Cool, lapping waves. The sturdy shore, standing strong despite their constant pull. The distant cry of seagulls on the gentle wind. The mighty sun, enveloping all below it in its warm embrace. The feel of water against you ankles, caressing, soothing, comforting. Pulling. Sucking you in like a massive black hole, pulling ever stronger, forcing under, filling, suffocating, no breathing, pain, screaming without sound because nothing will come out because there is salt and water and seaweed in your lungs and snaking down your trachea and oh my god you're drowning.

This is why Arthur Kirkland, formally known as England, wanted to sit and watch the beach from afar. Oh, how he had wanted to. But that's not what happened, is it? Of course not.

Arthur was afraid of water. Petrified, actually. It was an irrational, and quite frankly humiliating, fear. That is why only a select few people were actually aware of it. This included France (god only knows why), America (much to his English lover's dismay), and Scotland (regretfully; very regretfully). The only reason that Scotland would know of such a thing, the arrogant brute that he was, is because he was largely the cause of it. England had never known how to swim, but that was just because he had never needed to. Most pirates couldn't swim, he would console himself. It wasn't until his empire began to fall, and his pirating days were far behind him, that Arthur began to fear the water. It was Scotland and his damn stories. It was the teasing and the ranting and the tales of waves so large they could easily swallow a little island like poor England, leaving him with dead people and salted fields unable to grow crop. That, coupled with the sessions of what Americans called "swirlies", solidified the fear.

Arthur was thoroughly convinced that Scotland thought it was his personal job in life to destroy the pride of the United Kingdom. This did make sense, seeing as he was only a part of it in a very reluctant way.

Becoming the boyfriend of the world's Superpower shortly following World War II put an end to the swirlies and stories, mostly because Scotland was scarred shitless of America. This was very good for the mental stability of the Brit (he was also very glad the Alfred never had to find out about those humiliating events), but the paralyzing fear remained.

Arthur was actually fairly glad that his lover knew about his fear. Alfred had over protective habits, so it wasn't a disaster when the informal "get-together" that the counties were forced into every year was occurring at a private beach in Costa Rica. The American made sure that the two had their blankets laid out a good distance from the water, fairly near to the parking lot so that if Arthur felt he had to make a run for it he could.

Everything had been going well. Arthur was sitting alone in their secluded location actually enjoying the warm weather. The humidity wasn't too thick. It was more of a nice languid breeze, good for the complexion as well as the soul. The other nations, including his beloved, were off in the waves, close enough to see but far enough to not be disturbing him. That was, until heavy footsteps approached through the dense rainforest behind Arthur.

"What are ye doin out 'ere?" a thick, regretfully Scottish accent spoke.

"Enjoying the lack of company," England said pointedly, turning to glare at his least savory sibling (and that was saying something).

"Why are ye so far from the water?" he asked, not even acting innocent.

Arthur narrowed his eyes cautiously; "you know very well why."

"I never really intended to make you afraid of water," he admitted, sitting down beside England with his legs crossed; "I just wanted ye to be afraid o me."

"Sometimes we don't get what we want, Lyle."

"Ain't that the truth," he scoffed.

England wasn't really concerned with Scotland's empty threats. They happened quite often, actually; just never when America was around.

"Maybe if I threw you in the water all of me preparin' would be worth it." Arthur made a point to look down at Alfred, who was laughing with Gilbert off in the distance.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Not if I was afraid of the consequences. Maybe I'm more tired of waitin' than I am afraid."

That was concerning. Arthur turned to look at his brother, only to be met with a hand clamped firmly over his mouth. A large object colliding with his head, most likely an elbow, sent him unconscious. This all went unseen by the merry nations who were suddenly way too far away.

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Arthur registered his pounding headache first. Then he remembered how he got that way. Why did I tell Alfred I was more comfortable sitting way out there? I could have been tanning with Seychelles for Christ's sake. Then he registered a crashing sound, like cars repeatedly colliding; the sound of waves against rocks. This made Arthur sit bolt upright, ignoring his head completely. He was sitting on a cliff made of grey rocks. Below him the ocean pounded mercilessly at its' face. He blearily remembered seeing them across the cove from where the private beach was located. It wasn't a very far distance, and if he dared go to the edge he could surely make out the distant shore, but Arthur knew it was far enough for his sadistic brother's intentions. Nobody would be able to hear him scream.

"It took ye long enough"

Arthur was trying very hard not to panic. He was frozen to the spot, but even if he did run his much taller sibling would catch him easily. It wasn't until he felt a firm grip, firm enough to bruise, on both of his upper arms that Arthur moved. He started to struggle, violently throwing his torso around to dislodge the unwelcome hands.

"You don't want to do this, Lyle." Arthur panted, giving up on escaping by force. He would try to reason instead. "You don't want to find out what Alfred will do to you."

Arthur's breath caught in his throat as he was hoisted to his feet. Scotland didn't reply. England began to tremble, realizing that there was no way out of this. He was shaking so violently he couldn't speak as he was pushed closer, ever closer, to the cliff's edge.

Nononononono please no I can't I'll die I'm going to die please not like this someone save me Alfred save me please I can't nononononono

Panic was like a boa constrictor, filling his chest until it exploded outwards and squeezing his heart. All Arthur could do was scream. They were crippling screams of sheer terror that made him feel like his trachea would tear itself from his throat. Then he was falling. There was not life-flashing, no moment of peace, no weightless euphoria. There was a few seconds of shock, and then impact.

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ALFRED'S POINT OF VIEW

It didn't take Alfred long to realize that Arthur had disappeared. He had been looking towards their blanket to see if Arthur wanted to leave for the duration of the party. When his favorite Brit was no longer present, and he found himself waving at a mussed blanket and abandoned umbrella, Alfred was worried.

He said goodbye to the other nations, trudging up the sand to gather their things and head for the car. Alfred figured that Arthur had panicked, or felt overwhelmed and gone to their rented car. It was a curious sight indeed when America was met with and empty, silver SUV. He stowed their things away and donned a white t-shirt, wondering briefly if his boyfriend had gone to the bathroom. But then again, he had gone before they left (forcing Alfred to go as well because it was "indecent to shit in a jungle"), and they had only been at the beach for a few hours.

This, along with his famous paranoia, sent Alfred hiking along the water.

"If Arthur is in trouble, then he is near water." The nation mused aloud; "There isn't much crime in this area, and I trust he can handle himself in pretty much any situation that does not involve aquaphobia."

So the nation jogged along the water, having absolutely no clue how Arthur had managed to get into trouble- if he indeed had. When Alfred reached a cliff of grey rocks that tore at his feet painfully he heard shrieking. Shrieking like a banshee dipped in acid.

Feet-be-damned, Alfred tore up the incline until he saw it. Scotland (the filthy dead man) was quite literally throwing the love of his life into his greatest fear. Alfred had never run so fast in his life; not when he was beating China at the Olympics, not when he thought ghosts were chasing him, not ever.

Ignoring the Scotsman completely, Alfred swan dived off of the rock face gracefully, landing in the pleasantly warm water below. It took him much too long, in his opinion, to locate the sinking man. Alfred wrapped his arm around a no longer struggling Arthur's waist, pulling him tight against his own chest in a practiced manner. America gasped for air as he shoved England onto a ledge at the bottom of the cliff. He had never held his breath for so long in his life. Arthur, on the other hand, lay motionless on the rocks. Alfred straddled the pale man whose arms were tossed carelessly to the side, his hair plastered to his forehead and poking at unresponsive, open eyes. America began CPR immediately.

When gently pushing up from under the ribs didn't work, Alfred knew he would have to break the ribs and compress the lungs directly. He did so easily, not sparing any time to wince at the audible crack. Alfred started to panic, tilting his lover's chin up and forcing air into his mouth, pushing on his chest in a careful rhythm, and breathing into him again. Tears began cascading down his handsome cheeks while he choked back sobs; his face scrunched up in a way only seen with deep sadness. Alfred began to pound on Arthur's chest, bringing his fists behind his head and coming down with a calculated amount of force.

Finally, Arthur began to choke. He spewed water mixed with stringy bile into the air. Alfred turned him onto his side, and thudded on his back gently while his love vomited, unconsciously curling in on himself. When the retching noises ceased, and the terrible, choked coughs abated, Arthur came back to reality.

He started to panic, breaths becoming deep and erratic. Alfred gently pulled him up to sit in his lap, carefully facing him away from the water.

"Shhh, baby it's okay. It's alright. You're safe, I'll keep you safe."

Arthur looked up at Alfred with wide, tearful, and thankfully more life-like eyes. "A-Al?" He murmured, reaching his hand to clutch shakily at Alfred's white t-shirt. With that his face contorted, and Arthur proceeded to sob violently into his partner's chest, wailing and holding the white fabric on his torso like it was his lifeline.

Arthur was more afraid than he had ever been. He was also in biting agony, feeling his broken ribs pressing on his lungs with each erratic breath he took. Alfred noticed all of this, and rocked his lover back and forth gently, kissing Arthur's head and cooing to him.

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ARTHUR'S POINT OF VIEW

My chest hurt like it was being dissected with a chainsaw. It burned when I cried out, making me cry out even more. This vicious cycle was nothing compared to my paralyzing fear. I was wet. It was all over me, weighing me down and pushing in on me, trying to suffocate me even as I escaped.

When Alfred began to pull me away from his chest I sobbed; "No! Nononononononono"; I went on like this all the while tightening my grip on his clothing; crushing my face against his built frame, wishing desperately that his clothes weren't wet as well. What if he threw me back into the water, I thought irrationally. What if he holds me under the demonic waves because I'm so damn pathetic?

"Arthur, sweetheart, you need to calm down." I heard him but found myself incapable of his request. I continued to sob, sucking in the forcefully expelled breaths and making noises like a crying infant. Alfred pulled me away once again, while I shook my head vehemently and resisted, trying to convince my trembling hand to hold on. He managed to grab my chin, forcing me to face him. He looked calm, stern, worried, and relieved all at once. I found myself quieting as I stared into his clear blue eyes, mimicking his purposefully deep breaths.

Once I was breathing normally Al stroked my face comfortingly. He smiled gently, almost as if he was rewarding an obedient child, and kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes, disliking the salt grating beneath their lids, and leaned back into Alfred's chest. My own chest throbbed, but I managed to ignore it. Every time a wave made contact with the rocks, spraying us with the terrible water, I flinched and whimpered. When strong, familiar arms enveloped me gently and cradled me, rocking slightly, I was able to (mostly) ignore those as well. I was safe. Alfred had saved me. Alfred would keep me safe.

I don't really know where I'm going with this...

What do you guys think? Should I do several one-shots on the fears of a lot of different nations, or go in depth on a few?

I would love any kind of critiques or advice! I promise I can take it :3

Reviews make me update faster ;)