"Stupid Boy" --US/UK Hetalia

[SterlingSilver]

A.N: Yeah, so here’s my first attempt at a US/UK pairing LOL. I’m a bit nervous, but I feel like I can do this xDD. It’s going to be sick Alfred with a fetish!Arthur, so ^w^~... I like the idea of a nation getting sick when they have a bad economy, so that’s what I went with~.. Let’s just pretend America has a bad economy right now LOL (worse than it is, I suppose.. *knocks on wood*).. also the ending is terrible LOL.

WARNING: Some rough language in this fic. I think I won’t use it in the next story I write. Somehow swear words just feel right whenever Arthur’s involved LOL.

Stupid Boy

As long as Arthur could remember, Alfred had been the resilient type. Always, always, always. Ever since he was just a child. Arthur remembered those striking blue eyes peeping up at him, that dusty blonde hair ruffling in the prairie breeze. It was the hazy visage of a child too small to be so strong, following behind him in the orange evening across country land. Arthur smiled as he recalled the feeling of tiny, sticky fingers curling around his thumb as they walked together, exploring the vast wilderness that was Alfred’s home. Things were simple back then.

Unlike now. Things were shitty now.

It was early afternoon, and Arthur was on a plane bound across the sea. The flight time was atrocious, but he had passed the hours gazing out the porthole-like window, counting clouds and recounting memories. It wasn’t until the pilot cautioned the passengers to buckle up that Arthur realized how much time he had actually spent daydreaming. Bollucks… he thought to himself. This nostalgia was getting worse and worse lately. Arthur blamed Alfred.

Just four days ago the English nation had been blissfully unaware—snacking on crumpets, embroidering, attending weekly global meetings and making appearances at home. It was all normal, probably too normal. Quiet, even. It was the moment Arthur realized this quiet that he knew something was wrong. Alfred had been missing front meetings, hadn’t called, hadn’t visited, hadn’t…anything. The Brit was hesitant to start asking questions since he didn’t want to seem concerned, but some casual prodding got him an answer.

Alfred was ill.

Arthur has scoffed at first. Always a healthy child, the American rarely came down with anything. In fact, no one could recall Alfred being sick since the 1930s, and that was a global plague that affected everyone for quite a while. If he remembered correctly Arthur recalled himself, as well as Germany, being particularly ill. America had suffered, certainly, but so had everyone else. Presently, other nations were avoiding the obnoxious-turned-silent country because they didn’t want to catch what he had. But Arthur, despite his distaste of germs, could not sit idly knowing his ex-charge was in bad health.

He wondered, actually, how people had learned of it in the first place. Alfred had never been one to admit his weaknesses, or his wrongs. The man was stubborn as a mule, if not more so. Arthur tried to stop smirking about it, but couldn’t. The flight attendant returned his smile as he walked off the plane, and in a daze he offered a shy wave, embarrassed about being caught in such a good mood. Flustered, he huffed as he power-walked past the baggage claim; he had only taken a small knapsack for the trip. He didn’t plan on staying long.

Arthur had heard the news from France, who was a notorious gossip. And according to the Frog, he had heard it from Canada. No surprise there. It was a logical progression, but he was curious as to how Canada managed to weasel the information out of America.

“I-… well, I noticed that… um.. He just wasn’t as hardy lately..” Arthur remembered France reiterating in Canada’s voice, doing a terrible job at a northern accent. His hands jammed into his coat pockets as he stepped into a blustery street, squinting in the wind. What a terrible time to be sick, too. It was soggy and chilly, every street slicked with winter’s claws. It took too long to get a heated cab, and too long to arrive on the stoop of Alfred’s expansive home. The visions of the streets bothered him; they were sparse, and the citizens on them seemed sad. Lost. The very country itself seemed ill, and it was unsettling. Americans were always loud, always hopeful, smiling and shouting and proud. Now, they were subdued. Put down. Arthur recoiled from them more than usual, if only because they were not the same.

He pounded on the door, determined to appear unfazed. Just passing through. He didn’t care about Alfred’s health. He didn’t care. He just wanted to stop by and say hello. Borrow some sugar. Discuss some trading and such. Catch up—no! Not catch up. He wasn’t here to talk. Just business. Business.

No one was coming to greet him. So again he knocked. And again. After the fourth time in many minutes he was starting to get a bit nervous, despite his steely nonchalance, but then he heard movement inside. Someone coming. He stood back, glancing down at himself briefly to straighten his clothes and pick off any debris. Instead of the door swinging open broadly like it always did, it parted only some of the way. Arthur looked up, and was promptly taken off his guard.

Alfred was there, all right. On two feet, but it would seem just barely, and not by his own desire. Skin pale, like the color had faded out after too many times in the washing machine. Eyes framed with the bruising lavender of not enough sleep. Nose chapped from rubbing with hands, edges of shirts, or toilet paper (because the tissues had run out long ago). Posture slumped, hair mussed, glasses gone, dapples of sweat beaded along his brow. The blue eyes were still just as striking, but so was the rest of him. Arthur couldn’t remember him ever looking this sick, and the virulence frightened him a little. Ever since the Bubonic plague from long, long ago, he was wary of intense illnesses.

“Bloody hell, Alfred-…”

The American leaned against the door frame, shuffling his shoulders to adjust the woolen blanket he had clutched around himself. He sniffled against what sounded like raw blockage as he closed his eyes.

“Dude, whad…?”

Arthur clenched his fists at the sound of the voice, so crackled and shot compared to the raving timbre that was always calling across large distances or making racket at meetings. It was like the Revolutionary War all over again; England’s heart felt the same—torn. Though there was less heartbreak now, and more worry to fill that emptiness. And something else maybe. A warmer, bubbling sort of feeling that came from his very toes all the way up to his scalp. When Arthur didn’t say anything, Alfred’s weak expression got petulant.

“Whad? Whad do you wantd?”

Arthur, startled, fumbled for an answer. “Well, I-! Come to see your funeral, apparently!” When Alfred’s dull glare got sharper, Arthur gestured to his body with great motions. “You look as if you could faint!”

Alfred sniffled again, snorting against the congestion. The friction in his sinuses stuttered and the effect gave him a strong need to cough. Aware enough of his affliction to be understanding of his friend, he turned away and buried his face into his blanket, releasing a storm of barking, croupy coughs that sounded anything but healthy. They were dry like old bones, rattling inside his lungs. It lasted only for seconds, and once finished, he swallowed and wet his cracked lips.

“Heroes don’d faintd,” he grinded against a bothered throat. “They takge ndaps..” Alfred swallowed with dread, feeling his throat lining clench and sting. It had taken days for people to notice his health, and days more before he realized he couldn’t push through it with sheer willpower. His obstinacy had put him here, and Arthur’s annoying British snipping was just making him want to deny it all over again.

“Just look at the state of you!” Arthur snapped, fret in the higher tones of his voice. “I can barely tolerate your horrid accent as it is, but now I can hardly understand you!” Alfred considered stomaching the insults, since he didn’t feel like doing anything else; as much as he wanted to close the door, he had been lonely for the last week with only Tony for company. The guy was hardly talkative enough for America’s taste. His eyes started to close, but then he felt a sudden cool presence on his forehead: England’s hand.

“Brilliant,” he gruffed, British consonants stunted with his frustration. He grew less avoidant and more concerned by the minute. His concern was just reflected in his anger. “Fucking brilliant. You’re on bloody fire.”

The combined pressure from the cool-feeling hand and the chilly air outside made Alfred tremble involuntarily. This surprised both the men: one softened, and the other hardened.

“Look, if you aren’d here for sombthing imbordand, I hafdo go.” It was muttered, but forceful. Withdrawing out of Arthur’s reach, Alfred made to just close the door on him. But the Brit had fast reflexes, built from war, experience, and life. He caught the frame in one hand, green eyes fierce with purpose. No matter how old they got together, how long they were apart, they had known one another too long to let one suffer without the other. Perhaps they cared too much. Sometimes Arthur worried if Alfred cared at all.

“Now, just a minute-!” They wrestled with the door, pulling and pushing, grunting occasionally. Eventually Alfred just let go, which made Arthur stumble forward and nearly fall. “Wanker-!” He shouted it as he wobbled, catching his balance with a bit of flailing. After he recovered, he was ravenous for American blood. What stayed his hand was the image of Alfred just inside. The taller man (only taller by two centimeters, Arthur grumped) was all bundled up in his blanket, head tipping back so slowly, lips parting gradually, like blooming petals. The helpless, anguished, but hopeful look on the ill man’s face was one that Arthur recognized—and had almost forgotten about.

It wasn’t that Arthur liked it when the American sneezed. Not at all! It was merely a casual fascination. An appreciation. They were quite loud, like Alfred was. He was always bent in half by them, and perhaps Arthur liked to see the tough, resilient nation bogged down by something once in a while. And for once, it was an affliction that Arthur was not sharing with him. Wars had passed, and so had depressions, and the UK had always been tangled up in them. This time, however, things were different. England felt fine; America didn’t.

He wasted so much time thinking about it, he almost missed it when it actually happened. Green eyes caught the minute movement, and pricked ears could sense the soft, chuffing catch of breath, ehh…

“Heh’iishooo!” It was only one, and rather tame for Alfred’s usual explosions. It was a clenched noise, like it was ripped out of him, and he doubled over with the force. Perfect distinction, trailing off at the end. Arthur couldn’t look away. There was another on the way, quick at the heels, so Alfred only straightened part of the way before snapping forward again with a demanding, “Ehieshuuu!!”

He seemed finished after that, slowly straightening and pawing at his nose with the side of his blanket. Judging by the motion, Alfred had been reduced to that method for quite some time now. Despite the slight aversion Arthur had for the floating germs, he edged a little closer and stepped inside, the curious warmth in his belly dying down in the sniffling silence. Alfred only turned to him after the door was snapped closed.

"Loogk, Art," he said, glaring over at the older nation. Arthur waited for him to suffer through a hard, sucking sniffle before continuing. “I’mb gettin’ through withoud adny helpb, and I don’d-…duhh.. heh-!”

Mustering valor, Arthur surged forward and cupped his hands at Alfred’s shoulders from behind. He intended to steer the man to the nearest couch or mattress, and luckily for England he had the element of surprise. America hadn’t expected the rush, so he blinked with surprised pants before doubling forward with a tremendous, “EEHIESHuuuuu!”

The aerosol was visible in the dim light of the hall, but Arthur stubbornly ignored it. Germs or not, Alfred needed someone to bully him into bed. The violent visual of the sneeze hadn’t bothered him anyway… at least not in a negative way. But it did bother the older nation how fragile Alfred seemed; he would wobble and catch himself as Arthur guided him forward.

“Must you fight me on everything, you twat?” he asked. His rough temper flared more from worry than from actual annoyance. Alfred only gave a few defeated sniffles, wincing as he pawed at his nose with the hard edge of the blanket. Arthur reached up and yanked his hand down.

“And stop that! You’ll only make it worse…stupid boy.”

Alfred smirked in spite himself. All of this was quite familiar to him. He could remember a few times when he had done something moronic and gotten himself hurt or ill. He had gotten called “stupid boy” back then too.

“Dude,” he croaked. The British nation sighed while measuring his patience. “Did’ja fly all the way outd here to takge care of be?”

The hands on his shoulders tensed, and that was the only answer Alfred needed. He smirked through parted lips as he breathed through his mouth, listening to Arthur sputter behind him.

“What? Are you daft? Of-!.. Of course not!” Arthur felt his face steaming up from the question, and while America only coughed softly in response, England had the sinking suspicion he had been caught. Even so, neither of them let on that they knew more than they stated.

Alfred was proving to still have a somewhat sturdy gait, so Arthur began steering him up the stairs, prepared to support the other nation’s weight if need be. To his surprise and slight chagrin, America pulled from his grip and used the banister to climb slowly on his own. Judging by the speed of his actions, he would be ready to lay back down once in his bedroom. The heavy snuffling was constant, and England kicked himself for not having the foresight to pack several handkerchiefs. He could be bidding Alfred to blow his ridiculous, red, chapped, rather adorable-…nose, right this moment.

Hell, he could even be holding the fabric as he did it. Oh-! Damn it! Stop! Arthur gave his head a few shakes to clear the idea and the image. To make up for his lapse of daydreaming, he spoke up.

“How did you come by this anyway?” he grumped. “You’re normally so robust.”

“Robust?” Alfred turned and gave his friend another grin, only to be glared at in return. Well, at least Alfred was acting a little more like himself. Perhaps the embarrassment of needing help had worn off. After all, America was never one to look like a mewling baby in the face of something dangerous or sinister. England felt suddenly conscious of why Alfred had spurned him earlier. He should have understood right away…

“Economby,” Alfred was saying. He paused at the top of the stairs, and drew a long, burbling sniffle to try and clear his constants. He shuddered terribly from what Arthur could only assume was fever, but soldiered on toward his bedroom.

“Economy,” he continued. His voice was still dull and thick, but he had better control over his enunciation. “It tanked a week or two ago, and took be with it.”

Arthur felt his breath catch, his pace slipping as he panicked. When America got sick because of monetary downturn, it usually meant the rest of the world wasn’t far behind-… It would mean another Great Depression, another sickness, another period of-!

He glanced up when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Alfred was looking down at him with a bemused expression. “Relax, will ya? It’s an isolated, national incident. All in by borders, so doe one’s gonna get this from be.”

And just like that, his ex-charge could cure his paranoia. It was as though he could read Arthur’s mind, and it both impressed and scared the Brit. Running his tongue over his teeth, he scurried after the nation, who was already a few steps ahead down the hall.

“If that’s the case,” he said. “Why not ask someone for help? I’m sure China wouldn’t mind giving you another loan, though I must say you owe him quite a bit of currency already-”

“Hiieh’shuuu!”

It echoed down the velvet-carpeted hall, and made the Brit jump. He looked up to see America already near his room, his hand resting on the door knob. The nation clutched to his blanket, keeping it around his shoulders as he shuddered on the spot with another tickling, “HII’shuuu!”

From the sound of them, they were giving his nose quite a time. Arthur flushed as he speculated on how long Alfred’s nose had been tingling, begging to have those buggers blasted out. The American actually wasn’t much of an elaborate sneezer, so the buildups by the front door had been a treat. If they were any indication as to how aggressive the cold was, Arthur would wager that it was a relentless itch up in his sinuses. Alfred was just too good of a sport to let it bother him all the time.

Though it was a miracle how the guy could stay positive under these sorts of conditions. Arthur had obviously woke him up by knocking on the door, and Alfred had actually been pretty civil to him. Then he had forced his way into the American’s home, and even then, Alfred was tolerant of him. With a scowl, the Brit thought himself in bad form-…

“… Alfred, I-… is to say, I-”

“HE’TISHUUU!....ohhh, there id is…” Alfred sighed and held a fist under his nose, relieved to have that last one out. Arthur did not yet know for sure, but he was right. That insidious tickle couldn’t seem to leave Alfred alone, no matter how many times he sneezed, sniffled, or blew his nose. As if all the germs had congregated in that one spot, meaning to torture the delicate, inflamed linings of his sinuses until-…until he could-…

“Dambid, I-…iyiehh-..hyyEEHH’Tiishhyuuu!!... jeez..” Alfred turned the doorknob and let himself into his room, leaving it open for Arthur. The Brit had been wrenched from his thoughts by the fourth sneeze in many minutes, swallowing to wet his throat.

The bedroom was littered with balled tissues and empty paper packages of aspirin. There was some NyQuil on the table, but from the smell of the room, America had been trying to eat pizza and cheeseburgers (and probably drink soda, Arthur thought) while ill. After some scrutiny, Arthur remembered his original train of thought.

“As I was saying,” he said as he watched Alfred yank back his ruffled bed covers. “Would you like a loan?”

“Dno, dno,” Alfred said, waving a hand. He shivered as he let his blanket drop to the floor. It revealed his wrinkled pajama pants and cotton tee underneath. “It’s find..”

“It’s really no trouble. I’ve been doing well, as of late, and I could mention this at the next front meeting-”

Alfred’s eyes widened, and despite the lack of corrective lenses, his blue irises locked onto the Brit’s green ones. The expression there was feral. “DON’D,” was the congested command.

The roughness must have irritated the raw lining of his throat, because the American devolved into coughing afterwards. Arthur stood erect, fiddling with his hands as they both waited the fit out. By the time he was finished, Alfred had a palm and set of fingers wrapped around his neck, trying to ease the pain from the outside. His eyes were pinched.

“Don’d,” he said again, this time with less anger. He looked so tired, and Arthur couldn’t find it in his heart to give him flak for reacting so harshly. Sitting down on the bed, Arthur self-consciously reached out and put a flat palm to Alfred’s quaking torso. A little push, and the American lounged back with a groan. His skin really was hot, poor bastard…

Once beneath the covers, America realized how cold he had actually been, and huddled like a child for warmth. He smiled a little when he felt Arthur’s hand on his back—a spot of heat through the sheets.

“But why?” Arthur was almost certain he knew the answer, but he needed to hear it from Alfred. Had to hear it from him.

“Because,” Alfred said. He felt around under the covers and managed to find one last half-empty box of Puffs. Arthur thought he might cry, from the look on the American's face. Following the short nose-blowing break, America continued. “I don’t want to take your money.”

“Well, then take the Frog’s. I don’t mind.”

Alfred snorted, then coughed once or twice. A shake of the head was his answer, and he sighed when Arthur’s slim fingers found his hair. It felt good to have his head rubbed. It reminded him of when he was little, and what he still yearned for now that he was grown up.

“It doesn’t matter whose money,” Alfred said. His voice was practically wasted by now. “I don’t want anybody’s.”

“…Don’t tell me this is derivative of your idiotic hero mentality. You can’t tell me you’d rather waste away like this than ask for help.”

When there was no immediate answer, Arthur leaned forward to peer at Alfred. It was a serious-looking expression, which didn't look right on his face. The blue eyes were absent of their usual glow, but that had been established for a while now. What was new was the emptiness, and what appeared to be the shame. The conflict, that too.

"... Alfred?"

"Do you remember when I was little?"

The soft question, issued from a voice both very hoarse and very grown up, made Arthur stall. After a beat of silence, he shifted his position and nodded. The frown on his face remained, both out of concern and a faint suspicion that he was being played for a fool.

"Well," Alfred continued. "I had a hard time as a kid once in a while, didn't I?"

"Sure," Arthur said. "As many times as any other nation, I think. Though you're rather unique, to be honest. Your struggles are a bit different than mine were."

"Did I ever ask you for help?"

A receding furrow fell back into place. "... No. Hardly..." It was true. Alfred had not asked for much assistance as a growing country. Oftentimes he stubbornly fought for control, and threw tantrums when England tried to assert his traditions and government into America's development. Even now, that hadn't changed.

A choked gasp came from the mess of sheets, and Arthur leaned forward again out of reflex. It sounded like a sob. England's hand rubbed fervently at America's back, awkwardly trying to console his ex-charge.

"A-Alfred-.. come now, it's nothing to snivel about..." It was gruff, and Arthur's cheeks were aflame, but it was the best he could muster. He couldn't remember the last time he had needed to do something like this. Especially for Alfred. When he got no answer other than a high-pitched whine, Arthur grabbed his shoulder to turn the nation onto his back.

That's when he noticed America wasn't crying. He was-

"GghiiyEE'SHUUU!!" Alfred managed to flash a hand up just in time to catch it, but the look on his face suggested he was only half aware of what Arthur had been saying. The tingling in his nose had consumed all of his attention. England felt the tense ripple of strength and restraint in the American, and the healthy nation casually kept his hand resting at Alfred's shoulder blade.

"J-juhh.. jeez-.. I c-.. cuh-.. KIISHH'HUUU!.. HIIEH'SHHuuu!"

Now that England was certain he wouldn't be catching this cold, he could fully enjoy all the sounds and sights without worry. There was a shred of guilt and sympathy for the sufferer, though. Still, Arthur's eyes were glued and glittering onto Alfred's face, which was caught in a weak, scowling expression. He spoke with his eyes closed, constantly sniffling around his running nose.

"Shid, I'b sorry, Artd-.. I h-.. hyeh-heh.."

With a boldness England didn't know he had, he snatched Alfred's hands before they could curtain around his face again. He wanted to hear those sneezes without any muffling. America was too close to his release to question or fight England. Though, he did try to divert them a little to avoid spraying his friend.

"NNG'SHUUU!... HYEH'shuuu!.. IIH'shuuu!"

They tumbled in one right after the other, Alfred helpless to stop them, the tic of his illness deep in his nose too strong to ignore. Arthur pressed a tissue over the American's nose as an attempt to help, but the soft, cottony fabric only escalated an oncoming sneeze.

"Nyehh-..MM'ishhyuuu!.."

England felt the warmth of the spray caught in the wispy paper, but it didn't disgust him. In fact, he tucked the tissue more firmly around the twitching appendage and sighed as he commanded of the younger nation: "Blow."

America obeyed immediately, since this sort of situation wasn't entirely unfamiliar. England had held a tissue to America's nose many times when Alfred was a child; it had just been a while, that was all. Much to Alfred's surprise, he found that he almost missed the caring hand. The help.

After a few blows, the urge died down and he laid back against the sheets in a shivering heap. He smiled nonetheless, both of them a bit embarrassed and unsure as to what would come next.

"Better?" Arthur finally asked.

Nodding and clearing his throat, Alfred reached and took England's hand. Arthur froze, face blank while his eyes went wide. The green in them had never seemed to bright.

"Yeah, thanks," Alfred said. His voice was tired, eyes bleary. If he had been wearing his glasses, Arthur would have taken them off for him. He sniffed, the sound nearly dry. "Thanks for everything.."

Arthur looked away, suddenly engrossed with the paintings on the wall. He didn't pull his hand from America's grip. "Can't have you dying on me. You owe me too much money."

The chuckles came deep from Alfred's chest, and it was enough to make England smile, even when it prompted a couple quiet coughs afterwards. They both remained there, neither of them choosing to move or address further issues of recovery or loans. The Brit ran his free hand through Alfred's hair, the latter of them already dropping into a gentle sleep.

Arthur had decided that such things could wait. If only for just a little longer.

/end

[CT <3]

I don't even ship US/UK, but this is really good! I love fetish England and it's clear that you put a lot of work in this fic. I like the idea of tying in illness with financial crisis too. Haha, I would have been fantastic to see the Great Depression!

[SpookyScarySkeleton]

That oh my can't find words man<3 amazing. I loved it so much, too bad it's just a one-shot . maybe a second part?.

[Guest _Jgirl911_]

I love you so much for writing this. USUK is my OTP and sick Alfred is my favorite. You are amazing!

[CT <3]

That oh my can't find words man<3 amazing. I loved it so much, too bad it's just a one-shot . maybe a second part?.

Haha, I'd definitely second that .

[Hachimitsu Tea]

Eeee that was wonderful! I love the fact that you were able to work in their past history together without making me feel as if I were being hit over the head with it. I really liked England's gruffness and sarcasm here as well. And England catching America's sneezes for him in the end was just aidoijfaoknf ^////////////^ <3<3<3

[Spoo]

This was really sweet and cute! As always, your eye for detail is utterly astounding. As is your pacing! I'm very envious of that in particular. I agree with Hachimitsu Tea in the sense that England and America's shared past wasn't overbearing; it was juuuust right. Last but not least, your characterization was perfect (and that includes dialogue!). *Le sigh* I love your writing so much.

[Dye]

Aaaahhh, this is absolutely wonderful and adorable and perfect!

[Kushami Suki Da!]

This was sooooo HOT!!! I love the fetish!England!!!! And it's more like UKUS so, even better!!!!!

((A sequel would defiantly be fabulous!))

[Maus_17]

THIS WAS SO CUTE!!! I LOVE IT...please go on...

[Pyrus_Fangmon]

Aww! This was so adorable! Loved it, please do more!

[Not_Telling]

I remember reading this. WHY DID I NEVER COMMENT ON HOW MUCH I LOVED IT?????