Inspired by a song by Hatsune Miku; the first line, after being translated, reads 'I miss you,' thus, this little oneshot-drabble was born. Enjoy! This is a songfic of sorts, also based on a vocaloid song by Hatsune Miku. It's called 'Truth and Lies'. I advise you listen to it whilst reading.
I own nothing :)
Some italics are memories :)
Arthur wiped away the falling tears that cascaded down his lightly flushed cheeks.
"Al-... I-I.. miss..." He wimpered, lips trembling, arms shaking.
He had, once again, ended up drowning himself with memories of the past. Memories, not from Alfred's childhood, not of the Revoloutionary war, but of after. Of the days where Alfred spent copious amounts of time on pestering, annoying and teasing him. Times where violence was common and friendship was rare. It was nothing unusual to have allies, especially for a country such as himself, but friendship was entirely different.
"I regret nothing, Britain," Alfred had once admitted. "I never have and never will. I got what I wanted in the end; what I needed."
Alfred had dropped his playful, cheeky demeanour that day. He became serious. Somewhat cold and almost hostile, noted England. Almost.
The tears of the island nation began to flow quicker.
America confused the former pirate. He acted in so many different ways. He could only wonder, though, how many of those acts were fake. How many were genuine?
Alfred, Arthur remembered, had once pushed their friendship to extreme limits. To an extent where they both questioned what they potentially had.
"A-Alfred!" Athur sqeaked as the taller nation pulled him aside, pushing him up against a wall roughly.
"Arthur," the bespecled man began, a dark glint in his eye. "Why do you let France run his filthy hands all over you?"
The celurean eyed man wasn't being gentle, that was to say the least. His firm hold on the sandy blonde tightened, the hands on the thin shoulders dug into skin through fabric.
"Alfred!" Athur half yelled, half squeeled. "What is wrong with you, wanker? France does not 'run his hands' all over me, thank you very much! He tries and has tried in the past, but I'll never let him close to me! His flirting is, well... elementary and expected in some manners, from somebody like France..."
The possessive look in Alfred's eyes didn't die. He released the smaller man from his almost crushing grip.
"Just don't let him too close..." he warned, before strutting off.
"What the hell?" Yelled the emerald eyed country.
America went through a stage of possessiveness over England, although he truely had no reason for it. He wasn't England's partner. He was more of a nuisence around that time, thought the personified country.
America displayed odd behaviour around his former colonizer. Frequent odd behaviour. He sometimes avoided him. Sometimes he clearly went out of his way to be around him. He was confusing. Confusing to England, not to other nations.
To others it was clear. Other nations, such as Japan, France and Hungary, has figured why America wanted England to see him as an equal. Not only for the promise of freedom, but for something much more.
Arthur Kirkland's tears had long since stopped. His reminiscing had brought him some comfort, for some reason.
"Alfred," he murmured to himself, head bowed. "I miss you... I regret my harsh words! My insensitivity..." He refered back to his empire days. Whilst he did not remourse the taxes he thrust upon a colonized America (for he was just trying to ensure his bast empire's success), he regretted ignoring the boy. He couldn't deny that he tried as often as possible to ignore the American during the years leading up to his revoloution. He mistreated America. He didn't try and talk things through with him; the communication between them lessend and lessend.
"It's alright?" A confused and shocked Alfred would mutter whenever England would quietly apologise for what he believed to be mistakes.
"...It's painful... without you here..." England muttered. "Now... I can't see you... I never do... I'm weak... miserable..." The blonde continued to utter seemingly meaningless words. He wasn't weak. He hated being branded as weak. He was just a little fragile. He could see America. Could, but the bother caused by just a simple visit wouldn't be worth it. Well, to him it would.
The tears started once more. Arthur, fed up and fatigued, curled up into a ball. He closed his teary eyes, letting sleep tempt him. He silently drifted off on his wooden lamenated flooring in the livingroom of his London home. A few stray tear droplets fell onto the dark, wooded flooring.
Arthur slept and slept. His sleep, as deep as it was, was left undisturbed by an intruder. A familiar one. He had knocked on red front door (ironically numbered '76') several times, only to try his luck with the handle.
"Arthur?" Called a voice with a thick American accent, worry evident within.
Arthur's green eyes flickered open. He could hear Alfred. Alfred and his words of kind concern. A small, weak smile graced his thin lips.
He couldn't decide whether to believe Alfred.
Alfred and his many truths and lies.
Just a quick oneshot. An apology, almost, for not updating 'Dark Wood's Circus'.