Author's Note

First one shot, yay! Ah, I ended up uploading it fairly late…I'm sorry. Well, here's to Valentine's Day…which was yesterday. I hope everyone had fun, whether you were out there with your love or spending it alone like moi. Inspired by "Talking to the Moon" by Bruno Mars.

Heh, it seems that my most fics are inspired by a song or something…

Anyways, please enjoy.

Summary: It's been three years since Alfred's passing and Arthur, a lonely local pub owner, spends his lonely nights—that would be every night—talking to a giant space rock in the sky. In other words, he spends his evenings talking to the moon, hoping that someone might just answer back for once.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia nor the song. All rights go and belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and Bruno Mars. (love them both)

"So…it's this time of year again, huh?" I forced out a laugh in order to entertain myself and stumble into the kitchen. "Christ, my legs! The exhaustion must be getting to me…" Valentine's Day and its concept never did appeal to me. In order to spend the day, or whatever was left of it, decently, I began preparing my usual cup of tea—your everyday Earl Gray with a splash of milk. Seconds after I placed the kettle on the stove, the oven chimed with a ding. I bent down and opened the oven, black smoke and a smell of terribly burnt charcoal escaping into the kitchen. "Arthur Kirkland, you really are something. You cock-up everything you cook, don't you? Bravo darling; what fucking a masterpiece."

I pull out the baking tray from the oven, charcoaled dough gracing the center and sides. Well, I wasn't that hungry anyways; I can always get Chinese take-out later. I sigh and scrape the coal-black, hardened dough off the tray and into the trash can. It was supposed to be a soufflé…And that's the last time I'll ever try and cook something new. Once that was over with, I tossed the tray into the sink without concern. There were far more important matters on my mind compared to dirty dishes; they can wait until the morning.

I splashed a bit of milk into my tea and plopped myself on the cushion of my bay window seat. I leaned against the chilly glass of the window, looking up at the full moon; as always, it shone its brightest when full. "Romantic, isn't it? Just me drinking tea underneath the full moon…Hah! And on Valentine's Day too…" I muttered, purposefully mocking myself. Eh, I was use to the ridicule and scorn; the neighbors would give me looks of worry and suspicion whenever I'd come out of the ol' cottage. I couldn't blame them. A city boy suddenly moving into his great-grandfather's self-built cottage without warning, almost never leaves unless for work or restocking the cupboards, and almost always has a long-face is out of the ordinary. They probably thought I wouldn't last even a month in the country because I was a 'city-lad'—they thought wrong, oh-ho-ho-ho.

"It's officially been three years now, Alfred. That would be almost one thousand one-hundred days. Can you believe it? Three years…I've lasted this long since you've been long gone and I left London." I said as I studied the full moon. I cracked a smile, laughing to my lonely self. "Just look at me, talking to a big, fat, floating rock in the sky. I probably look like a crazy, lonely wanker who talks to the moon every night, don't I? That's what the neighbors seem to think." It's days like these were I wished everything would stop for a moment; where everything would slow down so that I could catch up with the crowd. Every day, I only get lonelier and lonelier…It's tough, but I somehow manage to pull through. Miraculous, isn't it?

I turn my attention to the world beneath the moon; it shone beautifully underneath the moonlight. I indulge the last sip of my now-lukewarm tea, placing the empty tea cup on a wooden mini-table to my right—I'm a fast drinker when it comes to tea. I always did prefer the English countryside over the busy streets of London; less hassle and more time to yourself. It's just me and my little cottage out in the open. It's not hard to maintain, it being a small cottage and all. I mean, sometimes I do a little gardening out in the back and fix the leaky roof tiles once in a while. Maybe I'll sip some tea one day and read a classic novel underneath the willow tree in the back. My little cottage is quite the keeper. A genuine laugh escaped my lungs as I recalled old, nearly-forgotten memories. Good thing I've kept a scrap book—a scrap book damp with tears, that is. The pages are all stuck together and it's as shitty and tacky as it can be. I can never bring myself to throw it away or redo it; we made it together so all that effort put into it would be wasted…all those words of reassurance that I didn't do a crappy job pasting the pictures in, that it was the glue gun's fault.

And now, here come the tears; just in time too. I pulled my knees closer to my chest as I attempted to convince myself to stop crying. The pain never seemed to go away; I know that. It's always been there, sitting in the farthest corner of my mind, waiting to strike at my most vulnerable moments. Damn it, it's happening all over again. I'm tired, so tired of all this. "Arthur Kirkland, pull yourself together you fucking wanker…damn it." My voice cracks, my breathing hitches, all while I began to sob.

"I-It's hopeless…to think or dream that you'll c-come back to me. Tell me…tell me why I wish for it when I know it's never going to happen?! Is it some false sense of hope that I get for being a wanker all these years?! Is it, you git?! H-How would you have…fallen in love…with someone like me? I still ask myself this and it hurts not knowing for sure!" Letting out my feelings like this and screaming at a big, fat space rock in the sky, it seems I've finally gone bonkers. "A-And I didn't even come to your funeral…YOUR funeral, for Christ's sake! I should've been the one to die first, not you. I'm the older one…yet there you go trying to protect me. I never needed any fucking 'protection' or any of that bloody 'hero' business…"

Wait, what is this?

"I-I hate you! I hate you and I miss you so, so very m-much!"

Where is this coming from? From my head?

"Why did you have to leave me so soon?! I-I told you! I told you so! I told you it was a bad idea and you still w-went! Y-You went and you got yourself killed with some 'buddies!' They never gave shit about you Alfred, SHIT for Christ's sake! Th-this is what happens when you go out p-p-partying with a bunch of strangers!"

What is all this? Even as I sob, all these thoughts that I've tried so hard to suppress are not pouring out like surging water from a broken dam.

"Where's my hero now?! Up in heaven, that's where! I'm tired of all this bullshit that's been happening a-and I'm fed up with t-talking to someone who won't answer back! I don't know i-if you're even there! I don't know if you're on the other side listening to my livid b-b-babbling!"

Too late, it's all out now.

"Talking to the moon has been my only way of getting over you being gone. It's like half of me is missing and I'll never it back, no matter how hard I work or pray."

I couldn't help it, even if I was overreacting, in some way or another. Three years should have been enough time to get over this, but it wasn't. Not for me, at least. I fastened my grip on my slacks. I felt my nails dig deep into my skin—it probably left a few nasty marks too—but I didn't care; I never did. When it came to pain, I would rather have faced something physical than something emotional; it hurt a lot less.

"E-Everything's come crashing down a-and I'm tired of carrying all that weight! I feel as if my entire body's going to snap at any second and there's nothing supporting me; it's only the cold, hard ground that's beneath me…"

I tried to recollect myself, wiping away tears, snot, and everything in between. The pain hurt too much; it always hurt too much. It never stopped. And all I've ever asked for was for it to stop, even for a minute or two. "Look at me, I'm screaming at the moon like the useless piss-artist drunkard I am. And I haven't even taken a sip of whisky!" I halt my angry ranting to burp. Okay, maybe I did drink a little bit at the pub and it never came across my mind. A lot of things go on in there and sometimes you need a little bit of heaven to wash all the negativity down; that's why people come to the pub.

"What kind of idiot screams at the moon? And on Valentine's Day, no less…Arthur Kirkland, that's who! A whiny, po-faced, Briton with nothing else to do but get little drunk at the local pub, come home stumbling, have a cup of tea, and scream at his long-gone beloved hero like it was his beloved's fault he left him alone for the rest of his life" Arthur Kirkland going bonkers? Officially confirmed. Also, there may be possibilities of him spiraling out of control. Alas, only time will tell.

"I just…I want to hear you again, Al. I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you say that you love me and that you'll always stay by my side…But I'll never get that chance again, will I, Alfred?" I look back up at the moon, fresh tears streaming down my damp cheeks; a little bit of snot here and there too. My hitched breathing returned to normal, finally. I sighed, rubbing away the tears with the sleeves of my shirt. "You must be laughing right now…never thought that I'd actually call you 'Al,' did you? Well, life is full of surprises…heh," I lean against the window, my hot breaths condensing onto the clear glass, "and this gentleman has had enough of surprises for a lifetime."

I lean my back against wall, smacking my head against the side jamb of the window as my position shifted. I grumbled incoherent swears and curses as I rub the side of my head; I probably needed that bump anyways. "Hey, Al…are you having fun up there? Your dreams and your wishes, being an astronaut for the big, great United States and all. Have they been granted? Because mine certainly haven't…" The heavy feeling in my chest slowly subsided, however, not entirely; it was good enough for now.

Tonight…was a good night, actually. One could say it's just like any other night I've spent talking to Alfred, or the moon, or whatever. But I beg to differ. I've managed to let out some things that I've suppressed in the deepest, darkest nooks and crannies of my brain. It felt like an enormous weight was lifted off my shoulders. I return my gaze to the moon; still as lovely as ever. "You know," I began, "I hope you've realized by now that I didn't mean what I said about hating you back there. Or about not talking to you anymore. But I do miss you, terribly. However, I hope you've had your share of tears. God knows I've run out of stock for tonight!" I laugh again, a warm and sincere smile slowly creeping onto my face. "Maybe I should do this more often when I'm a li'l tipsy. Have a few shots before walkin' home from the pub. Never hurts to drink a little bit once in a while."

I sit up, yawning and stretching as thoughts of sleep filled my mind. "Geez, it's already 2 in the morning? Maybe I should…" I pause to yawn again, stretching my arms as wide as I could, "Mmmmh...Maybe I should go to bed soon." I rolled my shoulders and performed several neck exercises that I'd learned from those in-flight safety manuals. What? They actually work!

I stood up, wiped away dried snot and tears, and heaved a sigh of tranquility and relief. I left my little bay window seat, but not before waving farewell to the moon.

"Same time tomorrow, Alfred F. Jones?"

Note*

I think that was pretty okay for my first one-shot. It was meant to be posted on Valentine's Day, however, that clearly didn't happen. Um, please do review, point out some errors here and there or anything that's completely, utterly flabbergasting and horrifying that you really can't hold back. It's fine, I understand. Thank you for reading.