Oh yeah.

If you used to read this 'back in the day'… your inbox is not lying to you. There genuinely is a new chapter of this.

So… it's been over a year. I blame several factors; college work, my kink meme fill (of which also paused for college work xD), and guilt. I say guilt, because I can't write fics properly without feeling like I should be revising instead… It's all obligation. Anyway... I've got six exams, and then I'm off of college for good. Or, three months before university starts. Hopefully this means three months of getting to finish this…!

Though more in spirit, I've never truly abandoned the storyline. I've always intended on finishing this; though now, I suppose I have an opportunity to.

A special thank you to Junoan, who fixed all of my awfully bastardised French for the last chapter. I most definitely owe you.

Expect drama in this chapter, and especially the future.

Chapter 4: Your eyes tell stories, laced with lies

It was true that Alfred had no idea where to begin. The journey home was tough; while Alfred did have a home in London specifically in case there were any meetings or the sort that he was required for over in the European continent, it was still a long drive over. When you have someone near you that you wished to keep your eye on at all times, just in case the other factor woke up and required your help, it was very hard to keep your concentration on the road and not where you really wished it to be.

Needless to say, Alfred had probably broken the British speed limit a multitude of times, trying to get to his house - which was even more dangerous, considering that he skipped the motorways and stayed purely on the residential routes to keep out of the boresome traffic jams. Heavens, he even went on the curb at one point to get past a few people. But damn them - this was an emergency!

While the journey progressed, he was constantly watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye. The Englishman barely moved, apart from a few odd convulsions whenever they went over a bump in the road. Naturally, with a damaged hip like Arthur had, going over so much of an inch of rough ground was enough to force grown men to cry. A small part of Alfred was highly glad that Arthur was asleep and missed this pain - despite Alfred's own want to find out what in Hell's name had happened. He could not handle seeing Arthur cry one more time.

The lingering image of Arthur sobbing in front of him was horrific. Mainly because Arthur was an often violently stubborn man - the sort that held strength in his body and mind at all times. It was in his nature to not cave when pressurised, and to persevere when the times were at their roughest. Arthur's tolerance was low cosmetically - as in he would argue against those he deemed as 'idiots' (a.k.a. Alfred) to no ends - but high in actuality. When the going got fierce, he would fight till the very end for his cause. He was a fighter; the type of person that could fall to the very brink of disaster, and then claw his way back up to the throne at the top of the world; a true superpower, in his own right.

He did not cave when he was stressed (that is, despite acting like he was on his 'man-period', pissy and in need of a good hug and a cup of tea). He barely faltered whenever he was injured (Alfred could remember when Arthur was briefly blinded for a few days after 7/7, when the infrastructure of his capital more or less ceased). There was never a tear shed when his allies were in trouble; his reactions towards rescue planned and boastfully calculated. But now, where had that Arthur gone?

Whatever had been done to him - Alfred digressed - must have been absolutely horrible.

Now, they both knew fully well that Arthur was a strong man, and that barely anything ever got to his head - but, for Arthur's reaction to be like this? Alfred had never seen the other so scared, and crossing in the borders of broken. The Englishman did not get broken, so Alfred's memory dictates, but here they were. He had fallen asleep in his arms, after crying out eyes that were more deceased than the American had ever known them to be. This was not right.

Whatever it was, it was more than just a regular assault with a bunch of bad guys that Alfred had to teach a lesson to. Had it just been physical violence, Arthur would have just shrugged the bastard or bastards away and not given much of a toss. But there was something different about what happened. Instead, the Briton was pretty much mentally mind fucked. Their eyes could hardly establish contact, without it eating away at something deep inside him. It was like whatever devoured the Englishman's whittled-away heart had spread into his body too. Simply put, Arthur's destroyed state broke his heart.

When Alfred finally arrived at his home, a smallish place - for a nation's residential estate that is - with only a few tens of yards of separation from its neighbouring homes for privacy, he parked his car and turned the engine off. The house place plunged into an uncomfortable silence that was suffocating for the usually sociable and excitable American. He shot a sideward glance at his company, running a hand over his face when he realised that he had just no idea whatsoever what he was going to do with him.

What was he supposed to do with a man that had been hurt, mentally and physically, so badly that he begged him not to see? A horrible niggling feeling in Alfred's chest told him that the Englishman probably would not have liked to be touched at all, so most of the things involved in taking care of the man would have been right out.

Defeated, Alfred decided that the best course of action was to take the Briton inside of his house and wait for the man to awaken. While he did that, too, he could at least search on the internet of what to do - fine, yes, he was that bad with this sort of thing that he needed the assistance of the online community. Better than nothing, wasn't it? - or get in contact with someone. The part of him that was into TV dramas and such said that he should get in contact with some sort of therapist as soon as possible.

Either that or he should have taken Arthur to hospital. He was not sure why, however, but Alfred refused to let the second thought remain in his mind for long. Perhaps it was the fear of hospitals themselves - with their deathly white halls and ghostly airs residing in the atmosphere, clogging it with feelings of dread far more than healing - or the fact that they were nations, with physical healing rates that were far above the capabilities of a regular human.

Or, perhaps, it was because taking Arthur to the hospital meant that he recognised that this was serious - and every fibre of Alfred's being told him that he did not want to think along those lines. He also did not want to be told what happened from anyone other than the Briton himself. There was something horrific - shocking and crushing - about being told by someone that you don't know that someone you loved was not going to be the same ever again. It could be that the incident was nowhere as severe as Alfred - and his classically concerned, panicking mind - had automatically assumed from that broken tone and those darkened, crying eyes. But, what if it was worse than he thought?

...He did not want to know. He did not want to worry like that.

So, Alfred decided that he would do this on his own. He would be there for the Briton like nobody else could apart from him, and him alone. Purely because of three, tiny little words that were barely breathed out while the Englishman was panicking on the phone those many hours ago. He knew that Arthur told him to forget. But he also knew that the dirty-haired blond really did not mean those words. More than anything, it was a cry for help for the one person that could fix him. Needless to say, there was no way in Hell that the American was not going to oblige.

Despite Arthur not knowing, theirs was a love that was rekindled. What sort of man would he be if he let the person he cared for most diminish, like this? Truth needn't be told, he was not a masochist.

After leaving the car and collecting Arthur back up into his arms - the Brit seeming so boneless and crumpled within his grip as he unconsciously winced away from the warmth the American brought - he climbed up the patio stairs and haphazardly struggled through the door, finding it much harder to open the door with a man bundled in his arms that he thought.

Without even bothering to kick off his shoes, despite the presence of thick dust on the soles from earlier, he trailed through into the living room and splayed the occupant of his arms onto the couch. Instantly, the sleeping Englishman twitched and twisted towards the cushioned side, curling most of himself away from view. Alfred did not miss the wince of pain, but he tried - almost desperately - to block all knowledge of it from his mind.

Stepping back, he observed the damage - both thankful and sick that the light sinking in from his windows lit far better than that lamp did back in that place. The bruises were magnified so much more prominently in the clear light, and he could see the disgusting sheen of the dried blood on the top of Arthur's torso; however, with the light shining on them properly, he could scale all of the injuries to size. Apart from the bloodied wrists - Arthur would definitely not want to pick anything up for days, certainly, whether it be a pencil or even a knife and fork - and the broken section of his hip, it did not seem to be too bad.

Of course, he was not sure if there were any damage to the man's legs because he had somehow managed to shimmy his way into some clothes before Alfred had come to fetch him. He did not want to reflect on how painful that must have been to do up.

In reality, for what Alfred could see, it was not too bad - relatively speaking. A lot more bones could have been cracked, a lot more blood spilt and a lot more sense beaten out of him. But that was all the symptoms of the physical demeanour. He could not possibly fathom how damaged the Briton really was, until the man woke up and talked to him.

Honestly, he had no idea what to do with himself. Whatever plans he had before this had gone straight out of the window. He seemed to remember an invite to someone's house, here in the European continent - hence why he was in England in the first place - but the knowledge of exactly whose popped out of his mind. It was immensely difficult to work out what he should do while he waited for the Briton to wake up.

Tentatively, Alfred reached out and took Arthur's hand into his own. While he was unchanged in flesh and blood, there was a sort of opacity to the Englishman that he did not recognise. It was almost as if he was a different person living in the same body. Before, there was a sort of luminosity to his skin that denoted, through and through, the life that the man had to spare – but now? Now there was just a dull sheen, like the spirit had been sapped completely out of him. Of course, Alfred was afraid that he might have just been too overcautious, a hypochondriac but directed to Arthur's pain rather than his own. He was just worried, when there was nothing to be worried about.

If Arthur had been attacked by some sort of gang group, or even an individual, it was highly to assume that the assailant would come back for him. Nobody took a man out of their regular life, took them to the middle of nowhere, and beat on them just for the hell of it. Whoever did it, they were either downright insane or they had been targeting him. Perhaps it was all of the above.

Honestly, Alfred could think of a lot of reasons why someone would hurt him. Racial hatred for one; you could not get whiter in the mind than Arthur, and there were suspicions of extremists out and about in the country. He might have gotten on the wrong foot with someone. Secondly, the man was not exactly the best at keeping his mouth shut when it came to insults. A single misplaced word here and there would have done it.

Another possibility was that someone – and he hoped vastly that it was not the case – had found out about the man's nationhood and intended to conduct some sort of experimentation into their bodily limits. Alfred cringed at the very thought of it. While they were immortal by age, they still suffered from injury and pain just as much as their similar human vessels. Nations got sick and felt pain just like anyone.

Truth be told, there were lots of reasons why Arthur would run into someone and get harmed. He was a boisterous target, with opinions as solid as they are when he voices them. The Englishman was an honest man, and in this day and age, people did not like true honesty; political correctness gone mad, maybe, or white lies to disguise the truth – but not real honesty. He was outdated by the big reel of tape wrapped around his government's mouth. They, the nations, all were. The world did not really have an entitlement to free speech – not when a single word could get you killed, and a name could give you a prison sentence.

Was it really surprising that Arthur got on the wrong side of that?

The American rummaged through the first aid kit with his spare hand, trying to find the Dettol (silly British brand) and cotton wool buds with his spare hand, while insisting on watching the Englishman carefully – trying to gauge any reaction he might have. If he twitched or snuffled uncomfortably, then he told himself that he would stop and try to wake the man up. It was all well and good thinking of what could have done this to him – images of people, all of them ruffians with scars on their faces and mean expressions because Alfred's visions of 'bad guys' were warped by television and comic books – but it would have been far better to ask the man himself what had been going on.

Might as well, he thought, get the truth straight from the dragon's mouth.

Pouring the Dettol onto the bud – which was fun considering he had one hand spare, he could have assured – he lifted the soaked cotton wool up and rubbed it on Arthur's wrist to clean it against infection. Knowing just how much the disgusting clinical-smelling chemical hurt when applied straight to wounds, he winced for the Briton's sake. Truthfully, even though it was supposed to hurt, he hoped that the pain would knock him right back into consciousness so he could – softly – interrogate him with questions. Still, this was an advantage too. With him still unconscious, he could get him fixed up before Arthur had any chance to suffer more.

It did not take long to clean up all of he small visible wounds on Arthur's arms. The cuts were not too deep, but more-so burnt by friction and snatched. It was certainly enough to make Alfred's stomach lurk just looking at them, though. Whatever happened, he could tell the Briton had fought for dear life. Just like his real Arthur would, he remembered. The Arthur, that was, that would fight to stand up for what he believed in and would not be disarmed by anything. Obviously the latter point was wrong.

Reeling out a roll of bandages, the younger of the two turned one wrist in his hand and applied sticky tape to hold one side of the bandages down to the skin. Wrapping the gauze around the thin bony wrist was an easy enough task, in actually, but it was harder for Alfred to do than he would ever have thought. He could not take his mind off how disgusting he thought the bloody mess was – it really did make the American feel like he could lurch up his breakfast into the kitchen sink – and how much it was reminding him of days long departed; back, pre-revolution, when Arthur did the exact same to him in return.

He was not sure when it happened, but suddenly Alfred was aware of darkened emerald green eyes watching him. The wrist in his grip flinched, turning immediately from the floppy and lax structure with limp fingers to something tight and solid as a fist. A sharp hiss was heard from a mouth that did not belong to Alfred's own, and he soon found himself staring up into a horrified expression; eyes wide as dinner plates, skin looking not a shade away from a pallid, sickly grey. His grip must have relaxed – startled - enough for the other to snap his arm away, because the American soon realised that he was not touching the Briton anymore.

"…A-Arthur?" Alfred was horrified himself by how quiet and reluctant his voice sounded when he spoke. It was cracked – he really had not realised – and uncertain; like he was worrying even more subconsciously than he was aware. He hated it. What sort of a hero paused and stuttered?

"Don't touch." Came the reply; a simple yet meaningful demand. It made Alfred choke when he realised that Arthur's voice was even worse than his own – like congealed liquids had clogged up in the smaller man's throat and made his vocal chords have to strain to let out a single noise. Not that the 'single noise' that was let out was too pretty either. The Briton sounded like a metal blade being rattled in a tin can.

"Hey, hey now. I'm just dressing your wounds, no need to go loco, aha." Alfred said, lips twitching into a smile that should not be there. The gesture certainly did not relax Arthur, because the Englishman soon took a sharp inhale and scooted back a few inches on the sofa. A pang of pain must have run through him, because he stopped before shrinking back to the end to gasp into the air.

Sitting straighter on his knees, Alfred reached over – following Arthur's movement with his hand – to carefully take the arm back into his hold and finish dressing the wound. A quick movement flashed through the air and Alfred stared – shocked – when he saw that his hand been batted away. Arthur held his own injured one straight in the air, as if ready to strike again if he needed to.

"I-I said don't touch me!" He exclaimed, mixed with both fear and a low guttural growling. For a moment, Alfred was simply paralysed. Then, characteristically, he burst into a small laughter that was like sunshine; never there when you want it to be.

"Nice joke, England. You really, really scared me there! Man, my heart is rushing and everything!" Alfred laughed back, trying best he could to sound positive as he always was. The American ignored the way the Brit was looking at him – like a frightened puppy watching its master hold a stick to beat it with – and shifted until he was standing. "Geez, don't scare me like that. Don't cha always complain that one day I'll have a heart attack from the food I eat or sommat? You don't need to help it along! 'Don't touch me', you say. Seriously. You act as if I'd ever hurt ya."

It was far from relaxing, but casually the Briton lowered his hand back to his lap, watching the younger expectantly as if he was waiting for the other to do something. Alfred was sort of unnerved by the way those deep earth-coloured eyes did not dare blink, but he managed his stature well enough.

"Am I getting the silent treatment?" Alfred queried, while Arthur continued to be unmoving. Stay positive, whatever you do stay positive. "Is it because I ratted you out so early? Oh damn, sorry if I broke your act. But I think it'll be okay now if you settled down. You've been in my English home before right? Your Brit-houses are so small! I feel so claustrophobic in here! Hey, I know what'll settle y' down! Tea. Yeah, would ya like that?"

There was a jarring motion from the Englishman on the couch, and his previously tensed shoulders slumped noticeably. Alfred would have smirked in accomplishment if he was not already wearing an insistent smile. He nodded, clasping his hands together and rubbing them.

"Yeah! Of course you would!" He laughed, as if the answer was completely obvious all the time. Never in all his time of knowing Arthur did the man regret a cup of tea when offered. "So, uh, do you wanna help me make it? You… You always tell me my cups of tea taste like – whutwasit? – 'piss-water'! There we go. No matter what, hearing you say that with your British accent makes me laugh so hard. Sorry, but, you're just too cute!"

Arthur flinched in on himself at the last word, eyes finally shooting off somewhere else away from the nattering American's eyes or lips. The air became silent again apart from breathing for several seconds, before slightly swollen and chapped lips opened.

"…Yes, well…" He muttered, cracking his own smile. This one being even more chipped than the one that Alfred was persistently maintaining. To someone else, the room would have looked like a storage for fixed faced porcelain dolls. "Not my fault you have the mentality of a child…"

"There's my Arthur! I missed you buddy!" Alfred laughed. "Come on, let's go get you a 'cuppa' or whatever you call it! Want a hand gettin' up, creaky old man?"

"I-I'm not—! …Not… old…" Arthur groaned in complaint, voice not sounding a single bit better even after exercising his vocal chords. Instead of getting up like Alfred was hoping, the Briton sagged back into the sofa even further. Alfred was not exactly expecting him to get up with a spring in his step, but he was really hoping that the stubborn older man would at least try. The apathetic way he was speaking and acting was killing him. "Alfred, I think I'd… I'd rather stay sat here."

"Pff, you ain't gettin' up? You really are getting old. I should buy you a Zimmer frame for next Christmas or something!" Alfred chirruped. He was majorly hoping that he would get a shouting at for abusing the Brit's language or something to that degree, but it did not come. A tug in his chest reminded him that there was no way, with small injuries like that, that Arthur would be in any sort of mood to fight back. "You can get joke inflatable ones off of the internet! Damn, I'm so tempted…!"

"I…" Arthur started, though Alfred was more than happy to interrupt him with a chuckle. There was no point in letting a scratchy voice get scratchier. Similarly, the tone was scrapping his insides with every syllable. This was just a disaster.

"Oh, damn, I forgot! I don't know what happened to you, but, those bastard bullies smashed the hell out of you broke your hip or something. I remember it being real fluidly moving when I brought you back here. Don't worry yourself sweet-cheeks; your best buddy Alfred is going to take care of you!"

"Bullies…" Arthur repeated, sounding sceptical towards the reference in a way that Alfred did not like. It almost sounded as if he knew who did it, and the term was too odd to be placed with them.

"Yeah, bullies. Who else would kick you about like that?" Alfred said, offering a strangely weak smile. He pated Arthur lightly on the shoulder, not missing the way that the Briton winced at his touch and made certain that his eyes were on something else. The action did not confirm or deny to Alfred that his words were true, like he had hoped.

"Bullies," Arthur repeated again, going rigid in his position. The air turned awkward between them quickly, unnerving even Alfred and is usual inability to tell what the atmosphere read.

"Y-Yeah, a-anyway! I'll be right back sugarplum, so hold on tight! Don't run away now." Alfred suddenly grinned, winking at the Englishman as he hightailed out of there; striding towards his kitchen to get away from the now unmoving Brit.

Tea; the British elixir of life, and also known - to Alfred - as one of the blandest drinks known to man. Lovely as the honey nectar-coloured and sweet smelling stuff seemed to be, the taste was unforgivably boring. This, of course, was the opinion of the man whose people invented Gatorade. To those with a subtler taste, however, it was a refreshing and reviving thing that brought warmth to the very tips of your fingers. Never mind it being not flavoursome - it was practically a cultural ritual to get a member of the United Kingdom's commonwealth up in the morning. Alfred was not estranged to how relieved the liquid make Arthur. He hoped, sincerely, that boiling a pot would get Arthur to calm down.

Luckily, he had tea bags - because it was incessantly insisted that Alfred had some under pain of death, or British grumpiness - and so setting the tea would not be much of a problem. He whizzed through the kitchen, getting supplies a-plenty and pausing numerous times to change his mind for what Arthur does with his tea (it was not a well kept secret that Arthur preferred Earl Grey, which to Alfred tasted a bit too much like liquorice or aniseed, but things like amount of milk and whether or not to add sugar were questions that went beyond him).

Finally when he finished, he stopped and stared into the drink that he had made; inhaling the scent that the liquid gave off. Sometimes he liked to brew tea just for the smell – because hateful as he found the stuff, it still reminded him of his Arthur. He imagined that the hint of tea would always be lingering on his lips, along with the slightest hint of salt and mildew. It was a comfort when he needed it – and right now he needed it more than ever. Because strangely enough, the scent of tea in front of him now felt even more like Arthur than the actual thing sitting on his couch.

Once he got into the living room again, Alfred almost dropped the porcelain in his hand – a large gloop of the concoction he had made fell to the floor as he jolted in surprise. Putting it down immediately and forgetting his burning hand, Alfred rushed over to Arthur.

"Hey—Hey, hey, don't do that…!" Alfred panicked at him in a flurry, grabbing hold of Arthur's wrists. The Briton wordlessly complained, trying to yank them away again so he could continue to remove the slightly sticky bandages off of his raw skin. "Arthur, I know it stings and it's gotta itch—But you need to let your wrists heal!"

"I-I don't care—! M-my skin's dirty… I have to take them off… i-it burns…" Arthur muttered half-nonsensically. The American gave him an appraising look, trying to determine what the other was talking about. Dirty skin?

"…O-Oh, do you want a bath or a shower of something?" He offered, wondering if Arthur was self-conscious. His own skin absolutely crawled when he touched dirty things and forgot to clean up, so he guessed he could empathise – the place he had found Arthur in had been covered in dust. Arthur's hair, now he took the time to notice, was heavily faded.

The Briton did not look up at him as he slowly nodded, and clutched his hands protectively to his chest when Alfred let them go free.

"That's a-okay!" Alfred continued, trying to stay whimsical about this – even if Arthur was acting like he would never be his proper self again (that… that wasn't true, right?), it did not mean that he had to suffer the same fate. "Come on, I guess you won't be able to get to the bathroom yourself… b-but I'll be your hero and carry you up there. Kay?"

"...Mm…" Arthur murmured, and Alfred's heart skipped a beat; though not in a good way. There was nothing good about this. He would normally never let himself depend on him – but Alfred guessed that even the prideful Englishman knew it would be hopeless for him to move too much. Carefully, he scooped on arm under Arthur's legs and the other around his back and lifted him into the air. Arthur forgot to try stifling the grunt of pain.

Once in the bathroom, Alfred flipped the toilet seat down and temporary placed the other blond there to sit (…or slump against the wall besides it, uh, yeah, that was fine…) while he ran a bath for him. Luke-warm water collected at the bottom of the tub, and the American swilled it around playfully, wondering whether Arthur was a bubble bath man.

"Arthur?" Alfred waited till the lifeless eyes were upon him, and swallowed thickly. "U-Um, do you need me to undress you and take care of you or will you be—"

"—I'll be fine." The Briton responded too quickly, cutting off the rest of Alfred's sentence. His vocal tone was a touch too strong and unsettling.

"Are you sure? I mean…"

"Fine." Arthur repeated solidly. Whatever words Alfred was going to contribute turned to nothing but silence in the American's mouth, and he coughed awkwardly to remedy himself. With a sigh, Alfred turned off the taps and dipped his hand into the water to check if it was the right temperature or not. With his personal seal of approval, Alfred made his way back over to Arthur to help him unravel the bandages he had given him – all that effort; what a waste.

"Call me when you're done, okay? I'll put these bandages back on for you." He informed Arthur with all the good will of his heart. Taking the slight droop of Arthur's head as a confirmation, he smiled in the face of sadness and revealed the other nation's chaffed wrists to the air. Arthur hissed. "Do you remember much about what happened yesterday, Arthur?"

Arthur's head slumped forwards more, and Alfred felt like he could take his heart in his hand and crumble it into dust with the tension between them. Even when they were not in agreement, they were animated and argued; so see the Briton just so… so fucking lifeless… it stung. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me." He nurtured, flinching to stroke Arthur's cheek though suddenly decided against it with his hand already lingering above him in the air. Once again, he pretended that he only needed to cough.

"Look, Arthur… when you called me, I told you something. You were really unresponsive, but I want to know if you heard it." Alfred finally got the courage to murmur. It hurt the very most when he knew for a fact that Arthur had told him that he loved him. They loved each other, for God's sakes! Why was it so silent? Did Arthur even remember what he had said? He could not understand what was going on. All Alfred knew for an absolute fact that if he found out who did this to Arthur – to make him into such an unresponsive puppet – he was going to kill them. No matter who it was; he was going to kill them if it were the last thing he ever did. "Did you hear me tell you anything? Anything about you and me…?"

There was a pause, stagnant and expectant, but after the long moment was over Arthur shook his head. His eyes were misted over more than usual, moss coloured eyes having lost their shine. "No. No, I didn't."

"...I thought so." The American responded, shifting straight up to his feet. He quietly threw the bandages in his trash can ('bin' – Arthur probably would have corrected in a heartbeat. Before, that was) and wordlessly moved towards the door. When Alfred's hand touched the handle, some emotional reaction from Arthur must have piqued.

"Alfred, are you alri—" He started to say, but then Alfred raised a hand; cutting Arthur's speech off like a knife. Alfred just did not want to hear it. Who was he to answer when Arthur would not even do him the same basic privilege? Besides, it was his Briton that was in trouble and in pain. Not him. He was upset, but who was he to impose that on him?

"Yeah, yeah, man, no, yes. I'm cool. I'm okay. It's okay." Alfred replied – for once, his voice was fragmented. A closing tone that usually disgraced the Englishman's lips, not his. It was soulless, uncharacteristic, but most of all, broken-hearted. No wonder Arthur did not react well to him. He did not know their love was mutual.

In any other situation, Alfred would have reminded Arthur with all the ecstatic feelings boiling up for the Brit inside his chest; releasing it all out in, maybe, another kiss and those three most important words uttered casually under his breath; but the reality was that it would not be as simple as that. Remembering how he took his and Arthur's first kiss away when the man was unconscious, unfeeling, was enough to make it ache. Declaring his feelings, again, would only end in upset if he did it now.

"Call if you need me, will you? I'll be right here. Right here, darlin'." He muttered while Arthur looked on with stress and more than a little bit of distraught. Alfred was not even looking in his direction, but he knew exactly what expression would be on his face. Defeat and turmoil – knowing that he might have brought that partly on was a burden, but he took it. Because, selfishly – why did he just have to be so selfish? – he was hurt that Arthur would not, at least for now, be his. Just like he hoped. What a hero, huh?

He left sharply after, and Arthur sat completely stilled. He was too overwhelmed by what was going on – but mostly, presently, he was overwhelmed by the tears in the corners of Alfred's eyes that he swore he had seen as the door was shut.

"H-hey, Mattie—Where are you?" Alfred spoke into his telephone as he sat on his living room couch, pinching the bridge of his nose – pushing his glasses down nearer to the slightly pointed tip, obviously – and then moving to rub his closed eyelids. For some reason they were really prickling and burning. Moist as well, but Alfred tried to figure that in favour of concentrating on what he was doing.

"I'm visiting someone right now, why? Were you thinking of coming up?" A soft but good-willed Canadian voice came like the voice of an angel in comparison to the scratchy tone that Alfred had been listening to from both himself and Arthur. A few of the nations were required to go to a meeting for the World Trade Organisation in Geneva, Switzerland, in a few days time and were gathering to resolve a few nicks; mostly revolving around the seemingly never-ending Doha round again. It always seemed to be about that, these days. They had been disagreeing about it for years.

"No, no… I… aah, I kinda was wondering if you could come up here." The American mumbled, and on the other side of the phone his more Northerly brother struggled to hear him.

"Come up there? You're in England, right? Why do you need me—Can't you get Arthur to give you a hand, whatever it is?" Matthew queried, and Alfred knew instantly that he had obviously not heard the news. Great – just great; it would be his job to explain to everyone about Arthur's condition, without breaking down because of it – just fucking awesome. "Er, Alfred—Are you okay? You sound really odd, but it might be bad reception…"

"I'm fi—"

"—Alfred." Matthew murmured. Why did he have to be able to read him like a book, even over the phone?

"—Kay, yeah, honestly? No, I'm not fine." Alfred sighed, dropping his head into his unoccupied hand – propping his elbow up atop his knee. "I can't get Arthur to help, cause he's already here, and he's the problem. …Fucking… fucking heck, Mattie!"

"Alfred? Alfred, calm down." Matthew tried to soothe as his brother showed signs of wanting to just snap. He relaxed once he heard his brother take a big breath to settle his building and climaxing nerves. "What's wrong? Did you get Arthur all annoyed again, eh? You know you need to think about what you say before you say it! What did you do?"

"What did I do? What didn't I do? I've been taking care of him all day. It's just… damn it. I can hardly say it." Alfred stammered, disarming feelings getting the better of him. But this was his brother he was talking to. They were as close as bread and butter. "Something… something happened, Mattie. Some retards abducted him and attacked him—!"

"Wait, what?"

"They took him to his really old and dirty place in the middle of the countryside and just… I don't know what they did. But he managed to call me and I found him a few hours after they had gone—And he had cuts and bruises all over him and everything! It's sickening, Mattie, it really is. I-I can hardly stand to look at him…" The younger of the two cried with distress into the speaker. He could practically feel the shock and horror from his currently silenced brother. "He isn't taking to me properly. Just says one or two word responses, and damn it how can something like this screw him up like that? I ain't got a clue what I'm gonna do, Matthew. What if they threatened to, I dunno, 'get' him again if he tells someone all the details of what happened? Fuck—What if he gets hurt just 'cause I brought him back here. Oh shit—What am I gonna do?"

"Alfred! Alfred, cool it down, mister!" His brother urged him, and Alfred stopped talking in the distant hope that the Canadian would have a better clue what to do than him. "That… that's awful. I really hope he's going to be alright. But Alfred, right now I'm more worried about you. You're obviously not dealing well…"

"…Tch, well, yeah. I… I love him, bro. I'm in love with him – you know that. And he, um. Over the phone, he told me that he loved me too. But he said it in such a way that… I think he thought he was saying it as, like, a final goodbye. Like he didn't think he would live to see me again, a-and… dude, don't start crying. No, no, no…" Alfred panted, wiping away one of the tears beginning to fall from his sore eyes.

"Okay, that's it. I've heard enough." Matthew declared, and Alfred listened intently in confusion. "I'm coming over there right now, Alfred. I don't care if you object and say that you want to do this by yourself because you're a 'hero'—you need some help."

"…S-Sorry, Mattie." Alfred begrudgingly spoke, reluctantly admitting his current hopelessness. He wanted to help but he couldn't. A guilty feeling was building up walls all around him; at least he was man enough to confess to defeat.

"It's alright, Al. Everything is going to be alright. Look, I'll get there as soon as I can. Just hold on tight." Matthew told him kindly, giving his good wishes and goodbyes before hanging up – sincerely hoping that Alfred could cope for another few hours on his own.

As soon as his brother hung up, his shoulders hunched, phone tossed to another seat, and he collapsed his face fully into his hands. Seeing Arthur in such a condition was disturbing. Not only because the Englishman was battered and ruined physically – an extent to which Alfred did not even know. What kind of things could he be hiding? Alfred had not enough gathered the courage, fucking courage, to even check the Brit's damaged and disgustingly fluidly moving hip.

More-so, it was because he was not right. Those forest-moss eyes were unseeing, or at least did not see the world with the same, albeit stubborn, life and fortitude. He and his responses were just… not all there. Like whatever happened opened a box in Arthur's mind that sucked out and sealed all the vim and vigour in him. It could be because it was so soon after what Alfred was oh-so-cunningly dubbing 'the incident'. But, what if it was long-term? Would he even be able to handle it?

Would he get to see his Arthur again? He didn't even want to see his smile – he just wanted a sign; anything to remind him that, yes, the guy he fell in love with was still in there.

By now, Alfred was trying and failing to restrain sobbing into his hands. He had shown face, he had acted like he was strong all through watching Arthur interact, and he maintained his stability – he did what he needed to do. Now it was just him, alone, with nothing to stop the floodgates from becoming spread wide open. There was nothing he could have done.

Sometimes, being in pain was lesser than the hurt you receive when you watch it happen, uselessly, by the sidelines.

As Matthew lowered his phone down, he felt bluish-violet eyes upon him, observing his every movement. He twisted his neck to look back at the other person, smiling apologetically. "I'm really sorry about that." He told him. "I'm going to have to go."

"Oh? What happened?" Shifting up from his love-seat, the French nation slid forwards in interest. His beard was freshly trimmed, stray eyebrow hairs plucked, locks woven and waxy while his skin was effeminately powdered and a confusingly nice blend between casually peach skinned and somewhat sun kissed. His smile was typical, with non-chapped lips.

In short, Francis looked good.

Very good for someone who had kidnapped, injured and raped a man not even a day before.

"Apparently Arthur got into some kind of accident. He's hurt, and Alfred is having a real stress about it. You know how he is. Such a kid…" Matthew sighed, stuffing his phone into his pocket. The Canadian turned away again as he went to fetch his shoes from nearby the door of Francis's apartment, so he completely missed the way the other man's eyes lit up intently. "God knows why he hasn't taken Arthur to a hospital."

"Angleterre is hurt? Sacre bleu. I certainly hope he is, or will be, well." Francis said with confidence, and Matthew briefly wondered why it sounded like that sentence was rehearsed. He guessed that the Frenchman and Arthur had had their ups and downs, and moments were they just wanted to kill each other. He thought nothing of it. As Francis followed him into the hallway, hands in his pockets, he noticed that his previous caretaker was scowling – the exact expression he wore when he was thinking furiously. "And you are breaking your visit with me to go see him?"

"Afraid I kinda have to. Alfred's in bits. Someone's got to give him a hand." His brother said, silent complaint clear in his voice. But he did not have a choice – well, he did, but he was not giving himself the option. He loved his brother. He needed to be there for him. Matthew shrugged on his coat and started fastened it all up. In his haste, he did not think to stop Francis when paternal instincts set in and the Frenchman was casually buttoning the coat all of the way.

"And who is going to give you a hand?" Francis asked him, finishing up his coat. He then moved to collect his own, and answered before Matthew could even think to object. "Your brother is a burden on you like Arthur is a burden on him. Also, I do not take kindly to the fact that your little visit is getting cut short. It is therefore in my, and your, personal interest if I come with you too."

"Francis… you don't have to…" Matthew muttered in a quiet voice, self-blameworthiness hitting him inevitably, like it usually did. Even the young Canadian had subtle childlike tendencies. Francis merely chuckled at him and ruffled his hair, much to Matthew's chagrin.

"I want to come and take care of you. Arthur and Alfred too." He told him solidly, not taking no for an answer. Francis then completed readying himself and opened the door for his younger companion. "Lead the way."

"Thanks, Francis." Matthew smiled jovially as he exited; absolutely sure that Alfred, and Arthur, would love the extra pair of useful hands.

Behind him, the Frenchman smirked. He was amazed, actually, that Arthur had been discovered so quickly. Still, if it was help that Alfred needed; it was help that he was going to get. Arthur would be so pleased.

He could not wait to see him again.

And so the tension rises.