[Fanfic] The Five Stages 4/5 [USxUK]
Aug. 14th, 2010 10:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blood_wingedTitle: Stage Four: Depression
Genre: Angst/Romance
Pairing/s: USxUK
Characters: (this chapter) US, UK, Scotland.
Rating/Warnings: PG.
Summary: When their break-up leaves Arthur devastated and Alfred hurt and steering clear of him, the American nation finds out that love doesn't work like it does in the movies, and sometimes you have to come close to losing something before you realise what you have.
He hadn’t expected Scotland to stick around once he’d arrived but the man showed no signs of leaving, becoming a near-permanent fixture in his chair, flipping through a seemlessly endless supply of magazines. Each time Arthur stirred or made the slightest noise he would look up, and glance to Alfred, then sigh quietly and return to his reading. Alfred learned much about Arthur’s brother over the hours they spent in the same room – not through words but actions.
Scotland drank tea, with milk, and so much sugar it would have made Arthur wince. The hospital food didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest, leading Alfred to the conclusion that Arthur’s brother had the same lack of taste that he did. Now and then, he would leave, and come back smelling slightly acrid, eventually telling Alfred that he smoked when he was anxious but refusing to go into any more detail. He hummed to himself when he forgot that there was somebody else in the room and he didn’t like the way the nurse on the night shift spoke to Arthur like he could respond.
Most of all, Alfred realised, Scotland cared deeply for his brother, in a way that he didn’t think Arthur knew.
Alfred had been doing his best to keep his spirits up, beating three gyms in his newest Pokémon game before he couldn’t concentrate on it any longer. It was only moments after he had put his game to one side that Arthur had begun coughing, the effort tense and held in his throat, and Scotland had been at the door calling for a doctor before Alfred could even rise from his seat. It seemed that every symptom came at once, breaking through whatever dam had held them from Arthur’s body until that moment. His heart rate rose, his fingers clammy as Alfred held tight to his hand, the struggle to breathe first increasing then abating when his position was shifted. The doctors told Alfred that Arthur had a slight case of pneumonia, likely caused by inhaling his own vomit while passed out in the gutter. They told him not to worry, that they could treat it, and he’d be just fine. By now, they said, he ought to be awake, but such things were often unpredictable and they weren’t ready to worry yet.
Scotland told him not to worry and get some sleep but he couldn’t. He watched Arthur’s pale face for hours, one hand resting gently on his chest feeling his heartbeat fluttering against his ribs, the other clasping his fingers, squeezing them gently when the man whimpered, eyelids flickering – a good sign, they told him, that he was dreaming.
He couldn’t remember ever seeing Arthur look so small. Arthur had always been like some kind of indomitable force, standing strong and alone on his island, able to intimidate with a glance and bow entire nations to his will. Secretly, Alfred had always respected him, even after seeing the worst sides of his personality, and he wondered now if he’d only shown some of that respect, if he had made his love a little clearer, would Arthur have turned to him instead of the bottle? He glanced over to Scotland, sitting quiet and indifferent, and shook his head, knowing that the man was right, that it was Arthur’s fault, and there was nothing he could have done to keep him from turning to the habits that had always served him so well in the past.
“Arthur, please, just wake up…” he said softly, pressing the man’s cool fingers to his cheek and kissing the back of his hand, closing his eyes and drawing in a slow, steadying breath.
“He's nae wakin' up onie time suin, bairn. Ye shoods fin' a hotel, freshen up, gie some sleep,” the Scottish nation spoke up behind him, tossing his magazine onto the low table in front of him and getting to his feet.
“I don’t want to leave him,” Alfred murmured, turning his attention back to Arthur and watching the tiny movements flitting across his face.
“Ye cannae swatch efter heem if ye dornt swatch efter yerself. Gang oan, I'll keep a yak oan heem.”
Scotland’s smile was faint but friendly, almost comforting, and Alfred allowed himself to be walked out of the room and through the hospital, down to the street where a hand briefly patted his shoulder before he was left alone, squinting slightly against the sunlight. He started walking, the familiar sound of Big Ben ringing jarring him to a halt after less than an hour. It felt strange as he looked up at the clock tower, people passing him and the world moving on, that such things could still happen while the embodiment of this nation lay ill and unconscious in a hospital bed. He frowned, and turned on his heel, another hour of silent trudging taking him to the quieter environment of Hyde Park. There, he found a bench, and sat, lowering his head into his hands as his shoulders began to shake, his breath catching, finally sobbing the frustration, anxiety and confusion of the past week out into the still London air. He slid his hands into his hair and gripped hard, trying to find some sense of normality in the prickling pain radiating from his scalp, but the tears didn’t stop.
Three hours later, Scotland stirred from his nap and looked across the room to his brother, and the blond head resting on the bed beside him. Alfred had hold of Arthur’s hand, shoulders moving slowly up and down as he breathed, and the older man shook his head, picking up a blanket and draping it over him.
“Daft bairns,” he muttered to himself, returning to his chair.
That night, when the night nurse had been unceremoniously chased off by an irritated Scot and told to leave the three of them in peace, Alfred was woken by a light touch against his forehead, two fingertips brushing gently over his hair. He didn’t open his eyes or dare to move, feeling Arthur’s hand moving in his, and then the man drew in a faintly rasping breath, and murmured softly.
“Alfred, I know you’re awake.”
“Yeah… uh… yeah, I am,” Alfred mumbled, lifting his head. Arthur watched him, eyes barely open, gaze moving from their clasped hands, down his arm to where the drip was taped to his upper forearm. He blinked at it, then frowned, and Alfred covered it with his free hand. “Don’t look at that.”
“Ah, he's waukin' is he?” Scotland glanced over briefly. “It’s abit time. Ah was thinkin' yoo'd gain aw sleepin' beauty oan us.”
“What is he doing here..?” Arthur hissed, then, coughed, groaned and lifted his hand to his head. “Ngh…”
“I'll bit ye dornt e'en ken whaur 'here' is, wee brither,” the older man pointed out, and Arthur opened his mouth to protest then snapped it shut, covering his eyes and wincing. He coughed, and Alfred helped him to sit up, rubbing a hand up and down his back.
“He told me you were here, you should be grateful,” Alfred told him, settling him back down and shifting his pillows absently.
“You can go now, Alba,” he muttered, managing to look irritated through his obvious frailty. Scotland quirked an eyebrow at him, then shrugged and stood up, moving to the side of the bed and ruffling his younger brother’s hair.
“I'll see ye 'en, Albion. Ye keep it ay trooble, ye hear?” He smirked as Arthur lacked the strength to bat at him and only grumbled a dark ‘sod off’ under his breath, then cast a small, friendly smile over to Alfred. “Ye swatch efter heem. Min' whit we talked abit, alrecht?”
“Aye- I mean, uh, yeah. I will.”
Scotland left, and Arthur glared at the door until it closed, then the tension seemed to ease from his body and he shut his eyes, swallowing with a small sound of pain.
“It feels like I’m bruised all ov-”
“Why did you have to be such a dick to him, Arthur?” Alfred asked, nudging his glasses further up his nose and frowning. Blinking in surprise, Arthur looked up at him, and almost seemed to shrink back from the expression on his face. “You’ve been unconscious all week and he’s been sat here, with you, all that time. He loves you, you know.”
They shared a long look, then something flickered in the English nation’s gaze and he looked away, frowning slightly. He picked at the medical tape on his arm until Alfred covered it again, nudging his fingers out of the way.
“You do know that, don’t you,” he said, rubbing his thumb in gentle circles over the crook of Arthur’s elbow. The faint flush on the English nation’s cheeks stood out plainly against his pallor and he twitched his arm out of Alfred’s grip, still refusing to meet his eyes.
“I think you should leave now,” he muttered. “Before I ruin you any more with my bad parenting.”
Alfred flinched, stung, and opened and closed his mouth several times, throat working as he tried to articulate every one of the dozen thoughts that rose at hearing that accusation. He wanted to say he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant it, but he knew that at the time, he had. He’d meant every word of it when he’d been angry and frustrated, but now was an entirely new situation and after the last few days he simply didn’t have the energy to even be irritated anymore.
“Alright, I will,” he replied quietly, getting to his feet. “But before I do, I want to ask you something, and I want you to look at me when you answer.”
Glancing up, Arthur glared his way around meeting Alfred’s eyes, and the younger man perched on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly on Arthur’s knee.
“Arthur. England. Do you love me?”
Now it was Arthur’s turn to start, and his eyes widened, the faint beeping of the heart monitor quickening as a light blush rose to his cheeks. He shifted, looking away and then back to the equally wide and painfully earnest gaze that remained fixed to his no matter how much it wavered. Fingers clutching at the blanket he shut his eyes, bit his lip, and then looked up.
“You… I do. Of course I do.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I… I love you.”
“Say it again,” Alfred said, leaning a little closer, a mischievous smile tilting his lips. Arthur spluttered and coughed a little, his cheeks flushing crimson. “C’mon, say it again.”
“Why should I? You asked me to say it and I did, so why don’t you just le-” Alfred caught the soft sound that Arthur made as he closed the distance between them and kissed him. His lips were cool and dry, a little chapped against Alfred’s, who had his shoulders twisted uncomfortably and Arthur’s slim fingers holding tightly to his arm, but the English nation’s eyes were closed, his body unresisting as he was drawn up into Alfred’s arms and held against his chest.
“I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, old man.”
Arthur stayed quiet, tucked close to Alfred, leaning against him as a warm hand stroked slowly up and down his back. He shivered, and Alfred felt the faint clamminess of the man’s forehead against his neck, and awkwardly he drew the bedcovers up around Arthur’s shoulders, giving him a small squeeze.
“But I’ll give you fair warning, Artie. Things are going to start changing.”
-----------------------------------
I don't like this one very much. I don't even know why >|
<| Chapter Three | Chapter Five |>
Genre: Angst/Romance
Pairing/s: USxUK
Characters: (this chapter) US, UK, Scotland.
Rating/Warnings: PG.
Summary: When their break-up leaves Arthur devastated and Alfred hurt and steering clear of him, the American nation finds out that love doesn't work like it does in the movies, and sometimes you have to come close to losing something before you realise what you have.
*****
He hadn’t expected Scotland to stick around once he’d arrived but the man showed no signs of leaving, becoming a near-permanent fixture in his chair, flipping through a seemlessly endless supply of magazines. Each time Arthur stirred or made the slightest noise he would look up, and glance to Alfred, then sigh quietly and return to his reading. Alfred learned much about Arthur’s brother over the hours they spent in the same room – not through words but actions.
Scotland drank tea, with milk, and so much sugar it would have made Arthur wince. The hospital food didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest, leading Alfred to the conclusion that Arthur’s brother had the same lack of taste that he did. Now and then, he would leave, and come back smelling slightly acrid, eventually telling Alfred that he smoked when he was anxious but refusing to go into any more detail. He hummed to himself when he forgot that there was somebody else in the room and he didn’t like the way the nurse on the night shift spoke to Arthur like he could respond.
Most of all, Alfred realised, Scotland cared deeply for his brother, in a way that he didn’t think Arthur knew.
Alfred had been doing his best to keep his spirits up, beating three gyms in his newest Pokémon game before he couldn’t concentrate on it any longer. It was only moments after he had put his game to one side that Arthur had begun coughing, the effort tense and held in his throat, and Scotland had been at the door calling for a doctor before Alfred could even rise from his seat. It seemed that every symptom came at once, breaking through whatever dam had held them from Arthur’s body until that moment. His heart rate rose, his fingers clammy as Alfred held tight to his hand, the struggle to breathe first increasing then abating when his position was shifted. The doctors told Alfred that Arthur had a slight case of pneumonia, likely caused by inhaling his own vomit while passed out in the gutter. They told him not to worry, that they could treat it, and he’d be just fine. By now, they said, he ought to be awake, but such things were often unpredictable and they weren’t ready to worry yet.
Scotland told him not to worry and get some sleep but he couldn’t. He watched Arthur’s pale face for hours, one hand resting gently on his chest feeling his heartbeat fluttering against his ribs, the other clasping his fingers, squeezing them gently when the man whimpered, eyelids flickering – a good sign, they told him, that he was dreaming.
He couldn’t remember ever seeing Arthur look so small. Arthur had always been like some kind of indomitable force, standing strong and alone on his island, able to intimidate with a glance and bow entire nations to his will. Secretly, Alfred had always respected him, even after seeing the worst sides of his personality, and he wondered now if he’d only shown some of that respect, if he had made his love a little clearer, would Arthur have turned to him instead of the bottle? He glanced over to Scotland, sitting quiet and indifferent, and shook his head, knowing that the man was right, that it was Arthur’s fault, and there was nothing he could have done to keep him from turning to the habits that had always served him so well in the past.
“Arthur, please, just wake up…” he said softly, pressing the man’s cool fingers to his cheek and kissing the back of his hand, closing his eyes and drawing in a slow, steadying breath.
“He's nae wakin' up onie time suin, bairn. Ye shoods fin' a hotel, freshen up, gie some sleep,” the Scottish nation spoke up behind him, tossing his magazine onto the low table in front of him and getting to his feet.
“I don’t want to leave him,” Alfred murmured, turning his attention back to Arthur and watching the tiny movements flitting across his face.
“Ye cannae swatch efter heem if ye dornt swatch efter yerself. Gang oan, I'll keep a yak oan heem.”
Scotland’s smile was faint but friendly, almost comforting, and Alfred allowed himself to be walked out of the room and through the hospital, down to the street where a hand briefly patted his shoulder before he was left alone, squinting slightly against the sunlight. He started walking, the familiar sound of Big Ben ringing jarring him to a halt after less than an hour. It felt strange as he looked up at the clock tower, people passing him and the world moving on, that such things could still happen while the embodiment of this nation lay ill and unconscious in a hospital bed. He frowned, and turned on his heel, another hour of silent trudging taking him to the quieter environment of Hyde Park. There, he found a bench, and sat, lowering his head into his hands as his shoulders began to shake, his breath catching, finally sobbing the frustration, anxiety and confusion of the past week out into the still London air. He slid his hands into his hair and gripped hard, trying to find some sense of normality in the prickling pain radiating from his scalp, but the tears didn’t stop.
Three hours later, Scotland stirred from his nap and looked across the room to his brother, and the blond head resting on the bed beside him. Alfred had hold of Arthur’s hand, shoulders moving slowly up and down as he breathed, and the older man shook his head, picking up a blanket and draping it over him.
“Daft bairns,” he muttered to himself, returning to his chair.
That night, when the night nurse had been unceremoniously chased off by an irritated Scot and told to leave the three of them in peace, Alfred was woken by a light touch against his forehead, two fingertips brushing gently over his hair. He didn’t open his eyes or dare to move, feeling Arthur’s hand moving in his, and then the man drew in a faintly rasping breath, and murmured softly.
“Alfred, I know you’re awake.”
“Yeah… uh… yeah, I am,” Alfred mumbled, lifting his head. Arthur watched him, eyes barely open, gaze moving from their clasped hands, down his arm to where the drip was taped to his upper forearm. He blinked at it, then frowned, and Alfred covered it with his free hand. “Don’t look at that.”
“Ah, he's waukin' is he?” Scotland glanced over briefly. “It’s abit time. Ah was thinkin' yoo'd gain aw sleepin' beauty oan us.”
“What is he doing here..?” Arthur hissed, then, coughed, groaned and lifted his hand to his head. “Ngh…”
“I'll bit ye dornt e'en ken whaur 'here' is, wee brither,” the older man pointed out, and Arthur opened his mouth to protest then snapped it shut, covering his eyes and wincing. He coughed, and Alfred helped him to sit up, rubbing a hand up and down his back.
“He told me you were here, you should be grateful,” Alfred told him, settling him back down and shifting his pillows absently.
“You can go now, Alba,” he muttered, managing to look irritated through his obvious frailty. Scotland quirked an eyebrow at him, then shrugged and stood up, moving to the side of the bed and ruffling his younger brother’s hair.
“I'll see ye 'en, Albion. Ye keep it ay trooble, ye hear?” He smirked as Arthur lacked the strength to bat at him and only grumbled a dark ‘sod off’ under his breath, then cast a small, friendly smile over to Alfred. “Ye swatch efter heem. Min' whit we talked abit, alrecht?”
“Aye- I mean, uh, yeah. I will.”
Scotland left, and Arthur glared at the door until it closed, then the tension seemed to ease from his body and he shut his eyes, swallowing with a small sound of pain.
“It feels like I’m bruised all ov-”
“Why did you have to be such a dick to him, Arthur?” Alfred asked, nudging his glasses further up his nose and frowning. Blinking in surprise, Arthur looked up at him, and almost seemed to shrink back from the expression on his face. “You’ve been unconscious all week and he’s been sat here, with you, all that time. He loves you, you know.”
They shared a long look, then something flickered in the English nation’s gaze and he looked away, frowning slightly. He picked at the medical tape on his arm until Alfred covered it again, nudging his fingers out of the way.
“You do know that, don’t you,” he said, rubbing his thumb in gentle circles over the crook of Arthur’s elbow. The faint flush on the English nation’s cheeks stood out plainly against his pallor and he twitched his arm out of Alfred’s grip, still refusing to meet his eyes.
“I think you should leave now,” he muttered. “Before I ruin you any more with my bad parenting.”
Alfred flinched, stung, and opened and closed his mouth several times, throat working as he tried to articulate every one of the dozen thoughts that rose at hearing that accusation. He wanted to say he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant it, but he knew that at the time, he had. He’d meant every word of it when he’d been angry and frustrated, but now was an entirely new situation and after the last few days he simply didn’t have the energy to even be irritated anymore.
“Alright, I will,” he replied quietly, getting to his feet. “But before I do, I want to ask you something, and I want you to look at me when you answer.”
Glancing up, Arthur glared his way around meeting Alfred’s eyes, and the younger man perched on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly on Arthur’s knee.
“Arthur. England. Do you love me?”
Now it was Arthur’s turn to start, and his eyes widened, the faint beeping of the heart monitor quickening as a light blush rose to his cheeks. He shifted, looking away and then back to the equally wide and painfully earnest gaze that remained fixed to his no matter how much it wavered. Fingers clutching at the blanket he shut his eyes, bit his lip, and then looked up.
“You… I do. Of course I do.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I… I love you.”
“Say it again,” Alfred said, leaning a little closer, a mischievous smile tilting his lips. Arthur spluttered and coughed a little, his cheeks flushing crimson. “C’mon, say it again.”
“Why should I? You asked me to say it and I did, so why don’t you just le-” Alfred caught the soft sound that Arthur made as he closed the distance between them and kissed him. His lips were cool and dry, a little chapped against Alfred’s, who had his shoulders twisted uncomfortably and Arthur’s slim fingers holding tightly to his arm, but the English nation’s eyes were closed, his body unresisting as he was drawn up into Alfred’s arms and held against his chest.
“I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, old man.”
Arthur stayed quiet, tucked close to Alfred, leaning against him as a warm hand stroked slowly up and down his back. He shivered, and Alfred felt the faint clamminess of the man’s forehead against his neck, and awkwardly he drew the bedcovers up around Arthur’s shoulders, giving him a small squeeze.
“But I’ll give you fair warning, Artie. Things are going to start changing.”
-----------------------------------
I don't like this one very much. I don't even know why >|
<| Chapter Three | Chapter Five |>
