There were times on the plane that Alfred swore Arthur was already with him. He would feel a brush on his hand and would look to see an empty seat. He had dreamless sleep, but wanted England to meet him in slumber. He would fiddle with the ring and replay the wedding in his mind (and pretend that he wasn't) blushing as he did so. It was almost annoying how much England was on his mind. It was as bad as Romeo's recurrent thoughts of Juliet. But, then again, the last time he saw his friend was when he was dead in a tomb, so in his mind the constant thoughts were justified.

Unconsciously, America would brush his fingers on his neck and check his pulse. He'd also watch his chest rise and fall. He was afraid that he would stop breathing, his heartbeat would disappear, and once again he would be stuck in a white dream. Part of him wanted that to happen, if it meant seeing England. With a groan, his fingers rubbed his temples and he tried to calm himself down. "Easy, Alfred," he murmured, his hands grasping the arm rests tightly, "he's just fine, everything's fine. He's just… asleep!" He paused, and hung his head with a grunt. "… for five days."

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back with a huff, his cheeks still warm. Everything seemed new. His thoughts of England were as they had been, but now, even just thinking of his eyebrows, or green eyes, or short stature made him blush. Maybe Romeo was still in his mind. Did that mean Juliet was still with Arthur? 'Just stop thinking,' he begged himself with a sigh. Sleep. He would just sleep.

-

"Sir? We've arrived."

A nudging of his shoulder roused Alfred, his blue eyes fluttering open. He glanced at the airline waitress and smiled in understanding. He stretched quickly before hurrying off the now empty plane, and it didn't take him long to blend in with the scurrying crowd in the terminal. He didn't care where in London they were heading; he had to get through first. He pushed and shoved and swiveled around people with wild abandon, uttering an occasional 'excuse me' or 'pardon me.' The closer to the exit he got, the more anxious he was. He glanced at the clock and hardly cared about the time difference. Where in DC it would have been two or so in the morning, it was seven in the evening there. If Arthur wasn't awake by then, he had something to seriously worry about. England always awoke at six thirty in the morning, a habit he once tried to get America into.

Once outside, he ignored the overcast, sunless clouds and waited on the curb for a taxi. There wasn't too much competition, but Alfred's booming voice and lack of regard for other people settled him with a taxi in no time. He directed the driver to the destination and leaned back in his seat, nausea once again washing over him. Or, maybe it was just worry.

Twenty minutes later, he was pulling up to Arthur's house. In a rush he paid the driver and stumbled out, staring at the house as the taxi drove away. The front door looked like it was off its hinges and poorly put back on - he assumed someone had fixed it while they were gone. He walked to the door and put a hand on the outline of what looked like a shoe, then glanced to his boot. He swallowed thickly and gently pushed the door open, unsure of what he was going to find once inside. Without ruining the door more than it already was (and he made a mental reminder to properly fix it later on), he slid inside of Arthur Kirkland's house and gazed around at the familiar sights. The only problem was it was just too quiet.

"Hello?" he asked quietly at first. There was no reply. "Helloooo?" he hollered louder, but he didn't hear an accented response. He bit his lower lip in worry and glanced to a cracked open door off to the left, and immediately hurried to it. He swung it open and quickly descended the stairs only to be greeted by an unoccupied, and small, basement-like room. It was eerie, like a horror movie. America turned on a light and his eyes were drawn like magnets to a large, black cauldron on its side resting on the brick. In the cracks of the floor, he saw crimson stains, mostly evaporated, but there was still some bubbling and smoking from the potion. America made sure not to go anywhere near it as he carefully meandered around the tiny, magic-filled room.

It looked just like It did before the cauldron spilled, so Arthur hadn't been down there. It wasn't like him to leave messes like that. Not being awake in the evening, leaving messes out in the open… Alfred was getting a gnawing feeling that England was nowhere to be found. He hurried up the stairs and snooped through the rest of the house. The kitchen was burn-free, no traces of newly made "food" in sight. The living room was bare. The downstairs bathroom was unoccupied until Alfred found he had to use it. When he finished, he quickly strode up the stairs and began opening doors at will. A storage room was empty, and the only things visible in the darkness were a hidden red coat and rifle. Another bathroom was free, but he did a double take when he thought he saw twinkle of brightly colored light outside the window.

He strode down the hallway to a closed door, one he knew was the guest bedroom. He often stayed there when he was in London, rather than being in some run-down hotel. "You're a nation; you shouldn't stay in a hotel," England would always explain, although America wanted to believe it was because England enjoyed his company. He opened the door; his luggage was still on the unmade bed, clothes half-hanging from the suitcase, a few papers scattered on a nearby desk. Nearby was a map with pen marks and a compass laying against the desk. He walked over and traced with his finger the paths the two nations had planned to get into Germany in the years to come. He paused over a small, barely visible city in a country shaped like a boot. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in and read the name in his mind: 'Verona, Italy.'

A faint thump down the hall made him jump, his hand jolting to his side. He leaned out the door and gazed at a closed door - the master bedroom. A frown creased America's face as he quietly approached. His heartbeat rang in his ears. His breathing was heavy. His left hand fingers fiddled with the ring, and he almost didn't want to open the door. He could almost see through it the body of England lying lifelessly on the bed, just like in the tomb. Chills ran up and down his spine, and he closed his eyes tightly. He couldn't let that happen again. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he failed again.

The unexplainable drive to find England made America nearly rip the bedroom door off its hinges to get inside. Alfred stood in the doorframe of the rooom, staring in at a messy bed to the left. The sheets trailed off towards the right and in front of him, as if someone had stumbled out of bed. They stopped in front of a mirror, and America looked into the eyes of a familiar face. However, his heart dropped lower than it has ever dropped before. This wasn't the person he wanted to see. He wanted to see green eyes, not blue. He wanted a green uniform, not a brown bomber jacket. In the mirror, his own reflection was the only company he was given.

England was nowhere in the house, nowhere to be heard from. He was simply gone, as if he had never even existed and this was some strangers home. For all Alfred knew, Arthur was still in a coma - or worse, dead - in Verona, six hundred years in the past. "No," he weakly croaked as he shook his head and stepped farther into the room. He stared at the bed in disbelief, then looked around in a circle. "England?" he called loudly, his voice traveling through the room and down the hall. Why was he back, but Arthur wasn't?

The nostalgia of the lonely dream he had only hours ago came back, and he horribly wished that's all this was: a dream. How could it be that England was stuck back in time? How would be get home? How could America save him? (Alfred was the hero, so it was automatically his job - not as if he would complain.) Alfred ran both hands through his hair and tried to calm himself, but it was for nothing. Panic swept over him as he turned and ran from the room, reopening every door to the rooms he had been in before. Every time he would peek inside, calling out for his ally. "England?" And, every time, the only comfort he received was his voice echoing off the walls of unoccupied spaces. He tried the entire upstairs, peeked through windows and down the road, into the backyard, trying to find one person, any sign of him, anything, that showed he was alright.

The house went quiet as he stopped at the top of the staircase. He looked down the flight and heard the house creak. Outside, he could faintly make out cars driving by. How could the world go on when the United Kingdom was gone? How could the people of London not know that their dearest nation was stuck in a play set in the fourteenth century? Alfred's teeth grit and, without warning, he slammed his hand on the railing of the staircase in his frustration. The railing made a stressing noise from his strength, and America let his hand hang limply against it. He stared down at his feet and closed his eyes tightly. Something in him, the so-called naïve, childish part of his heart, refuse to give up. Even when all the lights seemed to fade, and any hope of England's well-being was hidden, he refused to give in. He was the hero; he had to find a way! He held onto the tiniest hope that Arthur was somewhere, okay, safe, alive. He refused to give up on him. London was a big city, and he had to be there somewhere, waiting to be found, and everything would be alright again.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins. America bound down the steps in leaps, the rest of the house passing by him in a blur. His focus was completely on the speed of his legs and reaching the mangled front door. His visage was stubborn, determined, and in his eyes was the zeal and light of a hero on a mission.

His heroic moment was cut off abruptly by an unseen force. His fingertips had brushed against the brass knob, not even grasping it, when the door swung open. America had a brief instant realize that someone was coming inside. He also realized that he was bolting out the door like he was running from a ghost. With the second he was given, he tried to stop himself and his feet skid against the floor, his eyes wide, as he saw the silhouette of someone entering the house.

KLUNK. Alfred's head smacked into the other man's with a force that seemed like a train to a brick wall. Both of them gave a cry of pain, and at the same time Alfred stumbled into the other man. They fell out of the house, Alfred accidentally tackling the poor unknown like a football player and a sack of potatoes. They fell on the front lawn with Alfred sprawled on top of the bystander. Slowly, the Yank sat up and gave a quiet groan, looking down while rubbing the sore spot on his forehead he knew would likely be a bruise. When he finally realized that he was using this man as a couch, his face flushed and he tumbled up. "Aw, geez! 'm really sorry!" he apologized.

Once up, he put a hand on his knee and extended his other to assist the man he had crashed into, but the victim smacked his hand in refusal and stood on his own. "Watch where you're going," the man spoke in a sputtering and upset tone (and America, for a moment, stopped breathing at his dialect), "and what were you doing in my house?" As he stood, Alfred's eyes slowly opened in surprise. The accent had tripped him for a moment until he realized that most Londoners had an English accent. His brief intuition from a moment ago had proven correct, however, and he couldn't help but stare at the man before him.

Tussled, light blond hair swayed with a breeze as angry green eyes looked into opposite baby blues. Thick eyebrows were furrowed, and hands were on hips covered by green uniform pants. "Were you trying to bre-" he started to ask in annoyance until he saw the eyes he looked into. The man's stature faltered, and all traces of anger faded. His green hues blinked in shock, and he let his arms hang at his side. "Am - America?" he stammered in hesitation, eyes narrowing to look up at Alfred.

The only thing Alfred could do was take in a breath and ask, in quiet doubt, "England…?"