The War of the Toasters (France x England/ FrUk)

Chapter Two: Recovery and Revenge

Alfred awoke about two hours later. Francis looked at him sadly, disappointed, maybe. Arthur may have looked a little sorry, but more angry than anything. He deserved it, Arthur thought to himself. There was no way he was apologizing to that fool. Matthew was sitting by his side, holding his hand nervously. Alfred looked up at his brother. Matthew's face was practically the definition of worry and distress.

"Finally, you're awake!" Matthew smiled, relieved that his brother seemed to be fine. The same could not be said for his glasses.

"Yeah, I know, get me an Advil." Alfred asked blankly. His head felt like it had been split in two.

That toaster's fault. No. Arthur's. It was Arthur's fault, the old grump that he was. Who was he, throwing Alfred's own weapon back at him? Matthew quickly got up to fulfill his brother's needs. Matthew came back two minutes later with two pills, painkillers, in his left hand, a small glass of water in his right.

"Here." Matthew held the glass out to Alfred, along with the two small capsules, offering him the medication. Alfred swiftly accepted it, downing both pills within seconds.

"Thanks, Mattie-bro." Alfred said, weakly. Matthew wasn't sure how to respond whenever his brother called him by this name. He simply accepted his gratitude, how little of it he may give.

"Is there anything else I can get for you?" Matthew asked, simply wanting to make sure his brother was in good condition.

"A coke would be great.." Alfred replied, barely focusing.

"Al, are you okay?" Matthew asked, a bit worried.

"Am I okay? What kind of question is that? Am I supposed to reply, 'Yes, Matthew, I'm quite fine,' and lie to you, or should I tell you the terrible truth?"

"..I'm sorry I asked." Matthew said quietly.

"Here's the truth, Matthew. No, I'm really not fine...But one thing's for sure: I may have lost this battle, but I will not lose this war."

"Okay, Al, I understand. I think you should get some rest."

"Sleep is for the weak, Mattie. I am no weakling, see. I have places to be, wars to win!"

Arthur's wretched giggling was then heard.

As Arthur struggled to keep from laughing, he muttered under his breath, "...You can think you'll win all you want, you dirty maggot, but the English were number one for a reason, you'll see." Arthur then laughed to himself, realizing what he had just said.

"..Well, you can't, really. Your glasses are broken..." He then continued to laugh.

Francis looked in the mirror sadly. "Oui, my hair was beautiful before..But now, it is a burnt mess!"

"Stop being a drama queen, Francis, it'll be fine."

"That is easy for you to say, your hair looks like some 90's punk teenager!"

Arthur ceased to be insulted by this. He was quite used to it, actually.

"You remember that time I asked you to fix it. I meant for you to make it NOT look like you, you fool."

"Don't yell at me! I didn't want you to look like Toris!"

"...Who is Toris?" Arthur asked, a little confused.

"The Lithuanian guy! The one you said you felt sorry for, for living with Ivan!" Francis replied, as if he should have already known. Perhaps he had, but forgotten from the dissolution of his memory.

"Living with that control freak of a Russian would seem to be scary, though..You have to admit it." Arthur stated, trying to show Francis a reason behind his sympathy.

"Oui, oui, I know, I wouldn't want to live with him either...I suppose I am lucky to be living with such a lovely British boy~!" Francis cooed.

"Francis, don't." Arthur pleaded.

"But you know you are so lovely, I hope that one day you will notice~"

Arthur simply hated when Francis attempted at flirting with him, seducing, maybe.

Alfred woke up, another few hours later, Matthew still in the same spot. Alfred assumed that he had not moved since, judging by his frazzled hair, also by the fact that he was asleep himself, looking quite comfortable in the chair. Alfred quietly crept out of the room, being careful not to set anything off. He then advanced towards a toaster, setting the dials to go off at exactly the planned time. His plan was unstoppable. As he stepped into the doorway, he aimed his toaster to the back of Arthur's head. Alfred had thought to himself, 'I've already won, old man, give up. It's better to surrender now rather than later...'

But Alfred pushed aside all thoughts of mercy, and pitched the toaster at Arthur's skull. The toaster had gone off, right on cue, and Alfred couldn't have been more pleased with himself.

"Blimey!" Arthur shouted, alarmed, surprised. He then turned to see Alfred, doubled over, laughing.

"You bloody idiot. You think this is a game? Games are fun, Alfred. Really fun. Yes, this is indeed a game. Your pain will be fun, just as mine was a moment ago. You'll see, Alfred F. Jones, even without your glasses. You'll see 20/20, you imbecile."