Yet another one of my angsty (?) and overly dramatic pieces. Came up with the idea on my way to school for orchestra rehearsals this morning. I've always wanted to write a fic about the American Revolutionary War, so I'm pretty happy with the way this one turned out. Finally got one thing off my bucket list! Yay! :D
This came off more as a clean and platonic/familial USUK fic, rather than a sappy and romantic one, with England being his brotherly self. But again, like in my previous platonic fic (Vulnerable; Spamano oneshot), just squint your eyes to find the slash– er, I mean...fluff.
This may be a bit late now, but let me share a quote I read somewhere before, in a German poem. "Und morgen wird die sonne wieder scheinen." In English, this means "And tomorrow, the sun will shine again." Even if the worst of the storm has already passed, there are still many families who were greatly affected by the flood and are still struggling to get back on their feet. So I'd like to ask that you pray for my fellow people here in the Philippines, so that they could overcome the problems onset by the recent calamity.
Thank you. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia and its characters. All rights to Himaruya-sensei. I don't own the picture used as this fic's cover either.
Now, on to the story, shall we?
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Anamnesis: a recalling to mind, or reminiscence [etym. Greek]
Arthur Kirkland hates the rain.
He hates it and everything that goes along with it. The loud noise that adds to the pounding of his sore, aching head. The murky puddles of wet soil that flood his precious garden. The pungent scent of the earth – of dirt – that fills the air.
And the memory of Alfred F. Jones, with his head hung low and back turned away, figure fading in the distance.
Deep inside the warm seclusion of his kitchen, Arthur sips his tea – a steaming cup of Earl Grey. It is brewed strong; laden thick and heavy with flavour, exactly the way he liked it, almost numbing him to the very core. It's like whisky in the morning, he likes to reason; but without the consequential hangover.
He frowns.
Arthur wonders what he did wrong.
-x-x-x-x-x-
The sound of gunshots and battle cries overpowered by the noise of a downpour; Arthur remembers everything on that day.
"Hey, England. I want liberty after all. I'm no longer a child, nor your baby brother. I'm going to become independent from you from now on."
The very words sparking a rebellion stung him greater than any wound or gunshot he ever had experienced. He thinks back at the times he raised the American colony, the loud yet fond memories they shared. He raised the child as well as he could remember. He taught him, he fed him, but most of all, he cared for him. Britain gave him everything. He even slept with the young toddler at nights for the mere sake of "keeping the monsters away." It was a promise he made with himself – a solemn vow of protection for his beloved brother.
So he can't seem to understand – absolutely, truly cannot fathom– exactly why America would choose to leave him, the great British Empire, at such a time like this. And almost instinctively, the words slip past his tongue; in his signature cold and unforgiving tone of voice.
"I won't allow it."
It's stupid and naive –he knows – to think that his words alone could stop his brother's decision. This was Alfred he was talking to, and no amount of explanations could ever combat the stubbornness he inherited from his caretaker. But the reasons keep spilling out from his mouth, far beyond England's control; he feels his sanity slipping past his rationale, and all he has left is his vulgarity to keep him going.
"This is why I say you don't follow things through to the end. You were always so naive, you fool."
He hears the sound of America's men preparing to fire – most likely out of offense from Britannia's offhanded throw of an insult – but the rest of the world fails to matter to him for much longer. His mind clouds over with a fog of emotion as his hands grab hold of the musket, pointing shakily towards the younger blonde. Thick brows furrowed in a mix of guilt and vehemence, emerald eyes lock onto the depths of an expectant azure.
He clicks his tongue and his resolve falters; a personal deluge cascading down his flushed cheeks. Arthur drops his musket, slumping down onto the ground, as his body crumples in a plethora of tears and grief and shame.
"There's no point in firing now, is there...? There's no way I could shoot you, you idiot. Damn it. Why, damn it?!"
And he can do nothing more than curse the world over and over again, attempting pitifully to console himself with pained thoughts and angry words. His body trembles and he is soaked to the bone. He chokes on his tears; the cold wind battering his fragile frame. Somewhere over the sound of the heavy downpour, he hears Alfred's voice, weak and frail and innocent, so much akin to how the child would address him in the past.
"England...you used to be so big before."
Sometimes he misses the small hands he used to cradle in his palms and wonders how the young colony he once cared for grew to become a nation far larger than his very own.
-x-x-x-x-x-
He doesn't look at Alfred in the eye anymore.
Arthur doesn't talk, speak, or even listen to the young American man. Everything he does reminds him of the past, and he just can't bring himself to pay any more attention to the childish antics of the self-appointed 'hero.' He doesn't miss the lad – as opposed to what many of the other nations believed – he's furious at him; angry and livid for the betrayal and emotional turmoil America caused England over the years.
But that doesn't explain the mound of sealed envelopes he keeps hidden in the desk drawer of his study, the pile of unsent letters and half-written apologies he has scribbled down and crumpled up; and the stack of invitations he receives annually – from a certain bespectacled, blue-eyed blonde – that remain creaseless and unblemished in an untouched trash bin.
He never fails to decline each one.
Arthur doesn't know why it happens, but he always manages to wake up sick on the fourth of July. There's a painful throbbing of his chest, and almost always, he find it hard to breathe. The symptoms worsen gradually throughout the day, regardless of whatever medicine he takes in with his meals. He registers this as a curse, and he stumbles groggily past the bedroom to work at home in his study.
And yet, in the distant haze of his fever-induced dreams, he vaguely recalls the memories of being carried after his collapse, the faint scent of freshly cooked hamburgers and half-burnt soup, and the comforting feel of a cold towel being rested atop his burning forehead.
He doesn't think it's a coincidence that it always rains on this day in London, and blames his condition on the blasted weather.
-x-x-x-x-x-
Arthur Kirkland hates the rain.
He hates it and everything that comes along with it; the noise, the scent, and the memories of Alfred leaving him behind.
But as he watches the rain shower and fall, pitter-pattering on the cold, wet ground, Arthur thinks of how the sky cries for him; droplets pouring down like tears of his own, endless and unceasing.
So he'll sit by his window and sip on his tea as he watches the storm pass; always loyal and ever waiting, for when his sun will come back to him and shine once again.
Thank you for taking time to read this fic! Please leave a review. I hope you liked it! :D
PS- Much love to Whaddapack for moral support and proofreading, hehe. :P