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It was drawn and scared. It's mouth was a tight line that bent at the corners and its brow was furrowed in angst. In worry. Worry for him? No. Impossible. Why would anyone trouble over him? He didn't care if it was just a byproduct of his brain. No one could help him. No one should help him. Not even a fantasy.

He wanted it out (because you're scared, aren't you?).

Right now (don't be stupid, you need this).

Yet as much as he willed his imagination to make the hallucination evaporate into thin air, it stayed.

Damn.

The face moved slightly, drawing closer to where the nation sat huddled amongst the blankets of his bed. He felt himself flinch.

"Arthur?"

There it was again. That word. The one that felt as if it should make sense.

"My God... Arthur. I... I had no idea. Jesus Christ, look at you..."

Hah. If he'd been capable, he would have laughed. Yes.

He could imagine what he looked like now.

He could imagine the way his hair must be plastered to his forehead and how his blood must be forming a halo around the place where he slept. He could imagine the awful smell his bedroom must protrude and the distant, far away look that was constantly plastered over his face. He could imagine- no, could see the way his hands shook and how that God damned hallucination seemed suddenly so real and how there were tears in his eyes (had it always hurt to cry?) because it was Alfred wasn't it? Alfred. Alfred Alfred Alfred. And he didn't care if it took some sick trick of his brain to bring him back because he loved him and he would give anything to just hug him and hold him and know that he was real.

Alfred (useless).

Alfred (pathetic).

Alfred (idiot).

"Ah'fred?"

His lips could barely form the words. It was a whisper, but it cracked the silence like glass and suddenly it wasn't just a face in front of him. It was a person.

A person who was dressed in a freshly ironed military suit and who carried a great big bushel of roses that were wrapped in a newspaper under his arm. Even from far away, Arthur could see how the print had turned his fingers black and stained the corners of his sleeves.

He must have been gripping onto those flowers quite tightly.

"Y-Yes, it's me."

For a few moments he did not reply, instead opting to push himself up on his elbows and find a more comfortable position on the many pillows that littered his mattress. An involuntary wince crossed his features as he did so.

Ah.

It seemed this sudden spark of sanity had brought back his pain receptors. Oh well. A small price to pay for a few minutes of mental clarity.

"G-Good. Tha's good, Alfred."

Once again silence prowled back into the room, only making it's way out again when Alfred dared to shuffle around the bed and stand awkwardly next to Arthur.

"Arth- England. We've got reports back home I just... I needed to come see you."

At this, he managed a weak chuckle.

"Y've got no responsibility tuh-"

"England. Please. I might not, but I owe you this, at least..."

Arthur did not respond.

"... When was the last time you ate?"

Nothing.

"The house is empty, England. Where are your staff? The doctors? The maids?"

Still, nothing.

Arthur's mouth remained firmly shut and his eyes drifted from the man (man? Or still but a boy?) beside him to the fists clenched on his lap.

"Ah don't need them." He murmured, bowing his head. "Don't deserve 'em."

Alfred shook his head, mouth opening and closing in disbelief.

"I... England. You've got to stop this. You're going to get through this but first-"

"Are those flowers for me?"