((AN: Oh look it's finally something with my OTP. It's weird and I took a lot of artist's liberties. Sort of nation-verse. It's best if it's enjoyed without being too picky over the setting/details. Not too important, but Juan is Cuba and Yeketrina is Ukraine.))
Act I
Matthew fades.
No one else seems to notice. For once it's Alfred that notices, not Arthur or Francis or Ivan or Juan or Gilbert or even Yeketrina. It's just Alfred.
They make love and sometimes Matthew shimmers, sweat glistening like some overused metaphor on pink, flushed skin and when Alfred kisses the little patch his lover shivers.
He soon comes up, a diver for air, and Matthew waits for him with a little smile on kiss-swollen lips, I know, and something in his chest is breaking, maybe, and someone's crying somewhere, maybe, but there's nothing he can do.
And if there's something Alfred hates most, it's not being able to help. He's the United fucking States of America, a superpower; he's worked so hard to be able to help people, to rescue people, and the one man that matters most shimmers under him but it's not because he's in love, it's because he's fading.
His lover is fucking fading away and all the brilliance of his country, all the brilliance in the world has nothing to offer in an answer.
Matthew tells him not to worry and it's not Matthew who sobs quietly into the pillow at three in the morning. And every time, a sleepy arm wraps around his middle and a hand buries itself in golden blond hair and it's Matthew himself who brings him back into this world; it's Matthew who rescues him from bottomless thoughts and more than just despair and sings him a lullaby.
And Alfred will turn, so he faces Matthew, and bury his face into his chest. And the two lie together, one folded in the other, and share unspoken fear; for Matthew is just as afraid and that's alright.
They don't know how much time they have, let alone why.
Act II
They wait, for nothing, for doom, for what? Every night they lie intertwined, Alfred's broad hands caressing baby-soft waves and a long neck and lean-muscled shoulders and back and all the expanse of pale, smooth skin; Matthew in return touches, committing the art of his lover's body to his own palms, fingers, before he can no longer. Every night is increasing desperation in their worship, every week unending kisses and sleepless nights and every month lonely tears shed in the shower with the water running hot and loud—grief the other is never meant to hear.
But the other is often there, just on the other side of the door, unwilling to be away.
Soon they strip each other of even that and baths are shared, Matthew's back lying firmly against Alfred's tanned chest, Alfred's arms around Matthew's waist, legs tangled under warm, soapy water.
Matthew's body is barely there. There is a weight pressing against Alfred's chest, barely there but still there, and he's light because of the water. It's the same reason why people can float in water. It's the same reason why water therapy exists. People are weightless then.
It's the water, Alfred promises himself, pressing languid kisses to the neck of Matthew's outline. He hears Matthew sigh softly and the sound calms the beat of his heart even though Matthew's been with him the whole time.
So Alfred asks, his voice as steady as the surface of the water, for Matthew to speak. To sing. To anything.
And Matthew sighs again (he's been doing a lot of that lately) and says, Alfred, please, I just want to sleep.
Act III
The door opens. "So I went to go get more maple syrup from the grocery store, 'cause your blood's pretty much made of the stuff and I-"
Something shatters.
If Arthur, Francis, Ivan, Juan, Gilbert, or even Yeketrina notices, no one speaks.
(Alfred's never bought maple syrup in glass bottles.)
Act IV
Years later when Alfred finds a little shimmering patch on the left side of his chest he smiles at the mirror and gives a little wave. If Arthur, Francis, Ivan, Kiku, or Yong Soo notices, no one speaks.
He is an ailing nation, far from the superpower that he once was. He is ready, he thinks.
He lies back in the bath he used to share with someone whose name he can never remember; maybe he just isn't meant to, he muses, fingering the surface of the water. The water…or whatever is surrounding him is so pleasantly warm and for once his head is clear, clear of the screams and wails of his people, whoever he had been. Whatever he'd done to deserve such a thing.
Something squeezes his hand just then and he wonders which hand it is without answer. Once, long ago, he'd searched desperately for an answer, for which the world had offered none.
To-day or to-night he still has none and in that state the water stills.