Everywhere he looked, there was only white. He would walk forward - he couldn't even feel his legs or hear his steps - and he was always surrounded by the blinding color. He tried to shout out for anyone, anything, that might have been out of sight, but he couldn't find his voice. He wanted to hear his voice echo from a wall or ceiling. He opened his mouth, and no noise escaped, even as he mouthed desperate words. Time passed, and Alfred had simply given up trying to find a way out. He remained where he stood, silently, awkwardly looking around, waiting for something to happen, waiting for some explanation. Or, maybe he was waiting for someone. But, who? Where was he?
Something moved out of the corner of his eye. Alfred quickly whirled around and grabbed hold of whatever it was, discovering that felt like cloth. Alfred looked at the fabric in his hand and could hardly see it, as it was as white as the world around him. He could make out by the shadows on the ground what it was: a wedding dress. He could have laughed, but he knew he had seen it somewhere before by the trembling of his hand.
America, still gripping the cloth like it was a precious diamond, panned his eyes around the white again. He frowned and wanted to ask someone, anyone, where this had come from, where he was, and what was going on. Opening his mouth as if to sigh, he didn't feel air pass through his lips. In fact, he hadn't felt himself breathe at all. Curiosity got the better of him. His free hand was held under his nose, and he patiently waited for the warmth of his own breath to touch his fingers. His frown deepened when no such sensation came. He pressed his fingers to his neck and was unsurprised, but not pleased, to find a lack of a pulse. A shudder ran through him, and he hung his head slightly. If the lack of a voice, breath, or pulse couldn't be classified as creepy, he wasn't sure what could.
He would have asked why he was apparently without a heartbeat had a flash of green not distracted him. When he turned to see what it was, he noticed that the dress he held was no longer empty; someone wore it, but not the person he expected to ever see in a dress. Springy, light blond hair almost gave him away, along with heavy-set eyebrows. But Alfred had been instantly attracted to green eyes, which stared back at him. He recognized them and his mouth gaped slightly. He wasn't sure if he was going to laugh or talk. Instead, America slowly mouthed the first thing that came to mind: England?
Arthur nodded and did something that surprised America: he smiled. Alfred blinked twice and looked into his eyes again. How could this possibly be England? He was in a dress, for one thing. He was also smiling, which was incredibly unlike him. Maybe it wasn't England at all, but the thought of him being an illusion hurt America, and he didn't understand why, nor did he understand the warm smile tugging at his own lips, or the joy he felt with Arthur there.
Arthur's hand slid to Alfred's, and their fingers were laced together. America wanted to ask what he was doing and crack a joke, but something in him was content with the contact. He didn't have it in him to laugh at the dress, or the lovestruck eyes, or the oddly misplaced - but now welcomed - smile Arthur wore. These were all gladly accepted, and although he wondered why, Alfred didn't question it. He was too relieved to see England, for some reason, to seriously care. His eyes softened and he found himself pulling Arthur close. The older nation's smaller hands rested against his chest, his nose nuzzling the crook of America's neck. The taller's blue eyes closed, his heart fluttering as he returned the affectionate gesture.
His eyes opened soon after, though, and he looked down at his chest in surprise. His heart fluttered? He lifted one hand and touched it to his neck. As expected, he didn't have a pulse. Alfred saw Arthur looking at him in question, and he shook his head with a small smile, mouthing to the Brit, Don't worry. England frowned slightly, but returned to nuzzling America. Warmth flooded Alfred's cheeks and he could no longer suppress the grin that wanted to be loose. He felt relieved, joyous, victorious and curious all in the same instant, and while it was nearly too much for him to comprehend, Alfred now found this unknown realm to be comforting, simply because Arthur was with him. He wanted it to stay that way, even if he didn't know why.
The same fluttering-heart feeling returned when he felt England give him a peck on the cheek. It didn't help that Arthur was suddenly adorable when he blushed and smiled sweetly like a lovelorn teenage girl. Alfred briefly glanced at his chest - why was his heartbeat appearing and disappearing? - then met England's gaze. His hand brushed the shorter man's cheek gently, and the Englishman leaned into the touch with eyes closed. Alfred leaned down, his forehead gently resting against his ally's. He questioned his actions and why they felt so fluid, so natural, but nothing rose a bigger question than what he said next. His lips parted, and he had the voice to speak two things and two things only. What he said wasn't what he wanted to say, and he didn't know what it meant. It brought him the same comfort as England's presence, however, and he said it with affection laced in his tone: "My Juliet."
When he opened his eyes, England was gone.
His hand no longer rested on an empire's cheek, arm no longer holding him close. There was simply no trace of the empire. None. America retracted his hand in shock, eyes wide and heartbeat pounding in his ears. He turned 180 degrees and his heartbeat stopped, but he took in a sharp breath instead. Alfred tried to shout with a soundless voice. He felt his hands becoming moist as he took a few steps forward, then looked around and headed another way.
Becoming frantic, he started to run but stopped short soon after. The pounding in his ears was starting to become more frequent, and the sensation of shortened breath accompanying it. Desperately, his hands ran through his hair as he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Think, think, he mouthed to himself. Why could Arthur disappear? Why did he say what he did? What was going on?
He opened his eyes and cupped his hands around his mouth and, with all his might, he tried to scream. England! He couldn't hear himself. Alfred tried again, his eyes closing tightly. ENGLAND! The unexplainable need to find England took its toll, and he felt hot tears forming in his eyes from the frustration. Arthur! America felt pressure on his chest, like someone was standing on his chest. He tried to shake it off and continued yelling silently. Arthur, where are you?
He dropped his hands and felt his hands ball into fists. The pressure on his chest increased, and he heard a voice clearly demand for him to 'get up.' Arthur was still nowhere to be found. His eyes tightly closed, and he whispered quietly, "Juliet…" But, why was he asking for that person? "Juliet!" he cried out loud. It was the only word he could say, the only name he was able to vocalize. As odd as it was, it reminded him of Arthur.
When he opened his eyes, he hoped to see the shorter nation again. He wanted to feel him in his arms again, as new as that desire was. He didn't get anything close to that; instead, he was staring into two large, oval red eyes that gazed at him with distaste. Tony was floating in air, the two of them eye-to-eye, and the pressure on America's chest grew the longer he stared at his alien friend. How did he get there? Where did he come from? In Tony's hand was the most random and out of place item he could imagine: a pillow. Alfred wanted to laugh, until Tony raised the pillow with his eyes narrowed threateningly. America felt his lower eyelid twitch as he saw the pillow swing back, and Tony shouted in a way reminiscent of Patton. "I said, GET THE HELL UP!"
The pillow hit him hard upside the head and in that instant, the white world was gone. He shot into a sitting position, gasping for air, his blue eyes wide, hair matted and untamed. Perspiration clung to his bare chest, and his hands grasped newfound sheets on a newfound mattress. America wearily blinked, his jaw agape slightly, as he tried to fully adjust going from a white, empty space to magically being in his room. That's where he was, he knew with certainty, right down to the American sheets on his bed, and the donkey stuffed animal laying beside him. He gave a sigh of relief, but soon was groaning. "What a headache," he murmured, his hands weaving through his hair. He must have been hungover or ate some bad meat.
He slid his legs to the side of the bed, his feet brushing to the carpeted floor. He pushed himself up to stand, but a weight on his legs made him sit again. He grunted in confusion and tried again only to be pushed into a laying position. His eyes were wide ad he tried to comprehend what was going on. He saw oddly-toed feet on his chest, and noticed Tony standing on his torso. "Huh?" he uttered in confusion. But, just like his dream, Tony had a pillow in his three-fingered hand and was raising it threateningly. "T - Tony," he stammered, holding his hands in defense, "Put the pillow d - no, no, put it DOWN!"
THWHACK.
Stunned momentarily, Alfred regained his senses after a few seconds. He quickly snatched the pillow from Tony's grasp, roughly shoving the alien off his chest. "Tony! Enough with the hitting! I'm up, I'm up!" He merely heard a 'humph' in reply. He stood up before the extraterrestrial could knock him down again, but he nearly stumbled forward. Alfred's hand gently touched his temple, and his fingers massaged his skin with a displeased expression. He walked slowly, like a zombie, out of his room, and ignored the footsteps behind him. "Tony," he grunted, "you're messed up." Meandering down the hall to the bathroom, Alfred reached out to touch the knob before another pillow hit the back of his head. His forehead flew forward and hit the door with a klunk, stumbling into it in surprise. This wasn't the wake-up wagon he wanted to jump on - or get hit by.
Shoving the door open and ignoring the shouts of 'fuck you', he managed to scramble into the bathroom and lock the door, free from aliens, pillows, and being woken up from the weirdest dream he had ever had. He leaned against the door and sighed shakingly, staring at himself in the mirror. He first noticed that Texas was already on his face. He never wore the glasses to bed, but that wasn't what caught his worried attention. America frowned and walked to the sink, leaning closer to the mirror. His skin was slightly pale and appeared clammy, odd bruises and scratches on his torso and a few on his face. Fingers tracing over the wounds, his frowned deepened. What had happened to him? Alfred hung his head and grumbled, "I musta been drunk." In truth, he seriously doubted that he was hungover. Yet, that was the only logical explanation he had for the odd happenings of his dream and his disheveled appearance. America rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting a sigh escape. This had to have been the biggest headache he'd woken up with in a long time.
Alfred turned to leave, but collapsed against the wall when sudden nausea and a clenching of his stomach crippled him. All his strength was zapped from him, and as he grappled with what was happening more nausea made him hunch over. He gasped for air, warm saliva threatening to churn his stomach's contents up. Instinctively, his hand flew to his mouth. His eyes squeezed closed and he barely stumbled to the toilet in time before bile made him lurch forward, and he retched with displeasure.
Outside the bathroom, he could hear Tony voice his disgust. "That's fucking sick!"
Alfred would have agreed, had he the voice to do so. He waited for the nausea to pass before weakly standing, leaning against the wall as his eyes slid open. He never threw up, and if he did it was never right after he woke up. The taste in his mouth was putrid and made his nose wrinkle, the back of his hand covering his mouth. 'Maybe I should just go back to bed,' he thought as he moved his hand and reached to open the door. He knew better to face the day than hide in the bathroom, so he pushed the door open and walked out.
Tony stood outside waiting for him, and the extraterrestrial hopped after America as he brushed by him. "All this is what you get for pulling a Houdini," he spoke bitterly. Alfred stopped half way down the stairs, glancing back at him with a brow arched. Tony groaned in frustration and hopped on the railing, sliding down passed Alfred. "Don't act like you don't remember!" Landing on the hardwood floor with a plop, Tony scooted into the kitchen.
Alfred blinked twice, eyes narrowing as he hurried after Tony. His universal room mate paid him no mind as he started to talk. "That's the problem, though - I don't remember! I have no idea what you're talking about!" Alfred observed Tony beginning to make a ham and cheese sandwich, and he rose a brow when the alien added some sort of sauce that had a green glow to it. He shook the wonder away and approached him, leaning on the counter and frowning down to him. "Come on, you gotta believe me!" Tony walked away, and America, using his longer legs, strode in front of him and halted him in his path. "Tony, what do you mean by Houdini?"
Putting the sandwich on the table, Tony hopped up on the chair and rolled his eyes when Alfred sat across from him. He couldn't eat a sandwich in peace now that he was back, could he? "You just disappeared off the face of the planet - and you don't remember shit?"
He looked at the table and fiddled with his thumbs underneath it. "I just remember going to London for a meeting. Roosevelt said I could go and visit with England for a-" He cut himself off, an epiphany hitting him. He looked up and leaned in closer. "Wait, did Roosevelt know where I was?" Tony shook his head. Alfred figured that he must have called and not gotten a response, in that case. He hesitated before asking the next question. "What about England? Did he know?"
"You don't know the definition of 'disappeared off the face of the planet', do you?"
America frowned slightly and he sighed. He really didn't understand any of this, but Tony didn't seem to be lying. "I'm sorry, man," he grumbled in guilt. He looked back up and tilted his head. "How long was I gone?"
"Few days, many - four, five probably." Tony poked the sandwich idly, a bit of the glowing ooze seeping out. He picked some up on his finger and stared at it. "I figured you were still at the fucking limey's house, but his fat, limey boss called and said he couldn't find you or that stupid bushy brows." Alfred's eyebrows arched in surprise, and Tony snickered. "I thought you and the Anglotard got hitched or somethin'."
America narrowed his eyes and pouted at Tony's accusation, and he felt his cheeks heat up. "We - what? Why would we get married, Tony?" The alien shrugged nonchalantly. The mental image of Arthur in a dress popped into his mind and puzzled him once again, and his cheeks warmed even more. Covering his face with his hands, elbows on the table, Alfred groaned in confusion, his hands smoothing his bangs back. He stared at the table top, then blinked in realization. "Hold on," he said, gazing up at Tony. "You said that England was missing, too?" Tony confirmed this with a nod, and Alfred's gaze became worried. "Have, uh, you heard anything from Churchill about England today?"
Tony looked up from the ooze on his finger and blinked. "Who?"
Alfred's face fell into a stare, and he sighed heavily. "Churchill. The, uh, 'Fat Limey Boss.'"
"Oh, him. Nope, haven't heard a thing."
America glanced to the wall nearby and furrowed his brows. Standing abruptly, he walked to the phone on the wall and quickly dialed a number, ignoring Tony's yells about not being 'through' with him. Alfred rolled his eyes and Tony grumbled, pushing by him and out to the porch. The American leaned against the wall and waited impatiently, but he felt something hit his arm. He glanced down at the bread crust on the ground and glared at Tony outside. "Tony, not now!" he hollered at his friend, who raised his fists in frustration.
A voice on the line caught America's attention, and he quickly uttered a set of numbers and code words to link him to his intended recipient. While he was on hold, Alfred sighed and leaned his forehead against an arm lounging on the wall. The nausea hadn't exactly gone away, and the new worry for England's safety wasn't helping.
He didn't have time to linger, because a familiar, and much welcomed, voice answered the phone. He instantly brightened, a smile coming to his face. "Winston!"
"Alfred?" the Prime Minister's voice asked, and America nodded despite the gesture being unseen. He heard a laugh, and could almost imagine the wide-set Churchill spin in his office chair. "My boy, I thought you'd run off to fight the war! Franklin called and asked if I'd seen you - where exactly were you these last few days?"
With an inaudible sigh, Alfred rubbed his neck. "I'm sorry, Winny," he used the affectionate nickname with a nervous smile, "but if I told you, you'd call me crazy." He rubbed his neck and sighed inaudibly. How was he going to explain this to everyone?
But, England's boss left it at that. "Hrm. Do tell the tale sometime, though." Alfred nodded with a thankful sigh. "I'm glad you're back home safe. But, while we're on the topic of missing nations, have you seen Arthur lately?" America perked up, but remained silent. "He disappeared 'round the same time you did - in fact, the exact same day. You two didn't run off and get shipwrecked again, did you?"
For some reason, America sensed that Churchill's words had a more risqué meaning, since he chuckled soon afterword, and Alfred felt his cheeks warm up. He tried to stammer an explanation, but Winston continued. "All jokes aside. Have you seen him? A rather angry fellow named Tony told me that he wasn't at your house. This is unlike him, I'm beginning to fear the worst."
America bit his lip and twirled the telephone line in his finger as he thought. He probably had tried calling already, since Arthur was still nowhere to be found. As he twirled the telephone line, he felt a ticklish sensation on his left hand and gazed down at it. His brows rose slowly, and he stared in surprise at his ring finger. Nestled around it was a plain gold band that captivated his attention. He stared at the ring and squinted. He had seen it before - but where? The longer he stared at the ring, the more he felt like the world was fading away. America's mouth gaped when he finally recognized where the ring had come from, but he could hardly believe it: this was his wedding ring.
The kitchen and the entirety of his house and Washington D.C. faded away, and Alfred was suddenly sucked back in time to an old church with mosaics of colorful saviors and friars with poetic words. He wasn't actually there, but in the confines of his mind he relived the memories he never knew he had. Looking to his right, Alfred blinked in doubletake at what he saw. Holding his hand was a reluctant-looking bride clad in a white gown, his - yes, his - tussled, light blond hair and large eyebrows giving his identity away.
Alfred felt something swell in him when England turned to look up at him. In his green eyes, America saw a story of star-crossed lovers - their story. Everything hit him like a freight train, every memory from start to finish: the potion, scaling the balcony, the wedding he was currently reliving, losing Mercutio and murdering Tybalt, the night before he left, the heartbreak of heading back to Verona, his confrontation with Paris, seeing Arthur for the last time …
"-lo? Hullo, America? Are you there?"
Alfred blinked when the present sunk into him again. He shook his head from staring at the ring and nearly stumbled backwards. The wall caught him, and he frantically held the phone to his ear. "I'm here," he blurted, probably louder than he should have been. Before Winston could get on his case, words stammered from his mouth with a determined tone. "Listen, I'm coming back to London and I'm gonna look for Arthur." He could hear the prime minister start to protest, but he held a hand up and closed his eyes. "Just hear me out, okay? I don't think he's going to answer the phone; I don't… I don't even know if he's awake right now. But, I think I can get to him."
Winston was quiet for a moment or two, then he spoke again. "Alfred, what if he isn't there?"
America's eyes opened. "I guess I'll just have to take the risk, huh?" The conversation ended shortly after, with Winston wishing him good luck (and wanting him to call when and if he found England). With Tony nowhere in sight, Alfred held off from calling Roosevelt despite his better judgment. His alien ally could tell his boss that he was back; he was afraid Franklin would advise him to stay in the states. Something was drawing Alfred to finding Arthur. He leaned on the wall and looked down at the ring with a frown. Was England even alive? His hand folded into a fist, one he held to his chest. He had to be. He was alive again, after all, so why wouldn't Arthur he?
Alfred didn't even bother packing. He ran upstairs to get a white t-shirt and his bomber jacket on. He walked out the front door, got into his car, and sped to the airport, Arthur on his mind. As he gripped the wheel, his eyes looked at the golden band on his fingers and his teeth grit. He had been in a situation like this before, riding on the back of a black stallion to Verona, Italy. With all his heart, he truly hoped that the outcome of this journey would not be the same.