Chapter 4: In Sickness and In Health

Arthur wasn't sure how many times he called Alfred, that night. At three in the morning, he was forced to fall asleep by his own drowsiness. Before he fell unconscious, however, he decided he would visit Alfred and do whatever it took to convince the younger country of how dreadfully sorry he was, the next day.

Arthur couldn't help but laugh at himself. What kind of man was he—running and crying to someone who's only confessions of love were three words and a few kisses? How stupidly desperate could he be?

Very, apparently.

He was out of bed only an hour later. He quickly prepared to depart, and then an idea struck him: He made his way down to the garden, a pair of sheaths in one hand and his pride in the other. Picking out the most beautiful flowers of the lot, the blue roses, he cut them off by their stems and went back inside.

Another hour later, the Brit arrived at Alfred's house. At first, he stood outside the property line, firming his resolve and tossing away any stupid pride he might've had left. Then, he pressed his finger to the doorbell. The servant with long, brown hair (and blue eyes) appeared. He quickly glanced at the flowers in Arthur's hand, and then he led the Brit inside, where the guest took a seat on the couch in the massive living room.

For a moment, Arthur waited. The servant didn't make a move to fetch anyone, and Arthur realized he still hadn't requested to meet with a specific person.

"Alfred, please. I need to speak to him."

"I know, sir," the servant replied. "I'm just curious: Mr. America seemed awfully upset, when he came home, last night. May I ask what happened?"

Arthur's instinctive reaction usually would've been to tell the pesky servant to go away—but, looking into those blue eyes that reminded him so much of Alfred, he was tempted to tell him everything. He wanted help and advice, and this person seemed like the type who could give it.

"Alfred and I…left off on bad terms. I've come to apologize," Arthur said carefully.

"I'll go fetch him, then," the servant said, making his way toward a hallway that led off from the room. Before he disappeared around the corner, though, he said, "You know, don't tell Mr. America I said this, but I heard him talking in his sleep, last night. He kept repeating someone's name: Arthur. Do you have any idea who that might be?"

This fact surprised the Brit. From what he knew, Alfred was usually a "dead" sleeper. The fact that he was actually restless enough to talk in his sleep was a shock all on its own. And then, to top that, he was saying Arthur's name? Had he been dreaming about him? Arthur couldn't help wondering what the dream had been about.

"Sir?"

The servant's voice reminded Arthur of the question he still hadn't answered. "No," he lied. "I don't know anyone named 'Arthur'."

The servant grinned in a way that said he didn't believe a word of what the Brit had just said. "Alright, then. I'll go fetch Mr. America, for you."

For a few minutes, Arthur was left with only the company of his thoughts. American servants could certainly be nosy, but, at least in this one's case, they didn't seem to be very judgmental. In fact, it was almost pleasant making conversation with this one.

Still, Arthur was worried: what would Alfred say when he saw him? Would he say anything at all? Would he still be angry with him?

Arthur prepared for the worst.

It was then that Alfred appeared, followed by the servant. He appeared to have just woken up: his clothes were fresh with first-use, his hair was messy, and his eyes had a groggy light to them.

Alfred took a seat in the armchair opposite of Arthur as he requested coffee from his servant, who scurried off to prepare it. He then seemed to have trouble trying to decide where to place his eyes, so he just stared into space—or, at least, not at Arthur.

He is so immature, Arthur thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Still, this immature country was mad at him, and that mattered. Some of Arthur's courage melted away at this, and his gaze turned to the roses in his hands as he tried speaking: "I-I'm really sorry, A-America. I did something stupid. I'm not embarrassed—"

"What did you just call me?" Alfred asked, suddenly, looking at Arthur for the first time. His expression was surprised.

"…America," Britain repeated.

Alfred stared at him, eyes wide. Arthur gazed right back unhesitatingly. After a moment, the American's gaze lowered. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

"For what?" asked Arthur.

"I've been such a jerk. You've been trying so hard to say how sorry you are for what you did, and I've been doing nothing but treating you like crap and…disrespecting you. I'm sorry."

Arthur was astonished. It hadn't even occurred to him what a jerk Alfred had been. He'd been so love-struck, he'd only seen what he had done wrong. For the first time, he felt a twinge of anger toward the younger country. How could he be so stupid?

Then, looking into Alfred's ocean-blue eyes, he felt his anger wash away. The younger country had acknowledged his own angst before Arthur had even had the chance to point it out.

Standing, Arthur covered the short distance between them and presented Alfred with the bouquet of roses. The American looked at him, puzzled, but Arthur's mouth was a hard line of defiance. Still, the Brit managed to say, "It's alright. We were both stupid."

The American grinned and took the flowers. Seeing that smiled filled Arthur with relief. The Brit's hand went to the young country's head, and he did something silly—such as ruffling his hair. He then parted those golden bangs and, leaning over, planted a kiss on Alfred's unusually warm forehead. This worried him, a bit. He pulled away and placed a hand on the American's forehead. "You're warm," he said.

"That's what she said," Alfred snickered.

"Ugh! No, you git! You know that's not what I meant!"

"Relax, it's just a cold. I'll survive," the American said, still giggling like the gutter-brained kid he was.

"It's not just about survival, you twit. You should rest and try to get better."

At that time, the servant returned, holding a saucer with a coffee cup on it. He set it on the end table, and, before leaving, Arthur saw him grinning at him. For some reason, the Brit couldn't resist smiling back.

The flowers were placed in a crystal-glass vase on the kitchen table by the servant. Arthur managed to convince Alfred to get bed-rest. Meanwhile, Arthur took up the role of caretaker—an appropriate evening of the score for that role. For the most part, he left the younger country alone, not wanting to get sick, himself. The times he did visit to deliver food or water, Alfred was sleeping like he hadn't done so in days.

During one of his visits, Arthur quickly became tempted to plant a kiss on that sweet face, even more carefree than Alfred appeared to be when awake. However, Arthur knew this passing notion was ridiculous. Now was neither the time nor place.

He was just about to step out, when he heard America's voice call him back: "Arthur?"

The Brit spun back around to face him. "Yes?"

The look that Alfred was giving him made Arthur turn burning-red. Did Alfred honestly believe he looked sexy like that? Rolled over on his side with his head resting against his hand like that? Okay, maybe he did, but Arthur still thought it was rude.

"Wha-what the hell do you think you're doing?" Arthur cried. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look-?"

Alfred, however, merely chuckled. "I just wanted to thank you for all you've done for me."

Arthur stopped, feeling his embarrassment ebb. "I—well, you're welcome."

Alfred really did look cute like that, but Arthur stepped out of the room before the temptation to kiss him took over.

When Arthur went to check on Alfred, that evening, the younger country looked worse than ever. He was sleeping, but he was sweaty and white as a ghost. He was also tossing in his sleep and muttering words too softly for Arthur to hear until he came close. He was saying the same three words, over and over—like a stuck record player: "England, I'm sorry."

Arthur frowned. The way Alfred said those words sounded so desperate. They reminded him or an event that took place long ago, but they weren't the same words.

"Don't go," Alfred mumbled.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. The younger country would probably be mortified if he told him what kinds of things he said in his sleep. Still, some part of Arthur made him step toward Alfred and sit on the edge of the bed. The American didn't stir at his presence until the Brit touched his shoulder.

Alfred woke with a start, making Arthur jump. "Good grief, it's only me. Calm the hell down."

"Oh, sorry," Alfred replied, rubbing his eyes. "What's up? What time is it?"

"You were talking in your sleep," Arthur said. "May I ask what you were dreaming about?" Though, he had the feeling he already knew.

"Oh, um, it was nothing," Alfred said, trying to blow it off with a sleepy smile.

"Alfred," Arthur said sternly, "was it the War?"

The American's smile immediately faded. He looked away.

"Alfred…it's okay," the Brit said, carefully turning Alfred's head back toward him with a finger under his chin. "We had a rough past. Look where we are, now. I never would've thought you and I would've ended up this way, but we have. Be happy."

Then, before Arthur could stop him, Alfred landed a kiss on his lips.

"Idiot! You're going to end up making me ill, too!" Arthur said, pushing Alfred away from him.

Alfred smirked. "Then I guess we'll both need bed-rest," he said evilly.

"Git," Arthur said, standing up and making his way out of the room. Trying not to think about what the gutter-brained kid had just said, he realized he himself had a hard time taking his advice and letting go of the past.