XX
Here I am 11
XX
England was sitting rather awkwardly on the couch, waiting for Alfred to finish the hot cocoa he had promised, no insisted, on serving him.
He stared at the pots of plants and sprigs of mistletoe they had bought now standing on the coffee table in front of him. He had ingredients but he had no idea what to do next and this world did not exactly have the best environment for magic. It stifled his power, forcing him to struggle just to utilise a tenth of it.
"Besides," he muttered to himself. "Alfred told me that I should stay."
Why did he say that? He knew that Arthur would not be able to get back unless he left and he was still eager to be reunited with his lover again so why would he say that? England had no idea what kind of twisted logic Alfred followed, or f he was idealistic enough to think that there was some other way.
"Ah, England, here you go!" the man himself arrived with a steaming cup.
England accepted it silently, eyeing the marshmallows bobbing up and down in his drink with some wariness. Trust Alfred to do something this childish.
"I have to ask you," he said, sipping around the floating pink cubes, "just what exactly is going on in that pea-sized brain of yours. If anything at all."
Alfred looked confused.
England sighed. "What I mean is that you should know that Arthur can't come back unless I leave, and you can't stop me from leaving so…why did you say those things before?"
"Ah," Alfred looked at him knowingly. It annoyed England a little. "Of course I want Arthur to come back. I love him after all. And I also don't want to give America more time to make any moves on my lover!" he added with vigour, eyes sparking for a moment with a fiery will to fight against any rivals he may have.
"So then why," England asked, trying to ignore the fact that Alfred seemed the most vivacious when he was talking about Arthur. He doubted that anyone ever looked so alive when they talked about him. If anyone ever talked about him at all.
"Because I also trust Arthur," he explained. "I trust him to be able to manage for a little while longer, and I trust him not to cheat on me. I trust him to keep on loving me too."
England was not sure what to say in retaliation. He always figured that Alfred's relationship with Arthur was some crazy, passionate love that encompassed everything and had not burnt out only because human lives were too short for it to burn out. He did not expect this. He did not expect that there was something quieter, something softer and yet so much stronger underneath it all.
It made him feel even worse. It made him feel pathetic in comparison to this Arthur, who was capable of the same kind of love.
Alfred smiled. "You're just like him. I mean, there are slight differences but you're still the same as Arthur deep down."
"You should say that he's still the same as me!" England muttered. He was sure that he was the original anyway.
Alfred shrugged. He was not bothered enough to argue. "Maybe it's just because you look like Arthur that I feel compelled to help you…but that's probably not it. I'm a hero after all; I'll always help a person in need no matter who they are!"
England sighed. Did every Alfred in the world have a hero complex?
"But heroes can also be selfish," he added, making England start and almost spill his hot cocoa over his lap. Alfred blushed but kept his gaze fixed on England's face. "The fact is….the truth, I mean, is that I'm not really doing this because you look like Arthur or because I'm a Good Samaritan. I'm not doing it because of noble intentions. I'm doing it for America."
XX
"Thank you," Arthur sighed, feeling a deliciously cold towel press against his burning forehead. He was glad that he had talked America out of giving him the hamburger treatment.
"What for?" America paused in the middle of his nursing duties. Japan had left after making a week's worth of leek and mushroom soup. His boss had called him on business in his country…or so he had said.
"Looking after me like this," Arthur smiled, touching the towel.
"You always know how to create trouble for others," America grumbled as he soaked a second towel in cold water. Honestly, he had no idea why he was stuck here doing this but if he had not promised Japan that he would care for Arthur then Japan would have called France over instead, which was never a good idea. He did not know why he cared though.
"I'm sorry," Arthur coughed,
"If you're sorry then get better already!" America snapped. He did not want to be doing this. It was so uncomfortable. So boring. So awkward.
"…Sorry."
A moment of silence passed between them. It was dark in the room. Arthur claimed that he could not sleep with the lights on so the darkness outside and the darkness inside combined in some strange double darkness that made the air thick and inky.
"America, you…" Arthur spoke up again. His voice was light and seemed to float on the darkness, somewhere far above the thickness of the air. "America, when I go, and when England comes back, please try to at least be civil to him."
America started up, surprised that Arthur would even think of asking such a thing. Besides, he did not owe Arthur anything and would get nothing in return. You did not do anything for anyone unless there was some sort of repayment; that was the basics of negotiations!
"Why should I?" he demanded angrily. England had never been civil to him. He did not know why he had to start.
"America…" there was a hint of a reprimand in Arthur's voice, which annoyed America even more. He was being treated like a child again, even though he had gone to such lengths to prove that he was no longer a boy. He was an adult now. He did not have to listen to anyone.
"No, why should I? Everything is his fault anyway!" he snapped. "After I broke away from him, I was still prepared to forgive but he – he never forgives! All he does is wallow in his memories. It's so pathetic it makes me want to be sick every time!"
"America…"
"Can't you understand that I hate him?"
"America…" Arthur spoke in a firmer tone, though it was more patient. "It's alright. It's alright," he whispered, reaching out a hand from under the bed covers.
America did not take it, though he may have wanted to. For some reason, he felt too ashamed to take it.
"Hey, America, if you won't do that for me then will you do another favour for me?"
"What?" he asked warily.
"Help me get to the bridge."
"Right now?"
"I'm going to go back," Arthur said, struggling to sit up.
"Are you stupid? You're sick!" America supported his back as he moved, trying to push him back down as gently as possible.
"I'm feeling much better," Arthur insisted, which America was sure was pure bullshit. If anything, his face was redder than before and his voice more strained. However, he saw that Arthur was adamant. He was already swinging his legs over the bed. He would not be stopped.
America only had deep misgivings about this.
Wrapped tightly in a long coat over his pyjamas, Arthur managed to hobble, with America's support, to the bridge overlooking the dark river. America himself remained uncannily silent throughout the painstakingly slow walk, though Arthur could feel America's eyes never leaving him for a moment, as if he thought he would collapse at any second.
Eventually they made it to the same deserted bridge. Of the two lamps that illuminated on either end of the bridge, one of them had since flickered out, leaving only a single pool of yellow light and the rest in darkness.
"You know, I'm sure that England is just fine where he is," America grumbled as he let go. Arthur leaned heavily on the railing, panting slightly. His forehead was beaded with sweat but the cold wind seemed to please him.
"Maybe he is," he agreed, "but I need to go back, and you need to face him."
"I don't have to do anything!" America snapped.
"America," Arthur smiled, forgiving him for his petulance. "I am England, and he's me. Essentially, anyway. That's why I'm not worried about leaving you like this, because I know that England will take care of you."
America looked indignant that Arthur would suggest such a thing. However, concern unfortunately overcame his attempts to remain offended. It did not take an idiot to realise that Arthur was in no state to go diving into a cold river, and he would be leaving for good if he went through with it.
Even worse, England would be back. After everything that had happened, he did not know if he could face him anymore.
"I don't want to let you leave…" America tugged on Arthur's sleeve. His face burned just as red as Arthur's as he spoke. Even at that moment, he could not believe that he had said something so lame.
Arthur smiled, understanding everything even if America did not say all that he felt.
"But you will," he insisted, clambering on to the railings. America tried to stop him but he was already balancing on the other side. "You will. Because you're going to push me."
It took several seconds for this to process in America's mind.
"…What?"
"Send me back. With your own hands," Arthur insisted. Seeing America's hesitation, he smiled. "What's the matter? You can do this much, can't you?"
America bit down on his lip to stop the habitual retort from coming out. He at least had enough sense to know that now was not the time to start an argument, especially not when Arthur was precariously balanced on the edge of the bridge, ready to drop at the slightest gust of wind.
He could have pushed Arthur. It would be easy to do so, but yet he could not bring himself to lift his arm and do the deed. If Arthur's crazy theory was correct, and he would switch places by doing this then America knew that would mean that England would return.
He did not know why he would care either way. Yet at the same time he knew that he had become so accustomed to Arthur's presence that the switch would be a turn for the worse. After Arthur's patience and understanding, to meet with England's criticism and dislike was not something he could handle right now.
America grabbed Arthur's sleeve, stopping him from falling. It was just the cold that made his hand shake but the blush on his face was real.
How hard was it to put feelings into words?
"You're just like him…but at the same time you're not. You're calmer. You're lighter. You seem much happier."
Arthur smiled and shook his head. "If I'm happy then it's because of what Alfred has done for me," he said. "I don't want to blow my own horn, but Alfred always used to say that I looked best with a smile. It's the same for England too, isn't it?"
America could not say anything. He had not seen England smile properly in so long that he had almost forgotten what it looked like.
However, he was aware of Arthur's smile in front of him now. He was aware of his hand on Arthur's sleeve, this knuckles just grazing his wrist where his pulse steadily throbbed. He was aware that Arthur was sick and wanted to go home. He was aware of the cold and the darkness that seemed to follow him everywhere.
He was aware that Arthur loved someone else; another him. A better him.
But surely he could be just as great as Alfred.
"America," Arthur's voice shook him from his reverie. His burning hand touched the side of his face. "Shall I stay with you after all?"
America started. Had he heard that right? But he had always thought that Arthur loved Alfred. Why would he be willing to never go back if he really loved Alfred?
Yet he noticed that Arthur's hand was trembling against his cheek. He looked closely and saw the sadness behind that smile, the resignation, and the determination to sacrifice himself for the sake of America's happiness. It was like a blow to the gut. Although America would grudgingly admit that he liked Arthur it would be a huge blow to his pride to feel as though he were forcing Arthur to stay against his will.
No, he was through with making unreasonable demands.
Besides, heroes should not be selfish should they?
With as much effort as he could muster, America smiled. He let go of Arthur's sleeve, gently pulled down the hand against his cheek, and pressed his own against his chest. "Goodbye…"
He pushed lightly but it was enough to send Arthur falling backwards into the waters that waited below in anticipation.
And it occurred to America, as he watched Arthur fall, that he had always known that he would push him in the end. Arthur had never doubted that he would push him.
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