Reaching their goal, Alfred released Arthur and plopped down heavily onto the ratty piece of furniture with a wince when, for the first time ever in his long life, his strong limbs failed him.
England waited patiently for the other to settle down on the sofa. "Please, let me really get a look at it? I can't tell exactly where you've been shot, love..." He requested softly, already removing his coat, then his shirt, preparing to make a tourniquet, if only to make the young nation feel better.
Breathing heavily, America pushed through the sudden rush of pain. Hazily, he then reached up to wipe the sweat and blood from his face, carelessly knocking his glasses, 'Texas', to the ground without concern, and looked back to England. Seeing him remove his clothing confused him for a second before he realized what exactly the man was doing. "Okay. Yeah..." Al nodded in agreement and slowly slid his arm away from his midriff, looking away from his stomach so that he didn't have to look at his own shredded and missing flesh from the explosion again.
Once Arthur got a very clear view of Alfred's wound, he knew for a fact that his estimate had been correct. That was a mortal wound. America had to be missing massive pieces of his innards somewhere out on that battlefield, along with vast amounts of his blood.
While deciding what he was going to do, Arthur bent down and carefully picked up 'Texas', folding the glasses neatly and setting them down beside him so that they wouldn't be forgotten.
"Ah, I see what you mean Alfred," England began kindly, "I've seen much worse wounds, let's just apply some pressure to it..." Very carefully, he pressed his shirt to the injury, making sure not to cringe when Al's blood began to stain the fabric.
Shutting his eyes, Alfred let out a shuddered breath and nodded, gladly accepting the kind assurance even though, deep down, he knew Arthur's words were a lie. "Ye, yeah... " The teen paused to shiver. "Told ya I was...fine. Just dandy even." Al lied in return, laughing lightly as he forced a smile, his normally pearly white teeth stain pink with blood.
Reaching up with a gentle hand, Arthur carefully smoothed Alfred's hair from his face and continued to speak in a warm, comforting voice even as his green eyes began to water, "There, see? I bet you don't feel it much anymore, right?"
Concentrating on breathing, the America remained slouched on the couch, panting, and not opening his eyes until his companion's words really registered, and Alfred glanced down at his own stomach, surprised to see Arthur's hand pressed against his stomach.
When had that happen?
"No... not really. Not anymore. Hmm... How 'bout that." Alfred chuckled again, his laughter only stopping when another coughing fit over came him.
Once he could breath again, Al spoke softly, "... That's not... really a good thing, though, huh? Not feelin' it, I mean." America stopped, taking a moment to spit out a fresh mouthful of clotting blood. "Ah, fuck... How long, ya think it's gonna take?" The younger nation then asked, finally accepting the inevitable, and awkwardly tried to focus on his England's face as he forced his hand shaking hand onto his stomach, settling his palm over the smaller man's hand, which was already there, using the unspoken excuse of helping to hold the cloth in place as an excuse for physical contact.