Arthur flung the bedroom door open, gripping the wooden panel and its frame tightly, and he stared up at Alfred, a frown on his face and an air of anger about him. Alfred bit the inside of his lip. He felt bad for kind of just throwing himself on Arthur like he had, but then, he wasn't entirely sure if the reason the Brit had fled was because of himself or what Alfred had done.

"Still here?"

"Yeah, I am."

"What for? You can go home now. I don't need you here," Arthur bluntly replied.

"There's a difference between wanting and needing, Arthur," Alfred sighed. "And quite frankly, whether you want to acknowledge it or not, you're still sick. If I go, God knows what'll happen--"

"I'll make a tea and sleep it off," Arthur interjected. His vice-like grip on the door frame tightened ever so slightly. "I'll hibernate if I have to, I don't care."

"I do."

"I still don't care."

Alfred ran his fingers through his hair in tiredness and boredom; he was tired of trying to reason, and bored of having all of his effort thrown back into his face. He resented how Arthur wouldn't accept an apology, or give him another chance, or at least try to forget what happened like Alfred was willing to.

"Why are you still stood there?" Arthur said, shaking his head. "I mean, what could you possibly get out of staying here, Alfred? You've been away from your country for long enough! Just go back!"

"I can't!" Alfred replied, his frustration growing.

"There's a difference between being able to and wanting to," Arthur mocked with a quiet scoff. "You're a joke . . ."

"And you're a mess," Alfred stated matter-of-factly. "I'm glad that we're being honest with each other all of a sudden."

"What's that supposed to-- Actually, you know what, forget it," England said. "If you insist on staying here, fine. But leave me be."

And he shut the door again before Alfred could respond. The American sighed and left him to it. It was no good talking to Arthur, he decided, because that was the equivalent of talking to a rock, and he'd have more luck trying to get a tree to speak to him. But he couldn't stay mad, he'd brought it upon himself. He didn't know what it was that had made him kiss Arthur like that. Impulse? Instinct? Stupidity? At the moment, it certainly felt like the latter.

On the other side of the bedroom door, Arthur listened in silence as Alfred's footsteps disappeared down the long hallway and out of earshot. He turned around to look at his large, boring, bare room, and he let himself carelessly slump down against the door onto the floor. He didn't know what was wrong with him. He was acting like a complete asshole, and no matter how much he wanted to apologise and just tell Alfred how he really felt, he couldn't bring himself to do it. It was too hard.

He sat there for a few minutes, thoughts in his mind going back and forth like a tennis ball--tell him? don't tell him? tell him? don't tell him?--and Arthur eventually decided that if he was going to reveal all, then he would do it properly.

He wasn't sure how to go about it; such a thing wasn't something he'd ever confessed before, and he was at a loss. When he stood up, he headed straight for his desk by the window, and he took a seat on the soft-cushioned chair. In the desk's top drawer was a huge stack of various paper types: lined, plain, thick, coloured, printed, most types you could imagine.

He sifted through the pile in search of some plain white printer paper, but as he lifted more and more sheets, his finger unfortunately dragged along the edge of one of the thin blade-like sheets, and it cut his finger open quite deeply. He flinched, and withdrew his hand immediately.

"Ow! Bugger!" he cursed, and he stared at the freshly bleeding cut.

Papercuts weren't serious for nations. Thanks to their accelerated healing ability, they would usually vanish within minutes, never to be seen again. Nevertheless, they still stung like a bitch. Sighing at his meekness, Arthur rubbed away the blood, and returned to his paper pile with a bit more caution this time. Once he'd found what he was after, he pulled the sheet out and set it down on the desk in front of him. From a pot to his right, he took a pencil, and he began to think of how to go about telling Alfred what was really on his mind without sounding too dramatic, childish or just plain pathetic.

It must've been about ten minutes later when Arthur had paused. He twirled the pencil between his right fingers, not really paying attention, until with a sharp sting of pain, the wood trailed over the skin that had been cut open before. Arthur dropped the pencil on his desk, ignoring as it rolled off onto the floor, and he stared again at his finger.

The cut was still there.

"What the fuck?" he muttered to himself with a frown. "That should've gone by now . . . Why is it still . . . ?"

He pondered for a moment, unseeing green eyes flickering all across the polished desk surface and he tried to find some sort of logical explanation for it, but of course, there was only one real answer. Arthur gently rubbed his thumb over the sliced skin of his index finger in calming thought.

'No way,' he said to himself, 'that's not possible, surely . . .'

Arthur abruptly stood up, the wooden seat screeching against the boarded floor as it was pushed by the backs of his knees, and he hurried out of the room and down the stairs. He had to test out his theory. He had to prove to himself that it wasn't true, that he was perfectly fine, and nothing impossible was happening.

The Brit headed straight for the kitchen. His haste was noticed by Alfred, whom he'd passed unwittingly as the American sat idly in the living room, and the taller nation didn't hang around. He wanted to see what was going on, find out why Arthur had left his room, and see if he could try to talk to him properly. He followed England all the way to the kitchen.

'Wait, the kitchen? Why's he in here?' he asked himself, unable to answer.

Arthur pulled open one of the kitchen drawers by the fridge and started to rummage in it. The cling-clanging of metal utensils was sore to both of their ears, but neither said or did anything about it. When the drawer proved to be useless, Arthur yanked the one next to it open too, and the search resumed.

Alfred deadpanned. "Lost something?"

"I need a knife."

"Woah, what?" America said, thinking and hoping that maybe he'd misheard the older nation.

"I need a knife, twit," the Brit sighed. "Are you deaf?"

"N-No, of course not!" Alfred responded. "I'm just wondering what you need a knife for!"

"I need to . . ."

Arthur paused. If he blurted out his plan, Alfred would probably try to stop him, and wouldn't likely refrain from just grabbing the smaller nation and moving him out the kitchen; it wouldn't have been the first time, after all, and it certainly wouldn't be hard.

"Never you mind," he finished, glancing himself for a split second before continuing his search. "Just do me a single favour, and I'll show you afterwards."

"And you'll talk to me properly?" Alfred pressed. "You and I . . . We'll sit down and talk this all out?"

"Yes," Arthur replied, stopping his search again, "we can talk. Fine."

"So what do you need?" Alfred asked, knowing now that there was a lot he'd do just to be able to get Arthur to speak to him.

"A towel."

"A . . . Towel?"

"You know what a towel is, right?" Arthur said, turning to look no at Alfred with nonchalance, as if it wasn't an uncommon conversation. "Those fluffy things you use after you have a b--"

"I know what it is, I'm just super confused as to why--"

"No questions. They should be in the cupboard at the end of the East corridor upstairs. Just grab a small one, come back down, and I'll explain it," Arthur said slowly. "I'll explain all of it."

They stared at each other for a moment, before Alfred gave a small smile and hurried on upstairs to find a towel. Arthur sighed with relief when he left. He looked back at the drawer slowly and from underneath all of the disorganised utensils, he pulled out a large sharp kitchen knife. He held it in his right hand, and glanced at his left palm.

'This is going to sting a little . . . Or maybe lot, if my theory's correct . . .' he thought.

He held his left hand out flatly in the air, and pressed the tip of the knife to his skin. With a deep breath and a short 1-2-3 countdown, Arthur swore quietly, then as quickly as he could, dragged the knife across his palm, perhaps a bit deeper than he would've liked. Still, no pain no gain.

It was enough to cause him to swear aloud--too loud, to his dismay--and only two seconds later, he could hear Alfred's hurried footsteps running back towards the staircase. The Brit looked at the pooling blood, and he cupped his hand. It looked odd, as if he'd just scooped it out of a bucket, and he didn't like it at all. He unfurled his hand, and instead let the warm blood spill onto the floor without a care in the world.

"Artie, what's wrong?!" Alfred called as he raced towards the kitchen. "What happened?"

He stopped in the doorway. He saw the bloody hand, the wielded knife, the stained floor, the almost determined look on Arthur's face . . . Now he knew why he'd needed a towel, but Alfred was frozen on the spot, unable to move as he just watched rhythmic drops of blood fell from Arthur's hand and onto the floor, one by one. They both watched, mesmerised and horrified, in absolute silence.