"Anya?"
Alfred stared.
The woman in front of him nodded shyly.
A smile split across his face. His tanned cheeks crimsoned and his eyes began to glittered. He reached forwards and lightly shook her hand, shivering with excitement. "Wow." He said.
"Wow what?" She asked, keeping her voice low. It was too deep. She marked that note in her head, a pen flicking upwards, staining paper with blood. Her heart shook.
Alfred shook his head slowly. "Wow. Just, wow."
Anya was growing annoyed. A light frown crossed her mouth, her lips stretching. "I don't admire it when men like you pretend to be cryptic. You're terribly easy to read, for one, and two I'm not very literate."
A clever statement scorched with self-destruction. Alfred noticed. "I mean, wow. Look at yourself." He made a gesture across her frame. From her large calves to plump hips to a breast tightly wrapped in a red dress, to her swan's neck, to the long hair tied back in a bun, and even to the nose she felt was too big.
"You're gorgeous."
She blushed deeply.
The neon blue orbs hung around them, making shadows dance across the pale carpet. Waiters walked past, smiling occasionally. Anya and Alfred sat next to each other at the bar for lonely adults. Their drinks sat before them, the liquid still. Pulsing lumination from the aquariums encircling them, giving the illusion of being trapped in a bubble underwater, splashed across Anya and Alfred's faces. Her blush looked almost purple.
"So, Anya, do you have a number?"
"Fifty-six."
"Uh, I mean a cell-phone number." Alfred said.
She paused.
"Yes."
"Ok."
She didn't give it to him. She turned back to her food, poking at the rice with the prongs of her fork. She built a tiny house on top of a strip of fish.
"Fifty-six?" Alfred asked.
She nodded.
"Anya Braginskaya, number fifty-six."
"Fifty six in what? In a marathon?"
Alfred didn't look like a cruiser, Anya noticed. He wore a collared, striped shirt and worn jeans. He looked merely like a working man unwinding after another week at work. There were no rings on his fingers.
"Not quite." She said.
"Then in what?"
"You wouldn't like me if I told you."
"Fifty-sixth serial killer?"
She smiled briefly.
Her hands, they were too big. Something the doctors couldn't fix. Ropy vein lattices crossed them. Her nails, painted pink to try and hide the thick muscles wrapping up her big bones, rested on the edge of the fork. She stared at it. Another wave of light splattered her hand as a revolving light-bulb traveled behind the aquarium.
"No, fifty-sixth successful operation."
"On what?" Alfred had been watching her. His eyes rested on hers. He seemed completely taken with her. She met his gaze, feeling her heart tighten. She counted down the seconds until that gaze would break and a disgusted scowl with spread across his mouth.
Why did she even bring it up?
He would have known sooner or later, she reasoned.
"It's a bit taboo in some places."
Five…
"Like where?" Alfred asked. "Here? In this country?"
Four…
"I came here from home to get the operation."
"Sounds quite romantic."
Three…
"Hardly." Anya shrugged. "It would have been easier to be… something else. Even here."
Two…
"You should stay true to yourself."
One!
"That was the argument they made back home. That I should have stayed male."
She waited for the crescendo of awkward silence to swoop up and come crashing down on them. She waited for the birds to stop singing. For the waiters to turn. For the clinking of utensils to finally cease. For Alfred to turn away uncomfortably, and make an excuse as to why he couldn't stay.
Nothing changed.
Anya felt as though a meteor had missed the earth.
The noises of the restaurant continued. The waiters waltzed past. Forks still clicked. The dull murmuring of voices riding on the wave of soft, melodious jazz continued. Alfred continued to look at her kindly, if not more taken with her.
"I'm glad you were successful." He said.
"Thank you." She muttered.
"So," Alfred took a sip of his drink. Whiskey was it? "Did you go full gender reassignment surgery or was it just on your upper torso plus hormones?"
Anya swallowed hard. It felt like an egg-shaped rock had lodged itself into her throat. She brushed her bangs to the side, her hair feeling smooth.
"I went on hormones when I got here at twenty-five. Then I got the full surgery. Now it's all set in place." She could fall in love with this man.
Alfred nodded. "Good. I'm happy for you."
"Thank you."
"No problem." Alfred grinned, showing off a row of glittering teeth.
"You're quite knowledgeable."
"My daughter's friends is transgender. She came to me for advice. I couldn't get her the money but I could find her a place to stay. I wish I could have done more."
"You have a daughter?"
"Yeah. She's thirteen. Her friend is older." Alfred added.
Anya felt her heart sink.
"Oh."
How old was he then?
"I'm not that great of a dad, though." Alfred said sadly. "I try, though."
"Hell, that's more than some people." Anya smiled.
"I guess."
"Are you a single father? I don't see any rings."
Alfred held up his hand, nodding. "Yes. She fell into my arms when I was seventeen. Scariest year of my life. Her mother was… out there. Now she's gone."
"Did you love her mother?" Anya asked casually, trying to pretend that she wasn't going to fall into the arms of hopelessness again. Could she care for a child, for that matter? Ah, no, she was getting ahead of herself.
Alfred bit his lower lip. There was a scar. A piercing must have been there once, a long time ago.
"In a way."
Anya nodded.
Alfred turned to her. "What about you? Have you been in love before?"
"With a man, once." Anya said. "That was long ago, before I realised who I am. And before that I had fleeting girlfriends. Such was life."
"I see."
"Yes."
Alfred paused, stirring the drink as if it could break the silence.
"Your English is good."
"I try."
Alfred looked at her, seeing the humour that laced her dark, strong eyes.
"Yeah. We can both try."
I don't own Hetalia.