To Arthur Kirkland there was something comforting about the staccato tap-tap of rain against umbrellas and raincoats. He was enamored by the feel of it pelting his skin, dripping down his hair into his eyes, coating the grey streets of London with mirrors that warped reflections of grey clouds and architecture into thousands of tiptoeing, overlapping circles. It was then that the world was perfect, beautiful.
Texas was all wrong. The sun was too bright, the air too humid, and he was tired of feeling constricted in formal clothes dampened by sweat. The Briton knew it was only temporary, but he couldn't help but worry that his skin would burn and peel away or that he would be driven mad before he ever got back to London. He'd kill Alfred for scheduling the World Conference here in the thick of summer, he told himself. Just as soon as his head stopped spinning.
The offending American patted him on the back, sending him stumbling forward. Arthur kept his eyes to the ground, squinting. He ignored heat waves rising from the thick, black pavement and swallowed, throat too dry. He felt too hot and sticky. Too uncomfortable. "Sod off."
Alfred overtook the Briton who had tried to quicken his pace. "Oh come on, Art! I was just going to ask if you wanted ice cream or something." They crossed a street full of cars that belched smog into the already unbearable air.
Arthur knew not to look lest he fall victim to a quivering lip that would make him want to deck the insufferable American in the face.
"Can't we walk a little faster?" Feliciano asked. Ludwig put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.
"Ice cream sounds great." Francis agreed. He too stepped into pace with the two, joined by Matthew, Feliciano, and Ludwig. None of them seemed too bothered by the heat, even if their faces were a bit sweaty and red.
"In that case, it sounds double terrible," Arthur said. "Leave me. I'm going to my hotel room to see about getting a nap where it's cool and dark." By then they'd half crossed a busy road and were waiting on a concrete island for the signal to grant them passage to the other side.
Francis smiled. "Up for company?"
"Not from you." He glanced at Alfred who looked ready to interject, then deadpanned, "And especially not you."
Alfred sighed and tried to catch his eye anyway. He noticed Arthur studying a poster taped to the metal post that held the walk sign. It displayed, somewhere amidst an explosion of red, white, and blue fireworks, an announcement for the upcoming week's Fourth of July celebration. He could not read the expression on Arthur's face, but he felt a stab of uneasiness when the island nation turned away with a sigh. Maybe this was what the Briton's irritation was all about. Of all the weeks to plan a World Meeting! The American felt like slapping himself.
Francis had caught a full glimpse of both their faces. Still, after all these years, the two tread too lightly around the other, he mused. He stepped closer to Alfred, who was staring intently at a wad of gum plastered onto the ground, and murmured into his ear, "He is no longer bitter. You're the one who hasn't yet forgiven himself." Alfred furrowed his brow. France sighed and raised his voice. "Oh, it looks as if it will rain."
Alfred turned his attention to the sky after the low rumble of thunder announced the clouds creeping in. "Wasn't sposed to rain all week. Dammit!" A breathy gust of wind ran through the group.
Arthur also looked up, silently begging those dark, boiling clouds to overtake the sky. They built up in their crescendo followed by a far-away jolt of lightning. Rain cascaded from clouds miles away over one section of the sprawling center. It was so close that he could smell it, could practically taste it.
Then the floodgates above them fell open and dumped a torrential downpour on the group so suddenly that all but Arthur stood gaping, bodies completely drenched within minutes. It was Alfred who moved first, shoving Canada forward with a startled shout as lightning slashed through the sky. "D-dammit, get inside! The convention center!" He pointed and the group stumbled over each other in their haste to escape the sting of cold rain.
Feliciano reached the doors first but halted, somewhat puzzled by the glass panels of the revolving doors. Alfred barreled into him though, shoving him through the rapidly closing gap. Matthew somehow squeezed in next to them. Ludwig and Francis took the next section but shoved until the first group tumbled out into the lobby in a tangle of limbs.
"That was close." Ludwig said, studying the wall of razor like drops.
Feliciano sputtered, at a loss. "I spent too many hours on this hair for something like this to happen-"
"Get over it." Ludwig muttered. Still, he too fussed over hair pounded out of place.
"Phew. Gonna have to call up the meteorologist and tell him he's losing his touch- Hey, where's Arthur." Alfred said.
The group had more or less composed themselves before running to one of the glass windows to peer through the driving rain.
"Did he not make it in?" Francis wondered. He wrung water from his hair, not caring that he left a puddle on the marble floor.
"Doesn't seem like it." Ludwig answered. He hesitated though, and leaned forward, squinting. He pointed. "There. That shadow of a person just across the street. I think that's him."
"What's he doing?" Matthew murmured.
Arthur had leapt into the air and twirled around until he threatened to lose balance. He kicked through puddles and spun around a lamp post.
Alfred made for the door. "I don't know, but he doesn't have a coat on and what if lightning strikes him! He needs a hero to save him! See, he's already delirious from a cold or something!"
Arthur then stopped, and he took a moment to tilt his head all the way back, arms outstretched, the coolness washing all over him. He allowed himself a slow, deep breath followed by another then another and another. He took in the beat of the rain around him, playing off of his skin and the pavement around. The heat had dispelled, but the Briton felt warm in the embrace of his old friend. For a moment, eyes closed, he felt as if he were in his streets in London and surrounded by a parade of rapidly blooming umbrellas rather than Americans scrambling for shelter.
"ARTHUUUUUR." The American's words were snatched from him with a fresh gale of wind, but he stopped short anyway when he saw the tiniest of sighs escaped the Briton's lips. There was something about that image: the island nation standing so isolated in a swirling, grey curtain.
The America felt himself transported to 1776 when a rain similar to this pounded into the battlefield. Then they had sloshed through mud, men in tattered blue or grey or whatever they could manage with worn rifles-some of which they'd taken from dead soldiers-slung across their backs. There had been no pavement to collect puddles, no life to be breathed into the land through rain. Just death and betrayal and the devastated look on Arthur's face when he stood helpless with Alfred's bayonet pressed against his neck.
He remembered how the rain had dripped down Arthur's hair into his face, a cover for tears that surely flowed freely from hollow eyes as they had from Alfred's. It had been dark then too, with lightning that seemed powerless compared to the march of soldiers ripping through soggy fields. And Arthur. Arthur's red coat had clung to his heaving body and he had been chilled to the bone. He had shivered uncontrollably then, the cold of the metal against his neck more chilling than the rain could ever be. It was the first time that Alfred had realized that the man who had raised him was not invincible. It was the first time that Alfred had realized that he could win. Could gain his freedom despite all that he would lose.
"Alfred? Get your arse back inside before you catch cold."
Alfred blinked. Where he'd first seen the broken face of an Arthur anything but forgotten, he realized he was peering into the amused scowl of the present Arthur. His Arthur. Brow furrowed, he reached out a hand, "Let's go in together. I'll even make you tea once we reach the conference center."
The rain beat steadily around them.
For a moment Arthur too saw the face of a much younger Alfred, those blue eyes so unsure, scared almost, but determined. He hesitated, feeling a deep pain in his chest. Then, he was gone, replaced by the Alfred he'd somehow come to forgive years ago. Arthur's lips offered a hopeful smile and he took the American's hand, squeezing tightly. "No. Let's walk in the rain a bit."