hi guys ;u; its been a pretty long time since i uploaded something so.
-throws usuk- /my new otp
there really isnt much to say except:
disclaimer- i dont own hetalia c':
"Are you certain?" they'd asked him.
Alfred had looked up, smiled. "Yes, I am." And then he looked away.
1775-1783, The American Revolutionary War
Arthur had always been rather confident. After all, he controlled the world's most powerful navy, and had a sound, stable government; in comparison to the Americans, the British were in a much better position. But that has never stopped Alfred, because he was a 'hero'. And hero's did not falter, they didn't back down, not in all the comic books Alfred had read anyway. Even in the cold, heavy rain, his ideals did not waver, and he simply raised his head to smile grimly at the downpour.
"It's still beautiful, isn't it?" and he isn't directing this to anyone; not really. But a couple of the soldiers gathered behind him murmur quietly in agreement or disapproval, Alfred didn't listen. The rain pit-patters hard against his surroundings, and soaks his shoulders in a numbing cold that Alfred had long become accustomed to. His knuckles had become white with either cold, or grasping his musket too hard; did it really matter anyway? And then he hears the faint, yet familiar sound of a gunshot fired, and he looks over his shoulder, at his soldiers. He can see it, clear as day; the fear, the hesitation, but also, the stubbornness which had brought them thus far, all these in their eyes, and reflected into his. Alfred tips his head to the ground, smiles slightly, and then looks up again to his soldiers.
"Let's go."
It makes him sick sometimes, the constant, never-ending pace of war. Alfred pulls the trigger, once, twice, but it's drowned out by his surroundings. He has long adapted to such a grueling lifestyle, however, and it doesn't bother him. Even when a bullet whistles past his ear to strike one of his soldiers square in the chest, he doesn't flinch. He can't die, he wouldn't die. Even when he runs past the deformed bodies of those who fell, he doesn't pause to scrutinize the bodies, just to confirm whether they were his soldiers or not. He can't die, he won't die.
Even when, amongst all the death and destruction and beauty, he sees a flash of oh so familiar blonde hair, he doesn't stop. And even when striking emerald eyes are lifted to meet his, he averts his gaze, and doesn't once look back.
He can't die. He won't die. And he certainly will not regret.
That bloody idiot. Always dodging with those nimble feet of his and that smile which leaned precariously close towards a smirk. And not only dodging bullets, avoiding problems as well. Stupid stupid stupid. Arthur dabs antiseptic of some sorts onto his elbow, and winces at the sharp pain which runs through his arm. His feet ache dully from the days they have spent simply running, and his shoulders have a heaviness to them, as if he was physically suffering from carrying the burden of war upon his back. He glances briefly to the musket which lay on the ground, and he wants to tear his eyes away; he doesn't want this, he wants it all to stop. The newly attained scars on his body are a constant reminder of the tough times they had currently lived, and the tougher times to come.
Alfred, you idiot.
Arthur counts to 5, then goes to retrieve his musket. He hesitates as he looks to his coat draped over the chair, before he grabs that, too, and slips quietly away.
It isn't until Arthur is sitting there on the cold hard ground, fingers poised over the damp paper. It isn't until then that he actually realizes that he has no one to write to. He glances around, where others sat upon the dirt or wet stones, scribbling madly upon a piece of paper; trying to squeeze every last drop of information there is to give. Didn't they know that the high majority of the letters got censored? Apparently not. By the time his gaze reverts to his paper, his hands had self-consciously begun to write. He squints at the name at the top of the page, and frowns deeply.
"Dear Alfred," he murmurs quietly under his breath, looks away, and smiles. He had never been one to write letters, they seemed pointless and unnecessary. However, in earlier days he often exchanged letters with Alfred. Earlier days. Everything was so different then, and though the times seemed distant, they were but only years ago.
'Dear Alfred,
You say you love rain, but you open your umbrella when it rains. You say that you love the sun, but you find a shadow spot when the sun shines. You say you love the wind, but you close your window when the wind blows.'
And Arthur is still frowning as his hand pauses.
"Shakespeare?" he chuckles quietly under his breath, but it is hoarse and desultory. "Really now, you always complained whenever I read Shakespeare."
And he remembers. Those quiet, hazy nights under the stars as they lay side by side upon the grass, admiring a sight they had not known to be short-lived. The memory itself is blurry and unclear; it may as well be a piece of shattered memory from a dream but it isn't, and Arthur isn't sure whether that is a good or bad thing. He continues to finish the quote.
'This is why I am afraid, you say you love me too.'
Then, he reads the letter quietly under his breath, picks it up, and rips it to shreds.
Running away had never been one of his specialties. And so when the time comes, he doesn't regret.
Alfred lifts his gun, and the heavy clank of metal against metal following shortly can only be the soldiers gathered behind him doing the same. The rain falls again, hard against his back, but he isn't concerned. The rain is his friend. The cold is his sanity. The pain keeps him going; never once looking back.
"Hey England..." his voice pierces through the silence of the rain, and his voice is foreign to his ears; serious yet emotionless. "I guess I've chosen Independence after all."
And he is met by silence, a cold, cold silence.
"I'm not…" and he hesitates, but only briefly. "I'm not your child or baby brother anymore, so-"
And the retaliation is so sudden, so swift, Alfred can only watch in shock as the latter dashes forward, musket clashing against his own. Metal scrapes against metal as their respective weapons collide in a spark of hostility. But Alfred knows that Arthur knows already, so he lets the musket be knocked viciously out of his hands.
This isn't the first time Alfred has faced the point of a deadly weapon, not really. Arthur's lips are moving in a blur of words, but Alfred- no, 'America', does not take notice. Instead, he peers at Arthur's hand, clutching so desperately onto that musket. They're scarred lightly, and those fingers are a sickly white against the dull metal. It's beautiful in a twisted way, and Alfred cannot help but look, until he raises his head. Is Arthu- England crying?
No, of course he isn't, it is but the rain.
"- naive, you bloody fool!" the words are nothing but blunt knives against his indestructible barrier, and even when the other advances with the weapon, Alfred does not flinch, he does not retreat. Because inside those eyes; those brilliant green eyes, he can see the weight of reality settling in, the burden of defeat. He would not shoot, he could not shoot. Because he was America. There's a mad shuffle of chaos behind him, and he can hear the click as soldiers raise their weapons.
"… there's no way I would shoot you."
And those that observed above shed tears; large, fat droplets that battered them like a downfall of shrapnel. The rain rips as his exposed face, his uniform, his cold-bitten cheeks. It's the rain, he tells himself. The rain, which has caused such unusual emotion to spark within his chest, a feeling that burnt its impression on his brain.
"..no way... I would shoot you." And Arthur falls to his knees with a barely audible thump, musket following in short succession. His knuckles are clenched, revealing the bone which lay underneath the vulnerable skin. His long-dried blood stains are washed away with a mixture of rain and bitter, bitter tears.
"You know, England." And Alfred starts to turn, tearing his eyes away from the pitiful sight before him. "You used to be so big."
Kiss me, kill me.
He didn't hate him. Certainly not. He would never admit this, never; but he did not hate Alfred. He detested 'America', but not Alfred. It was contradictory, it really was. But he did not hate Alfred for his 'betrayal'. He was a country, and Alfred understood this very well. He was a country, and even someone as prominent as this could not avert the eyes of its citizens. In fact, a country itself is, arguably, moulded from its people's emotions. So Arthur did not blame Alfred, because it was not he that had harboured such hateful emotions towards him as 'England'. This is what he truly believed.
"- should turn all cigarettes into hamburgers!"
Arthur blinks lazily, sunlight warm against his eyelids. The conference room is in uproar; an awfully loud German is pointing accusingly across the room, saying this and that. A Chinese is seated in the corner, grudgingly sharing steamed dumplings with a Russian, who happily beams at everyone and murmurs, suspiciously, 'kol-kol-kol-kol'. In addition, an Italian is chewing noisily on pasta in a totally uncivilised manner, and Arthur is forced to look away in disgust.
In the middle of all of this, a rowdy American, arguing with a French, albeit still laughing boisterously. There really is no where to look safely in this room, is there? That disgusting eating manner, not to mention the Italian and Spaniard making out in the cor- oh god. God help these idiots. Arthur reverts his eyes to Alfred and Francis, seemingly camouflaged within the background of endless chaos and ear-splitting ruckus. But Alfred sticks out like a sore thumb, beaming with a hypnotic radiance that beckoned for him to edge closer. With that unusual charisma, how could he possibly blend into a dull setting?
Francis teeters back as he is elbowed happily in the stomach by Alfred, and knocks Arthur's tea cup; splattering tea across his area of the table. The shattering of his oh so expensive teacup is what drags him from his trance, to a pained yet accepted reality.
"Hey!" Arthur stands up, lips twisted into a scowl.
"IT WAS HIM." Francis points to Alfred, who's just standing there and laughing, the raucous sound causing his ears to ring not entirely unpleasantly.
"I don't care who it was!" and just like that, he throws himself into the midst of the conference, screaming insults he hadn't employed since, well, yesterday.
"Ne, England."
England raises his head, only to look towards the petite child who sat to his left, legs kicking backwards and forwards in a repetitive movement. He winces, adjusting the position of his arm in the hastily arranged cast; pain numbing his thoughts.
"Yes?" he replies, biting the inside of his cheeks.
"Why are you always covered in scars when you come visit me?" and the eyes which stare into his are so innocent in all their sky blue, England can't help but look away in a sort of twisted guilt. He laughs, and although it is somewhat half-hearted and weak, he stands, bones aching under the weight of bricks upon his back. He ruffles America's hair fondly.
"It's nothing. Don't worry; scars will fade eventually."
"But you'll just get new ones, right?"
Stunned, England blinks. Flashes of a crimson red and a sickening white blind his mind; vague memories of dried blood upon his fingers, of a maniacal enjoyment sparking in his chest, enflaming his body. That wasn't me, England tells himself. Not me.
"I suppose I will."