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Disclaimer
(applies to all chapters)
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I do not own Hetalia. Hidekaz Himaruya does.
The picture I used for the cover of this fanfiction does not belong to me either. I did not draw it. Instead, it was drawn by hakuku, an artist on DeviantArt. All credit goes to her.
Hetalia © Hidekaz Himaruya.
Cover image © hakuku.
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Warning
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This fanfiction is rated T because it contains coarse language unsuitable for younger audiences, religious topics and blasphemy which may offend and suggestive themes. There are also hints of homophobia and mentions of alcohol abuse. The rating may be subject to change in the future because of explicit scenes and increasingly bad profanities.
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Pre-note
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Hi! NekoMushi at your service. I'm glad you've decided to check this story out. Here's the deal. I say a little about what inspired me, some stuff about the plot and then we move on. It won't last long, I promise.
This is my very first Hetalia fanfiction (despite 'Hospitalia' being the first one that I published, I started writing this long before) which I published sometime around late May. I've been watching the series for almost a year now, and I loved it so much that I started to devise various fanfictions straight away. Considering this is my first, it will probably be quite…..amateur-esque from the point-of-view of those who have been in the fandom longer. You might notice that, as you read the first chapters, there is a lot of unnecessary detail and dullness. After all, I am still a beginner and I don't class myself as an authoress since I'm still in school. I don't plan on changing these earlier chapters though because, if I ever manage to finish this, I would very much like to track my progress through the updates.
I greatly appreciate constructive criticism to help with my writing and language structure. In fact, I appreciate all reviews! Since this pre-note has been devised after I published the first few chapters of the story, I already have some lovely reviews and I'd quickly like to thank everybody who has contributed their opinions. I am very thankful for everybody's help and followed support.
I should stop rambling now and allow you to read. I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I have enjoyed planning it! Please leave a review at the end of the chapter to tell me what you think!
16-20-2013 update: For further information on the merging of chapters and the delay in progress, please read my author's note at the end and look at the notice on my profile. Thank you!
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Chapter I
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The distant hum of giant, metallic birds vibrated through the air, a low monotone to the sounds of various shoes squeaking and clacking on the floor. An amalgam of different voices filled the air; people chatting aimlessly to one another, others whistling to music pounding from the earphones shoved in their ears and some just muttering to themselves as they worriedly checked their watch again and rushed to catch their flight. Of course, only one such place could hold all of these sounds at the same time. The airport.
Through the large glass windows, the air fields seemed to stretch forever, meadows of freshly clipped grass, billowing orange tents on sticks and long runways. The ground shook slightly as yet another plane touched down, its wheels scraping the tarmac and creating a haze of steam. Slowly, ever so slowly, it skidded to halt before the doors slid open and the passengers held within started to exit, some with assistance from one of the air hostesses. Within the mass of people gathered outside Gate 19B, an average teen watched with bored fascination as the figures started towards the terminal, dragging hand luggage along with them. He'd be boarding a plane like that in less than half an hour, even though he really didn't want to.
"Do we have to go, Dad?" he murmured in a half-hearted attempt to convince his stubborn father to stay in New York, the place where he'd lived for just over sixteen years. Despite the whine mingled within his voice, the answer was exactly the same as last time.
"Yes. I've told you Alfred. We have no money, so we have to live with your grandparents in England for a while."
Alfred sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his baggy hoodie; he didn't mind moving and going to live with his grandparents. Truth be told, he'd never really met them before considering they lived so far away. That and there had been a little argument before his dad had moved to America in the first place, which was probably why their relationship wasn't so good. Anyway, Alfred wasn't fussed about moving to England – they spoke the same language there, so it wouldn't exactly be difficult to fit in or anything. It was more of the whole "splitting up" part that he wasn't so keen on.
Alfred's brother, Matthew, and their mum wouldn't be moving to England with them. Instead, they'd be going to live with their other grandparents in France. You see, Matthew and Alfred's parents had divorced about four months ago, and after realizing that they had literally no money between them at all, they figured that they would have to move back to their birthplace to sort their lives out and move on. Obviously, the catch was that they had children, and twins at that. Since neither of them could decide whom the brothers would stay with, they'd taken the "easy" (most strenuous) option and decided to split them up. Because Matthew was already half-fluent in French thanks to his mother's determined teaching, clearly he'd be a better candidate for living in Bordeaux, whilst Alfred would be stuck in a country bungalow in Somerset. Perfect.
Despite the fact that Alfred knew his father loved him very much, he still couldn't shake the feeling that he'd much rather be moving with Matthew. It'd always been that way in the Jones' household; their parents had already been working class, having met in university and deciding to get married and have kids ridiculously young, so they'd always, always, always had to work twice as hard for half the pay. That was just the way it was – I suppose you can't really do much when you drop out of law school to take classes in art instead. The couple, after moving to America (their parents hadn't been pleased with that choice and it was why their bond was somewhat strained), had come to the conclusion that they only had enough money to support themselves and possibly one child, if they took up a couple of part-time jobs and saved up for a while.
However, everything had gone spiralling out of control when, just two months before the birth was due, Alfred and Matthew's mother had been told she was having twins. This turned their life upside-down for the worse. Their father, after rushing out and spending the rest of their savings and hard-earned cash on more stuff for the second twin (a new cot, more clothes, a new teddy etc.) had realized just how horribly poor the rapidly growing family was and before he knew it, he was unemployed and in serious debt. Even though they'd been struggling to survive from the very beginning without getting kicked out of their rented flat by a crazy landlord, it had taken the couple fourteen years to admit their mistakes. The first fault was that they'd been too young and all of the added stress had really taken its toll on their relationship and, after years of arguing, bickering and shouting, a divorce was registered and they were no longer "Mr and Mrs Jones" but "Mr Jones" and "Ms Williams."
Their second fault had been their stupendous move all of the way from their humble house in Dorset to the apartment in Manhattan, New York. Luckily, parents can be very forgiving and following many late-night phone calls, exhausted apologies and nervous breakdowns, the new living arrangements had been decided. There would be no going back. No regrets. That was just the way things were.
Alfred knew that he was the less-loved child from day one. He'd been treated like an outsider, the cause of their problems, the reason for their arguments and the bane of their life altogether. If he'd never been born, his parents wouldn't have run out of money so quick funding his extra language tutoring. If he'd never been born, they wouldn't have had to buy so much food and crap for him to eat when he threw a tantrum. If he'd never been born, they wouldn't have had to move. If he'd never been born…
The list was endless and no matter how many times Matthew would say otherwise, Alfred knew deep-down that it was his entire fault that they were in this mess. Sometimes, all he wanted to do was break down and cry but he could never lose face so easily like that. He remembered a time when he was a vibrant, giggling child and he wanted nothing more than to fly through the sky and be known all around as a hero. The word "hero" was like music to his ears; sweet, blissful and everything he'd ever dreamed of. But, how could he be a hero when he'd ripped his own family apart? What kind of monstrous hero did that? He was more like a villain really.
Alfred had always been somewhat starved of parental love. He'd seen the way his mother would cuddle Matthew when he cried at night because of a nightmare and how his father would hold him high on his shoulders for the world to see. Alfred had never received any of that as a toddler (well…he had, but there had been considerably less loving words and considerably more irritated groans) – all he ever got was indifferent stares and "have you done your homework?" or "I hope you didn't get in trouble again today." Nonetheless, he adamantly refused to let their (lack of) words affect him and kept grinning in the face of insignificance, daring it to aim another blow or swing another punch. He could take it. He was a hero after all.
As he'd grown older, he'd drifted further and further apart from his parents. When he'd started middle school, it had only ever gotten worse. Unlike Matthew, Alfred's literacy skills had been poor thanks to his dyslexia and he'd been in the lowest set for almost everything. Everything except Physics, Mathematics and Physical Education, but his parents had never seemed to care. It was stupid really – if it hadn't been for how certain words would jumble themselves in his mind, and his difficulty in putting a sentence together, Alfred would've sky-rocketed in school. However, everyone treated him like a complete idiot, just because he read slower and had to stare harder at words before pronouncing them. Life could be so cruel sometimes. In his parents' poisoned vision, Matthew was the golden child and Alfred would always be second best. It seriously hadn't helped when he'd finally come clean about his sexuality.
Alfred, after having his first girlfriend in 7th Grade, had found out that he was more attracted to men than women. In fact, he was hardly attracted to women at all! Their relationship obviously hadn't lasted but he'd learnt something about himself in the process. Yes, he was gay. After a year of hiding behind a fake mask, Alfred had finally had "the talk" with his parents about his feelings. It hadn't gone very well – he hadn't really expected it to in the first place. Thankfully, they didn't reject him entirely. Unfortunately, they didn't accept him either and thus the father-mother-son bond had stretched itself even more.
"Departure from Gate 19B to Heathrow Airport in five minutes…"
The loud voice drawled over the loud-speaker, causing a few people to shift uncomfortably in their seats and wrenching Alfred from his thoughts. Air police patrolled the gate, eyeing a few people uncertainly. There was no doubt that the security in Heathrow would be just as bad, if not worse than the security in America. After all, this would be an external flight so they'd have to be as careful and sensible as possible whilst going through customs. The people who stood at the double doors started to jerk them open before plastering creepy smiles on their maws and waiting for the travellers to start queuing up. Alfred watched as the flurry of passengers formed an uneven line. Since he would be sitting at the front of second class, he'd be one of the last to board along with his father, so he waited – the fact that he would have to wait a while would also give him an opportunity to say his final farewells to his twin brother. Matthew's flight to Paris would be later, probably in about two hours, so he'd have some time to kill when Alfred left.
"So, I guess this is it, huh…" the older of the twins murmured sadly, frowning as he readjusted his orb-shaped glasses. Although Matthew and Alfred looked very alike (they're twins, duh) there were subtle differences etched into their appearance such as Matthew's longer, wavy hair and the soft lilac hue to his deeper blue eyes, and how, despite being a few minutes older, he was slightly shorter and had a smaller, leaner build. And of course you can't forget how their personalities would be utterly unique too. Even though their parents had clearly favourite Matthew over Alfred, their bond was strong and unwavering; they'd been inseparable from the second they'd seen each other. Yet now the unthinkable was happening and it was tearing both of them apart.
"Yeah…"
Although Alfred didn't want to express the hurt and uncertainty in his voice, and he definitely didn't want his twin to see the hot tears that were welling up behind his eyes and threatening to pour down his cheeks at any moment, he couldn't hide that he was breaking inside. If he said anymore, he was terrified that he'd just collapse on the floor right there and then and start sobbing his heart out. But he couldn't do that. He had to be brave. Get a hold of yourself.
"But," Alfred continued light-heartedly, sniffing softly as an excuse to wipe his nose and subtly dry the corners of his eyes too. "We'll see each other again soon. Ya' know, at boarding school."
Matthew stopped frowning and brightened up almost instantly at this remark. "Oh yeah!"
As a way to keep the two twins from drifting too far apart (that and the fact that Matthew had been extremely upset to the point that he'd started to weep knowing that he would probably only see Alfred on rare occasions – nobody is immune to the older twin's tears) the parents had arranged for them to attend a boarding school that had been recently set up in Yorkshire. Considering it was so new, the prices had been surprisingly low and it was one of the only good quality schools they could actually afford. Hetalia Cross College.
The name was a bit…well, odd but it was better than nothing. From what Alfred had seen whilst he'd been studying the website it was actually quite good with a range of after school activities and clubs set up by the pupils themselves. He wasn't quite sure, though, why it was called a "college" rather than a "high school." Since it offered boarding to pupils from ages 11-18, it was kind of like a mix between middle and high school, from 6th Grade to 12th Grade. Nonetheless, it was still called a "college" which didn't make sense, but Alfred wasn't one to complain. He was just glad he'd be able to see Matthew, even if it meant he'd have to wait a month.
"Departure from Gate 19B to Heathrow Airport…"
"You should probably go," Matthew muttered after a long pause, gesturing weakly to the rapidly declining queue shuffling through the tube that led to the aircraft. Despite his father signalling for him to follow, Alfred stayed rooted to the spot, his muscles profoundly rebelling to move. Perhaps it was because he didn't want to move. He didn't want to leave Matthew…not yet at least. When he turned his gaze back to said brother, the older twin was chewing his lower lip and the first hints of tears were pricking his eyes adding a glossy shine to the surface of his iris. The very sight made Alfred want to bury his face into Matthew's jacket and cry himself, but he gritted his teeth and just reached forwards for a bear-hug, grasping the smaller teen tightly and wanting nothing more than to never let go.
After a moment's hesitation, Matthew complied and wrapped his arms around Alfred's shoulders, starting to shake as weak sobs wracked through his body, muffled by the younger's baggy Superman hoodie. Although the moment was short, it etched itself in both of the brothers' minds for eternity and (with immense unwillingness) they broke apart, Matthew sniffling and hiccupping violently every now and then. Alfred, knowing that his heart would never survive hugging him again, just attempted to smile softly and laid a hand on his shoulder. The grin was sad and broken; it was painfully obvious how fake it was but Alfred didn't care. He'd keep smiling for infinity if he had to.
"See ya' 'round, Mattie."
And with that, Alfred was gone, following his father onto the plane that would carry him across the ocean to England. The last that Matthew saw of him before he boarded the flight was the teen stopping and raising a clenched fist up to the sky. Matthew sighed and rolled his eyes when Alfred turned and shot him a mischievous grin despite the circumstances. His younger brother had always liked striking that pose because it resembled the Statue of Liberty so much. Following a sharp call from his father, Alfred had rushed out of view and into the belly of the metal bird.
"Where do we sit?" Alfred asked whilst trying to look over his father's shoulder at the plane tickets.
"There," was the answer along with a vague motion towards two empty seats by a window. It was a three seat row yet the extra seat was empty presumably because nobody liked to sit at the front of aeroplanes. Alfred took the window chair almost instantly – even if there would be nothing to look at but a sea of clouds, he would need something to look at for the seven hour flight. Thanks to the three hour time difference between the east coast of America and Britain, the plane was scheduled to arrive at midnight, even though they were supposed to be setting off at 2:00pm. Alfred quickly checked his digital watch; it was already 2:10pm, but miniature delays were expected.
Once he'd gotten settled, strapping himself in and finding a relatively comfortable position, he started to zone out as the voice on the loud speaker started to belay what to do in the unlikely event of an emergency and stared aimlessly across the air fields. Eventually, after the hostesses demonstrating how to use a life vest had left through the curtain to attain the first classes' needs, the plan started to move. The progress was slow at first, the gigantic wad of metal dragging itself sluggishly across the tarmac, yet it gradually sped up and a low roaring sound filled the cabin as the engines flared into action. Soon enough, the plane was racing across the ground, barely touching the floor before an unfamiliar lurching feeling signalled that they were airborne.
Alfred wasn't used to travelling on planes – it was only on a rare occasion that the family had managed to save up enough money to go somewhere on holiday and it had always been an internal flight to some other state. The feeling was exhilarating, enough to make his heart pump twice as fast and increase the rate of his breathing; before he could stop himself, Alfred's face was pressed up against the miniscule window, crushed against the cold glass and he was eyeing the disappearing city with wonderment and awe, being replaced by nothing but ocean blue and then, wisps of silvery clouds. After about a half hour, there was nothing left but whiteness as far as the eye could see.
By this time, the voice over in the aircraft had muttered something about "being allowed to move freely about the cabin" and Alfred had sunk back into his chair, intent on a video game he was playing. It was just an ordinary Nintendo DS, supposedly "old-fashioned" and from "at least three years ago." Nonetheless, Alfred had been chuffed when he'd managed to save up enough money to buy said game console and hardly ever stopped playing on it. Eyes entranced with the pixelated game as his fingers danced across the controls with expert precision, he sighed irately as his character, a small blue crocodile, fainted for the fifth time. He ended up back at the very start of the dungeon that he'd been traversing, and hurriedly snapped shut the console, frustration evident on his face. Now bored, the teen sighed and fished around in his hand luggage for something of interest.
He hadn't really brought much in his rucksack (there wasn't much to bring), but he rootled around until his hands brushed against a thick handbook on aliens called "Extra-terrestrial" and started to immerse himself with the columns mentioning UFO sightings and philosophical questions about whether there really was life in outer-space. Physics had always fascinated Alfred, and he thoroughly enjoyed the sections that included the Laws of Space and Time or how the universe was constantly expanding and the long, detailed explanations about "dark matter." More than anything, he wanted to learn, to create, to invent. To find out how things worked. What made them tick and how and why.
Sure, reading all of the long, complex words was a challenge, but Alfred liked challenges. He paused and furrowed his eyebrows at an especially complicated word that he hadn't come across before. After five solid minutes of thinking and repeating the sounds over and over on his tongue, he got it: "hygrometric." After pondering on its meaning and quickly flicking to the index of the back of the book, Alfred grinned, satisfied with himself. He thought of sharing his achievement with his dad…but he probably just be shrugged off, as usual.
Unfortunately, the fascinating facts on alleged Martians had already been read multiple times by Alfred, so there was little much to learn from the handbook and he eventually shoved it back into the confines of his rucksack. To his dismay, only an hour and a half had passed since they'd taken off, even though it felt like a day had already gone by. With nothing much more to do (other than pester his father but that certainly wouldn't help Alfred's current situation at all) the teen started to stare out of the window, letting his mind wander.
Matthew will probably be departing for Paris soon. Heck, he's probably already on the aeroplane waiting to leave. Alfred scowled sadly – he already missed him. You'll see him again soon. Probably the only good thing about this move was that Alfred would be moving schools. His previous school had been a literal crap shack and the kids there had been awful. Not that they'd ever really bothered Alfred much; it was more Matthew who'd been their punch bag and victim for verbal assaults. Of course, that had changed almost immediately after he'd confronted the wrong-doers and knocked them into shape "heroically." Matthew had never been bothered by those likes ever again. Either way, Alfred was still mildly pleased he wouldn't have to put up with suicidal teachers who felt the need to pour out all of their problems in the middle of a graded examination or bitch about ex-boyfriends, or homophobes hurling petty insults through the corridor whenever he walked by (his confession had spread like wildfire through the school and before he knew it, Alfred was no longer the hot-shot on the football and baseball team, but he was ridiculed and excluded from everyday activities, even by his so-called "best friends.") Alfred made a mental note to keep that part of himself secret until he felt he could trust his peers.
Had he stayed in said awful school, he'd have been going into 11th Grade, but instead, the British curriculum stated he'd be starting Sixth Form. What the hell is Sixth Form anyway? Whatever it was, it sounded cool but Alfred still felt like they'd mucked up his grade or "year" as they called it. They insisted he'd be put into Year 12, but that was a year above where he actually was. At first, he'd assumed they'd simply made a mistake (considering he wouldn't actually be intelligent enough to skip a year of school and apparently, no matter how smart or dumb you were, people didn't skip years nor were they held back a year in Britain), but then he learnt that the system across the pond was somewhat different to what he was used to – for example, there were no tests at the end of the year that would determine whether you were held back or not and a majority of schools actually had uniforms. Usually, uniforms were only worn by the posh snobs who were unfortunate enough to attend private schools.
Thanks to the big move, he was missing the last few days of the God-forsaken school.
Normally in the US, once you were finished with high school, you'd apply for university. They'd check the scores on your SATs or whatever tests and decide whether or not you were qualified. After that, it was just simple – get a diploma, get a job and move on with life. However, in Britain, it was totally different. Alfred realized that instead of going to an actual college - not some middle/high school posing as a college - he'd be taking more difficult tests with weird subjects that his parents had chosen for him. They didn't even trust him enough to allow him free reign over the subjects that would dictate the rest of his life, plucking out what they thought would be beneficial. He still remembered how they'd glared at him whilst he'd objected, his mother elaborating further on the subjects. In some cases, he'd been lucky - after all, they'd at leasy had the decency to choose Physics, something he was remotely good at. In others, not so much. Alfred's eyes had widened and he'd sneered as she'd belayed that he would be taking English Literature, possibly one of the the worst punishments anybody could give him. Oh, how utterly stupid. Had they no clue of how difficult he found it to read let alone write an analogy of an advanced study in the English language? Or were they still stuck in this sick fantasy that he might miraculously amount to something vaguely reminiscent of his twin-
"Any snacks or beverages?"
Alfred jumped slightly as a tall woman clad in the usual air hostess uniform asked what they would like from the metal trolley she was pushing. Layered high with sweet treats and fizzy drinks, he instantly asked for a can of Coke and some Ready Salted crisps and tucked in heartily to the miniature meal. His father accepted a cup of steaming coffee and the duo made idle chat as they enjoyed their grub. Well, it wouldn't exactly be called "idle" considering they spoke animatedly for the next hour – Alfred enjoyed these one-on-one conversations with his dad. Unlike his mother and brother, they were both boisterous with their speech and actions and loved the sounds of their own voices greatly – enough to blabber on about the most random topics non-stop. It trailed to a halt as the sky outside started to darken. Surprised, Alfred checked his watch – apparently, it was only 5:00, yet the sun was already casting radiant beams of amber in across his vision and stars had begun to dot the horizon, clear and sparkling and unmasked by any clouds.
After a moment of brief confusion, interrupted by the obnoxious snores of someone seated at the back of the aeroplane, Alfred reminded himself of the time difference. It felt strange. They were going forward in time, after all, which was an intriguing feat. With a vexed sigh, his began poking around in his backpack of wonders, hoping something entertaining would spring up out of nowhere and ease his boredom. After locating a bunch of old comics he'd transferred from his suitcase to his hand luggage last minute, he wrenched out a couple of the "Captain America" and "Spiderman" cartoons and started to read avidly, despite the fact that he'd read them hundreds of times before. Skimming through the first pages, his reactions were exactly the same from the first time he'd seen them about two years ago when the issues had first come out (each copy had been about $1 which was all Alfred could afford in his earlier high school years) except less exaggerated and without the vocal "oohs" and "ahs!" every few seconds.
Soon, though, after reaching the end of all the available comic books he had, Alfred was bored again. There was nothing really to think about, other than what type of place England might be like when he arrived. He wasn't particularly looking forward to the overly-posh accents and dialects, nor did he feel like he'd enjoy the apparently terrible food. According to his father, there was never enough salt on British food and it'd be almost guaranteed to destroy his taste buds and numb his lips. Alfred didn't care though – as long as there was some kind of fast food chain, he'd be perfectly fine. Besides, his father had promised he'd teach him to drive soon, which was something he'd been waiting to learn since he'd been fourteen years old.
Alfred had always wanted to know what it felt like to sit at the front of a car and control its movements. All of his friends had learned before him thanks to their birthdays being earlier, but he was determined to learn how to drive no matter what and he'd forced his dad to pinkie swear at least seven times that he'd teach him once his sixteenth birthday came. And now he was sixteen. In fact, Alfred and Matthew's birthday had only been about a week ago, so he was eager to being his lessons once they arrived in England. Sure, his father couldn't bring their car with them, but he'd already managed to sort out the mortgage and pricing so that his grandparents' car, which they hardly ever used any more, would belong to him from now on and he was licensed to drive it. Apparently, his dad hadn't actually needed to arrange any paperwork anyway since he was already allowed to drive it in the first place; when he'd been taught how to drive in England years and years ago, he'd been registered to his parent's car anyway, so it was practically his own. He'd just left it there for safe-keeping and they hadn't had the heart to get rid of it.
That was one thing Alfred would be looking forward to on his arrival in Britain, along with nothing else. Apart from the new school. Duh. With nothing to let his mind wander to, he focused on the array of stars in the night sky, glittering coldly in the sun's dying light that tinted the clouds with a soft, pinkish hue. The steady rumble of the engines deep within the bowls of the aircraft mingled with the strangely beautiful sight, Alfred's eyelids started to feel incredibly heavy along with his head, which was already starting to tip forwards. Before he could even begin to count sheep, he was breathing heavily and emitting a low snore every time his chest heaved.
In other words, he was asleep.
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The bus groaned to a halt in its usual place, next to the country lane that the last students would often walk down together. In the cold, harsh winter, the towering trees were ebony and leafless, reaching entangled limbs and fingers towards the quickly blackening sky. However, during summertime – the current season – it provided a blissful, after school walk winding through forests and fields back to their house. Rural countryside was all that lay between the final four children and home. The doors slid open, allowing them to clamber down the steps and begin on their way through the woods, full of chirping birds singing in harmony with each other.
The eldest (eighteen years old), fair-haired, lean and harbouring a somewhat distant glaze to his eyes, loosely clutched the hand of the youngest (nine years old), a silent reprimand for him to stay close and not run off. Ungracefully thin and tall, lanky as some would call it, he walked down the well-trodden path, seemingly in disdain to hold the hand of his little brother – nonetheless, he did it wordlessly and simply ignored the mindless blabber flying from said youngster's mouth about school and church and mass. The second youngest (thirteen years old) walked at the front of the quadruple, flaming hair that looked like it had been trimmed neatly once upon a time now messy and choppy, maintaining a purposeful gait as he adjusted his white shirt underneath his dark green woollen vest, un-tucking it from his trousers despite his parent's annoyance at such acts. His heavily freckled face, complimenting his pale complexion, was twisted into a light scowl as he played with strands of his bright crimson hair, twirling it mindlessly around his fingers and frowning when it dangled in front of his eyes even though he was trying to sweep it behind his ears. And the second oldest (sixteen years old) – probably the most reclusive of the bunch, he trailed behind all of them, his expression a perpetual glower regardless of the lovely weather as he thrummed the tips of his fingers on the leather satchel strung across his shoulder, in time with his pace. A light breeze tugged lightly on his unruly hair, muttering through his blazer and flicking a few flower petals in his face. Trifling exasperation spread across his features as he flattened his hair and brushed the plants from his few, swatting them away into the air where they twirled elegantly before settling on the country path again.
They continued through the woods, beams of sunlight dappling the forest floor and teasing the colours of the brothers' hair, until the trees ended and all that remained were meadows after meadows after meadows and random shapes scattered across the hills. One in particular, a large manor, sat upon the crest of a hill as it waited for the boys to return home. Eventually, after crossing fields with minimal conversation, save the youngest's wandering mouth and some half-hearted bickering, they were walking up the driveway to the magnificent, monstrous manor house. Dating back through many generations, the house had been owned by the Kirkland family way back in the Elizabethan era, explaining the ancient aura emitted from the rugged, mossy stones and the old-fashioned décor inside. Oh, and the various family portraits lining the walls on the landing too. Each face, although varying and unique, all seemed to share the same brutally exaggerated feature; impossibly thick eyebrows, resembling dense bushes situated on the forehead – even the youngest members of the Kirkland family had inherited such unfortunate facial blemishes.
Dylan, who had let go of the littlest brother's (Peter's) hand once they'd emerged from the fields onto the driveway connecting to the main road, knew the door would always be open and therefore didn't bother to fish his house keys from his school bag and continued into the spacious entrance after he'd removed his shoes in the porch. Connor follow suit, but instead of turning left into the dining and sitting room like his older brother, the red-haired thirteen-year-old continued past the staircase, across the lower hall and into the drawing room where he dumped his bag and immediately started on late homework that his teacher had scolded him harshly for. The marks from the punishment he'd received were still blistering in his ears, the harsh remarks about "sloppy work" and "incompetence" now like sweet music that he heard every day. St Busby's Catholic School was adamant to keep the older, stricter tones of the Victorian education around. Although the level of teaching had changed drastically, the punishments hadn't (apart from the beatings, of course. That was illegal).
Connor, being a somewhat rebel in and outside the classroom, was prone to such penalties and the teachers were always quick to scold him. It was wonder he hadn't turned on his own parents for encouraging such consequences, but even he knew better than to go against their strong faith. Both being austere Catholics who believed that the teachings of the church should be passed down to every one of their six children, they disapproved entirely of the smallest things. The seven sacraments were to be performed wherever and whenever necessary, grace was to be uttered before each meal, church was to be attended every Sunday morning, friends and acquaintances were to be of Christian faith and Christian faith only etc. Of course, in such an ascetic environment, at least one child was going to be wayward and insubordinate, stubborn, unmanageable and defiant. Strangely, these words reflected on every Kirkland child in at least some way, even those who were not children anymore, such as Cillian (attending his last year of university in Ireland where he was studying Celtic history) and Allistor (attending his second year of university in Edinburgh, Scotland). Obviously, Dylan was no longer a child either but he waited patiently for the last day of school to come, comfortable with his A-level results.
He expected to go to the Welsh College of Music and Drama in Cardiff where he could settle into a course focused around the Performing Arts, yet his parents utterly and profoundly refused to fund it. They did not approve of him going to study the aspects of stage life and there had been many, many arguments about it. Despite his teachers saying otherwise and his calm demeanour (even though in such situations, he wanted nothing more than to let his blood boil and yell in their faces), his parents remained firm-footed, dissatisfaction at his chosen career path evident in their voices every single time. Nonetheless, he was determined to take action and would be willing to draw money from his own life savings if it came to that. Dylan was probably the most brutally stalwart of all the brothers.
Even Peter, young and innocent, had started to take after his older brothers' acts of insolence against their parents and their current school system. Although most "acts" were meagre and barely noticeable, he had started to pick up on the slight change, for example the subtle changes in tone when they were talking or how they would roll their eyes when nobody was looking. Luckily, he wasn't taking it too seriously, for he didn't quite understand their audacity just yet, however this would probably change when he started high school. St Busby's was one school altogether, but of course the campus was split in two – one campus served as a primary school for children in Reception – Year 6 (aged 4 – 11), whilst the other was the secondary school for Year 7 – Year 13 (aged 11 – 18). This was fairly easy for the brother's as they headed on their way home; Dylan would go to wait for Peter on the playground and they'd later meet up with Connor and Arthur who would usually be waiting for the bus home. Not that they'd ever say anything to each other or even acknowledge each other's presence as they waited.
Arthur was, by far, the worst of the siblings, despite his grades in school being immaculate, hence his fruitful GCSE results. He had been relatively pleased with them, happy that his long hours of revision had paid off. Yet, why he'd spent so long preparing for his examinations had been for one sole purpose only. To get away from his family. Sick and tired of the pointless pressure his parents would pile on top of his everyday schoolwork, day after day of mass, mass and more mass, Dylan's irately calm bickering and reasoning for everything, Cillian and Allistor's unexpected visits, Peter's non-stop questions and Connor's attitude, Arthur decided that he wanted to attend boarding school. Yes, boarding school – but, not just any random boarding school. A comparatively new boarding school that had just been set up in Yorkshire, North England named Hetalia Cross College had been his primary choice. With cheap prices (for a boarding school, anyway – it was still relatively expensive) that his parents could just about afford and allegedly professional and reliable service, it was the perfect getaway for Arthur to do his AS-levels in peace. Thankfully, they'd accepted his application form almost instantly, chuffed that someone with such high marks would be attending in its grand opening year. They'd been more than happy to accept him to join next term, just after the summer holidays and comply with the AS-levels he wanted to undergo as well; English Literature, English Language, History, Mathematics and Music.
Had Arthur stayed at St Busby's, he'd have been forced to take Divinity, a branch from Religious Education, Ecclesiastical Latin (again) or Ethic Studies for one of his ASs– whichever one suited him (he could take all three, but - ha! - that would never have happened). He wouldn't have minded taking Ecclesiastical Latin, but considering it only ever focused around religious prayers and whatnot, it would only serve as a throbbing reminder of exactly what he'd wanted to escape. Not to mention it would be boring and only ever focus on Christianity.
It was fairly strange to take five AS levels, but not completely unheard of. He would probably end up dropping at least one subject when he moved onto his A-levels anyway, as he'd have no free time and he might not be able to cope under all of the stress. Then again, Arthur had survived up to this point, being the most coerced child out of all of his brothers because of his increasingly good grades. His parents treasured him, though not as a son; he was a tool to brag about, to take pride in, to encourage and brandish in the light and oh, he absolutely loathed it. Every second of every day was spent studying and if he wasn't found pouring over notes he'd made in class, he'd be hassled into it anyway, whether he wanted to or not. There was never a break. Unlike his brothers who'd been harried only after starting secondary school, Arthur had been pressurised since he was old enough to read, to talk, to walk. Once his parents had found out he was "more intelligent than the average human his age", they'd never given him enough space to breathe let alone make his own decisions. He had to be the perfect child and if he wasn't…
Obviously, Arthur's siblings had grown to detest him because he was the favourite. His older brothers and even classmates used to hurl mildly unpleasant insults in his direction. This habit had eventually worn off, but the memories of "mother's boy" and "teacher's pet" still hounded his mind, burning by candlelight. Distancing himself from his "friends" (suitors that his parents forced upon him just because they worshipped the same god in the same ways) and siblings, he wanted nothing more but to get away from it all and set up a new life somewhere he'd never be found.
Of course, Arthur's orthodox parents had no idea about his darker, tainted life that he led after dark. Even after school, he'd rushed straight up to his room where he threw his bag on the floor and checked to make sure he'd been given no homework. It was rare that they were given any homework since it was the very last week of school, but he didn't trust the teachers to be that merciful any more. Two more days 'til salvation. Oh, but it would hardly be salvation. Arthur would have to endure six weeks of familial torture before he'd finally be free to go to boarding school and do whatever he wanted without someone breathing down his neck. Once he'd made sure there was nothing that was overdue, Arthur shrugged off his too-tight blazer - an ugly brown colour - slung it over the back of his chair and headed out into a thin hallway. He shared the little hallway with Dylan and, formerly, Allistor (when he'd still lived in the house). Both of their rooms echoed emptiness as he walked passed, evidence that there was no other soul near him. He'd always liked its position, his room; at the back of the house, almost in its own little sector with a dressing room and a bathroom all to himself (not quite, since there was still Dylan, but he'd be gone soon anyway). And, thanks to the little "hidden" corridor, he could sneak out through the large window and straight into the spindling limbs of an ancient oak tree without being spotted by his mother or father because it was at the back of the house! That is, granted that someone wasn't taking a stroll late at night, or that Dylan wouldn't tell. He'd never told before and Arthur knew that if he did have the guts to unveil his escape route, he could just counter-attack by showing them Dylan's alcohol and cigarettes store. Dylan didn't smoke much, but after Allistor had persuaded him to try it out, he would often be found around the back of the property late in the evening, puffing out silvery strands of fog from his mouth and nose.
Arthur clambered down, using the well-worn bark and footholds and landed on the grass floor, his hair a little more ruffled than usual. Summer in the southern part of England was always nice. It was never too hot, but never too cold. Warmth spread across the floor as Arthur expertly crept down one of the side paths and half-jumped, half climbed over the fence that led down towards the stables. The stables were also a rather old structure, nestled like a stone barn along the side of a wide, open paddock laden with rows of sweet smelling flowers. In fact, they may've been older than the actual house itself. The stables were Arthur's only sanctuary, holding six horses within roomy stalls. Every day after school, he'd rush up into the hayloft where he'd unearth many treasures that he'd hidden there long ago. One of these treasures was his guitar, second-hand and bought from a closing down charity shop.
Although Arthur would never have seemed like it, he held a secret passion for playing music. The ache for an instrument in his hands wasn't as strong as Dylan's (after all, Arthur doubted he'd want to follow his muse all of the way to university), but he still enjoyed every solitary moment he spent nuzzled in the hay, strumming sweet melodies. His mother, who often played the organ in church on Sundays, had taught him the basics of how to play the piano and cello, but after refusing Arthur's request to learn guitar, he'd taken matters into his own hands. After purchasing his pride and joy from a run-down shop, he'd spent hours muddling around with the strings and notes on the old mahogany piano in the drawing room until he'd reached the level he was today. As for his cello – he'd discarded that a while ago and it still rested in the bottom of wardrobe to this day. He only ever brought it out on rare occasions (mostly if he was forced to play a duet with one of his brothers or something God-awful like that), but it could never match up to the luscious whisper of a guitar at his fingertips. Although his mother encouraged musical activity, she only ever focused on hymns or traditional songs that were tedious to play and painful to hear – she didn't support studying music at university for some reason though (or rather, the Performing Arts as some acts were portrayed as "unorthodox" and "disgracefully inappropriate").
Cillian, being the eldest, had been the first of the brothers to be dragged into music – surprisingly, he hadn't been terrible at the piano as everyone had originally expected and his work on the violin was quite good too. Allistor had been a million degrees worse, hence why his mother had never strived to teach him a second instrument. Dylan had, obviously, excelled and had received tutoring at St Busby's for not only harp, but the lute and piccolo (he had an affinity for traditional folk instruments especially and sorely wished to learn more before he left for uni) and Arthur seemed to have followed suit at a slower and more refined pace. Connor was at the same level, if not better, than Cillian but only when he truly concentrated and put his heart to it. Although he constantly admitted his hatred for learning musical instruments, specifically the flute that his mother had been so adamant that he learn, Arthur would sometime hear him muttering a soft tune whenever he passed by his room. As for Peter – like Allistor, he was a lost cause, constantly bashing his small fingers outrageously on the notes of the piano, meaning that each sound produced was atrociously out of key and flat. Utterly deafening.
Arthur shoved open the door to the stables with his shoulder. Despite his small, delicate frame, he was actually stronger than he looked reinforced by his regular equestrian activities. A somewhat warm draft greeted his face along with excited nickering and shuffling, signalling that the horses who dwelled within the stalls were happy to see him. Thanks to Arthur ancestors, who'd managed to earn an immense fortune and buy the house, the family funds were more than able to keep the horses well-fed and accommodated. Yes, the Kirklands were a very rich family indeed, owning enough to pay for many generations to come. In fact, because of their great familial savings, Arthur's mother needn't work at all and acted as a housewife, cleaning the house and busying herself with chores and cooking. However, she hardly ever had to go down to the stables – her sons did all of the work down there, most often Arthur. Even though he knew his mother would inevitably be in the house, he didn't want to greet her. In fact, he wanted to avoid her and everybody else who was home. How he did this was to simply spend most of his time in the stables. Nobody ever came to look for him there.
After greeting each of the six horses (essentially one for each child, as per usual), Arthur replaced their water and feed and threw on their summer rugs. Unlike the thick, heavy cloaks that the horses were dressed in during winter, the summer cloths were thin and soft, like slender fleeces that hugged their fur. He spent the most time in his own horse's stall, Crumpet. Running his hand through her dense, dun-coloured fur, he relished the slow, hot breathes that trailed from her nostrils onto his hands. Crumpet was a sturdy little Exmoor pony, complete with the bedraggled mane flopping to one side of her forehead. Unlike most of her breed, her limbs were long and lanky, making her an adept jumper at the least and her hair was a lighter tone than her sandy fur, giving the impression that she was blonde. Heavily lidded eyes fixed her rider with a glazed look and she nibbled gently on the sleeve of his shirt, forcing a rare smile to stretch upon Arthur's maw.
It may have seemed a bit sad, that these creatures were his only friends, but he didn't care much for the snobs that walked around St Busby's. They were all boring to talk to, their heads stuck too far up their own asses for their own goods. Then again, just because Arthur spent most of his waking hours at home grooming and tending to the six horses in the stables did not mean that his social life was miserably undeveloped. No. He did have friends, as some would call them, but not the type that he would want his parents to find him conversing with. He faintly remembered how they'd stood outside the tattoo parlour in town whilst he'd got two dark angel wings etched into his skin on one of their drunken rampages at midnight. Luckily, since it had been drawn onto his shoulder blades and back, none of his family had noticed it yet. The skin was still sore and red, despite the many ice packs Arthur had been shoving under his shirt but he needn't waste any more time worrying over it as it wasn't infected, that he was certain of.
Subconsciously brushing his fingers along the tender area, he ceased his coddling of Crumpet and disappeared into the separate tack room. He didn't feel like riding today – normally it was something he did when he was stressed or frustrated to ease the strain in his mind – so he just rummaged around under the musty leather saddles until he found what he had been searching for. A few bottles of beer. His parents, unknown to the hidden alcohol, never suspected a thing. Arthur was always very, very careful about his secret binging and never (rarely) exceeded his limit. When I leave for boarding school, I'll be able to drink to my heart's content, he thought with a sly smirk flickering across his himself up into the hayloft, he settled in the typical place; his back sinking into the hay as he stared out across the multitudes of fields, westwards where the sun would set. A few rare birds had made nests in the lofts about a half metre above his head, and they twittered anxiously before realizing that he wouldn't bring any harm to their chicks and was just admiring the view, as per usual.
After rootling in the yellow straw, being cautious not to prick his hands on some of the sharper, pointed stalks, he retrieved his guitar, brushing it down gently and caressing it smoothly with his hands. Skilfully biting the top of the beer bottle and wrenching the lid off before taking a large gulp of the saccharine honey liquor, savouring the bittersweet taste it left on his lips, his started to dance his fingers daintily across the strings. Plucking, stroking, fondling. Holding it close to his chest and allowing his mind to detach itself, driven by the powerful urges of the beer. The instrument sang blissfully, the melody ever-changing and consistent like the water. Yet, this was nothing like the relationship that a master and his tool would have, oh dear God no. This was the lonely dance of a lover, skipping across the crystalline surface of the moon, running on glass so fast that each step generated little more than a placid 'tep' sound and leaping through the amalgam of stars. They danced together, but as one, a single being in the depths of absent silence.
The air of the night flowed with beautiful melody, high-pitched, soft, youthful. Although the music was twisted together in a tight embrace, jumping and twirling across the fields in a series of fluid motions, sometimes skipping into a joyous, leaping jig or flowing into something more sensual, interlocked with the breathing of the wind through the tall grass, it was separated too. Each being of sound was its own, differentiating and segregated. Much like blades of grass; from afar, they were entwined, yet if you really listened closely, you could hear the burning essence of fathomless loneliness and solitude. Yet, it wasn't sad, no. The sweet tune was no lament, for fire can never be despondent. It burns, flares, sings. The music danced and Arthur with it, still riddling his fingers upon the strings. Needless to say, Arthur "danced" late into the afternoon and was only interrupted when the sun started to bleed across the sky. Not that he noticed, of course.
"Artie!"
Immediately, Arthur ceased his playing, earning a twang from his beloved guitar that echoed crisply among the stable. At first, he blanched, expecting his father to come striding into the stone building, red faced and livid – after all, he had no idea that Arthur played the guitar and if he saw the booze…oh Lord…
Alas, no. Arthur relaxed when he recognised the voice as that of his older brother, Dylan, who already knew of his secretive drinking (after all, he must've splurged on beer at some point in his life too, as did Cillian and Allistor) and discreet instrumental pleasures. He glared shiftily down at the ground below, watching as his brother strode into the stable and fixed him with a calm look. Dylan's own horse, a young Welsh cob called Llewellyn, nickered and trotted forwards, seeking to be petted as it reached forwards to nibble a few strands of his shoulder-length hair. Dylan's faced peeked in a smile, and he half-hugged the pony's neck whilst he continued speaking to Arthur.
"You might want to come down from there," he called upwards, his green eyes sparkling. "It's almost supper and you know how impatient Pa gets."
Arthur sighed heavily, taking a final gulp of his bottle of beer before burying his guitar safely under the hay again. He didn't appreciate his sessions being interrupted at all; it made him completely break the flow of his music and everything seemed fragmented.
"Pass us one whilst you're up there," Dylan gestured towards one of the bottles up in the hayloft, causing Arthur's face to twist into an irate scowl.
"You should buy your own!" he retorted indignantly.
"You shouldn't be buying them at all."
Dylan's voice remained calm and level, yet he raised one of his thickened eyebrows at his little brother, earning another exasperated groan. Sniffing disdainfully, Arthur flicked down a flask of the amber liquid, half hoping that it would smash on the cobblestones. It didn't and instead landed cleanly within Dylan's palm, just as he closed his nimble fingers around the glass and winked gratefully at his brother.
"Ty," he muttered, clicking off the cap and taking a swig whilst scratching the area between Llewellyn's ears tenderly. The colt snorted, glad for the affection and he shook his shaggy head, black eyes gazing onwards intently as Arthur slid down from the rafters, landing nimbly in the open area in the centre of the stables. Without a shred of hesitation, he pushed passed his brother noting the annoying height difference between them and started up the path back to the manor house. In the time that he'd been comfortably seated amongst the hay, the temperature had dropped rather phenomenally and Arthur regretted not bringing a coat with him at the least. His paper-thin shirt wasn't enough to maintain his regular body heat and his silver sweat vest wasn't protecting his chest from the biting wind at all. Shoddy school uniform, hm?
Even in summer, though, this was perfectly normal weather in Southern England, especially since it was evening and night was gradually approaching. Arthur hurried through the porch, quietly clicking the door off of the latch and entering the great entrance hall apprehensively. From the sounds of things, his mother was busying herself in the kitchen whilst his father appeared to be in the drawing room, replacing where Connor had been a few hours before. He was staring impassively at some documents, seemingly unfazed by whatever was written on them. Arthur knew his father well though; although he betrayed no emotion on his face, he noticed the distant twinkle in his eyes, revealing that he was worried about the family business. As usual, I suppose. Thankfully, the great grandfather clock stood proudly in the corner of the entrance hall chimed that it had only just struck 7:00pm, which was Arthur's curfew time. He found it preposterously unfair how he had to be home from his friends' houses as such an early time in the evening, and how he wasn't even allowed to go for a walk across the fields after said time, despite the fact that he'd turned sixteen last April. Nonetheless, his parent's word was law within the Kirkland house, so there was nothing he could say or do about it.
Following the usual procedure of gathering in the dining room before Mother served supper, Arthur stood at his chair around the rounded oblong table; next to Mother and opposite Connor, who was late (again) and who'd probably get punished for it later. Peter was already positioned, waiting patiently with his arms glued to his sides for mother to serve the food. From his grubby hands and how scattered the cutlery had been laid out, Arthur assumed that he'd set the table and suppressed a sigh. Once again, his fork and knife were on the wrong sides of his plate. After a minute of waiting in stony silence (if you blocked out Peter's purposeless chatter), Dylan finally waltzed into the room, having chugged down his beer in just a few swift glugs. Arthur shot him a sour glare, but he didn't seem to notice as he stood behind his chair which was across from Mother's. Eventually, Connor strode in too, followed closely by Mother who was carrying a large bowl of steaming broth carefully in her hands. Her face brightened as she counted her sons around the table, pleased that nobody would have to be scolded for being late to the dinner table. Nobody particularly enjoys scolding or watching their children be scolded. Flitting around the long table, she squeezed into her spot, pausing only to harshly chide Connor to stop nibbling his nails.
And finally, the last entrance was made by father himself, who secured his place at head of the table. Like the rest of the Kirkland family (save his wife), he had the traditional copious brows that stuck out on his forehead so blatantly yet he wore such a formal suit at what should be a familial meal. However, from the caged, tedious aura that hung in the air, thick enough to blanket a pin if it should randomly fall, it seemed that this happened every time the family was called to a meal. Once the patriarch has taken his place, where his fathers had stood before him, a silent signal rippled through the family and they suddenly bowed their head and started to mutter a rather long and monotone grace, blessing the food and showing great gratitude to the Lord. Whereas little Peter's voice was higher-pitched and almost proud to be bellowing out the thanks, Arthur mumbled inaudibly, resisting the impulse to roll his eyes.
Finally they could be seated and begin eating. An ominous silence settled over the table, much different to other families who would most definitely converse whilst they ate. Oppressive and impossibly dense, it shrouded the people huddled around the oak table until the last piece of broth had been eaten and the bowls had been polished clean with spoons. Since Peter had been the one to set up the table that night, Connor had to clear away. With a scowl, he exited the room, his arms laden with bowls, plates, spoons and glass cups, all gleaming like porcelain in the soft, pinkish glow emanating from the shades light on the ceiling. The redhead did not return, much to the irritation of his mother, yet she made no move to bring him back as she heard him clomping up the stairs and only muttered something under her breath about "not being excused from the table yet."
Although their father probably would've scolded Connor harshly for departing without permission, on this particular occasion, he didn't move and instead sipped delicately at his own cup of steaming tea. Long, deep lines were etched into his forehead from the many hours he spent worrying about the family business (since he'd been the eldest child out of his siblings, he'd inherited the business, which was a large publishing house that had evolved from an old editing company that his ancestor had set up long ago. Cillian was the next in line to take control of said corporate, however he showed absolutely no interest in such affairs at all which was one source of the patriarch's stress).
"What did you do today?" he asked his children, his eyes never moving from the boiling liquid.
"I did some studying!" Peter answered immediately, grinning proudly. His father simply nodded briefly, expecting someone else's voice to fill the silence after the youngest's announcement. It was Dylan's.
"Went for a walk," he murmured monotonously, his elbow resting on the edge of the table and the palm of his hand cupping around his chin. After his mother hissed angrily and chided him sourly, he rolled his eyes before repeating his sentence with "proper" grammar. "I went for a walk." Putting emphasis on the subject of the sentence, he bit his tongue to stop himself from adding a sly remark. In the Kirkland family, they had encouraged the "correct" dialect of England, meaning they had to spend unruly amounts of time revising the Queen's English (even though they lived in West England where people spoke in Bristol accents – in other words, farmer talk). Unfortunately, the somewhat posh tongue had rubbed off on Arthur and was rather strong thanks to his parents' fussing over him the most, and it followed him, even when he went out for drinking and got hammered, which led the "gang" to constantly tease and taunt him for sounding like a snob. The school seriously hadn't helped either by practically forcing the pronunciations down the pupils' throats. Not a nice feeling.
Arthur waited for a while, unwilling to answer the question his father had asked, but after a while, he was met with an inquiringly stern glare from his mother, a reprimand that he should show some decency to his higher ups, and his released his response with a sigh.
"I studied in my room."
He noticed his mistake almost instantly when his father grunted and met his gaze, eyes flaming pool of steely green.
"Why did you open the door and enter the house half an hour ago if you were studying in your room?"
Despite his care when entering the house, Arthur realized that his dad must've heard him from the drawing room whilst he'd been checking documents and he paled noticeably. If that had been detectable, who's to say that his father wouldn't be able to notice the slight glaze to his eyes thanks to the beer he'd downed, or the scent of alcohol mingling in the air? Tongue twisted into a tight knot, Arthur just opened his mouth, struggling to think of something to say. I'm going to get beaten, I'm going to get beaten, I'm going to get beaten… He didn't like being punished at all – who would? – but it had been a while since the flimsy willow branch had tasted his skin, so he was a bit out of practice and he knew that it would sting considerably more than usual. And, what if his father pulled up his top to slap him across the back? He'd reveal the new tattoo! Even if it would just be the tips of the feathery wings, his father would still be able to see the dark ink etched deep into his skin.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…
If either one of his parents found out about the late-night drinking, the occasional smoking or the tattoo, Arthur's life would be over before he knew it! He'd never be allowed to leave the house ever again, let alone go to a boarding school!
His father sighed heavily.
"Lying is sinful and God does not appreciate sinners, Arthur," he muttered, his voice low, tired and seething. "You are to spend the rest of your evening in your room and pray for forgiveness from Him. Think about what you have done."
The teen stared uncertainly at the man and his exhausted expression, streaks of wonderment and shock spread across his face. Clamping his mouth closed so that his jaw didn't scrape the ground, Arthur slowly heaved himself to his feet, shooting his father a quizzical look. For the first time in a long while, he noticed the few silver-white strands standing out like bleach in his hair, looking as if he'd just patted powdered snow onto his head. A pair of wizened jade eyes followed him as he left the dining room and began his ascent up the stairs, and he half expected to be called back to receive a beating. However the words never followed him up to his room, and breathing out a sigh of relief, Arthur closed the door behind him. It was odd for his father not to punish him, even though it was for something as trivial as lying. The punishments weren't bad, but they weren't nice either – perfectly humane for twenty years ago but probably frowned upon in this era.
Despite his father's odd behaviour, Arthur was just thankful he wouldn't feel the bite of the willow stick across his hands or back that evening and slumped down on his bed. It wasn't very late – only about eight o'clock – and he had no studying to do, so he dug around underneath his bed until his fingers cleared the bundle of random books and found his phone. Once again, his parents disapproved of him having a phone since they claimed he'd never need one since he wasn't allowed out passed seven o'clock even though he was sixteen, so he had to keep it hidden underneath his pile of textbooks in his room. It was old and it didn't work too well from years of use, but it did the job alright. Checking his text messages, Arthur muttered something incoherent and grinned when he realized that the "gang" would be heading out to the usual meeting place that night to binge on drink and perhaps chuck in a few cigarettes too. Whatever they did, he would be more than willing to join. He had to get away from the Godforsaken house.
Arthur wrenched off his sweaty school uniform and laid it somewhat neatly over his desk chair and pulled on more comfortable clothing to patrol the night in. He was careful to select a t-shirt that he wouldn't mind stinking of smoke and booze for the next few days and trousers that he wasn't too fussed about getting coated in vomit. The usual procedure, he finished his attire with a dark jacket and a pair of scuffed trainers before departing from his room. As he locked the door to prevent his parents from noticing he was gone (if they came to check on him, which was unlikely, they'd probably just assume that he was studying or asleep and didn't want to be disturbed) the sound of someone approaching caused him to turn suddenly and come face-to-face with Connor. The short brother eyed him indecisively, one eyebrow raised. Connor certainly wasn't oblivious to his older brother's antics, but he didn't really support them even though he had tried a few drinks before and choked on the harsh plumes from a cigarette. Although he'd never confess, he worried about Arthur mainly because of his erratic behaviour when he was drunk and how he would groan during his hangovers the morning after.
"You're going out?" the younger asked. Arthur just nodded mutely, and leaned over to poke the freckled boy's forehead affectionately before making his exit through the window and disappearing in the icy night.
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Author's Note
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16-10-2012 update: Let me guess…you're confused, right? Thinking, "why has this story been updated, but there are suddenly less chapters?"
Allow me to elaborate. As far as I know, nothing's been intentionally deleted. I just decided to clump the chapter parts together into larger chapters, mainly because I could write long enough entries for the upcoming chapters. Sorry if you guys were expecting an update…I'm just very…fickle and I change my work a lot because, I swear, I'm never satisfied.
I'm sorry that the updates are taking so long. Basically, I've started my GCSEs courses, why are taking over my life! Mounds of impossible homework and extra revision…bummer…there's a more detailed explanation on my profile if you're really interested. Just to let you know, I'm still working on the chapters – of course! – but I wouldn't expect a new chapter until a month or two. I want to write ahead a little bit so that I can post something during the time I'll be doing mock exams.
Currently, I'm fleshing out some plots that I devised whilst I was on holiday (…about…eh, two months ago?..heheh…) and proof-reading. However, I am liable to change things, so that's why this is taking so long. Sorry!
Chapter word count: 11,753 words
Total word count (so far): 11,753 words
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Cast
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✯ United States of America as Alfred F. Jones(-Williams).
✯ Canada as Matthew (Jones-)Williams.
✯ James Jones as James Jones.
✯ United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland/England as Arthur Kirkland.
✯ Wales as Dylan Kirkland.
✯ Northern Ireland as Connor Kirkland.
✯ Sealand as Peter Kirkland.
✯ Scotland as Allistor Kirkland.
✯ Republic of Ireland as Cillian Kirkland.
✯ John Kirkland as John Kirkland.
✯ Mary Kirkland as Mary Kirkland.
✯ Crumpet as Crumpet.
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Thanks for reading!
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