A Million Voices [UsUk]

Perplexion

A/N: Swearing and potential harm. You have been warned.
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"Fucking hell!" Arthur shouted from the bottom of his soul as another glass cup flew from his hands onto the floor, completely shattered, pieces of it flying around everywhere, one almost reaching into the radius of Arthur's eyes. Luckily his eyes were covered by his hands as he was crying, harshly sobbing, knees on the ground. He was a broken mess, surrounded by broken glass, which he did himself. Heavily breathing, he soon found himself face on the floor, not even noticing that a glass shard left a long mark all over his cheek, making it bleed silently and slowly, creating a small crimson pool of blood under the face of a young blond Brit who had no idea where he was or who he was. No, he was too caught up in hysterical crying, curled up into on the floor.
"Wanker, you have no strenght to end it yourself..." Arthur cried and said in a broken whisper, feeling dizzy and taken back, vision blurry from not only tears but also slight fading away from consciousness.

It had happened again.

Arthur Kirkland was a 23 year old blond Englishman, living alone in his small apartment in London.
He seemed fairly normal to other people - sometimes very rude but usually quite calm and not disasterous at all.
But that was not all to that man. He dealt with depression on a daily basis, although he didn't even know that. When by himself, he'd break walls, furniture, plates and glasses, and would often find himself weeping for a not so specific reason, on the floor.
This wasn't the first time. Oh, he had done it many times. And he had no idea why, which confused him the most. His boyfriend, Alfred, had no idea that these things were happening. He was too young, cheerful and oblivious what was happening in the life of his closest, and most beloved person in the world. But it was just because Arthur didn't show any signs of his... Problem... Outside of his own four walls.
Sometimes when he'd feel that strange feeling or an attack happening, he'd be excused by everyone around him and then he'd go out, breathing in and out the fresh, cold air around him. If that wasn't enough, he'd run off to a street and wait for it to go away, wait for the clouds to dissappear from in front of his face so he could breathe normally again.
Nobody ever payed close attention to how many times he was going away like that. His closest person, Alfred, would never think of such a thing happening to him. His best friend, Lukas, had his own love issues to take care of - Mathias. The two had a love/hate relationship, kind of.

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Alfred was hanging out with his best friend Mathias when that was happening to the poor Brit.
Downtown in a pub, the two had just been getting onto their sixth beer, oblivious of the happening at Alfred's lover's home.
"Next round is", Alfred was speaking in between hiccups, "on me!" He said and got loud cheers from a few more people in the small pub, including his Danish friend Mathias who was clapping and gulping down his delicious beer.
"Gå til helvete, Al, it was my fucking turn to pay!" He said in half Norwegian, which he learnt from his boyfriend Lukas, and half English. When he was drunk, he'd speak a lot of languages. That was a thing that Alfred could relate to as well.
Alfred saw blurry, but he was having too much fun to stop. He wasn't any sort of alcoholic, so he was possibly able to allow himself to drink this much once in a while. On the other side, Mathias was a heavy drinker on almost a daily basis.
"It's Alfred Jones, here to save everyone from the apocalypse!" The American shouted in a drunken slur, laughing loudly with a wide grin as he wasted his last penny to buy everyone in the pub another round of drinks.
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Arthur woke up after passing out, still on the floor covered in blood and sweat. He cringed at the feeling of his own warm blood underneath, and got up in a coughing spree.
"W-what? Again?" He asked himself in a saddened, rusty, high-pitched voice before holding his forehead because of the feeling of immense, pulsing headache.
In a sentence, Arthur felt miserable.
"Just my luck...Three times this week..." He mumbled and got up slowly, holding the edge of the kitchen table so he doesn't collapse back down on the floor. It wouldn't be the first time, though.
If only Alfred was there.
He needed comfort, and he needed it now.