Holy EFF! I can't believe it took me THIS LONG to update ONE CHAPTER! Subsequently, I can't believe I've been a part of the fandom for like 3+ years now (I honestly lost count…) Happy Hetalia Anniversary to me! Anyway, I had this piece written up for MONTHS, I just never went back and edited it. I suck!

This is probably going to be very disappointing for the amount of time it took to finally update. I apologize for that. Oh, and sorry for the upcoming emo-logue; Arthur is in a dark place and I suck trying to convey his mental state, but here you go:

Also, this is un-beta'd.

One month later

Take a step… Just one more step…

In all honesty, it was a simple enough command, yet it was one that had Arthur hesitating.

He inhaled deeply. His eyes were creased shut in concentration, his hands shaking faintly—he fisted them tightly to make them stop. A thick bead of sweat trailed down the side of his neck, and as the air conditioner breathed on it, he was momentarily chilled.

Quietly, from some far off plane of existence, he registered the faintest sounds of a mysterious melody—pitches of piano music fading in and out. He idly recognized it as Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. The sounds of the piano wandered throughout his deep reverie, slow and calming like a steady creek. In fact, everything around him was languid and soothing, a world glazed in heavy spell of sleep and relaxation.

How peaceful. How perfect. How naive.

Inside his mind, far away from the serene atmosphere, a torrent of pain and chaos raged onward. It was a ravaged battlefield, it was World War III, it was madness. Tearing through his skull, his defenses were paper-thin. Some days he had a handle on it—most days it handled him.

Go on then. Take the step.

It's too hard.

Just take the damn step.

It'll hurt too much.

Such a pathetic, crying baby. Take. It. Now.

Arthur's fists clenched tighter, his nails digging crescent moons into the soft palms of his hands. The Battle raged on. Arthur tried to deny it, but his mind nowadays was akin to a broken puzzle, pieces thrown carelessly in their box and then rattled and shaken. Amongst his puzzle-piece mind, two distinct voices rose above and, almost as an obligation, began to fight.

The two feuding voices were prominent over all other noise. They were always badgering each other for control, like an old bitter couple. Arthur flinched as they continued their bickering, going off on tangents that no longer had to do with the original problem—they often trailed off from the source of the problem and turned to petty insults instead. If Arthur had any control at all, he'd tell the two voices to mature a fair bit and learn how to execute a debate correctly. But he neither had control, nor would he prefer not acknowledge them at all, since the very notion of voices in his head labeled him as unstable.

And he was trying oh so hard to remain stable.

So he was forced to listen to them fight over every aspect of his life; sometimes it was over tea, other times was about what to watch on the telly, or what to wear, or if he should answer or ignore his brother's increasing phone calls. But most often, it was about that day…

Arthur couldn't explain exactly why, but since that day, it was as if his mind had been split down the middle, and he's been fighting ever since to quiet down the noise and gain even an inch of peace.

It was all very exhausting and draining and Arthur could hardly take it anymore. By day, the voices hoot and hollered about everything, and by night they twisted his dreams into nightmares and mangled memories of terror. He hadn't had more than four hours of sleep each night since that day, and more often than not, he would startle awake as a shivering mess of sweat and tears. He worked diligently to keep up a believable facade in public, to prove that he was okay, but the sad truth was that he really wasn't.

He knew he wasn't. After all, it didn't take a licensed professional to deduce that he was spiraling out of control. He could never concentrate. He was perpetually anxious. He had a hard time sleeping and an even harder time eating, and there was just so much noise. Not to mention the chronic headaches that always developed when the two sides of his mind lashed out in a particularly violent fight. Even now, he could feel the familiar stabbing pain just behind his eyes growing, just as strong as a hammer striking on the head of a nail (the medicine in his bathroom cabinet didn't even touch the eye-wincing pain brought on because of it…)

Sit down. Stand up. Go to sleep. Stay awake. Chew the food. Spit it out. Remember. Don't fucking remember...

Arthur just wanted peace and quiet again. He wanted to be normal again, the way he was before that day. How pathetically weak was he? What a total wreck he had become, falling apart at the seams and losing himself after all, even though he had narrowly escaped death, when he had been given a second chance to live. There were so many other people who deserved this life more than he, so many people who had been cheated because he was still alive.

All your fault. You should have died instead.

You were given another chance and you are running it to shit.

Dying would have been easier than this, huh? You should just die. Die. Die. Di—

"Arthur?" a cautious voice suddenly spoke up. "Are you okay?"

His eyes snapped open at the sudden interruption. He jolted back into the real world. The war inside his mind ceased, if only temporarily, as he scrambled to gather his surroundings. He was confused for a moment at where he was exactly, before it all came back to him—the familiar sight of the office greeted his eyes. There were people around him that he forgot about, patients like himself. Background noise phased back into existence: paperwork being shuffled, fingertips tapping along keyboards, doors softly closing somewhere out of sight, and that recognizable melody drifting from the speakers installed in the corners of the room, soft music to help soothe the patients. There were posters slapped on the walls, full of encouragement, which seemed quite optimistic, if a bit juvenile.

That's right. He was at the clinic. He hadn't even realized he had spaced off again—that too had been happening more often lately.

Elizaveta, his physical therapist, was staring at him worriedly. She was waiting for an answer he had almost forgotten she asked.

"Fine," he replied hastily, turning away from her observant olive-green eyes. "I'm just fine."

Even to his own ears, he knew he sounded too breathless, too fake Elizaveta frowned slightly but didn't pester him for more, instead she held a skeptical gaze at him that made him fidget uncomfortably.

He didn't like people looking at him like that, as if he were to be pitied. To her credit, Elizaveta didn't pity. She was kind and genuinely wanted to help him, but he still felt unsettled when she worried over him. He felt guilty as well, because he was a difficult patient; an absolute mental-case, and he tried so hard not to seem like it, but it was clear by the furrow in her brow that Elizaveta was concerned for him.

She was sweet, but she couldn't fix his sleeping and eating problems, or the demons plaguing his mind, or any of the other hundreds of things currently wrong with him (he was seeing another therapist for that, regrettably…) As much as she wanted to help him, her job only involved her getting him back on his feet, since he had to undergo a particularly rough surgery on his damaged knee.

"Arthur, if it's too much to handle for now, then don't force yourself," Elizaveta said gently. "It's counterproductive to do so, no matter what you may think…"

Arthur was reminded again why she made such a good physical therapist; she had a unique talent for sensing her patient's mood, identifying what they were thinking and working with it. She connected with them on a deeper level than just a typical patient/doctor dynamic. At first, Arthur had been a little wary by how easily she could read him; how easily she seemed to know his inner thoughts and doubts…but he soon grew to admire that particular trait, thankful for her keen intuition to help him out at times like now, when he seemed to be losing himself again. Even if she wasn't a licensed psychologist, she could vaguely understand the sort of thoughts that were holding him back, and that, at least, made him feel marginally better and less alone.

"You can sit down if you need a small break, but you're not leaving until you finish," she continued, her tone growing sterner, hidden behind a sickeningly sweet smile…

She was also one hell of a pusher when it came down to it.

They were in the middle of an exercise when Arthur had spaced out. He had been trying to walk across the room, to where Elizaveta was sitting patiently on a plastic chair for him. She was now only about five steps away, but it seemed more like a mile when he had to walk with his knee in the state it was. He was tired and longed for a break, but he also wanted to be finished for the day.

As accurate as clockwork, the fighting kicked back up in his head, routine for anytime a decision was to be made.

Sit down for a bit.

No, take another damn step.

Don't be stupid. She was offering you a break. Take it and sit down.

Taking breaks is for the weak. You are weak. How the hell do you expect to walk again?

His brain buzzed with agitation. The bickering continued like a tennis match, insults being thrown back and forth, before he mentally threw up his hands in frustration. He decided to get this over with and forgo the break to finish the exercise so he could finally go home, which of course spurred the other part of his mind to gripe and complain in protest for not getting its way...

Just five more steps and he was home free.

To any other person, that would have been no problem. To Arthur, walking five steps without either his leg brace or his crutches was like trying to pull a tractor with his teeth. Elizaveta gave him a light nod of understanding as he prepared himself to continue.

His hands flexed tightly on the balance poles beside him—they were used as an aide. They reminded him of the poles that ballerinas used whenever they stretched, but these ones were for patients like Arthur who needed them to stabilize in walking exercises like this. In his current state, he would fall without them. Hesitantly, Arthur released his grip until his hands were just ghosting over the balance poles. He kept them hovering over them, in case he lost his footing, but for the most part, he was standing on his own. His injured knee was quivering, anticipating the work it was about to do. He took another deep breathe, and took a step forward.

Pain shot up the mid joint as he put pressure on it. It was not terrible, but enough to make him wince. By now, he was familiar with such pain, although that didn't make it any easier to deal with. The hard part now was to not fall over as he put all his weight on the shaking joint so he could shift his good leg forward to continue the step. It was slow work, and he wasn't even aware he was biting his bottom lip, but he finally completed the step.

He paused for a small respite, exhaling sharply. He subconsciously shifted all the weight back on his good leg, letting his aching knee rest. More pearls of sweat were trailing down his neck and back.

He still had about four more steps to go until he reached the end, where Elizaveta was waiting for him. She coaxed him onward, and despite the nagging urge to quit, he pushed forward. The next steps were none easier than the previous one. With tremendous effort, he forced himself to continue until he finally made it to the end, where Elizaveta had a gracious gift waiting for him: a chair.

Never before had a simple, cheaply made plastic chair the color of old leather looked so inviting. He collapsed into it with a sigh.

"Great job, Arthur! That was excellent work!" Elizaveta praised cheerfully.

He had to disagree with her. It had taken him fifteen minutes to walk ten steps. He didn't feel very accomplished. However, he didn't want to burst her happy bubble, so he let her prattle on uninterrupted as he massaged soothing circles on his knee cap. It felt so good to sit down; his knee was still aching bone-deep, and he knew he would have to take a mouthful of pills tonight to calm it down, but it was much easier to bear when he could finally sit.

Eventually, Elizaveta calmed down about his apparent success and began to collect all the equipment they had used throughout the session.

"You did wonderful today," she said, packing up her things. "I think we will call it a day though, what do you say?"

"Yes, I think that's a good idea," Arthur replied wearily. He took a swing from his water, letting the cool liquid refresh his dry mouth. He was absolutely spent' physical therapy was a bitch to him. He knew that a full knee reconstruction would take many months to heal and would require a great deal of patience, but the dragging slow pace of therapy made it seem like nothing was working; that he would never get better. He would never be the same person he was a month ago, before the tragedy has struck...

All the simple things he used to do, like hop up from the couch to make tea, or jump into the shower, or walk from one side of the room to fucking the other, was now a demanding chore for him to preform.

He felt, above all else, like a failure. To what, or to whom, he was uncertain. He just had an overwhelming sense that he had failed somehow.

"You really are doing great Arthur." Elizaveta said in a more solemn tone, squeezing his shoulder gently. "Don't be so hard on yourself."

She was staring at him knowingly, and he was again reminded at how in-tune she was with her patient's attitudes. "I know it's seems like you aren't getting anywhere, but I'll have you walking in no time, I promise."

Arthur's breath hitched. His eyes went wide with shock.

I promise…

I promise…

Somewhere far back in his mind, hidden behind the confusing banter of the voices, those words, I promise, circled around in whispers, teasing him. He saw flashes of fire and smoke, fear and pain, and through it all, a pair of impossible blue eyes. Strong arms were holding him up, squeezing him, not letting go. That golden skin, and easy smile, with lips that murmured words of comfort and hope in his ear…it all came back to him.

No. Do not think of that.

But you have to. You want to!

No. You don't.You want to forget that day.

They were arguing again. Arguing about the day that changed the world. The day that changed him.

He vaguely remembered his therapist, the other one he saw three times a week, giving him instructions on how to calm his mind for moments like these, when the clash of the voices was too much, and he was close to falling off the edge. But he couldn't remember any of the advice over the shouting:

Go on and think about it! Think about him! He saved you! He risked his life for you!

No! Don't think about it! You'll regret it!

"Arthur, are you alright?"

This was the second time Elizaveta had asked him that, and the second time he had lied as he mutely nodded his head in response. She understood him though. She knew there was nothing she could do for him. She understood the scars he had, but she was there to help him heal physically. Mentally, she was out of her depth.

She gave him a pat on his knee, his good one. "Alright, we're finished for today then."

She got up from her crouched position, shuffling together all her things into his specific patient folder.

"I'll go put up this paperwork. Be right back."

She handed him back his infuriating knee brace and headed back into the office. Alone now, Arthur let out a deep sigh and began the meticulous work of reattaching the apparatus back onto his leg. He hated the damn thing—big and bulky and outrageously ostentatious. It stretched from his ankle all the way up to his mid thigh and contained about half a dozen laces of Velcro that always got tangled together. Even after having a few weeks to get familiar with it, it still was a hassle and to put on and it took him nearly five minutes to put it on every time.

He had started to adjust the first Velcro strip when suddenly two large hands cupped around his own, halting his movements.

"Here, let me help you with that."

Arthur felt an electric buzz spring through his bones. That voice… it was too familiar. It was too exact to be any different. He knew that voice and when he looked up, in that moment their eyes connected, the constant fighting in his head fell dead silent.

Before him was the firefighter. His firefighter. His Alfred, who had saved him, who went into the burning building and carried him all the way out, who ran back into the chaos to save more…

Who Arthur thought was dead, like all the others who perished for their bravery.

Yet, here he was, his warm hands around Arthur's, his sparkling blue eyes alit with fire and life. His hero, he was alive, alive, alive…

The only reaction he could muster was to openly gape at the firefighter, all other brain functions stalling. Alfred chuckled at him, smiling as he continued to lace up all the blasted Velcro straps that Arthur had been struggling with.

"You are one hard guy to track down, Arthur." The firefighter said conversationally, so idly as if commenting on the weather. "I never did get your last name..."

He kept his head down, leaning over Arthur's leg and focusing on strapping the brace properly. Arthur carefully leaned forward, hesitating before grabbing Alfred's upper arm. He had to make sure this wasn't a trick of his mind, he had to be absolutely certain this was real and that he didn't finally lose it.

Sure enough, the arm under his fingertips was warm with life and blood; it was tangible, it was there.

"H-how did you…how are you…?" Arthur stuttered along, cursing his sudden lack of articulation. He didn't even know what he was trying to ask, only that his brain was demanding a thousand answers to a thousand questions. Like how Alfred could be standing before him when he had gone back into the Trade Center? Arthur was so sure that Alfred had been killed that day. So many others had, and he went back into that tower right before it came crashing down. Arthur had kept a vigilant eye and ear for any news of the firefighter the following days and weeks, but there were just so many casualties, and the entire city was in such disarray, it was impossible to tell who was dead or alive.

"I thought you…died." Arthur finally chocked out in a hushed whisper. His eyes were stinging.

Alfred stopped and looked at him, his gaze still as intense and commanding as Arthur remembered. They were honestly so beautifully blue. This time around though, they were not spiked with urgency, but instead stared at Arthur steadily, as if seeing right through his skin; right past the laughable facade he had been putting up this past month for everyone. He was looking straight at Arthur Kirkland, the most average person on the planet, who miraculously survived the dreadful day of September eleventh, but had scars and open wounds to show for it.

"I didn't go back in," Alfred finally said in a quiet voice. Arthur blinked in confusion. "I was going to," he continued, "but for some reason, your voice kept stopping me." His cheeks blossomed a rosy red, but he didn't advert his gaze, and Arthur couldn't look away either, even if he wanted to. He was captivated, riveted by the cadence of the voice of the outstanding young man who had saved his life.

"I kept hearing your voice telling me not to go in… to save myself, so I could live and save more lives; to help pick up the pieces after it was all over. I didn't want to listen, but I couldn't ignore it…I had to listen to you."

Alfred's large hand squeezed over Arthur's ankle. "You…saved my life Arthur." He said softly, his gaze bearing into Arthur's own.

Arthur couldn't say anything. But you saved me! You pulled me away from the carnage and carried me to safety. I hardly did anything…

Alfred seemed to sense what was going on in Arthur's mind. He shifted to sit closer to Arthur, his sides brushing against him, which felt so incredible and soothing that Arthur immediately knew he never wanted Alfred to move away from him.

"It's true Arthur. You really did save me, and I'm so thankful for that." He lifted those powerful hands and with unexpected gentleness, he cupped Arthur's face, caging it between them tenderly. "I couldn't agree with it at first; I thought it was cowardice. But I realized what you said to me was true; I couldn't save everybody that day. But I could save people the next day, and the day after that. You were right: they…they need heroes even after the damage is done."

Arthur hadn't realized he was crying up until that point. Fat, ugly tears trailing down his cheeks and he wanted to turn away. Alfred wouldn't let him. With his strong hands still holding onto his face, he leaned forward and slowly captured Arthur's lips with his own.

It wasn't hasty or lust-driven; rather it was simple and chaste, but it made Arthur's heart beat deeply like it had never before in all his years of living.

They parted.

"Let me take you out to dinner." Alfred said quietly, his eyes powered with determination as they stared down into Arthur's. Arthur found he couldn't say no…he didn't even want to. All his life he had been subconsciously waiting to something to happen, something to spark in his dull life, and now Alfred, his shining hero, was here. Arthur had thought his life ended on that September day, but it was just starting to begin.

Through the pain and destruction, there was hope to start anew.

Arthur motioned to his now strapped-up leg, which he thought made him look half robotic in a way. "I'm afraid I won't be great company. I can hardly move."

Alfred gave him his trademark smirk, handsome tweak of his lips. "Don't worry, I can fix that."

Without warning, Alfred scooped Arthur up in his arms, cradling him like he was precious cargo. Alfred carried him out into the night and the whole time, Arthur's mind was finally, peacefully silent.

OH MY MOTHER!

I can't believe how LONG it has taken me to upload this crap! Cheesy ending was magnificently cheesy. I apologize for the ridiculous wait you had to go through for this cheese-tacular ending. Do you SEE why I don't have many fanfics uploaded? It's because I can NEVER FINISH ANYTHING! GAH!

Another note: Physical therapy can take a long time, and it's not easy to be optimistic when you first start out and it takes so long to accomplish such little things. I've had knee surgery (not a full reconstruction, thankfully!) so I just took some of my own experiences/views and related them to poor Arthur.