mind soaked in the words. So Matthew had asked Francis to look after him despite their fight, had he? Probably to keep him from drinking himself into a coma.

He cursed himself in his drunken state of mind for that grim slip up.

"God, why have I been so fuckin' dreadful," he pondered aloud. Arthur peered over at Francis and his stupid blue eyes: his eyes that resembled clear, winter skies, his eyes that were usually so devious and playful, his eyes that were then so tired and old, his eyes that looked nothing like Alfred's, like fireworks against a black sky in summer.

Blue was never more displeasing.

Arthur felt two arms coil around his body and it took him a long minute to realize that he had been slipping out blubbered sobs. Francis held him in another comforting embrace and traced small circles into his back in hopes to soothe him.

Moments of affection between the two were awfully rare, but they did exist. Arthur learned that night how much he and Francis leaned on one another.

"I'm pathetic," Arthur breathed and laid his tear stained cheek against his friend's shoulder.

"You're hurt, Arthur. There is nothing wrong with the way you're acting. Everything is going to be fine. Alfred can get through this, you know that more than anyone. We will help him, and I will help you."

Through his silent tears, Arthur smiled.

Allow me to apologize for how long I took to update oh my gosh I feel really bad! I'm such a slow updater, please bear with me.

I hope this chapter is okay, I struggled with it like mad. In the plot notes, Francis is the one who tells Arthur what happened to Alfred. Originally, Mattie and Arthur were just supposed to fight the whole time, but when I wrote the draft, it came out differently. Speaking of the draft, God, I had such a hard time with it! It just didn't want to be written. Something finally hit me near the end of it, though, and then I breezed through the final with little problem. I didn't like the draft, but I think the final is better.

Anyway, please, please, please don't drop this story because of the amnesia oh my gosh. I personally am not too big of a fan on memory loss stories unless they're executed beautifully, but I didn't have much of a choice because I'm following the true story of what actually happened, at least to some extent. I'm going to take this in a direction that probably won't be expected. The story doesn't focus too much on what happens to Alfred with his memory loss; rather it focuses on how this incident is dealt with, mostly from Artie's eyes. I can't say too much without spoiling the story, but I hope you guys stick around anyway. I'm so grateful to each and everyone of my readers and seeing your reviews and favorites makes my day, honestly.

Speaking of your reviews, I LOVE it when you guys analyze the characters and their choices and emotions! I can't begin to describe how happy I feel when I see a long winded review where someone is analyzing why so and so did this and why so and so feels that way. Even though the story is told in third person omniscient point of view, most of the thoughts and feelings we know deeply are Arthur's, even though we know a little bit about how the other's feel. But we can decipher their feelings based upon their actions too. Matthew, for instance, cares at least somewhat for Artie, as seen in chapter five when we tends to his drunk ass, and in this chapter when he calls Francis to check up on him. Matthew cares about Arthur, but as Francis said, he just gets fed up with him. Artie is a lot to deal with. While Matthew does love and appreciate Francis, he grew so accustom to having Alfred by his side, and he leans on him. He doesn't admit that Alfred babies him because he truly doesn't see that. Matthew is afraid of being alone, and Alfred is the only one who stood by his side, so he feels that, without Alfred, he has nobody. The Alfred/Matthew/Francis dynamic actually pops up in a later chapter, so I won't get too into it yet.

Before I get even further carried away, the similarities to the true story: My mom's best friend lost his memory as well, but it was more than what Alfred got. Mom said that he "had the mentality of a five year old". He didn't remember her or anyone and he had to relearn how to do everything. The similarities between fiction and reality are almost over, though. Only one more common event happens, which will be in the following chapter.

On a final note, if you like my usuk work and would like to read something that isn't drenched in angst, fear not! I dunno if any of you guys have checked out my profile within the past three months, but I have a usuk long distance relationship AU in the works! I want to start that one before I finish MLWFA, and so expect that to be out within the next few months! It'll give me a nice break from this angst too. Let's just hope I can flip-flop between both without long periods of no updates.

I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! We're probably either three, four, or five more chapters away from the ending. Thank you all for sticking with me thus far; each of you mean so much to me!