Title: Ophelia

Summary: "The waves crash in, and he finds himself forgetting how to breathe." USUK. Angst. Semi-human!Au.

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,917

Genre: Tragedy; Romance.

Warnings: Cursing, sexual themes, major character death.

It is said that when it rains in England, the angels are crying.

Well, that's not particularly true. Someone was crying, but as far as he was concerned, he was no angel. He was simply a man- or, a country, really- with problems that seemed small compared to others' and thoughts that consumed his being. But it always could be worse, he supposed. There were children starving out there, and here he was, worrying and fretting over things he couldn't control.

And so, on a humid August day, it poured.

Clouds covered the sky in an almost eerie effect, blocking the sun and shrouding the land in darkness. Puddles gathered in streets, sewers filled with water, and the drops of rain gathered in between cobblestone cracks. All was silent, save for the pounding of the showers, and all seemed peaceful. However, in a young man's mind (though he was hardly young, really, he was nearly 3000 years old), a war raged on between everything he's ever known, and everything he's ever wanted. Now, I'm guessing you could presume who this seemingly young man is, but I'm going to tell you anyways. This man was- of course- Arthur Kirkland. The personified country of England. There he stood, on the beach, the wet sand squishing in between his toes, his clothing sticking to his much-too-thin body (when did he become so thin?) and hair in disarray. The overwhelming feeling of hopelessness welled up inside of him, crawling up his esophagus like a spider, erupting from him in a sob. He covered his mouth with his hand, as if that would conceal his outburst, and nearly dropped to his knees. He wanted to cry, scream about the wrongs that have been done to him, shout about the burning jealousy and hatred he felt for the two that were most important to him. But no. He would not let the enemy have that much over him. So instead he stood tall and erect, a hand over his mouth, the other at his side in a fist, tremors wracking throughout his body. He thought that perhaps it was the picture that set him off, that old photo covered by cracked glass that was stuck in his attic,- along with all of the other things from him, and every aspect, memory, and relic of their relationship- shoved in the furthest, darkest corner that he could have ever found in his house. But days had turned into months since he had last even dared to go up there, and, well. It needed to be done. He just wished it hadn't taken such a toll on him; it shouldn't affect him anymore, right? It was months ago that the incident happened, months since he found out. Idly, he wondered how they were doing, and if they were still together. With a scoff, he told himself that he didn't care, and stepped forward into the water.

He was immediately met with the chill of the Atlantic Ocean, a shiver shooting up his spine like a bullet. He gasped at the feeling, stepping back just before the next wave met the shore; it really had been a long time since he'd been to the ocean, hasn't it? He must've forgotten how cold it was. With a shake of his head, and a sudden braveness coming about him, he stepped further into the coursing waters, walking until the icy ocean was up to his knees, soaking his pants. Surprisingly, it felt nice; hot anger truly made him feel heated, and not simply in the metaphorical sense. It made his palms sweaty, his head ache with the heat of a summer's stroke, and makes his entire body have the urge to melt. It was better than seeing red, he supposed.

Yes, he decided. The ocean is a nice escape.

But it wasn't, really. Flashbacks played through his mind in full colour, a series of red, white, and blue. He could clearly remember the discovery- like a new age of brilliancy and confirmation to his suspicions- in his head, the images playing out so fast that it made him dizzy. He wanted to stop thinking,- the way the morning light drifted through the blinds and the smell of musk and sweat wafted through out the air- stop worrying,- when a leg moved that wasn't his- stop remembering,- the jeans and shirt that weren't either of their own but of somebody else's, and an arm lightly covered in hair poking out to cup the poor lad's face; oh god oh god oh god- and stop this sinking feeling. It was like his body was being flooded with water, and though his lungs burnt and there was air to breathe, he was suffocating and drowning. "Good morning, mon cher," the voice had said, and the other didn't respond, his eyes simply darting to the spot where Arthur stood in fear and worry. "What is it, love? Is something-"he paused, realizing what was happening.

"Just… what do you think you're doing, Francis?" Arthur accused.

"Ah," the voice started, nervous. "Well, you see, mon ami, I was simply keeping Alfred company while you were away." Arthur fumed.

"Keeping him company? Honestly, is that the best you can come up with? I know exactly what happened here, I'm not stupid, Francis! Get… Get out of my house! Both of you; get out! I never want to see you again!" He had cried, throwing the two their tattered clothes, backing against the wall with a shaky breath. He couldn't bring himself to watch as the duo got dressed, and made their way out the door. He couldn't bring himself to do anything but, stand; stand in that same position for hours until someone had to come and find him.

He was never the same after that.

Arthur rubbed his wrist against his eyes, forcing the tears away furiously. The memory never got easier to recall; it didn't get easier to bear with like everyone said, and it most certainly didn't get better with therapy. No amount of counseling or cigarettes could ever be rid him of the feeling that every time he picked up the phone, it would be Alfred, apologizing and promising sweet nothings about he made a huge mistake, and begging him to please, please take him back because he missed Arthur and loved him. However, that call never came, and Arthur was a fool to think it would.

He began to run.

He hardly realized when water began lapping up around his midsection, waves of water splashing against his torso and sweater-vest with forceful pushes and tugs; and then he was underwater, holding his breath and coming up again for air. He just needed it to be colder, colder, colder, to stop the raging fire that burned through his veins at the very memory. Stepping further, he continued to walk through the deepening waters, neglecting to watch his footing. Neglecting to care. A large wave approached as Arthur continued on and smashed into him roughly, pushing him back down into the water back-first, the wave sweeping him up in its deafening current. Arthur let his body go limp as he became unaware of where the surface was located, letting the wave drag him wherever it's unpredictable motion decided to take him. His lungs started to burn, started to sting for oxygen. Only a moment longer he thought. And though every inch of his body screamed and begged for him to find the surface,- to save himself- he remained under the water as the waves crashed in, and he found himself all but forgetting how to breathe. His fists clenched and unclenched as he went numb, his heart pounding so weakly he could feel it in his ears. He lost feeling of his legs and his arms, and then-

Everything went black.

There were many things in life that Alfred F. Jones regretted, but Arthur Kirkland wasn't one of them. No, instead, he'd say that the one thing he actually did right was Arthur.

But that didn't stop him from being a fool and falling for another man's charms while Arthur was away; it didn't stop him from missing the physical contact that a month of his lover being on a business trip deprived him of. So, he stopped thinking and indulged himself, and he had been caught. And though Francis and he broke up only a month after the incident, he couldn't bring himself to call Arthur and apologize, or maybe even to take him back. However, today, he finally mustered up the courage to speak to his once-love, dialing the number he had memorized long, long ago.

Needless to say, he didn't answer. And Alfred didn't call again that day. Or the next day, or the day after that, and so on. Only after a week did he try again, but to no avail. This went on for about three weeks until the calls became more frequent, and soon they were daily, hourly. In his last call, he left a message. "Arthur, its… its me, Alfred. I know you've probably been ignoring my calls, and believe me, I don't blame you, but I just… I really need to talk to you, alright? Its important. If you don't answer by this time next week, I'm getting on the soonest flight to London, got it? Okay, bye."

Arthur never answered, no matter how relentlessly Alfred had called. Instead, he got the voicemail message- "'Ello, you've reached Arthur Kirkland. I can't come to the telly right now, but if you'll please leave a message, it would be much appreciated." You could still faintly hear Alfred whining about something in the background of the answering machine- Arthur didn't have the heart to change it, he guessed.

And so, he found himself standing on the front porch of a little townhouse in London, England, on a rainy October day. He knocked on the door and waited, and repeated for twenty minutes, before sighing and digging out his old key,- he always kept it, just in case- jamming it into the lock.

When he stepped into the house, he was met with dust and thick air. Both of which were entirely unlike Arthur. If there was dust in the house- even the littlest amount- he'd dust it off, and if the air was humid and thick, he'd open the window. "Arthur?" Alfred yelled into the house, his eyes searching the familiar building.

It was as if nothing changed. The only difference was there was a note on the table, written in Arthur's cursive handwriting. Alfred picked it up and read.

"Dear whoever finds this letter,

If you're reading this, that most likely means it has been weeks or months since I was last seen or heard from. I regret to inform you that it is going to stay that way.

I've gone to the beach; I'm going to find myself a life with the ocean- a life I couldn't have among the shore. I have realized now that my existence is meaningless, and my entire being is one huge lie. I cannot stand to live this way anymore. So I won't. Please tell him that I love him.

I know you won't miss me, but if you do, I'm terribly sorry.

Love always, Arthur."

FIN.

I'm sorry to leave it off at such a shitty place, where you doing really know what happens with Alfred, but I had no idea where I wanted to go with Al, so I just sort of left it at that. Make up your own ending, if you'd like.

If you don't understand the title, Ophelia was the woman in Shakespeare's Hamlet that ended up drowning herself because Hamlet no longer loved her. And, well, obviously that happened to Arthur here, too, so.

Thank you for reading!

-Kat.