"You can't be serious . . ."

"I'm dead serious."

"Those are not biscuits! Lord above, what are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?!" Arthur cried, before his horror morphed into disbelieving laughter. "You Americans are crazy, I swear."

Alfred put his phone away, removing the picture he'd found on the Internet and had shown Arthur, which was obviously a mistake. It was just biscuits and gravy, he didn't know what the issue was! But he laughed, too, all the same. They pair had suddenly become so much more comfortable around each other, and he loved it.

"Nah, we're just better than you."

"Mhm, but don't forget who helped end the Cold War. Reagan and Gorbachev only began negotiations after Thatcher--"

"--after Thatcher met with Gorbachev, I know! You remind me almost every time I see you!" Alfred said, shaking his head. "Anyone would think you're losing your memory, dude."

"I hardly think I'm--"

Arthur paused. 'But I did forget, didn't I?' he thought, and he looked at his hand. 'I forgot completely . . .'

At that moment, the sound of claws scratching across the floor as Biscuit darted through the room woke the Brit from his daze. He looked to where the cat had run to, and let out a sigh.

"He disappears for two days, and decides to make a big, noisy entrance when he wants his presence to be known again," he said. Arthur looked to Alfred with a small smirk. "Remind you of anyone?"

"Now that was uncalled for."

"It's true though."

"I wasn't saying it's not true," Alfred responded, "I'm just saying that I didn't deserve it."

They stared at each other for a couple of seconds, green forest meeting the wild ocean, and they quietly laughed again at their mutual stupidity and childishness. Alfred slumped backwards into the sofa and Arthur was drawn back to his hand. It must've been almost two hours since he'd bandaged it . . . Maybe it was time to see if he had been right, and to warn the others. He played with the fraying fabric by his thumb. Alfred picked up on the silence, and when he saw what Arthur was doing, his smile fell flat and all sense of happiness and joy surged out of his being.

"Do you want me to check it?" he asked. Arthur shook his head, still playing with the bandage. "One of us needs to do it, and soon. We can't wait forever."

Arthur lightly bit his lip. He was petrified of what he would discover underneath the wrapping. What if it hadn't healed? If Arthur had lost his immortality, did he still count as a nation? Could he still call himself The United Kingdom, or England, or Great Britain? The colour slowly drained from his face and he moved his fingers away from the bandage. He didn't want that to be his reality. He didn't want to lose it all and see all the suffering of his nation be imposed on someone else for centuries. That wasn't fair. It wasn't just.

"Artie? You still here?"

Arthur sighed. "For now," he replied. "I don't want to see it. If you want to, be my guest, but I . . . I-I don't want to know . . ."

"It's alright," Alfred remarked. He gave Arthur a small smile and took his hand carefully, hoping not to hurt the deep cut if it was still in fact open.

Arthur averted his eyes. He had the sudden vision of being sat in a doctor's office, a child biting their tongue and squeezing their eyes shut as a needle was forced through the skin on their arm. He grimaced. He hated doctors, hospitals . . . Anything like that made him feel uneasy. It wasn't a fear, it was just distaste, and he avoided such places like the plague.

With care, Alfred began to unwrap the bandaging. He had to unravel it about six times before he finally reached the gauze padding. He removed it, and placed all of it onto the coffee table. He held the hand again, and with nerves of his own, he gently turned it over towards him so he could see the damage, or, as he so hoped, the lack of damage.

That's when Arthur remembered something. The injury on the side of his head from his fall had entirely gone by that point; it had healed normally because of his inhuman healing. For Arthur, this meant that the was good news. He'd been wrong, and all was fine! He let out a quiet sigh, and glanced at Alfred, wanting to hear it from someone else, but . . . When he looked at the American, all he could see was distraught, distress and upset.

When Alfred had seen Arthur's palm, he'd felt something tug at his heart, and he slowly traced the red line that ran neatly across the pale skin, feeling the small uneven bumps of the forming scabs. It was healing normally, but not at the normal rate for a personification. 

"I'm so sorry . . ." he muttered almost inaudibly, nausea and tears preparing to take over. "It's n-not good at all, Arthur . . ."

Arthur hesitantly looked at his hand hoping that Alfred was just messing with him, but in an instant, all hope was lost. "No . . . N-No, it can't be true . . . I was wrong, dammit! I-I have to be!"

His eyes started to well up, his vision blurred--he assumed it was just the tears--and he wasn't quite sure how to try and cope with it all. His worst fear had come true.

He was mortal.

England stood up abruptly, clutching his hand protectively, muttering to himself over and over again that it wasn't true; he was wrong, he had to be! Things around the room started to swish and sway, he felt unsteady on his feet, and his unseeing eyes raced around the room. America leaped out of his seat to support him, and he held the Brit close to him, holding him tight and uttering small reassurances to him.

"It OK, we can get through this," he said. "We can fix this, I promise."

Arthur shook his head and started to cry harder, burying his face in Alfred's chest and squeezing him back. How would they fix it? Immortality couldn't just be granted and taken back like that; it was a gift that was bestowed by some unknown thing, and once it was gone, it was gone.

Arthur was going to die.

<><><>

The pair lay in bed together, a relaxed arm draped over Arthur's side as he stared blankly at the bedroom wall. He hadn't managed to sleep a wink, and while the gentle sounds of Alfred breathing and sleeping next to him were a comfort, it was hardly enough to keep him calm. Arthur was scared and paranoid. Alfred had spoken to Germany on the matter, and Ludwig said he would hold an emergency meeting in London the day after just in case Arthur's case was isolated in order to make it easier for the Brit.

Six hours later, however, and he felt no better about any of it. Alfred shifted and turned over, retrieving his arm and unwittingly leaving Arthur alone. The Brit sat up cautiously, and glanced at the clock by his bed. 2am. He gave a sour smile as he remembered the notes he'd been making almost a week before at that exact time, the morning he had first shown signs of illness. He cursed it all, but as he went to lie back down, a flash from the direction of the window caught his eye.

He couldn't see properly because of the darkness, so he thought, but when there was a second flash, Arthur had a funny feeling that something or someone was in the garden. Deciding that he had nothing better to do and that his presence wouldn't be exactly missed for a few minutes, he carefully climbed out of the bed and made his way downstairs.

When he stepped outside under the hazy light of the moon, he had to squint a little bit to see.

'Probably just exhaustion,' he reckoned. 'I'll be fine in the morning if I can actually get some sleep.'

He continued to walk out, then, keen to find out what the light he'd seen had been and where it was coming from. It didn't occur to him that perhaps the light had merely been part of his exhaustion too.

Past the table, past the rose bushes, all the way to the fountain. Nothing. There was no sign of anything or anyone that shouldn't have been there in his garden. With a sigh, Arthur rested both hands on the stone fountain's edge, and he had to steady himself as another wave of dizziness washed over him. He shook his head in frustration and clenched his jaw. What was wrong with him?

'Oh, I remember,' he bitterly thought. 'I'm a dead man walking.'

He let go of the stone surface with a huff and turned to walk away. He was ready to go back and find Alfred awake, wanting to know where he'd gone and why he hadn't asked Alfred for help, but he hoped that was not that case. In truth, Arthur just hoped that he hadn't woken Alfred up at all. He'd been through enough, the American needed sleep.

However, within three small distracted steps, the dizziness returned with a fierce and brutal vengeance, and Arthur stumbled backwards with a brief cry of shock. In those milliseconds, as time slowed down , he remembered that one thing he had not told Alfred properly was that he loved him.

'Maybe I am losing my memory . . ." he thought.

And with a painful, harsh thud and crack, his world went black.