Slightly later than I had anticipated, but the next should be out in a jiffy! Thank you, as always, dear Tamer Lorika. You own my soul.
-o-
America was not a country to back down from a challenge. He charged into everything in life headstrong and eager, his wild and utterly unbridled energy spurring him forward into any situation with brash determination and a tenaciousness that couldn't be matched.
But many things had changed for the young nation within the last few weeks.
His back had bowed under the constant oppressive weight that had long since settled onto him, and he felt sick in heart and spirit. Cobalt blues that were once brilliant with life and vigor had dimmed into a debauched and muddied grey. Shadows clung to the flesh beneath his eyes and his skin looked sallow and lined with worry compared to his normal tannish pigment. Everything about him was wrong and warped; this man couldn't be the United States of America.
But it was, and under the cold glare of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, his nervous optimism buckled. His tentative smile fell into a grimace as he took a few steps back to allow the man entrance, looking anywhere but into the icy blue eyes that bored holes into his flesh. The hatred was drowning America, stealing his breath away and choking him as he struggled to keep his hands lax rather than clenched and trembling. He didn't look up at the resounding slam of the door when Cameron threw it closed behind him.
"What are you doing here?" Every syllable sounded disgusting and ugly in America's ears; as if they were coated in some sort of slimy, viscous sludge, crawling into his ear canal and wriggling through to his brain.
"I'm here to help out." The young nation didn't look up. He couldn't.
"Helping?" Cameron's voice took on a mocking tone of dubious outrage. "What on earth could you possibly be helping with this late into the evening?"
America bit his lip, swallowing hard as he willed his hands to not destroy the vase at his side. "He's been sick," he said softly. "I've been helping."
And in hearing those words, something black and ugly began to froth beneath the cool surface of pale blue eyes. It stole across the iris, clouding and sullying the pallid hue with something dark; something that made America's hackles rise and hands twitch violently at his side.
"You've been helping, have you." It wasn't presented as a question; their was an awful accusation in the tone. A violent shudder ripped through the nation's spine.
"Yes," he replied, begging his hands to still.
"And how long have you been here?" America hated that tone. He gritted his teeth.
"For a little over two weeks."
America was aware of two things in the next few moments that ticked by; one, that the Prime Minister smelled faintly of alcohol - some high-end, posh crap that he wouldn't touch on his worst nights. The other being that there was a rather large, partially exposed nail on the wall that was digging into his side from where he was now being pinned. He'd have to get a hammer for that when things got settled once more.
"I think it's rather coincidental that I find you here, America." The young nation tried his hardest not to scrunch his nose at the acrid smell of pricey booze and cigars. "You see, I've been trying very hard to get in contact with England."
"He's been sick," America repeated faintly. "I've been taking care of him."
"That is precisely the part I'm trying to wrap my mind around." A strong arm pushed him further into the wall, further into that damn nail. "Put yourself in my position. As the man in charge of England, I should be able to get him in my office and at my desk in a moment's notice."
The man's face loomed ever closer. "Imagine my surprise, then, when I couldn't reach him over the phone for two weeks. I rang, I sent emails - I even sent a bloody fax." America remembered that; he had thrown it away as quickly as he'd received it. "And I was returned with nothing more than some rather vague letters."
"Saying that he was sick," the nation filled in. Cameron's eyes narrowed; apparently that wasn't the right thing to say.
"Yes," the Prime Minister said slowly. "Indeed they did. And I here I come to his home tonight, hoping to be enlightened on how exactly nations can contract an illness, and I find you."
"Is it really that strange for me to want to help him?" The conversation was going nowhere even remotely productive, and America dearly wanted to get that nail out of his side.
"Yes." The word felt cold to the nation's ears, driving a sheet of ice to curl through his veins. "Because I don't believe in coincidences."
"I haven't done anything." America repeated softly. "I've been helping him. He's been sick."
"You liar!" The nail dug a bit deeper; America looked forward to pounding its head in. "I don't understand why England puts up with you. You're nothing but a child - a child that's taken so much more than he has ever given!"
The young nation went deathly still.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he whispered. This man didn't know; he knew nothing about their relationship.
"I know enough," Cameron spat. "I know of your past, America - it's in history books, these days."
The nation closed his eyes, shaking his head the tiniest bit. "You don't know."
"I know that it's never been a secret that you don't care for him," the man pressed on with a scoff. "Have you not done enough to him?"
The young nation tensed, muscles rippling as adrenaline pumped through his veins in a sudden burst of electric current. Cameron seemed to take this as a sign of admission, for he took the next second to backhand him roughly across the face with a disgusted snarl before pushing off of the nation altogether. With cheek stinging and a warm wetness trickling down his side, America was left dumbfounded as the Prime Minister took off for the stairway.
"Wait," he breathed. There was something up there the man shouldn't see, a small voice reminded him. England, weak and emaciated upon his bed - rendered unconscious. If Cameron saw that, things would become much more complicated.
"Please," he tried again, fear flowing through his limbs like electricity. It spurred him forward to grasp clumsily at the man's coat sleeve as he bounded up the stairs. "Sir, please wait! You cant see him yet, he's not ready -"
"Unhand me, you bastarding shite!" Another sound slap followed the startled exclamation; America, however, did not recoil.
"Sir, he's sick." Inexplicable tears burned at the backs of his eyes and his throat seared in his effort to get this man to understand. "He's in no condition to be seen right now, or -"
"Enough!"
In a sickening swirl of motion and a few rather loud thuds later, America found himself breathless and sprawled upon the carpet at the foot of the stairway. He blinked slowly, struggling to find his bearings as he ineffectually crawled his way back up the steps. His head ached and his throat screamed as he stumbled to his feet, scrabbling for the handrail for balance before hurrying as fast as his sluggish legs would take him up the steps. He just needed a moment to clear his mind of the screaming and whispers and lights and he just needed a moment to think.
"Mr. Cameron," he called once more; his head was swimming. "Mr. Cameron, please, he's not -"
But further words failed the young nation upon reaching the upper level. For the man at the end of the hallway was looking inside the bedroom with the most interesting mixture of horror and rage - it contorted his features into a perfectly abhorred expression and stole away any hope the young nation had left. The Prime Minister's mouth opened and closed helplessly, reminding America of a fish slowly suffocating in a dry summer's heat as it flopped fruitlessly around with its last bits of strength. Perhaps that would be him in a few minutes.
"I told you." His voice was pathetically small in its weariness. "I told you he wasn't ready to be seen."
Even with the distance between them, America saw a distinct flash in the man's eyes; something he was too familiar with these days.
"What have you been doing to him?" the Prime Minister growled in a terribly low voice. "What have you been doing to my country?"
"I didn't do anything!" the nation cried, his hands going up to curl around fistfuls of hair. "I swear, I'm helping him!"
"Liar!"
And America was on the ground once more, straddled by Cameron as the man shook him roughly by the collar.
"Is this your way of declaring war?" The nation flinched away from the bellowing voice. Everything was throbbing, yelling, scratching, and he just wanted to sleep. "By holding a nation hostage and starving them?"
"I didn't!" he shouted over the roar in his ears, not even bothering to notice how his head was being pounded into the carpeting.
"God knows what else you've done to him, you filthy bastard!" Cameron shrieked. "You arrogant, lying, disgusting -"
Suddenly something shattered. It was a cataclysm of motion and lights and pain, surging through America's body in a cruel and unyielding torrent. His stomach rolled and heaved, boiling to the point where he was sure the acid must have leaked through the lining and poured into his veins. It blinded him, leaving him grasping helplessly for some sense of reality, something to cling to in the confusion and pain.
"I didn't do anything," he gasped, tears streaming down his face in the wake of his agony. "I tried to help."
He could hear England's anguished cries; they filled him to the brim until he swore he could taste the monarchist's misery.
"I was trying," the nation sobbed. "I tried."
"I know."
America drew in a shuddering breath. He blinked, fighting to clear the rage of flashes and motion from his eyes to see this person, this person who believed him with those calm, placating words. A wet, strangled sound freed itself from his throat.
"I love him," he said softly. "I'd never hurt him. I love him."
"I know, love." A sharp, prickling sensation began to tingle at the young nation's forearms. "I know. And he dearly loves you. But you have to let him go."
He knew that voice. A pressure began to contract around his arms.
"Arthur?"
"Yes, dear." They were fingers - fingers were wrapped around his arms, trembling from exertion as they pulled. "Let him go, love. He can't breathe."
All at once the confusion settled, leaving America gasping for breath at the sudden burst of clarity. Rather than laying on the floor, he found himself looming over the Prime Minister, hands clenched around the man's neck with enough force that made it clear the intent was to kill. And sitting by his side, pulling with all his might at the young nation's hands, was England and his worried gaze.
"I'm sorry!" America scrambled away on shaking limbs until his back was pressed against a wall. He looked from Cameron to England in a desperate, horrified plea. "I'm sorry, I swear I didn't mean to! I just -"
"Alfred, calm yourself," the island soothed as he slowly crawled forward. A thin, pale hand gently stroked the younger nation's cheek. "Look at me." America complied immediately, streaming cobalt blue meeting calm emerald. "It's alright. You understand?"
The younger merely nodded; England smiled.
"Good lad. Now I want you to do something for me, love." He gestured to the bedroom at the far end of the hall. "Go lay down. I'll be with you soon."
America nodded once more, though he couldn't tear his gaze from the man before him. He had dreamt of this moment for what seemed to be ages - England, in perfect mental clarity. He'd thought up a dozen ways to celebrate the occasion, but none of them seemed appropriate. So he didn't wrap his arms around the small island and burst into tears, nor did he laugh and whoop for joy. Instead, he placed a tired, chaste kiss upon the man's lips before trudging to the bedroom, hoping that the gesture was as heartfelt to England as it was for him.
-o-
After several hours of staring blankly at the ceiling, America jumped slightly at the soft click! of the bedroom door closing. His attention then fell upon the man climbing tentatively into bed beside him. A long silence draped over the room, effectively blanketing the two in a quiet that wasn't quite strained, but certainly wasn't comfortable. The younger nation was the first to break it.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
"There's nothing to be sorry for," England said firmly. "I heard what had happened between the two of you; the Prime Minister was a right prat, the way he treated you." Then, in softer tones, "I'm the one who should be... and am sorry."
"I don't blame you," America shrugged. And he didn't; England couldn't control himself. Why would that warrant bitterness?
A sad, broken smile stole the monarchist's lips, but he didn't say a word. He simply drew closer to his bedmate, wrapping his arms around the nation's middle before resting his cheek upon a broad chest. America easily enveloped the island nation in his arms, his eyes burning at the gesture.
"When was the last time I sang you to sleep?"
America swallowed hard against a tiny lump in his throat. "Not since I was a kid," he said hoarsely.
"Then perhaps you're long since overdue for another." The burning gave way to tears as America nodded against the crown of golden hair.
Clearing his throat slightly, England shifted a bit in the younger's grasp to pull the duvet over the both of them before beginning a soft melody.
"Hey, Jude, don't make it bad
Take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better
Hey, Jude, don't be afraid
You were made to go out and get her
The minute you let her under your skin
Then you begin to make it better.
And any time you feel the pain, hey, Jude, refrain
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders
Well don't you know that its a fool who plays it cool
By making his world a little colder
Hey, Jude! Don't let her down
You have found her, now go and get her
Remember, to let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better.
So let it out and let it in, hey, Jude, begin
You're waiting for someone to perform with
And don't you know that it's just you, hey, Jude,
You'll do, the movement you need is on your shoulder
Hey, Jude, don't make it bad
Take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better."
As the song came to a halt, the room lapsed into a silence once more. America was the first to break it once more.
"I love you, Arthur."
He felt a smile tug at the elder nation's lips. "And I love you, Alfred." Warmth leaked through America's shirt and the island nation's shoulders began to tremble. "More than you can ever know.