hetalia_kink

England has gone missing due to some form of accident (ie; plane crash, terrorist attack, etc) and everyone thinks he’s dead. They all go through a period of mourning and grieving and self-pity, thinking things like ‘maybe I should have been nicer to him’ etc. America is the worst hit and is rightly devastated. However, just as everyone is getting ready to prepare a memorial and such, Arthur turns up, looking as if he’s been to hell and back, but he’s alive!

Lots of tears and heart wrenching stuff with a gloriously fluffy ending, please.

_{Note: The thing that happened to England affected the entire island of Great Britain, so I mentioned Scotland, too. The name I've decided to randomly give him the name "Logan". Just an FYI.}

--

Alfred leaned back, touched the bottle to his lips, tilted his head back, and let the burning liquid slide down his throat in one solid gulp. He coughed as he swallowed, wiping his mouth in an undignified manner with one sleeve. He lowered his arm to his knee, the bottle still clutched in his hand, and turned his eyes to his brother beside him.

Matthew was staring at him, giving him a half-comforted, half-stern look.

"Being completely wasted constantly isn't going to help matters," Matthew said through gritted teeth. His arms were crossed so tightly around his chest Alfred was sure he was going to cut off circulation across his entire body. Both men were sitting on the floor of a grandly furnished room, with wine colored plush carpeting and velvet drapes, cream and beige painted walls and filigree molding all round the edges of the room. Beautiful gold-gilded chairs lined the room, and a piano stood in the corner of the room. (Francis claimed it was an original Hollein Bösendorfer Imperial Grand Piano, but Austria scoffed at the claim and a scuffle had ensued.)

Not that Alfred cared much for any of these things. He just wanted to be as drunk as possible for as long as possible without killing himself. And Matthew was in his way.

"I can do whatever I want," Alfred responded, licking the rim of the dark bottle. Matthew said nothing in response, and only stared at his brother with a look of sadness and remorse. He couldn't stay angry at Alfred for long; not when the alternative to Alfred being drunk was Alfred being heartbroken.

The room was littered with the nations who weren't currently helping the Red Cross and other aid groups sent by the U.N. pick their way through the water-ravaged island of Great Britain. They were all stationed in France, right on the edge of the Channel, taking turns going across the water in large boats to try to help as many people as possible.

And, of course, to locate Arthur and Logan Kirkland.

Matthew was in charge of watching over Alfred, and when he got to the official "meet-and-depart" room, Alfred was already three beers in and sitting in the floor, chattering wildly with Feliciano, who had been watching him before (and clearly failed).

There was a sudden creak and both blondes turned their heads towards the doorway, where Elizabeta was poking a cinnamon-colored head into the room.

"Still no word," she said, dejected. She closed the door behind her and sidled past the sleeping Heracles, who was resting for his next shift. She sat down on Alfred's other side and simultaneously stole the bottle from his fingertips.

"Hey--"

"Shush you," she said, placing the bottle against a chair and pulling Alfred into an embrace. He lay with his head on her shoulder for a moment, his arms tense at his sides, unsure of how to react to the sudden swell of emotion. He awkwardly placed an arm on her hip and buried his face in her shoulder, and she stroked his blonde hair gently. Matthew watched the scene and banged his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

Waiting was the hardest part.

Alfred lay in a stupor in Hungary's warm embrace, his brain swimming from heartache and alcohol. Great Britain, the entire island, had been inundated with rapid flooding for six days. Six days of rain, of landslides, of never-ending clouds, of people clinging to what's left of their homes, sopping wet, not even a penny to their names, waiting to be rescued from land that had been a stronghold for thousands of years.

And neither Arthur, nor his elder brother, Logan, had been heard from since right before the storms. Alfred tossed the last words he had spoken to Arthur around in his mind over and over, recalling the look on his beau's face, the way his mouth twitched as he pretended not to be amused by Alfred's terrible jokes. The last sentence, their last exchange-- Alfred's breath hitched in his throat and he bit his lower lip.

"Alright, I'm going to bed now, you git."

"You're no fun. It's so early!

"It's early for you, perhaps. I'm five hours ahead, it's 1 a.m., I am going to sleep." Arthur turned away from his monitor to pull his shirt over his head and pull on a nightshirt, and he turned back, and saw the dejected gaze of his lover on the screen, dying sunlight filtering through the windows in the background.

Arthur sat back down at his computer and gently touched the computer screen, and Alfred followed suit.

"I'll see you very soon, my love."

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

"Goodnight."

"...We just heard something," a solemn voice said, pulling Alfred out of his memories. Roderich had been playing something softly at the piano and he stopped immediately.

Ludwig was standing in the doorway, wearing rubber boots that reached his knees and a dark green rain slicker that made his pallid complexion even paler. He licked his lips and looked around the room, and all of the nations who were there waited with baited breath. Ludwig had been in England until he got back-- whatever it was he had to tell them, he couldn't tell them on the phone.

Matthew slid his hand into Alfred's and squeezed his fingers.

"We finally made it to Arthur's house," Ludwig said, and the small crowd of nations that were in the doorway behind him filtered into the room. Some of them were also wearing raincoats and boots, and looked downtrodden. That couldn't mean anything good. Elizabeta tightened her grip in Alfred, still holding his head to her chest, although he was facing Ludwig.

Ludwig glanced around the room, and, while holding the door, took a deep, trembling breath.

"The house was destroyed. Completely. The second floor was leveled straight onto the first... everything inside. Gone." There was a heavy silence. Francis bumped into the door and wiggled his way into the room, his normally well-kept hair pulled back hastily, mud sticking to his face. It seemed as if the entire world were holding their breaths, waiting to hear.

"...we found all of Arthur's things," Ludwig explained. "His passport, his I.D., his government I.D.... his cellphone, his keys. Everything."

"His cars were even still there," France said with a sigh. "Every single one of them."

"What does that mean?" Lichtenstein squeaked from the corner of the room. She was holding onto the body of the piano so tightly it seemed like her fingers would dig right into the polished wood.

"That means he never left his house. He was in that house when the storms hit." Alfred could feel his entire body trembling beyond his control. He didn't realize how tightly he was gripping Canada until he heard a contained whimper from beside him, and saw Matthew's eyes dotted with tears. His hand was white. Ludwig looked around the room, then he turned to the floor, shoulders heaving.

Don't say it, Alfred willed at Ludwig. Please, God, Ludwig, don't say it.

"...We think that Arthur is dead."

The air in the room shifted. It seemed as if time stood still. The nations who had been with Ludwig in England all looked at each other-- they already knew. They had seen the destruction with their own eyes. The rest of the room was completely frozen, until Lichtenstein broke the spell. She was still gripping the piano as hard as she could, and she suddenly fell forward into it, nearly hitting the floor as Vash caught her. She collapsed onto her knees, her knuckles white, staring up at Ludwig.

As if on cue, the other Europeans followed suit in similar reactions. Roderich, who had stood up when they entered, slumped back down onto the piano bench, sitting next to Prussia, who, for the first time, had nothing to say. Finland was near them, sitting on the floor, and he was the first to break. He began to cry. It wasn't sobs or hysterics, just simple, fat tears welling into the corners of his eyes and sliding down his cheeks onto his shirt. Sweden rushed across the room in a heartbeat, crouching down and wrapping Tino into a crushing embrace.

Eyes traveled around the room as the silence was replaced by haggard breaths. Ludwig's gaze eventually fell into the corner where Elizabeta was crouched, holding Alfred in her arms. Other nations starting pouring into the room, people who had been in other rooms, on computers and talking on phones, to hear the news.

"What's happening--"

"We heard there was news--" The room bustled with tears and questions and chaos, but all Ludwig could watch was Elizabeta, kneeling in the corner, Alfred's head pressed against her chest, stroking his hair and murmuring to him gently. Matthew was sitting on Alfred's other side, his knees to his chest, staring at the ceiling, lips moving in a silent prayer.

Even though he couldn't see them from where he was standing, he saw the ravines that the tears made against his rosy cheeks.

Alfred sobbed himself unconscious.

--

<sub>God damn word limit.

I have no idea where this is even going! Hooray! I hope OP and others enjoy! More sadness to be had later on!</sub>

^{Thank you all for such kind words of encouragement! I hope I don't disappoint! Btw Wales is "William Kirkland". I just like the name William is all. Please enjoy!}

--

Alfred’s head was swimming.

He groaned, deep in his throat, and rolled over onto his side. (He had no idea when he’d ended up in a bed.) The pillow was soft beneath his throbbing head, and his throat was dry and painful. He realized he had a retched taste in his mouth, and his stomach was gurgling. Had he eaten lately?

To be honest, he couldn’t remember anything from before the news broke. He breathed deeply through his nose, listening to the whistling his breath made. Eventually, his eyes opened. He was lying on his side, head propped up by a cream colored pillow, his vision hazy because his glasses were nowhere to be found.

Alfred rolled onto his back and stared at the dark ceiling, touching a finger to his cheek. His cheek felt swollen and puffy, and he realized his eyes were stinging. How long had he been lying there, crying? He couldn’t remember much from after the announcement—and he had no idea what time of day it was. Was it even the same day? His stomach was telling him that he hadn’t ingested anything substantial in awhile...

There were muffled voices moving around outside the room, but Alfred couldn’t pinpoint any of them. He just laid his arm over his head, staring at the ceiling, trying to make out the ridges in the ceiling. He groped around on the side table and grabbed his cell phone, checking the date.

It had been two days. Two days since Ludwig had walked into the room, and ended his world.

Alfred coughed as tightness grew in his chest, like he couldn’t breathe. He dropped the phone onto the floor and just stared at the ceiling, happy for the darkness surrounding him. His stomach was still making noises but he ignored them.

He was supposed to be happy on this day. This was the day that, for the first time in four months, he could be able to touch and see Arthur in person. Alfred wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes and imagined what should have happened on that day.

He would have gone to the airport, waiting eagerly, watching as the private plane descended from the skies and landed on the tarmac. He would have stood by the gate, watching as Arthur breezed through customs (diplomatic immunity and all those things) and they wouldn’t even embrace, just an enthusiastic handshake because that’s how Arthur was, he never did such physical things in public.

Alfred would have eagerly grabbed his suitcase and the two would have left the building, going to Alfred’s car, and Alfred would have tossed everything into the back seat. He would have opened the door for Arthur, gesturing gallantly, and Arthur would have blushed and made a fuss but eventually sidled into the car.

Once he was inside the car himself, Alfred would have slid over and pecked Arthur’s cheek ever-so-gently, and roared the car to life, and they would have driven back to Alfred’s Virginia home, a big, grand estate, that had survived countless wars. An estate that was a descendant of the one that Arthur himself had built.

And they would have entered the house, the building sighing in its old age, and as soon as the door was closed (it would have been dusk, and the dying reds and pinks of the sun would have been filtering through the windows) Alfred would drop Arthur’s bags, and he would have swooped Arthur into a crushing hug, running his fingertips over every inch of his body that he could find, relishing in his touch and his presence.

Then they would have kissed, such a simple action. Alfred wasn’t sure who would have engaged the kiss but it would have happened eventually, and he would have cupped Arthur’s face in his hands and nearly collapsed in his unique taste of salt and tea, and he would have moved on from his lips to his cheek, to his neck, his collar bone, every inch of skin available to him—maybe he would have even pushed him against the wall by the door, and Arthur would have his arms wrapped around his neck, face flushed, brows furrowed and muttering something about “hyper-sexualized Americans” but he wouldn’t have backed away, as a matter of fact, if Alfred had let him, he would have started disrobing him right there in the hall.

“I haven’t seen you in person for four months,” Alfred would have explained, kissing each eyebrow. “I’m just trying to get my fill of you before you leave again.”

“I’m here for five days,” Arthur would have replied, but his knees would be buckling at his touch. “Can we at least eat so we have the energy to shag properly?”

And Alfred would have laughed.

“He looks peaceful,” a voice said above him. Alfred didn’t even realize that he had closed his eyes; he imagined he must still look asleep. The voice was soft and hoarse, and somewhat familiar. It had the same clipped accent that Arthur did.

He opened his eyes, and as he did, he nearly bolted upright at the sight. Standing above him was a young man with the same pale skin, the same sandy blonde hair, the same eyebrows—but his eyes were the color of amber, and his sandy blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and his bangs were parted to the side. He was holding a mug in his hands and his eyebrows perked as Alfred realized who it was and settled back down into his bed.

It’s only Wales, he thought. Wales looked at him quizzically and sipped from his mug. Why isn’t he saying anything? Alfred wondered. Wales (or William Kirkland) had a deep, angry bruise running from his right eyebrow down his face, and his right eye was also swollen. He was wearing a simple t-shirt and Alfred could see the bandages poking out from underneath. As he drank from his mug, Alfred noticed that his left wrist was in some kind of brace, and his entire right arm was wrapped up in thick gauze bandages. Alfred couldn’t see through his clothing, but he could tell, just by the way that William was holding himself, that there were other injuries running down his body. He winced at the sight.

“William?” Alfred asked, and he winced at how hoarse and strained his voice sounded. William blinked and stared at him, lowering the mug. “What time is it?”

“Alfred? You... oh my God,” he muttered, and he ran to the doorway, poking his head out. “He’s awake! He’s awake and he’s coherent!” Alfred just stared and when William had turned back around, he was sitting up in the bed, rubbing his eyes. It was difficult adjusting to the light pouring in from the hallway, but as soon as William was no longer in the doorway, Francis appeared, hair still tied back, wearing a light jacket stained with mud. He had a mixture of joy and sorrow spread across his face.

“Oh, Alfred,” he muttered, and at that moment Canada shoved his way into the room, gripping the doorframe. He stared at Alfred for a moment, and then launched himself on Alfred as if he hadn’t seen Alfred in years.

“Ooof—“ Alfred grunted as Matthew dug his face into his brother’s chest. “Matt—“

“Matthew, stop suffocating him,” Francis scolded, turning on the lamp beside the bed. More nations had gathered at the doorway, and as light flooded the room, Alfred realized where he was. He was in one of Francis’s spare rooms, a small, cabin-like affair that had simple curtains, a desk and chair, a closet, and of course, a gigantic bed. (Every spare room had a bed big enough for at least three.) Matthew slid down off of his brothers body, but he kept a hand on his shoulder.

“Alfred, how are you feeling?” Matthew asked, and laid a hand to the back of his forehead. Alfred sat in silence, the weight of what had happened settling into his heart.

England is dead. England is dead. England is dead.

“Alfred?” Matthew asked tenderly. “You’re a bit warm. Francis, the medicine—“ Suddenly there was a spoon at his lips and his head was tipped back, and Alfred gagged and coughed as the offending liquid slid down his throat. It burned and tasted of aspirin.

“What was that?” Alfred demanded, and Matthew offered him a weak smile.

“Fever reducing medicine,” he explained. “You got sick. You weren’t the only person who got sick, but I think—I think the news set you over the edge. You’ve been feverish the last few days.”

“Feverish?” Alfred echoed. He placed a hand on his forehead, he was feeling a bit dizzy.

“You were... you were also having fits,” Matthew explained, lowering his voice. William was still leaning against the doorway, Francis beside him. “This is the first time you’ve spoken to us coherently.”

“Kiku came all this way to see you, you know,” Francis offered, and Alfred glanced his eyes towards Francis. “He’s not in the greatest condition, but when he heard what happened, and that you’d... taken ill—“

“Where is he?” Alfred interrupted, just as Matthew was shooting Francis a death glare.

“He’s in the other room, shall I send him in? He’s quite worried about you.”

“Okay,” Alfred answered, and Matthew turned back to Alfred, crestfallen. The normal Alfred, the real Alfred that they had witnessed for a few minutes, had disappeared again, and grieving, heartbroken Alfred had taken his place.

Matthew thought of the stages of grieving, and what a toll it took on the body and soul. Most of them had gone through the first stage the last two days; denial. Once the news had spread, that all of the other members of the Kirkland family had been retrieved save for Arthur, nations came and went, many in pure denial that one of their own could be dead.

They’d searched and searched, even after finding Logan huddled within a flooded high school, on the top floors, with hundreds of students who’d been trapped for days. He’d been worse for wear, slightly delirious and dehydrated, a combination of his own physical injuries and the effects of what happened to his country.

But there had still been no sign of Arthur.

Alfred perked a little bit as Japan appeared in the doorway, giving him a wan smile, Heracles hovering behind him, his hands on his shoulders.

“Heracles, I can manage,” Japan said softly to the larger man, but Heracles remained where he stood, although he dropped his hands. Japan walked to the chair beside Alfred’s bed and sat down gingerly, wincing as the arm that was in a sling hit the edge of the chair.

At the very least, seeing Kiku faring well made his heart hurt a tiny bit less. He loved Kiku like a brother, just about as much as he loved Matthew, and knowing his old friend was going through problems of his own and he still came to see him made him feel better.

“How are you, Alfred?” Kiku asked. Alfred shifted and the smallest of smiles appeared on his flushed face.

^{I apologize for how dry this chapter is. I just had to put some stuff in there to set up some future heart-wrenching scenes. This is turning out to be much longer than I expected! Thank you all for your encouragement. Btw, Northern Ireland is Madailéin Mackay and Ireland is Mícheál Mac Cnáimhín. They're fraternal twins, and related to the Kirklands. Hooray!}

--


“We finally got the phone lines working,” Ludwig announced as Matthew entered the room. Logan was sitting across from Ludwig at the table, legs crossed, looking the worse for wear, as usual.

“I’m going back as soon as we’re done here,” Logan said, looking up at Matthew. Matthew just shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged unceremoniously. He didn’t have anything to say to Logan. No one had anything to say to anyone, really. It seemed as if the topic of Arthur had become taboo, and everyone dove head-first into the relief efforts.

“So, we should try each station that we heard of,” Logan said, and he opened a folder lying in front of him, trailing down a list of numbers. “Let’s try... this one first. This is around where Madailéin lives.”

“You still haven’t heard from them?” Matthew asked, and it came out harsher then he’d meant it. He sighed as Logan frowned at him.

“Yes, I have heard from my siblings, they’re just dealing with this in their own way and their phone lines are really—is she there?” Logan interrupted himself as Ludwig’s eyebrows raised.

“Yes, Madailéin Mackay... is she what? Well, she’s related to a Mícheál Mac Cnáimhín, not Mackay...”

“What,” Logan said, and his tone suddenly went from excitement to annoyance. There was a rise on the phone and Ludwig jerked the phone away from his ear. “What is it? Is it Madailéin?”

“No, it’s—It’s Mícheál—“

“What? Give me the Goddamn phone,” Logan demanded, and Ludwig handed the phone to the irate Scot who practically glared into the speaker. “Mícheál? What the flying fuck are you doing in Northern Ireland?” There was a pause, and Logan frowned. “Where’’s Maddy? She alright? Yes, I’m—I’m aware, you idiot—what? No, let—let me talk to her—“ Logan rolled his eyes and gave both Ludwig and Matthew a look. “Brothers,” he mouthed at them, and pointed to the phone. Both Ludwig and Matthew knew the feeling of dealing with unruly brothers. “Hi, Maddy, it’s Logan. Tell your twin to shove the fuck—what?” Logan’s breath caught in his throat, and he bit his lower lip, his eyes casting to the floor. “No, Maddy, I—Is Mícheál still there? What did he tell you? He—what? Oh...” he closed his eyes. “Yes, it is true, I’m sorry I couldn’t get in touch with you, all the phone lines are—what? Maddy—don’t cry, Madailéin...” He rubbed his face with his free hand, shaking his head gently. He dropped his hand and stared at the floor, green eyes shining—the same eyes Arthur had.

“I know... we probably will soon, we’re going to the house in a few days to salvage some things... the what? Yes, I can try... What? Tell Mícheál to go fuck himself from me, okay? I—We just chose the number closest to where you live, I guess we’re good at guessing? Are your phone lines—okay, I’ll take that number down—“ he made a motion for a pen and Ludwig handed him a napkin and a pencil. “Alright. Yes. We haven’t talked about it... well Feliciano mentioned something about this Friday... we’re going to the house Wednesday, that’s why. Okay. I’ll let you know. Be safe. I’m going back to Edinburgh tonight, and I can go to Belfast in the morning with the Red Cross. William is staying here. I... I know. I’ll let you know. Alright. Bye.” He hung up the phone and dropped it to the table, running his hands through his dark hair. Matthew and Ludwig remained where they were, although Matthew’s eyes were stinging from behind his glasses.

Matthew didn’t want to return to Paris.

He sat with his head in one hand, staring out the window at the passing French suburbs. He was wedged into the vehicle beside a very quiet Berwald and an agitated Ludwig, in front of an annoyed Logan and Denmark, and behind Mícheál. The back of the truck had everything they’d retrieved from the broken remains of Arthur’s grandiose mansion on the outskirts of London.

He didn’t want to make his brother face all that was left of the man he loved.

“We want this road—oh, there the stupid thing is—“

“You’re gonna miss it if you keep turning away from the windshield,” Ludwig scolded from the other side of the truck. Matthew rolled his eyes and stared out the window once more, laying his forehead against the glass.

“I found it, I found it,” Mícheál muttered, and as they pulled up to Francis’s house, the truck’s engine died in the driveway and all of the men clambered out of the truck. Denmark flipped the trunk and hoisted the fireproof safe from the back seat, motioning to Sweden to take the other boxes of things they’d found.

Matthew practically fell out of the truck, clutching his raincoat and his knee-high rubber boots in one arm, and a small, black box in the other. He hadn’t put the box with the other things they’d found in Arthur’s house, because he couldn’t let Alfred see it. Not yet.

Francis came out of the front door, waving them inside.

“Just bring everything—bring it all into the parlor, where everything else is,” he offered, and he moved out of the way as Denmark came bounding inside with the fireproof safe. “What is that?”

“Safe,” Berwald offered. “Fire proof. ‘S Arthur’s.”

“We found it in his study,” Ludwig explained as he climbed the steps. “Along with some other things. Important documents and such, we have them all. His passport, his ID, his international ID, everything. It’s all here.”

“What’s in the safe?” Francis inquired. Ludwig shrugged.

“We haven’t gotten it open yet.”

“And, the house...?” Francis asked weakly, although he knew the answer. Ludwig sighed heavily.

“Condemned. Too much structural damage. Every house in the neighborhood is the same way. Hell, the flood waters had yet to recede completely,” he said, and his voice lowered as they entered the house. “We literally saved all we could.”

The two men rounded the corner and appeared in the parlor, where Logan, Mícheál, Denmark, Berwald, Canada, Japan and Alfred were surrounding the fireproof safe. Denmark had a crowbar in hand, although he wasn’t using it. The others were arguing.

“I’m telling you, I know the pass code,” Logan insisted. “Arthur doesn’t have variety. He uses the same damn number for everything.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Denmark asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Then you can pry the damn thing open, happy?” with that, Logan pulled the safe towards him and tried a combination of numbers. The safe hissed and made a clicking sound, and the door opened a little bit. It was unlocked.

“What was the pass code?” Denmark inquired.

“1453. The year the Hundred Years’ War ended,” Logan explained as he swung open the door. Francis scoffed from the doorway.

“He doesn’t get over things, does he?” Logan reached inside the safe and pulled out envelopes, yellowed pages, leather-bound books, and countless small photo boxes. It was filled to the brim with information in the form of documents and pictures.

“This is sealed with the Royal Seal,” Mícheál commented. “This should go to Parliament.”

“What... what is this?” Denmark asked, holding up a leather-bound book. He turned it over several times before Ludwig reached out and took it from his hands. He opened the top, stared at the words for awhile, and squinted.

“This is the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle,” Ludwig read carefully. He flipped through a few of the yellowed pages. “Or at least, a copy of it.”

“The Chronicle is around a thousand years old,” Logan remarked. “Must be an old copy. He would have an old copy of his own history.” The group continued emptying the safe, and all the while, Matthew continued to steal glances at his brother. He hadn’t wanted Alfred to be present when they went through all these things, but Alfred sat silently, his eyes darting over everything that was being passed around. He gingerly held the leather-bound book in his hands, turning each page with the utmost care. Matthew gulped and nudged his jacket with his foot, feeling for the black box. He had found it in what was left of Arthur’s bedroom. It was something very special of Arthur’s—something he wanted to give to Alfred.

But not yet.

“Doesn’t Maddy want this?” Mícheál said suddenly, and he pulled a thin chain out of an envelope. Hanging from the end of the chain was a marble-and-gold silhouette. It was small and delicate, and very, very old looking. “She mentioned it.”

“Oh, I haven’t seen that in years,” Logan remarked. He held the necklace in his palm, squinting at the small stone. “Is this... is this Arthur’s silhouette?”

“Special made by... somebody,” Mícheál said, inspecting the envelope it was in. “But Maddy mentioned the ‘silhouette necklace’, when Arthur used to wear it she always really liked it.” Mícheál slid the necklace back into its envelope and continued on sorting documents. Matthew watched as Alfred eyed the necklace, his hands twitching. But he remained silent. Matthew felt his chest tighten, and his eyes didn’t stray from Alfred until the last of the watery dust had been emptied from the safe. Alfred retreated to his room when they had finished sorting, and none of them heard from him for the rest of the day.

--


The night before the day before he returned home, Alfred dreamed of Arthur. His dreams, for the most part, had been empty, devoid of any meaning or escape from his life. But that night, he dreamed of Arthur. Specifically, he dreamed of the first time he really told Arthur he loved him. It stuck out in his mind not only because it was a monumental occasion, but because it was uttered in such a strange, familiar situation.

They had been having sex when it happened. Their relationship had begun as an awkward fumble into romance, beginning when WWII ended. The only thing they had to build upon at first was years of sexual tension, and the few times that the tension had gotten the better of them and they’d had sex. (One time drunk, one time out of sober desperation and anxiety.) So, it mattered somewhat to Alfred that the first time he told Arthur he loved him, from the bottom of his heart, he was caught up in the throes of passion, feeling as close and as open as he could to Arthur.

It wasn’t an erotic dream by any means—all he was feeling was the warmth that rose in his chest whenever he thought of England, and how nervous he’d been right after the words tumbled from his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say it, not yet, because he wasn’t sure it was the right time. He only wanted to tell Arthur when he was sure Arthur would have the same words to say back...

They fell from his lips right after climax, his fingers snaking through Arthur’s damp locks, his face pressed to Arthur’s neck. He was out of breath, lost in a post-coital haze and sliding his hands down Arthur’s trim sides to finish his lover off properly. Arthur’s shoulders hunched as back arched, and he was gripping Alfred’s back and shoulders so hard he left small white scratches along Alfred’s spine, moaning Alfred’s name. When Arthur was finished, he buried his face in Alfred’s shoulder, breathing equally as hard, and Alfred mouthed the words into Arthur’s neck in between breaths.

“...love you,” he murmured. Arthur breathed deeply into Alfred’s sweaty shoulder, opening his eyes. Had he heard what he thought he’d just heard?

“What?” Arthur asked quietly. He could feel Alfred gulp.

“I love you,” Alfred repeated, with a strong yet hesitant voice. Arthur pulled his head back from Alfred’s shoulder to look at Alfred, leaning his blonde head against the couch cushion. Alfred was half on top of him, still panting, eyes wide. Arthur reached up and smoothed some wet hair from his forehead, trailing his fingertips against Alfred’s forehead.

“You do?” Arthur asked, his voice soft. Alfred searched Arthur’s eyes for a notion of encouragement, but he received nothing. So he continued.

“Y-yes,” Alfred stammered. “I... I love you, Arthur Kirkland. I love and am in love with you.” Arthur stared back at him, eyes surveying Alfred’s tense face. Arthur gripped both sides of Alfred’s face and used his thumbs to gently massage his rosy cheeks. Finally, Arthur’s lips curved into a smile.

“I love you, too, Alfred,” he said, focusing on Alfred’s hairline rather than his eyes. They were silent, and they lay there for a moment, Alfred perched on Arthur’s bare chest, his head on his own folded arms, Arthur holding his face as tenderly as possible.

In a single motion, Arthur pulled his face to his, and laid a gentle kiss on his lips. It was nothing like the erotic, asphyxiating kisses they had shared earlier—this one was affectionate and not to elicit pleasure, but to imply an emotion.

Alfred pulled away, but remained close to Arthur, pressing their noses together awkwardly. It was then that Alfred had started to laugh.

“What? What is it?” Arthur demanded, but Alfred just laughed, dipping his head into Arthur’s collarbone and giggling. Arthur wrapped his arms around Alfred’s back and scoffed, but that only made Alfred laugh harder. “You sound like a fool.”

“S’alright,” Alfred muttered, and he continued to laugh into Arthur’s chest. He was laughing at himself, at their situation, at everything that his life had become. At the boundless happiness he had somehow achieved, after being just out of its reach for so long...

--

Matthew couldn’t bear to wake him.

He stood at the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, where he’d been woken up in a bit of a rush. He looked down at his brother, who was lying on his back, one hand next to his head on the pillow, a smile on his face. His breathing was slow and deep, and Matthew could see the movements beneath his eyelids. He was in a very deep sleep, and dreaming of something pleasant.

Matthew sat on the edge of the bed, and ran his fingers gingerly over Alfred’s forehead. Alfred took a deep breath at the motion and moved the tiniest bit, the smile still a permanent fixture across his face.

“Matthew—oh,” a voice at the doorway said, and Feliciano was leaning in the doorway, biting the corner of his mouth and staring at the sleeping Alfred. “He’s so peaceful.”

“I know,” Matthew admitted. He looked up at Feliciano. “Are you sure it’s imperative that we go to this... this thing? We’re not European countries.” Feliciano nodded.

“You are part of Art—his family,” Feliciano stammered, and he closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. “It is important.”

“Alright, I’ll wake him.” Feliciano gave a short nod to Matthew and ducked back out again. The light rain that had started outside was picking up and splattering against the windows. Matthew turned to his brother and gently shook his shoulder, muttering “Alfred” as he did. Eventually Alfred’s eyes fluttered open, and he blinked lazily up at Matthew, groaning and stretching. Matthew handed him his glasses. “Come on, let’s go, Alfred.”

“What’re we doin’?” Alfred asked as Matthew pulled the covers away. The pleasant smile on Alfred’s face had vanished and was replaced by fatigue. Matthew sighed as Alfred half-stumbled out of the bed.

“Something,” Matthew responded. He helped Alfred stand. “All I know is we’re doing something... something special.” Alfred cracked his shoulders and yawned, trying to arrange his hair into something passable.

“Something like what?”

“Some kind of ceremony,” Matthew said quietly, and Alfred stopped moving. He looked at Matthew, his mouth suddenly dry. A ceremony? What kind of ceremony? But the look on Matthew’s face didn’t make it seem like something cheerful. Alfred swallowed hard and rubbed his eye with the palm of his hand. A ceremony could only mean one thing.

They were preparing to say goodbye.

--

^{Thanks for all the encouragement!}

Alfred found that he was holding his breath when they reached the door. He didn’t know why, he had no idea what he was anticipating, but his head started to swim when Matthew knocked, and then he let out a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly as they crossed the threshold.

The room was dark. The light from the doorway shone on the people standing closest to the door; Logan, Francis, Vash. Hong Kong was standing with a neutral face on France’s other side, and then the light in the room died once more. Alfred could feel the people in the room, their gentle breaths providing a soothing soundtrack. They were standing in a circle, patiently waiting. Alfred and Matthew joined the end of the circle, closing the loop. Logan handed a thick, flexible stick to him—a candle. Alfred’s fingers slipped over the wax but he got a good grasp on the base of the candle, and shot a glance to Matthew, whom he could barely see in the dark. He saw the flash of Matthew’s glasses as he glanced back at his brother, and then the two stared forward, trying to figure out what was going on.

There was a click, and a flame appeared across the room, and a candle was lit. Feliciano’s face appeared, his cheeks glowing in the orange and pink light. He had a solemn face on, his natural smile faded into a line across his cheeks. It was startling to see him so serious; he was either happy, sad, or some variation of the two. Alfred felt Feliciano’s gaze land on him, and even though he knew the Italian couldn’t see him in the dark, he knew they locked eyes momentarily.

Another click, and Romano’s face appeared. His face was also solemn, and Alfred was taken aback. They looked strikingly similar when they had the same expression. The brothers glanced at once another, and turned away from each other, lighting the candle of the person beside them. Ludwig and Antonio materialized out of the darkness, and soon, others appeared. Finland, Sweden, Denmark, Portugal, Ukraine, Lichtenstein. All around the room, European nations flickered to light in the darkness, as one leaned over and lit the candle of the other. Luxemburg, Romania, Bulgaria, Slovakia. Greece, Latvia, Lithuania, Norway, Poland. They moved like clockwork, smooth movements, not even faltering at the lighting of a candle. Almost as if they had done this many, many times in the past. Even though not all the European countries were there, their presence was staggering. Finally, Michael’s candle was lit, and he turned to light Logan’s, who turned, and lit Alfred’s. He felt eyes glance towards him as his face was illuminated, but their piercing gaze disappeared when Feliciano made a small noise.

“So... this is a ceremony that we have not had to do in a very, very long time,” he began. There was a flurry of agreement in the form of small grunts. “Because of that, we have made a few changes to it since last time.” Alfred heard Logan give a small intake of breath beside him. “Also, we have to accommodate for our guests. They’ve never done this before.”

“This is normally something that is done with... with the person present,” Feliciano continued. His voice faltered, but he recovered and continued. “And after we have... clarification of death. But special circumstances call for other things. Although we do not have a body, it is better that we do this while we are all still in one place, before we disperse to different corners of Europe. Traveling is not as easy as it once was. That being said....” Feliciano trailed off and looked to his brother.

“Traditionally,” Romano said, looking around the circle at the orange glowing faces, “this is a ceremony of death. In the old days, death was a destination. Life was just a means to that destination. But now...” Romano glanced at his brother, who gave a slight nod. “Now, we are celebrating life.” Alfred winced as hot wax dribbled over his fingers, but he ignored it. It was striking to see both the Italies so serious about something. It gave the entire situation a heavier feel.

“So, instead of doing what we normally do, this time, we’re going to go around in a circle, and say the first memory we have of Arthur,” Feliciano said, turning his candle in his hands. His amber eyes curved around the room. The solemn expression on his face broke into a small smile, and he looked down at his candle.

“We also decided to ditch that really boring somber part at the beginning,” Romano added. “Because it’s in Latin and this isn’t the 14th century.” There was a slight chuckle that went around the room, and when it quieted, Romano and Feliciano looked at each other, and then looked out at the people surrounding them. There was a tense silence, and Alfred saw Francis suck on his burnt thumb out of the corner of his eye.

Feliciano went first. Then it switched to Romano, and then to Ludwig, and then Antonio, all the way along both sides of the room. The stories ranged from bumping into a very young Arthur in some wheat fields all the way to fighting him during a war of some kind. Alfred stopped listening and let his mind drift through his own memories. His earliest memory of Arthur? His brain kept shoving so many other good memories forward that he had to sift past them to an early memory. He remembered fields and flower gardens, Arthur performing repairs to his Virginia home and Arthur stoking his fireplace. He was just a child for so long during the colonial days that he had trouble placing what memory came before another one. But he eventually found the memory he was looking for, and latched onto it, his chest tightening. His earliest memory.

It was also, he was certain, the moment he fell in love.

Beside him, Logan had just finished telling a story about meeting the infant Arthur, a pink fleshy blob in the arms of his mother, the beautiful mistress North Umbria. Matthew had gone before Logan. They were now at the edge of the circle; Alfred’s turn.

Alfred glanced up at the eyes watching him, the light of the melting candles flickering off like thousands of small mirrors. It was unnerving. Alfred cleared his throat, and began to speak.

“I was young,” Alfred began, and his voice was hoarse. He swallowed. “Very, very young. No older than a toddler, really. I had spent most of my time up until then wandering the colonies, playing with animals and being adorable enough for colonists to pity me and feed me, thinking I was the child of someone nearby.” Some of the nations chuckled. “I didn’t know what I was, but I enjoyed my life. That is until, one day, others like me started showing up. And they spoke to me, and I understood them. I felt the same way that they did.” Alfred realized his gaze was trained on the candle, and he looked up again. As he moved, his eyes stung and felt a breeze of cool air—he had tears in his eyes. He hadn’t even realized it.

“I didn’t interact with them. They were loud and big and scary, and I didn’t understand what they wanted from me.” Alfred took a shaky breath, willing himself not to cry. This is a happy memory, Alfred. Don’t taint it now. “One morning, he came to me. He found me, playing by myself as always in a field of wildflowers. And he talked to me. I didn’t know who he was—he was just, some man. He told me that he wanted to be my big brother, and I was elated. Someone wanted to be a part of me. He just looked so kind and friendly, and he held out his hands and he picked me up, and it was the first time someone had ever held me like that.” Alfred’s voice had softened considerably, and he took to staring back down at the candle. He ran the melting wax through his fingertips and let the substance drop to the floor.

“...and I was happy,” Alfred finished. In his mind’s eye, he could see Arthur’s bright smile and smell the musk on his wool overcoat. It was coarse in Alfred’s little pink hands, but he clutched at the fabric like a lifeline, nuzzling the collar and the neck the collar was surrounding. He was enamored with the man holding him, even if he didn’t know his name.

“You can call me England,” he had said, and Alfred rolled the word around in his brain like a song. England.

Alfred looked up, blinking rapidly, trying to force the tears to cease. He didn’t notice everyone looking at him, he just looked straight ahead, focusing on Feliciano. Feliciano nodded and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He then looked straight up at the ceiling, closed his eyes once more, and said

“Sarai sempre con noi, Arthur.” He then lowered his head and blew out the candle in his hands, Romano following suit. The circle followed, each person mumbling something to themselves and blowing out their candle. Each phrase was uttered in another language, their native tongue, and laced with sadness and regret. The candles slowly flickered out, leaving wisps of grey behind, filling the room with a smoky aroma. It came down to the last four of them—Francis, Logan, Matthew and Alfred. Alfred tightened his grip on his candle. This was it. His last lifeline.

Francis mumbled something to himself, longer than what anyone else had said, and blew out the candle. Alfred watched him wipe at his eye with a sleeve. Logan went next, swallowing hard.

“Rest in peace, brother,” Logan whispered, and he stared at the candle with a piercing gaze, those eyes glowing in the dim light. He blew out his candle.

“Reste en paix, Arthur. You will always be with us.” And he blew out his candle. That left only Alfred. He knew it had come to this by this point. Nations weren’t like humans; they didn’t disappear this long without being heard from. They didn’t just get washed away for a little while to come back happily. Once he blew out that candle, he was agreeing with the rest of them. He was submitting to them, and to their truth. He was acknowledging that, yes, Arthur, his beloved Arthur, was gone.

Alfred looked up and looked to the center of the circle, and imagined Arthur was there. He imagined a grand display, something akin to when Princess Diana passed away, a casket displayed with dozens—no, hundreds of roses, and of Arthur, lying inside of it, but not in a depressing way but in a peaceful way, his lips pulled into a slight smile, his graceful hands folded across his abdomen, wearing his very best. His skin was pale and his hair was brushed impeccably, and he was beautiful. There was a rose in his lapel. And the Union Jack was draped across the dark-stained wood, the finest they could find.

The rest of Europe, his kin through England, were waiting.

I love you, Alfred thought to himself. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. I love you so much. But he couldn’t bring himself to say anything out loud. He held the candle up, and pursing his lips as if poised to kiss, blew the flame out, pitching the room into a solemn darkness once more.

--

^{Story is wrapping up! Btw I just made this ceremony crap up.}

Three weeks had passed since then, and Matthew found himself at his brother’s doorstep. It wasn’t an accident or anything; he’d planned it just so. He’d phoned Alfred a few days prior, saying he was stopping by for a visit on his way through to visit Eva for a meeting. (Or in reality, to visit their southern sister to discuss Alfred’s well-being.) He dug into his pocket and felt for the small box, even though he knew it was there. He wasn’t sure if it really was the right time to give it to Alfred, but he couldn’t hold onto it forever and he knew that Alfred would want it, eventually.

“Alfred? Answer the door, Alfred,” Matthew called again, rapping on the door. There was a small click and a round, freckled face peered at Matthew from behind the door, red hair draping along pale shoulders and bold, brown eyes. Matthew smiled at the teenage girl.

“Oh, Matthew, it is you, I told Vermont that he was being psychotic,” the girl said, and she beamed and open the door wide.

“It’s nice to see you, too, Massachusetts,” Matthew responded, and she stepped back and allowed him inside. “Where’s my brother?”

“In his room,” Massachusetts offered. “And no, he hasn’t been sulking there all day. He’s taking a nap because we were all up really late.”

“Has all of you being here helped at all?” Matthew asked. “Who’s here, anyway?”

“Just me and the other colonies,” Massachusetts said. “New England plus, y’know, like Pennsylvania and New York and stuff.” Matthew grinned. Alfred would surround himself in a houseful of teenagers to heal. “We’re all staying in the living room on the floor.”

“Gotcha,” Matthew said as he peered into said living room and witnessed three teenaged boys sitting cross-legged on the floor, jabbing at each other.

“They’re waiting for me to get back to our game, we’re playing Mario Party,” Massachusetts explained, and she nodded up the stairs. “He’s probably awake now.”

“Thank you,” Matthew said, and Massachusetts tipped her baseball cap at him in a very Puritan way, and then jumped over the leather couch and slammed into Delaware.

Matthew ascended the stairs and stopped at Alfred’s door, which was opened just a tad. He pushed the door slowly and found Alfred’s normally messy bedroom just as it usually was, with Alfred lying on his bed in the middle of the room. The desk light was on its lowest setting, casting an orange glow around the room. Matthew walked over and sat on the bed, looking down at Alfred. Alfred was asleep, with one arm thrown over his face, breathing deeply, blankets pulled to his waist. His glasses were folded in his right hand, and Matthew moved them to the bedside table.

“I was gonna do that,” Alfred said suddenly, and Matthew jumped in surprised. Alfred removed his hand from his face and grinned at his brother, wiggling his shoulders and sitting up. “I’ve been awake for awhile, I was just being lazy.”

“Got it,” Matthew said, and Alfred put his hands behind his head and leaned against the headboard. It was remarkable how much Alfred was like his normal self, although Matthew knew it was partly a façade. Even so, it comforted him.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Alfred asked, cocking his head to the side, one eyebrow arching over his striking blue eyes. Matthew glanced down at the bedspread, poking at a hole.

“I found something at... at Arthur’s that I think he’d want you to have,” Matthew said in a small voice. The smile vanished from Alfred’s cheeks and he lowered his arms, settling them into his lap. Matthew reached into his pocket and pulled out the small black box, and Alfred made an audible gasp. It was a box he knew well, one that held something that was sentimental and romantic and cheesy all at once.

Matthew handed the box to Alfred and Alfred stared at it in his palm, tracing a long, thin finger over the top. He opened the box and looked inside, letting a shuddering breath leave his lips at the sight of it.

Lying in a bed of cotton inside the box was a very small pin. It was made of white gold mixed with stronger metals to keep it from bending. The pin was formed into the shape of two flags, crossed at their poles, set at a forty-five degree angle from each other, glinting in the dim orange light.

One flag was Old Glory, and the other was the Union Jack.

“I found it in the wreckage,” Matthew explained. Alfred lifted the pin from its box and held it in his hand. He just stared at the pin, turning it over in his fingers, memories flooding back to him. He’d gotten it specially made for Arthur, a pin made of gold to wear on his lapel. He himself, like many other nations, had a flag pin for his lapel for special occasions. It was designed special for him, made of white gold and small diamonds and sapphires, and it glinted proudly from his chest. Arthur “had no such use” for things, but Alfred had one made for him, with their flags crossed. Just like their lives.

He’d given it to Arthur and Arthur had half thought he was giving him a ring, what with the small box and all but, no, the pin was much better, much more beautiful and intimate than any ring.

And here it was. Alfred lifted it to his lips and pressed them against it, closing his eyes. Matthew wanted to reach out and touch Alfred but he refrained, allowing Alfred to place the pin back in the box.

“...Thank you,” Alfred said, closing the lid of the box. The day he had given it to Arthur, Arthur had blushed and fussed and rolled his eyes, but he pinned it to his charcoal gray blazer, and every single time Alfred saw him dressed his best afterwards, he had the pin. Every single time, without fail. Even on national television.

“Arthur... he’d want you to have it,” Matthew said gently. Alfred stared at the box and nodded, biting his lower lip. He blinked rapidly and looked up at Matthew, his eyes glinting from the beginnings of tears.

“I-I know,” Alfred said, sniffing loudly and wiping his eyes on his arm. He scoffed at himself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just start cryin’ like this...” Matthew laid a hand on Alfred’s arm.

“It’s fine,” he said, and he smiled at his brother, Alfred didn’t return the smile however, he just placed the box on his bedside table and leapt from the bed, stretching his shoulders and busying about the room.

“You want food? We were gonna order something after I got up,” Alfred said, his cheeriness infiltrating his voice once more. It was strained and awkward, and Matthew knew it was just a show, that Alfred wanted to prove that he was stronger than grief. No one would think differently of him for grieving, but Alfred didn’t like the idea of being seen as a weeping widow and instead wanted to show that he could move on and be strong like the rest of the nations were being.

“I suppose,” Matthew said as Alfred shrugged into a pair of worn jeans. Matthew stood to leave the room. “I’ll let you change in peace.”

“Thanks, bro,” Alfred said, giving him a ridiculous thumbs-up. Matthew left the room and closed the door behind him, but left it open a fraction. He peered inside the crack and saw Alfred standing at his dresser, the box in hand. The smile had disappeared from his face and he was carefully opening the box, staring at the pin. He pulled the pin from the box and reached onto his dresser for a chain—his dog tags—and he slid the tags from the chain and replaced them with the pin. He then laid the chain around his neck and tucked it under his t-shirt, laying a hand over his heart for a moment. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, his lips moving in a flurry but no words coming out. He stood like that for a moment longer and then opened his eyes, reaching for a hoodie to pull over his head.

Matthew stepped away from the door and closed it with a soft click, sighing to himself. With that, he headed downstairs, waiting with the others for Alfred.

--

^{This is the pin that Alfred got for Arthur.} (http://www.oneinhundred.com/upfiles/upimg1/Crossed-flag-shape-pin-with-Am-5592311.jpg)

A week and a half later, and Francis had found that he’d developed a new appreciation for tea. He was sitting at his usual café, only a few blocks away from Château de Versailles, eating his usual lunch. A few times a week he would indulge in a glass of white wine during lunch, especially if he was in an Italian mood. But lately, he’d been ordering a cup of tea with his lunch meal. A nice Earl Grey, with honey and just a little bit of milk. The drink soothed him inside and out, and even though he knew the alcohol would provide a nice dull buzz to his otherwise hectic life, the tea seemed to provide comfort in a more sentimental way.

It was the same way that Arthur would take his tea on their lunch dates. A tradition that had begun during World War II, Arthur and Francis had met at least once a week, either in Paris or in London, on their shorter work days for an extended lunch. Francis would order a Chardonnay and Arthur, Earl Grey with milk and honey. Always. Without fail. No matter where they were.

A police car raced by, sirens blazing. Francis paid it no real heed. He glanced at his watch and sighed. Matthew and Alfred would be landing in a few hours, and he still had so much to do. The constant influx of English refugees from Great Britain was taxing on his health. Of course, he was taking as many displaced people as he could, with Logan taking as many as possible on the other end. Much of Great Britain had become livable again over the last few weeks, with the water finally receding. But the water had weakened many once sturdy areas, and entire villages or cities could no longer stand their ground. It seemed as if, every day, a little bit more of the land was sinking into the sea.

“Fifteen more minutes,” Francis said to no one in particular. Two more police cars had gone by, followed by what appeared to be an armored truck. Francis cocked his eyebrows and set his teacup down firmly, his mouth twitching into a frown. The cars, he realized, were headed in the direction of Versailles.

“What the...” he muttered, and he threw a wad of Euro onto the table and slid his arms into his jacket, heading in the direction of the building. As he got closer, he realized that policemen were surrounding the building, with cars at every entrance, citizens and employees alike being herded around the parking lot like cattle, and—was that Interpol? Francis pushed his way to the front of the crowd, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

“What is happening here?” Francis demanded of a particularly burly guard near the door. The guard put out an arm to stop him but Francis brushed it aside with ease.

“Monsieur, you can’t—“

“I can, and I will,” Francis said, scowling at the man. He flashed his international diplomatic I.D., representing his status as a nation. The guard gulped and flushed, and backed away from the door as Francis breezed through. More police filled the entrance hall of the building, and that was when Francis noticed the men clad in black, holding machine guns, heading up the grand staircase to where his office lay.

“What is the meaning of this?” Francis demanded. The aid that sat at the front desk was being tended to by an officer; she was trembling with fear and had dark tear stains down her cheeks. The Prime Minister was standing with her, along with some other officials from the building. Francis stormed over to them.

“Francis! Oh, Francis, we thought you were inside your office—“

“I was at lunch,” Francis said. “What is going on here? Why is the building surrounded? Why is my office being investigated by, what, Interpol?”

“A man,” the aid said, lifting her tear-stained face. “A-a man came bursting in, demanding to see you. H-he had no identification and he was gaunt—he was like a g-g-ghost.”

“He’s barricaded himself in your office,” the Prime Minister offered. “Says he’s waiting for you. Says he knows you.”

“We think he may have escaped from a hospital or something,” another official said warily, although her tone suggested this wasn’t the soundest of theories. “He’s sick.”

“He could be dangerous,” the Prime Minister warned as Francis ascended the stairs. “Francis—he could be armed.”

“No bullet can kill me,” Francis said simply. He glanced at his watch again, and sighed once more. Greeting Alfred and Matthew at the airport was something that was just going to have to wait. As much as he was glad they were coming—he knew Matthew needed solace from the grieving Alfred—he would be in the middle of this debacle and probably wouldn’t make it to the airport. He silently hoped that they took the initiative and grabbed a taxi to his house—Matthew knew where the spare key was.

Francis laid his fingers on the handle, gripping his briefcase under his opposite arm, gave a curt nod to the men surrounding him, and pushed the door open. He bounded into his office, light pouring into his eyes as he entered. For a moment it seemed as if nothing was amiss. The office was set up just like it had been, and hardly a thing was moved out of place. The only difference was the short, blonde man sitting on the—

The chic leather briefcase that Francis cared for so well hit the floor.

--

Matthew and Alfred landed in France three hours later than they had planned.

“Well, if you hadn’t insisted on playing games on my phone, it wouldn’t be dead, now would it?” Matthew grumbled as they ambled through Customs, tugging on Alfred’s arm. “We’re just gonna hafta catch a cab to Francis’s house.”

“S’good thing you know French so well,” Alfred muttered, zipping his hoodie up to his neck. He slid his arms into his backpack and adjusted the straps, trying to distract himself. Being in Europe made him fidgety and uneasy, especially being in France. He was trapped between the strange sensation of wanting to run and hide in England and trying to get as far away as possible.

“Al, come on!” Matthew called, and the twins climbed into the taxi Matthew hailed. It was late at night and the brothers were jet lagged. Alfred was grumpy and irritated, and Matthew had become his babysitter. The last three weeks had been a mixture of late night phone calls of drunk Alfred and weird emails about nothing. In the last week or so he’d gotten much better and seemed to be doing well, but Alfred could also be a mast of illusion. There really was no explaining his actions.

Alfred stared out the window at the dark streets, not focusing on what he saw. He’d seen these tired streets so many times, it didn’t matter at this point.

“Al, the driver says that there was something going on today,” Matthew muttered to his brother. “Something at Versailles. A break-in.”

“Well, we’ll drive by, let’s take a look,” Alfred said, and as if on cue the car rounded a corner and the looming building came into view. It was mostly dark, save for lights in the upper parts of the building. There were darkened police cars sitting in the driveway, and some rather burly-looking men at the door. Matthew frowned and leaned forward in his seat, tapping the driver on the shoulder.

“Arrêtez-vous ici, s'il vous plaît,” Matthew said to the driver. The cab pulled over the brothers got out, dragging their luggage unceremoniously behind them. Matthew spoke briefly in French with the doormen, (who laughed at him and kept saying Canadien? every time he spoke), they showed their IDs and headed inside the building, climbing the marble staircase to Francis’s office.

“We could just wait at the house,” Alfred said, grunting as he hauled his luggage up the stairs. Matthew rolled his eyes.

“We’re here now, we might as well keep Francis some company, and will you stop that? I know you can carry all that up the stairs.” Alfred scoffed but suddenly picked up his speed, deliberately banging his suitcase against each stair. They turned down the hall and heard what sounded like Francis... laughing. The brothers shared a “what the hell?” look and walked down the hallway, leaving their suitcases by the door as they went to open it. Matthew leaned forward and pulled the door open, leaving Alfred to declare “BONJOUR FRANCIS!” in the worst possible accent.

At least, that’s what Alfred would have done, had he not been dumbstruck upon opening the door.

Francis was sitting on his desk, one leg crossed over the other, his clothes wrinkled and mussed, looking fatigued. The circles under his eyes had grown darker in their absence, and his normally impeccable hair was pulled back. But he didn’t even compare to the gaunt, thin, white man sitting in Francis’s desk chair, a blanket draped on his shoulders, holding a mug in thin hands.

It was Arthur.

Matthew couldn’t form words, his hand still stuck on the door handle. But at least he could form coherent thoughts. He wasn’t sure if Alfred could do anything coherently at the moment.

Alfred was standing in the doorway, staring straight at Arthur, who was sipping delicately at the mug. Alfred’s backpack fell from his slackened shoulders and hit the floor with a resounding thud, causing the windows to rattle. All four were silent, Arthur and Francis looking at Alfred, with Matthew staring straight ahead in disbelief.

Alfred couldn’t react. There were too many thoughts running through his brain at lightning speed, too many emotions bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to run over to Arthur and both hug and kiss him and punch him in the ribcage. But there was a small part of him that was in disbelief.

How many times did a dream end this way? With him reaching out to touch Arthur, to feel his skin beneath his fingertips, and he’d woken with a start, staring at the darkened ceiling of his bedroom or his living room.

Arthur was looking at him, brilliant green eyes locked on his own, tired and weary but filled with unmistakable life. His skin was white as paper and he looked unbearably thin, thinner than Alfred had ever seen him. Was he dreaming? Was this just a very realistic dream?

Alfred’s hand twitched.

“Don’t break the windows,” Arthur said suddenly, his voice hoarse and weak. “Drop anything else like that and you’ll put a hole in the carpet.”

Alfred said nothing but the spell seemed to be broken, as he stepped forward, still staring at Arthur. Arthur managed a smile, weak and small, but it was still there, and he cocked his head just the smallest bit and his eyes seemed to glow. Matthew turned to his brother, looking from Francis, to Arthur, back to Alfred.

Eventually, Alfred broke into a half-sprint, half-jump, running so fast he tripped over his own feet and landed on the floor in front of Arthur, leaning on his knees, taking Arthur’s bony hands in his own and bringing them to his lips, kissing each knuckle as if it were gold.

The room didn’t flicker. He didn’t feel the familiar feeling of waking up.

It wasn’t a dream. He was really kneeling on the floor in front of Arthur, really holding both of his hands, really putting them against his cheeks, the waxy skin cool and cracked and the fingertips calloused from age. Arthur smelled of musk and a faint hint of cinnamon spices, just like he always smelled. The scent filled his nostrils, wafted throughout his body and jarred his memory.

Arthur leaned forward and kissed the top of Alfred’s head, breathing deeply into the scent of his sunny blonde locks, and he tugged his hands from Alfred’s grasp and wrapped his arms around Alfred’s upper shoulders and buried his face into Alfred’s hair. Alfred still had yet to say a word; he was just leaning his head against Arthur’s knees and chest, his eyes closed, trembling. Arthur’s body radiated warmth.

“I missed you, too,” Arthur whispered into his hair, and he lifted his head and extended an arm, and wrapped Matthew into another embrace, Matthew not even realizing he was crying.

Arthur felt the familiar weight of Francis’s hand on his shoulder, but he was too busy too care. He felt like it was the eighteenth century and he was sitting in his armchair by the fire, coddling two baby toddlers who had been frightened awake.

“You’re alive,” Matthew breathed, pulling back from Arthur. Alfred remained where he was, and Arthur stroked the back of his head.

“I am indeed,” he said, and he looked up at Francis. He looked back at Matthew, who was smiling with fat tears rolling down his round face.

Finally, Alfred raised his head, and he got to a crouch position where he was level with Arthur’s face. HE had a delighted smile across his pink cheeks, and he let go of Arthur’s hand. He stood, and Arthur smiled up at the boy, standing to embrace him in a proper hug—

When Alfred reared back and slapped Arthur across the face. Arthur stopped, facing the wall, his cheek stinging and anger roiling in his chest, and he turned and glared at Alfred.

“You moron, what do you—umph,” was all Arthur was able to say, as Alfred put both his hands on Arthur’s cheeks and kissed his lips, hard. Arthur lowered his arms and closed his eyes and allowed Alfred to kiss him, and reveled in the attention. Alfred pulled away, breathing hard, staring straight into Arthur’s eyes.

“Don’t,” Alfred started, his voice wavering. “Don’t ever, e-ever...” The two of them stood there, staring at each other, Arthur holding his cheek, Alfred’s shoulders shaking.

“Don’t what, Alfred?” Arthur asked gently, rubbing his face. Alfred shook his head slowly, his hair falling into his eyes.

The corners of Arthur’s lips twitched upwards and he reached out, taking both of Alfred’s cheeks in his hands. He rubbed his thumbs over Alfred’s cheekbones, and pulled Alfred’s face to his own and laid a soft kiss on his lips. Alfred breathed deeply, eyes fluttering closed, and dropped his hunched shoulders and balled fists so his palms hung next to his thighs and his fingers grazed his trousers.

They broke apart, and Arthur threw his arms around Alfred’s waist, and Alfred took one of his hands in his own, and wove his fingers in between Arthur’s, and hugged him as tightly as he could.

He didn’t let go of Arthur’s hand for the rest of the evening.

--

^{Oh hey this is almost done. :)}

When news broke that Arthur was alive, the other nations had come as soon as possible, piling in through Versailles’s doorway like salmon up a waterfall, clambering in and throwing their arms around a pale Arthur Kirkland. The first to arrive were Ludwig, Antonio, Lovino and Feliciano, Feli carrying a bouquet of daisies and Antonio a basket of pastas and various Mediterranean vegetables (with which Francis made a delectable meal for Arthur.) Liechtenstein nearly threw herself on Arthur, and Kiku had thrown himself on Arthur, and then immediately fell back, blushing furiously. All during these reunions, America was sitting beside him, his hand firmly woven between his fingers. Alfred didn’t let go until Madailéin leapt onto Arthur, burying her nose in his neck and wrapping her skinny, freckled arms around his shoulders.

“Arthur!” she cried, and Arthur laughed and held her like he did when she was just a child.

“Maddy!” he said just as excitedly, and even allowed Logan and Mícheál to come over and ruffle his hair and hold his shoulder.

“Welcome back, little brother,” Logan said softly, and Alfred detected the faintest traces of compassion in his eyes.

It wasn’t until days later that the story of what happened to Arthur became known. It was obvious that all of Europe was curious, but no one wanted to push Arthur while he was still recovering. It wasn’t until the dead of night, with Alfred’s lips ghosting the back of his neck, arms wrapped around him securely, that Arthur spoke of it. Alfred was nearly to sleep, his chest pressed against Arthur’s back, his t-shirt riding up against the too-large night shirt Arthur had borrowed from Francis to sleep in. Alfred was being lulled to sleep by the sounds of Arthur’s breathing, of his heart beating through his ribcage, of the soft noises he made in the back of his throat and the slight movements of his muscles. Everything that made him remarkably alive.

“Alfred?”

“Mmmuh?” Alfred muttered, opening one eye over Arthur’s shoulder. He grunted and slithered closer to Arthur’s back, closing his eye and losing himself in golden hair. “Wha?”

“…I was really scared,” Arthur murmured. He shifted the slightest bit, and his shoulders tensed. “When I first heard the roaring of the wind, I mean. My whole house shook and a window cracked—it’d been raining for days up until that point.” Alfred remained still, but he listened intently. He ran his thumb over Arthur’s forefinger to signal he was listening.

“I went outside, and it was raining sideways, I swear… my neighbor, Eleanor, you remember her, she’s elderly and I ran to her house as fast as I could. I knew I’d be safer with someone else… and we gathered together with others in the neighborhood, and Eleanor’s son made us all leave. The plains were already flooding, he told us, and waves had been lapping at the beaches. We were at risk.

“He didn’t even let us go back for anything—just gave me a spare jacket, and gave jackets to the others and all twelve of us, we ran out into the storm and we climbed in his truck and we drove and drove for miles, heading up as high as we could and we hid in a shelter…” Arthur sighed and turned onto his back, still engulfed in Alfred’s embrace.

“I don’t remember much after we got there. I was injured by falling debris, and I was out. I was injured pretty badly, and at some point I was left for dead, I think. I don’t know at what point they realized that I wasn’t going to die that easily, but at one point I woke up and someone was feeding me soup. A young girl.

“She said to me, ‘Mister, you’re not normal.’ And I just looked at her and said ‘You’re right’.” Alfred chuckled at this, resting his lips and the tip of his nose on Arthur’s cheek. “They eventually figured out who I was, and they told me I’d been out for the better part of a week, and they had no electricity and food and water was running out. There were twenty-six of us initially, and by the time we got out of there, we were down to about nineteen.

“We made it to the edge of the country when the rain finally stopped, and we made it to another shelter run by your Red Cross, of all people, and they gave us food and clothes and asked if any of us had relatives or friends across the Channel in either France or Germany, because they’d give us money and send us there if we did. My first thought was Francis, so I said that I did. I had no I.D., no international passport, nothing to say I was who I was. They gave me dry clothes and food and money and I went on the Chunnel and came here… and kind of forced my way into Versailles.

“When I first saw Francis I thought for a moment he wouldn’t believe it was me—I saw my reflection, you know, clearly, for the first time in almost a month. I’m ghastly,” Arthur said, sticking out his tongue. Alfred just smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek in response. “And now, well, here we are.”

“Did you think… did you think you weren’t going to make it?” Alfred asked gently. Arthur thought for a moment, rubbing Alfred’s palm with his thumb.

“There was one night. The night after I first woke up, I was horribly sick, nauseous and weak and I lay there, staring into the night sky, and I just… I had no idea what state the country was in… I was afraid that I would die, and then it’d be it. The end.” At that, Arthur turned to face his beloved, and they lay so close their foreheads touched.

“…really?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied, voice just above a whisper. He bit his lower lip and sniffed. They lay in silence, just enjoying the presence of the other. Arthur shuffled a bit closer underneath the lavender sheets and slid his arm up and around Alfred’s throat and chin, touching his fingertips to the round of his cheek. His other hand was occupied with Alfred’s hand, fingers twisted together.

“I’m going to be in London for a long time,” Arthur said finally. “I don’t know the next time I’ll be able to visit, or even attend a meeting. I’ll probably only be able to go if it’s really important, like a war declaration or something.” Alfred nodded but said nothing. Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What, you’re not going to fight me? Normally you cause a riot whenever I say I have to coop myself up.” Alfred chuckled and closed his eyes wearily, turning his face to the ceiling and re-opening his eyes.

“I thought I was going to have to live my life without ever seeing you again,” he said finally. Something lodged itself in Arthur’s throat. “I think I can handle a few weeks.” And with that, Alfred drew Arthur’s face to his and gave him a kiss. It was nothing too spectacular, but to them it was an affirmation; a kiss neither thought they’d be able to share ever again. And yet, here they were.

Arthur pulled away with a light smacking of his lips and he smiled eyes half lidded, emerald glowing from underneath pale lids. Alfred let his head drop deep into the feathered pillow and gave a tiny smile back.

“Love you,” Arthur said softly. Alfred just let his smile grow wider as he closed his eyes and pulled Arthur’s head into his chest.

“Mm’love you, too,” Alfred muttered into his hair. “…don’t ever, ever leave me again.” Alfred felt a gentle squeeze to the slight pudge on his hips. “I mean it. I know I sound like a stupid sap or a little kid, but… just, I—“

“I won’t,” Arthur said into his collarbone, closing his eyes. “I promise.”

“Good.” Alfred loosened his grip on Arthur but Arthur remained curled in his arms, finally falling asleep, although Alfred beat him to it as his breathing evened out and his heart stopped beating so rapidly. Arthur remained in half-sleep until he heard a slight snore from Alfred, knowing he was completely asleep.

“...I wasn’t afraid of dying,” Arthur whispered as he fell asleep. “I was afraid of losing you forever.” Arthur only received a snore in response but he liked to think it meant Alfred heard him. And agreed.

--

^{Goddamn character limits. I hope that was fluffy enough for you OP! Thanks for all the encouragement!}