XX

Here I am

chapter 12

XX

England had had his suspicions before but now he was absolutely certain that this world is utterly dead of all magic. He sighed as he tried for the umpteenth time to start a magical circle, but his magic had been shrivelled to the level of a conjurer's tricks. It was truly humiliating.

Annoyed at his lack of success despite managed to get his hands on several black magic books since buying the herbs he might need, England headed towards the door. He needed some fresh air. Perhaps it would allow him to clear his head and think of a different way to get back.

"England, where are you going?" Alfred, unfortunately, popped his head around the door just as England was about to quietly slip out.

"I just wanted a breath of fresh air," he grumbled. Did he really have to explain his every move?

"I'll come with you!" Alfred hurried towards him, grabbing his coat from the back of the couch.

"There's no need. I can look after myself."

"No, it's fine. I have nothing to do. I'll come with you," he insisted.

England wanted to roll his eyes. "You're like a dog."

"I'm sure it's a trait that we both share," Alfred grinned, but England failed to share his amusement. Noticing his bad mood, Alfred's expression softened. "America will fall in love with you. I mean, if he hasn't already," he reassured him.

England instinctively recoiled from such careless words. "Idiot, what the hell are you talking about?" he shouted. Honestly, why did both versions have to say whatever the hell they wanted to say?

"Don't think lightly of me! I know these things!" Alfred looked proud as he shrugged on his long coat.

"I hope that he doesn't. It would just be a bother for me," England muttered.

"But aren't you lonely?"

"America is the last person I would want to share my loneliness with!" he snapped.

Alfred shrugged. "It wouldn't be hard to pretend that you're Arthur and tell you that I love you," he said so casually that England blushed bright red. "You could pretend that I'm America…but we both know that that won't satisfy you or me. We both want the person we love the most."

England said nothing, although he was severely tempted to smack Alfred around the side of his head.

However Alfred looked at him with a sombre expression that slightly cowed him, although England would fiercely deny ever shrinking back from such an idiot. "You do love America, don't you?" it was said as more of a statement than a question.

"That was…a long time ago," England sighed, though he did not want to think about the angel in his memory, about the cute little boy who had loved him unconditionally.

"You still love him, don't you?" Alfred nudged him.

England looked at him firmly. "I…"

His next words were met with water. Cold river water flooded into his mouth, and he briefly thought; 'Oh bloody hell, not this again!' as the weight of his clothes dragged him down to the bottom.

It took a matter of seconds for his limbs to start struggling against the current. Swimming upwards as water filled his lungs and stung his eyes, England broke through the surface, gasping and spluttering for breath.

"Bloody hell, it's cold!" he swore as the cold wind hit him.

Though it was dark, he could clearly identify where he was and it was not too far from his home, but what did that matter? In a matter of moments he would probably be pulled back to where Alfred was and then Alfred would see his sodden state and make a fuss and insist on a bath and sleep straight away, no arguments.

Paddling to the bank, he gripped the grassy edge and hauled himself out. But for the sound of traffic roaring distantly around him, he was utterly alone.

He waited.

Nothing happened.

England frowned and hugged his knees. He did not know how these switches happened, but perhaps they were just being slower than usual. Yet still he waited and, after five minutes, he started to wonder if this was it; he was home and for good.

That meant that Arthur must have somehow worked a way to get himself back. He wanted to congratulate his other self for his ingenuity but it was cold and dark and all he wanted to do was go home.

"Finally," he sighed. It was about time this ridiculous swap had been put to an end. Now he would not have to worry about any Americas or Alfreds or any of the like.

Dragging his wet, cold body back to his house he was slightly annoyed to see that it was unlocked, but he would not quibble over details at the moment. It was dark in his house; everything had been left as it had been before. It was quiet and there was not another soul to be seen, not even his fairies.

England frowned. He had been living alone for a long time now. There was no reason to be disappointed by its emptiness now.

XX

Arthur's thoughts swam lazily as his consciousness returned to him. He opened his eyes tentatively and was greeted by mountains of white blankets and the person sleeping next to him.

"A – Alfred?" he lifted his head groggily. They were in bed, almost smothered by the heavy blankets that Arthur could have almost believed that everything, his whole adventure in that other world, had been nothing more than a dream. Almost…

Alfred stirred. He slung an arm around Arthur's waist, pulling him closer, snuggling for warmth. "Arthur? You're awake now?" one blue eye opened blearily. Though he looked tired, he still managed to smile. "I was worried when you came back and you wouldn't wake up. I thought that…no, never mind. I missed you," he said, still smiling despite how worried he had been when the switch had occurred.

"How much work did I skip?" Arthur pulled himself up into a sitting position.

Alfred frowned, a little offended that that was the first thing Arthur had asked. However, he was more than used to Arthur's work-conscious ethics. In fact, he had missed it slightly. "Don't worry. I've sorted out everything for you," he reassured him, tugging his lover back down into the blankets.

This was real. He really was back. He could feel the blankets underneath his fingers warmed by body heat, he could hear Alfred's voice as he spoke to him, bask in the warmth as their skin graced against each other in light embraces.

"Alfred," he cupped the side of Alfred's face. "I'm glad to see you again."

Alfred leaned in and pressed a hand against Arthur's forehead. "You have a slight fever," he frowned. "Didn't that idiot America look after you?"

As amusing as it was to hear Alfred call himself, or the other him, an idiot Arthur was more concerned with the thought of America blaming England for his disappearance. He dearly hoped that the two of them would get along. At least, he knew that England could not possibly hate America as much as he let on.

"Oh so you know about the other world too," Arthur murmured, suddenly feeling pensive. Seeing America made him appreciate everything that he had in this world. Seeing America had been slightly sad and strange, but he also had hope since he was sure that he knew England, and perhaps even America, better than America himself.

"I met England. He looked just like you," Alfred looked thoughtful. He held Arthur's hand against the pillow, fingers weaving together.

"America looked just like you too," Arthur moved closer, "but he was different. Something had happened in the past that made him bitter and angry. He was just like you. Or what you could have been."

Soft chuckles escaped Alfred's lips as he heaved himself up to plant a kiss against Arthur's forehead. His laughter bubbled against Arthur's skin, hot breath whispering over his flushed skin.

"It'll be okay. Those two…I'm sure they'll be okay. Those two still have time," he said confidently, as if he had already peeked into the future and found it bright.

Arthur smiled. It was good to be back, to hear Alfred clear away all of his doubts with just a few words, to share a bed together, to talk together. Briefly, he thought about America and England and if they would ever do the same one day.

But Alfred was right. They were countries. What might have been an irreparable situation for a human was not impossible for a country to fix. They had time

"All the time in the world," he agreed sleepily, closing his eyes. He curled up next to Alfred, listening to his partner's heartbeat.

They might not have as much time as their counterparts though, for now, he was sure that theirs was better spent sleeping in the arms of the other.

XX

Stepping out of the shower, England quickly dried himself down with a towel. It was late and he had wanted to go to sleep an hour ago. Watching the steam escape, he flung the damp towel onto the rack and started pulling on the pair of green pyjamas – they were the softest pair that he owned and saved only for when he really needed his sleep.

As he finished off towelling his hair dry, he heard a rather loud bang that made his heart jump a little. He froze. It had come from downstairs. The wind perhaps?

However, as he ventured downstairs to check, he could find nothing odd. None of the windows were open - he checked them all just in case - and the front door was firmly closed. The kitchen was empty, as was the corridor. He even checked the pantry just in case.

England drifted into the front-room, not bothering to turn on the lights as he quickly surveyed the familiar surroundings. There was nothing there either.

The sudden sound of footsteps him made him jump around. He almost screamed as he did so, nearly bumping into America, who had been approaching him from behind.

"Bloody hell you scared me! How the hell did you get in?" he squawked.

"Arthur gave me the spare key," America looked unimpressed as dangled the spare he had been given in front of England's nose.

"Well Arthur is not in charge of this house," England snapped, snatching they key from America's fingers.

Frowning, America followed England as he angrily marched back into the kitchen. "You've got a mountain of paper work to do. Our next meeting is in a few weeks," he reminded him, eyeing England's tense back in the darkness of the unlit kitchen.

Though it annoyed England that America did not even have the decency to ask how he was – even if it was just empty courtesy – but he bit his lip and did not say anything about the matter.

"Then kindly stop disturbing me and let me do my work," he muttered instead, spinning around angrily to face him.

America was right in front of him the moment that he turned. England stumbled back in surprise, hitting the table counter right behind him. Before he could move, America shoved two fingers into his mouth and pulled the edges of his lips as far apart as possible.

"England…smile…"

Rather than smile, England almost gagged and bit down on America's fingers. He threw his head back, pushing America away. "What the hell?" he spluttered, coughing up the taste of America's skin.

"Arthur must have been boasting. It's not cute at all…" America looked disappointed.

"What did you say?"

America looked at him glumly. He retreated backwards with a look of dissatisfaction, almost until he was out of the kitchen entirely.

England sighed. "So I'm assuming you spent time with the other me. It's the same for me too. I spent time with the other…you. He was an idiot," he grumbled, "…but he was a kind idiot."

If possible, America's frown deepened. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the side of the doorframe in a petulant manner. "So you like him, huh?"

"I didn't say that," England said sharply. "But it is true that those two are better people than we could ever be. Of course they're better people. We're countries! We never had the time or freedom that they did to fix anything or - "

"That's just an excuse, isn't it?"

England shook his head, keeping his gaze trained to the point below America's jaw line, "We're countries. It can't be helped, right?"

America felt like smashing something. Preferably something expensive that England dearly loved. He reminded himself that this was why he hated England. Such cowardice made him shrink back in revulsion.

"Is that why?" he demanded.

They could not overcome their differences because they were countries, they could not be reconciled because they were countries, they hated each other because they were countries…such reasoning stuck painfully in America's throat.

England limply shrugged. He could not bring himself to look into America's eyes for fear of what he would find. He was such a pathetic person.

"It can't be helped, right?"

America was disappointed. He was not sure why he was disappointed since he was not sure what he had hoped for but he knew that that sinking feeling in his chest had to be disappointment. He was also angry, he reckoned, although he did not know why he was angry either.

"If that's all you have to say then I'm going home," he said, a little snappier than he had intended, but he was annoyed he told himself so why should he not be snappy?

England's anger flared up. That anger that America was so used to being on the receiving end of, somehow seemed so much scarier now. "So go home! Who asked you to come here? Let me get some sleep!" he snarled, shoving him away.

America huffed. "Fine! I'm sure you're disappointed to see me anyway. After hanging around Alfred, I bet I must be a big disappointment to you!" he spun around on his heel, marching for the door.

"You git, don't insult me by suggesting that I would be so low as to compare you two together! Alfred was a nice guy but you're the one who's here! I'm looking at you, America!"

He stopped before he could even leave the kitchen.

Why did those two always say such thoughtless things?

"Are you sure?" America turned back, fixing England in his gaze. Yes, this was England, not Arthur. He could have believed Arthur when he had said it but England was different. England was not so kind to him. "Whenever you look at me you always seem to be looking at me when I was a kid, not the me I am now."

"Don't put the angel of my memory on the same level as you!" England snapped. "I know what you're like. You're childish. You're immature and rude and you think too highly of yourself. You have terrible manners, you're ungrateful, you don't think before you speak, you can't read the atmosphere either!"

England's expression suddenly shifted. America stared on in wonder as England retreated against the wall, bowing his head as if the truth was curling in on him.

"But I know…" he replied softly, almost too soft to hear, "that you're enthusiastic and you have a strong sense of justice! Even someone like me can admit that you're generous and you're kind. Sometimes you can be too kind. Sometimes you can be so kind you can hurt the person you're being kind to. That's the sort of person you are after all."

"Well then you're stupid. What part of me is kind? Have I ever been kind to you?"

England glared at him. "You think that I'm stupid?" he hissed. "Do you think that my head is full of sentimental mush? I know all this because I was looking at you, idiot! I was looking at you the whole time!"

America looked away; partly to conceal the blush that sudden bloomed across his cheeks, partly because he did not want to look at England at that moment. What the hell was this? he wanted to demand. He had been so sure all this time. All this time he had told himself that he was the only one, that only he could be pathetic enough to cling on, to not be able to let go.

He had been intent on not showing this stupid, laughable side of himself to anyone else. He had been so careful in making sure that everything he did could not be taken for weakness. He had done everything perfectly, and yet he could not stand being thought of as inferior to Alfred in England's eyes.

Had everything then been for nothing?

America clutched his head and groaned. This was too complicated for him. "Oh God, I hate you! You always make my head hurt!" he complained.

England scowled. "Go away, America. That'll cure you," he said dryly.

"Don't wanna!"

Why was it, the more real the feeling, the harder it was to say? Why was it, the more important the feeling, the heavier it felt? Why was it is so hard to say what one really thought? Since when had lying become easier than telling the truth?

"England…" America straightened. He took too paces into the kitchen. Closer…closer..

Words were so clumsy.

"What…?" England looked like a cornered rabbit.

America opened his mouth but he did not know what to say. What was there to say? What could he possibly say which would be conveyed properly? Even if he spoke now there was no guarantee that England would understand the words he spoke.

"England…" he tested his voice. His heart was beating furiously but he ignored it. "Me too…I mean, I was as well. Watching, I mean. That is…I was always looking at you as well…"

America's face burned. He had wanted to say something elegant, something profound, but all he had managed was some clumsy stuttering.

"It's late," England glanced outside at the almost inky blackness haunting the windows.

"Oh…right. You want to sleep," America sighed, smiling bitterly to himself. Of course England would not understand. They had gone on so long misunderstanding each other that anything they said now would never reach the other.

"Why don't you stay the night. It's too late to be checking into a hotel, isn't it?" England offered, causing America's heart to accidentally skip a beat.

"Well, I have gotten used to sleeping on your couch."

Maybe…

"There's a spare room upstairs."

Ah, I counted incorrectly. Last chapter will be the last chapter.