Recently Matthew had been a little out of it. Every time he moved, and occasionally when he didn't, an extreme lightheadedness would follow, sometimes causing him to collapse. There was a constant pounding in his head, ranging from a minor pain that gave an illusion of improvement to a full-out migraine, leaving him to try to fend it off in the darkness. Most annoying however were the unpleasant waves of nausea that came and go seemingly as they pleased. He wasn't eating, he was lucky to get a few hours of sleep a night; he was struggling to complete paperwork on time and hadn't gone to a meeting in months. Matthew couldn't even remember how long he had been in this condition; his internal clock had falling apart along with his health.

Being as stubborn as he was, Matthew believed that if he just waited a while then the symptoms would go away on their own. A little cold is nothing to worry about, besides, he always got stuffed up in flu season. So he didn't take any medication, and he didn't give himself any time to rest, always keeping himself busy with something to keep his mind off of his condition.

Today, Canada was utterly exhausted. His nausea was acting up, but he was sure that it had never been this bad before. 'Maybe I should take a warm bath and relax for a while... A quick soak before I get to work.' Matthew thought as he stumbled to the master bathroom, leaning on the doorway so that he didn't fall over. He wobbled to the bathtub and weakly tugged on the handle marked with a red 'H' until it budged, leaving a stream of hot water spurting out of the faucet.

He slowly slid off his clothes, wincing when he had to bend over and another rippling wave of pain was sent through his lower abdomen. With a slight splash he lowered himself into the bathtub and sighed a little. The warm water helped to keep his disagreeing stomach at bay and he could allow himself some time to think about everything that had happened. Sure his sickness seemed to be getting worse, but he could just be imagining that after all. Nothing was wrong with his country, the economy, global relations; everything was going well, even more so than usual. So there was no reason for him to be so ill, really.

Still, what if something really was wrong? What if it there is some terrorist act in an early planning stage, and he was experiencing early side effects? What if the proble was nothing connected to his country? What if it's more than just a common cold or stomach flu? What if, what if, what if? So many filled his head, not helping the ache he was currently sporting. Again, he told himself the same doubt-filled words in a hypnotizing mantra. 'I'm going to be fine.'

Or so he thought.

After about half an hour had passed he decided to stop putting off the pile of papers waiting for him, but Matthew still gave himself time to get out of the bathtub. He would have stood in that spot for hours, looking in awe at the bones that seemed to stick out in such sharp angles as if they were trying to cut out of his skin and escape, the purple and blue bruises under his eyes subtly highlighting the pallor tone his skin had taken on. Matthew had covered up the mirror two months ago.

Leaving his night clothes on the floor to be picked up later, he examined the clothing that he had hurriedly brought in with him. Khakis and a button-down dress shirt, a somewhat professional outfit for a day home alone. The outfit had been a tad too big when he first bought them, but they were a gift from Arthur, who insisted he would eventually grow into the khakis and would look 'absolutely dashing'.

When Matthew pulled the rough tan fabric over his legs, he realized just how thin he had become. The pants were a monster, slowly consuming him from the bottom half of his body while he shrunk and shrunk into the gaping waistline. Even after pulling up the zipper and buttoning the pants it still seemed as if he was a young child again, sneaking into Francis's closet and trying on the other's clothing.

The shirt provided a similar reaction, consuming his rib bones in a messy, plaid pattern. In the moment, it was tempting to pull down the sheet which covered his bathroom mirror, just one quick glance, to fix his hair, to check if there was anything stuck in his teeth, to see and believe that he was not slowly fading away from the world. Just a peak to make sure that he still existed.

His hand reached out, touching the soft fabric, but retreated in one fluid motion. There were things he could be doing, files to leaf through and sign, no time for any of these wandering thoughts.

But just to make sure…

No.

However, Matthew did end up changing back into his filthy pajamas.

Midway through pulling up the pair of navy blue sweatpants, Matthew felt the return of a familiar pain clenching at his gut. He collapsed to the floor, crawling to kneel in front of the toilet and lean on the lid in case a need to clear out his stomach appeared. Sure enough, he began dry-heaving into the toilet.

Matthew's eyes were screwed shut as he tried to empty something out of his stomach that wasn't there. He could feel muscles contracting in what he determined to be the most painful way possible. After what felt like hours of choking out and riding the waves of agonizing torture he tasted the bile that rose up his throat and spit it out, expelling the gruesome yellowish-brown liquid into the toilet. A quiet whimper escaped his mouth, and more of the vomit followed suit. When done he collapsed, half against the toilet seat and half against the wall beside it, rubbing at his slightly teary eyes. 'What's wrong with me?'

It had been a while since Alfred had been able to take the time off to visit his neighbor, months even. Recently he had gotten involved in another war, and between the constant protests, meetings, and his usual work, his schedule was rather tight.

Alfred was not the only one to notice Matthew's absence from the last meeting, which had come as quite a shock. Matthew was never one to miss any gathering or event, especially a bi-annual meeting with the entirety of the UN. He parked his car behind Matthew's in the snow-covered driveway, making any chance of the other's escape from the upcoming hug attack impossible.

He considered pressing the doorbell once and waiting patiently, but now seemed to be a perfect time to practice his skill of smashing buttons at speeds impossible to record. It was a sort of ritual. Showing up on announced and with no warning, Alfred would smash the doorbell or knock in the tune of catchy pop singles until the frazzled Canadian would show up the door, out of breath from running across the house. The two would share a long hug, and when the time came that they would finally let go, Matthew would punch Alfred in the face. The action was always paired with words similar to "Stop trying to break my doorbell every time you come over, dammit!"

However, this time seemed to be different. Alfred continued to push the doorbell until his finger was sore, and there was no sounds coming from inside the house. Wait? Had the doorbell stopped working? He pressed the doorbell one last time, just to make sure, and the lack of an obnoxious 'ding-dong' confirmed his fears. Well, Matthew was right. You really can break a doorbell like that.

Groaning under his breath, Alfred pulled his phone out of his back pocket, an IPhone 6 which already had a shattered screen. He dialed Matthew's cell phone (under speed dial as 1) and waited, but after all four beeps the call went to voicemail. Sure, he did not have any reason to be concerned, there are a million things that Matthew could be busy doing. Maybe he's doing some work in his rose garden or jamming to some punk rock music in his basement. Maybe he was on the toilet and had to take a serious shit. Maybe he's doing the do, without a duo.

Well, there was only one thing left to do.

Bending down, Alfred removed the spare key hidden under the welcome mat.

Matthew should really find a better hiding place for that.

Sticking the key into the door's lock, Alfred was able to turn the handle and let himself in easily.

Immediately a burst of warm air hit him, which would have been more pleasurable if the house hadn't been so stuffy. Alfred carefully stepped into the house and quietly closed the door behind him, taking in his surroundings with a sense of awe. The musty atmosphere continued through the halls, and when picking up a framed picture of Matthew and himself, his hand was dirtied by a thick layer of dust.

The silence was ominous, no crackling embers from a lit fire, no crashing of pots and pans in the kitchen, only his own slow, silent breaths reverberating in his ears. If Alfred did not know better, he would claim the home abandoned and possibly haunted by the spirits of its past owners, murdered in the very building by some deranged psychopath. But this was Matthew's house, Matthew who devoted an hour every day to sweeping, mopping, dusting, scrubbing, and cleaning any dirtied surface in a quarter mile radius.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" Alfred called, fear creeping into his voice. "Matthew? I'm heading to your bedroom, so just don't be dead alright?"

The hallway that led to Matthew's room was small and dark, with no lighting or outside windows. Every time Alfred visited he would offer to install a ceiling light, maybe even get a glass lantern to carry down the hall, but the other always refused. Matthew claimed that he found the change of ambiance soothing, that the sudden darkness had the ability to brighten him up in a sort of strange contrast.

Sneaking down the narrow path, Alfred held onto the wall in hope of comfort. What had first been a normal (yet long awaited) visit had transformed into a concerning situation, and it was unimaginable what could have been the cause.

Finally reaching the end of the tunnel, Alfred was able to get a hold of the door knob, but was unable to open the door itself. He knocked three times in a pattern, the same knock the two would use late at night as children, to gain permission into the other's room and share an array of horrors hiding under their bed, appearing in the dreams, and popping up in real life. "Matthew? Are you in there?"

There was a pause, then a faint sound of movement. "Hello?" The voice croaked, sounding disoriented.

"Is everything okay, are you hurt?" Alfred's brow furrowed in worry.

"I…I can't get up."

(Author's Note: This is a fan fiction that I wrote three years ago, which I will be editing, reposting, and completing. Thank my younger sister for reminding me of this story's existence, and my older sister for yelling me every time that I stopped typing. I am not satisfied with this story, but am more excited for the next three chapters I have planned out. This is only a portion of the original first chapter since it would have been over eight thousand words, and made the other chapters seem out of proportion.

Thank you very much for reading my fan fiction and I would love to hear any comments or criticism that you have. Please stick around for the rest, I guarantee a plot line that won't let you go!)