Uh, hi again! 2nd fic in 2 days- I'm quite impressed with myself. USUK is another of my favourite pairings and I just had to write a fic about them! This one's quite a bit longer than my last one- sorry there isn't too much dialogue, but I hope it's still okay!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything apart from the plot.
Warnings: Yeah, this one's another fairly angsty one. I'm going to try a cheerier one, I promise!
Anyway. Enjoy!
Magic
When Arthur was a young boy he had breathed the magic of fairytales. The worlds beyond the aged paper, hidden in every inky letter, full stop and space were his everything. He was enthralled by these universes that were just out of his reach, only the breadth of a piece of paper away from him. He would read fairytales until he could feel them as he ran his fingers over the yellowing paper, hear the books whisper into his ear in their raspy voices, taste the beauty on the tip of his tongue. It was the blood that was pumped through his body, his bible, his air. Every day he would fall into another book and each leather bound volume he worked his way through by the hour was a treasure to him.
If he was alone, sad, lonely or hurt he would always know the perfect book to throw himself into. He would cry onto the crinkled pages, watching as each silvery droplet blotted the ink until he had ran himself dry and had to salvage the mucky stain the page had become. It was okay- he knew each page by heart and it hardly phased him when a couple words faded from a sentence. He would just grab his ink and print them back in carefully in his neatest handwriting. He gave life to every book he read and slowly the rooms in his house filled with piled up neatly dusted off leather bound books.
When you walked into his library the thing that would strike you was the way the light bounced from the gold embellishment on the spine of each book, causing every single one to give out a glaring kind of glow. If Arthur was feeling pressured, stressed or nervous it is here that he would escape to. He would slide a book from its shelf, reawakening its tiny raspy voice, and curl up in an armchair off to the side, flipping it open to get his dose of the magic held within. He much preferred the company of his dear books to the company of any human being or pet. He forgot that he was still, in reality, a human and had human needs. If things got too heavy and he hit rock bottom he could go for countless nights without sleep, days without food or drink- he would hardly leave his seat until he had erased his memory completely.
His stories made him numb. When he was saving the damsel in distress from her prison in the tower, when he was battling enraged dragons, when he was being crowned King of everything he was immune to every harsh word thrown at him. Nothing could phase him if he had his book in his hand. He would read until his voice was so gravelly and his throat so parched he could barely breath, read until his stomach contorted in piercing pain with the need to be fed, read until his eyes drooped so unbearably that daring a blink put him at risk of falling asleep. He would come out of his library dead on his feet, gaunt, pale, hungry, thirsty but happy. The euphoria his books put him in could be beaten by nothing- no human need outclassed it.
Reading became part of his daily routine when he was still a child. His day ran like this: Wake up, read, maybe have some breakfast, read, perhaps some lunch, read at the park, have dinner, read then maybe, if he was lucky, fall asleep. His dreams revolved around the stories he read, but this time he was the writer. In the morning, if his dream was particularly good he would write it down in great detail and pack it away in his box of treasures where it would join the hoard of dreams his brain had concocted that had flown in ink onto paper. More than once had he fallen asleep in the park or on his front lawn in favour of returning to his bed. Moving seemed unnecessary when he was venturing across the seven seas and partaking in dashing sword fights in his head.
These books had become his life. When he was away from them he honestly believed what he learned from them. That he should be a chivalrous night who would save the damsel in distress, that he could battle dragons with only a sword and a shield, that he could do black magic and most of all that there would always be a happy ending. This is what kept him going throughout the days when he was hiding away from all the people who gave him suspicious or displeased looks, the days when he was vulnerable and uncertain. But as he had grown up into this vicious world he had began to see things in a different light. He watched as the people of his country withered and died, as young girls were sold off into a life they didn't want, as children were neglected and innocent families forced onto the street. The world was dark and cold to him; it showed him no mercy, just as it showed no mercy to the people who needed it most.
The world became a dark smudge which tarred his hopes and dreams with negativity, turned his dreams into nightmares. There was something that made things look up for him, though. The day he met Alfred F Jones he felt a little of the magic come back to him. Having this little brother to guide through the world that had been nothing but unkind to him gave him some kind of hope and he grasped the opportunity with both hands. Alfred was an energetic, strong and caring child who only wanted the best for those he loved. He was constantly being the hero just by wrapping his stubby little arms around Arthur's neck and clinging like a little monkey. The feeling of being needed shone a ray of light into the Englishman's silent, dark world, and for the first time in years he could smile sincerely and love someone like he had his books.
He shared the magic of his books with Alfred- something he had done for no one else before. He would read the boy these books at night and whenever the child demanded. The American child knew he had Arthur wrapped around his little finger and he used it to his advantage, drinking the brilliance of the fairytales his big brother provided as if it were water. The Brit sacrificed a lot for the love of his 'little brother', namely his free time. He gave all the love he had in his frail frame to this tiny little being, even when it began to drain him. He no longer had time to read for himself- he had the responsibility to take Alfred out for long walks in the sunshine and feed him the best food his fumbling hands could cook. He didn't get the chance to write his dreams down anymore but he couldn't bring himself to care. Something about this child was better than anything he could possibly hope to draw from reading an old dream to himself at night or flicking through his favourite leather bound book. Fairytales became less important now, as Alfred became the apple of his eye.
As the boy grew, Arthur's adoration grew too. He stood by the younger and doted on him, being patient when Alfred failed to listen or understand. While they didn't share the same interests their brother to brother relationship didn't falter and the future seemed bright. That was, until other people became involved. There was tension in the air and the powerful British nation began to doubt himself that little bit, and it seemed that his 'little brother' was having the same problem. Keeping up the facade of two happy brothers became harder and harder, and when Alfred started having conflicting ideas and different view points on bigger matters, the friction between them became apparent. Fights became common though Arthur would never lay a finger on the American who he had come to love with everything he had. He still cared deeply for the younger man and tried his best to remain a good big brother despite their quarrelling and ongoing feuds. Of course, he had never expected it to inflate in to full blown war.
When Alfred declared that he wanted to be an independent nation, Arthur felt his world turn to ice as the ray of light in his darkened world began to wane. The war was violent, blood smattering the perfection of their life together, and everything he had worked to achieve was being dragged out from under his feet. When the two had each other at gunpoint there was no use in fighting anymore. Arthur was alone, weak and scared. While he couldn't accept he was defeated, and that there was no way he could ever, ever shoot his former brother, he didn't know how to back down. His defeat was not gracious, nor was it easy. To this day he wonders what he did wrong, wonders why Alfred left, wonders how his empire failed and he actually managed to lose a war.
You used to be so big
Arthur had loved Alfred in a way that never can be broken. It could be twisted, bent and cracked but never disappear completely. His love for the other man would last forever even though it was lost on the American, and his pleads for his beloved to come back fell on deaf ears. Alfred had changed, that was for certain. Something distanced him from the Englishman, like a barrier that held him far away. The two seemed like two magnets repelling and they drifted further and further even after the war was over. The wounds inflicted on the Brit had never healed- they still bled, even if the wounds that were left were not physical. They were mostly on his pride and his heart. The scars were ugly and the open wounds were deep and infected.
It was 2 years after the war of independence that Arthur saw Alfred again for the first time, and it was most certainly unexpected. The Englishman sat in his library, trying to read a book but failing to get into it. Since Alfred had left the magic was well and truly gone, and the ink on these pages were not a story but individual words he was cramming half heartedly into his brain through eyes that had lost their sparkle. He was all out of passion and over the course of these last 2 years he had become a young man with the grouchy demeanour of an elderly one. People had well and truly backed away from him as when they tried to give him sympathy it did him no good- he simply got depressed or angry.
He no longer dreamed, neither did he care for his fairytales anymore. His books had fell quiet and the beauty he used to see enclosed in each volume had been ripped from their pages. More than Arthur's happiness had died when the American had left. A longing had set deep in his stomach and it was never satisfied, no matter how much he daydreamed about the days he used to spend with Alfred, no matter how he reminisced. Everything that had happened from the day he had met Alfred onwards now had a dream like quality- it felt as though it had never happened, that there had never been any hope and happiness between the pain and loneliness. His life had settled into a blank routine of nothingness, where each day was filled with the scents of tea and burnt scones, his dreams and hopes falling down like toy soldiers.
He flipped the page, hoping the next might hold a remedy for his emptiness but found nothing. Countless times had he tried to seek solace in his books but not once had it proved any good. Sighing, he sets the heavy book down by a cup of cold tea he had forgotten to drink, not bothering to keep his page- he knows he won't go back to it later. The light filters in through the moth bitten curtains, but the golden embellishment on the leather spines of the books no longer glow. This room has lost its life and it no longer holds any kind of help for the man who has remained silent sitting in his chair for two days straight.
He chances testing the tea, poking one finger through the surface of the murky liquid- it feels like ice. How much sugar did he put in this cup? The slowly dissolving grains cling to his digit as he draws it back out into the mild air. The vase of flowers set in the centre of the coffee table is pathetic, the glass grimy and the stalks of the flowers being the only things to hold the correct colour. The flower heads are brown and papery, hanging like flimsy pieces of fabric suspended on string over a ledge. His demeanour leeches everything positive from the room and he's too wrapped up in his own thoughts to hear the soft treading on the creaky floorboards of the hallway leading to the secluded library.
Alfred feels increasingly uncomfortable as he approaches the library, finding the entire house to be deathly quiet. This house used to be bustling with activity and just so alive. But that was gone now, every piece of furniture, every portrait on the walls exuding an air of neglect. Nothing was right with this place, and it unsettled the blonde nation. His figure is void of the bomber jacket, having hung it up at the door as he know the Englishman would have wanted. The coats which hang there are dusty, but it's no wonder- from what he's heard, Arthur hasn't left this house in a long, long time. The first question that came to his mind was how was the man getting food? But that wasn't why he was here- it was not one of the questions he had came to ask.
The truth was that the American felt guilty about what he had done to his former big brother. He felt as if the pain inflicted on the Brit had been unwarranted and that it was about time that he apologised for his harsh treatment of the man who had gave him everything and brought him up to be the power he had come to be. Don't be mistaken, he would do it all again for his freedom, and he would never go back to Arthur and become a meagre colony once more, but something had to be done about the silence the sandy haired man had been holding for far too long. The war of independence hadn't been about hurting the Englishman, nor had it been about no longer liking or needing him. It had been about getting himself noticed by the other nations who didn't take him seriously and it was about being seen as not just a little brother to Arthur, but as an equal. He wasn't jealous of the empire Britain had- he just wanted Arthur to like him in a different way.
That's right. Alfred was and still is in love with Arthur, and as long as he had been Arthur's little brother their relationship could never move forward. He could never have imagined the pain that would be produced from his declaration of independence though he supposed he should have seen it coming. And now he was here to try and make amends. He stalls outside the library door, for a split second wondering if he was at the right room, but upon reminding himself that the library is the only room on this lengthy corridor he begins to push the door open. Arthur is uncharacteristically still. His eyes don't seem to see and he doesn't seem to hear either. He looks like he's on the verge of dying, a decidedly human thing to do as nations don't die just like that.
"Arthur?" He asks tentatively, flinching a little when the Englishman sharply turns to him, eyes wide in disbelief. The pale man does not reply, he just stares, and Alfred feels his confidence wavering by the second. For a moment the emerald eyes flicker from his face to the bouquet of white lilies in the American's hand. The blonde had assumed these would still be his favourite.
"W-what are you..." His voice is croaky and it seems to pain him to speak. He shrinks back into his seat when Alfred walks towards him to get a better look at what's going on with the British man. He's gaunt and pale, his body stick thin and tired, his hair matted and his eyes lacking the life they used to hold. He sucks in a deep breath and tries to think of what the best thing to say is.
"I wanted to see you." He replies lamely, laying the lilies onto the table and reaching out to pat the other man's shoulder. He jerks away.
"Why?"
"B-because, I..." He hesitates then decides to change the subject. "What have you done to yourself?" He can't help himself- the Englishman's state is so impeccably bad that he just has to.
"What did I do to myself?" The Brit sneers. "If anything, this is what you did to me." The words are harsh and Alfred finds himself recoiling.
"I-I-!" He stops himself from getting angry and waits for a moment before continuing. "I came to say I'm sorry." He breathes deeply, waiting for Arthur to attack him with cutting words.
"I can't see why you'd bother to do that." Snorts the emerald eyed man. "The damage has already been done and it's been 2 years, so what's the point in approaching me now?" The resentment is clear in his voice. Alfred wonders if he even has the strength to pretend anymore. The guilt deepens.
"Because I-..." He stops once more, wondering if it's really a good time for this. Wouldn't it be better to try and develop a friendly relationship first rather than launch himself into the deep end head first? But Arthur was staring at him, staring straight into his soul with those beautiful sad eyes and he felt as if he was obliged to confess. "I love you."
For once Arthur's at a loss for words, mouth hanging open and thick eyebrows raised. Alfred can't see this, though- he's avoiding looking at the Brit at all costs, because he's terrified of the rejection he's about to face. Something tells him to run, but he's rooted to the spot.
"I don't believe you." Murmurs Arthur, looking down at his shaking hands in his lap. " You used to tell me that every day yet you still betrayed me. I can't believe you." The bitterness in every word the British man speaks is like a knife thrust into Alfred's chest. He bites down on his lip as he finally brings himself to look at his beloved, only to see that he's about to launch into more cruel accusations and angry refusals. He does the only thing he can think to do, allowing himself just one guilty pleasure.
Lunging forward he crashes his lips down onto the chapped and bitten ones of the British man's. He stays there, pressed against the frozen Englishman for a few moments until he feels a ghost of a response against his lips, then pulls away. Emerald eyes bore into his own and he stares right back, determination written in the depths of the cerulean orbs. For the first time in a long time, Arthur actually feels something. Suddenly, the world isn't so dull and dark. Alfred's there and what's more, Alfred just kissed him. Something akin to a blush rises to his cheeks, the first colour that has touched his skin in a long time.
He smiles weakly, the movement feeling foreign on his face, but he continues to smile anyway, and Alfred beams back. With the American here, things aren't so bland and lonely anymore. He feels a little more alive, the air he breathes has a little more substance- it almost, almost feels like magic as it slides over his tongue. Together they can move on and run off into their imperfect, bashed up, twisted and broken happy ending and leave his claustrophobic nightmare behind. For the first time in 2 long years, he isn't alone.
I'm not so pleased with the ending of this one but it'll have to do as my creativity was starting to run dry. Very angsty indeed!
Uh, yeah, so that's it done, reviews are welcome, and again, flames will be used to make toast. Happy Wednesday everyone. Have a nice night.
Ciao!