AN: Hey, um...yeah. I've been really sick the past few months, in and out of hospitals so I haven't had much time for writing. But, I'm getting better so I'll have time now. (To anyone waiting on Reluctant Assassin, sorry, I'm working on it! Bear with me, haha!) Um, I've read a few really amazing UkCan stories lately and was kind of inspired to write one of my own... I always picture cold, rainy nights and books and blankets and tea and (I'm rambling) when I think of UkCan.. Anyway, please enjoy this word vomit story I kinda threw here. Criticism is always welcomed, but flames will be ignored!
Pairing: UkCan CanUk
Warnings: None, really. A kiss or two?
Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine, etc. Neither is the song "Sparks" by Coldplay, which was my inspiration for this story!
Sparks
The wind is icy, caustic in its ferocity, the rain blowing in half solid drops at an angle that rain should most definitely not fall and it's–
– it's dreadful; cold, wet and cloying. It's despondent, dark, the ground is slick and it refracts the street lights in a way that would be beautiful if it weren't for the pressing need to be out of the elements of nature.
London is not often (read as: nearly never) a 'sunshine and happiness' type of place, but Matthew had not expected the weather to be this bad when he boarded the plane not 8 hours ago. If he were to be asked just what it was that possessed him to randomly board a plane to London he would reply, with all honesty, that he had no idea what he was doing.
Sometimes...sometimes Matthew wishes that he fought with his hands and not with his heart because bruises on the skin heal quickly; bruises on the soul, however, do not. That's why he wishes he fought conventionally. A fist here, a scrape there, a day to heal, problem solved, fight over.
That's not, sadly, how life works; how his life works. No, instead, Matthew fights with words, with poisoned words dripping with a malice so acidic he can feel them sear as they rip and claw their way out of his throat. They burn, they burn, and it's too late, too late, much too late to pull them back.
With a punch, there is a split-second option before flesh meets flesh in which you can falter and miss. Words, unfortunately, will always reach their target. That split-second option comes not before the words but after. After, when the target has already been struck.
("Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." How wrong, how wrong.
Surely they weren't using the right words).
The problem with this style of fighting arises when your opponent has a sharp tongue and a biting venom that seeps into each word. Each word that cuts deeper than a knife, a knife that twists and salts the wound. A wound that spreads slowly, vise-like, icy tendrils seeping into your heart and solidifying.
(I feel cold, Matthew muses, all over).
Arthur has always held Matthew's heart in his hands; has held it from the moment that Francis broke it and gave him away. Has held it both gently and strictly, depending on the time. The time, the time that seemed to pass too quickly and yet not quick enough.
He doesn't often fight with Arthur. When it does happen, though, it's acrid, it's dismal, it's–
("Say it," he hisses, "Say it, you- you coward." This fight's been going on too long and inside his head, locked behind the present wall of pride and hurt, he pleads. 'Don't say it. Don't say anything. Stop. Let's stop just stop this please I don't want to hear it –'
But it comes anyway.
"Fine. There are times, Matthew," he spits the name in distaste, distaste that resounds with disappointment, "there are times when I look at you and I don't see anyone. Anyone...but your brother."
And – ouch, he had been prepared for something awful but that, that...ouch. He's winded; too hurt to move, too hurt to retaliate. Game, set, match; Arthur.
So he runs).
It's that Arthur knows him well. Arthur knows his thoughts, knows his fears like the back of his hand. It's that he can deflect Matthew's verbal attack with a parry as swift as a sword and cut right through the boy's facade. Matthew's a skilled linguist, excellent at finding holes in arguments, but Arthur has had many years of experience.
When it comes down to fight or flight, Matthew's first instinct has always been to run. Not because he can't fight, he has certainly proved that he can, but because he's the only one that gets hurt this way. If he doesn't retaliate, no one will ever have to experience the same things that they make him feel.
He tries so hard to stay angry, to get his point across for once, to be heard ("Just listen to me this one time, dammit!") but there's never enough fire behind his actions. So he'll run his mouth until frustrated tears pool in violet eyes and he'll hope and pray and plead that it's enough.
It never is.
(So he runs. He turns and runs out of an old Victorian house, one that holds memories both dear and hated. Hands over his ears, head down against an onslaught of cold rain as the door flies open and he hastily skids down slick, brick steps.
He won't look back. Won't even turn to close the heavy oak door after the resounding bang it makes off the wall behind him. Won't look back to see if Arthur is reaching out to him or to see if he isn't. What would hurt more, he thinks, seeing him or not seeing him at all?
He won't ever know. He doesn't turn. Doesn't turn, so he misses the way Arthur clutches the door frame and watches him run. Doesn't look, so he misses the way Arthur calls his name into the night, only for it to be drowned out in the pitter-patter of rainfall. Doesn't stop, so he misses the way Arthur swears, standing on the step for nearly an hour, just watching the night grow dark. Misses the way Arthur's eyes close in regret, turned up to the starless night, stained with falling drops like the tears he's too proud to shed.
Matthew runs).
Numbing fingers tie up thread bare buttons on a well loved jacket. It's soaked; he's soaked. How long has he been standing there, in front of Arthur's home, too scared to make the wrong move? A week is not long, in the grand scheme of things, but is a week too long in love? Licking one's wounds takes time; healing takes longer; forgiveness, well, that's another story altogether.
Has it already been a week since the argument? Has it even been a week or has it been two? Hard to tell when drowning sorrows in work and sleep. Harder to forget, when little things that have always been in his life as simple now seem so complex. Harder, when everything he knows, everything he does, reminds him of Arthur.
Cold, silent nights, sitting with a book by a low-lit fire, fingers tangled, breathing in the steam of warming tea. Rainy days, stuck inside with nothing to do but find new ways to amaze each other. Simple days, spent in companionable silence (who needs words when gentle looks say so much more). Lethargic days, bright days, days wrapped in each other, wrapped in passion, wrapped in love. Days spent together.
He's in everything, Matthew finds, in quiet mornings, in warm smiles, in the cold spaces between my fingers.
Maybe this is what drove him to catch a flight to London. Drove him to run through frigid streets, breath ghosting out, umbrella dangling uselessly from his wrist. Drove him to stand in front of Arthur's house, chest heaving, heart pounding, soaked to the bone and cold to the core.
Soft light spills out on to the walk from the front window as Matthew makes his way up to the steps. He swallows thickly, reigning in nerves and swallowing pride. Now or never.
Shaking hands reach to knock on the door, tapping three times in a rhythmic pattern. For several still minutes, nothing happens. And, Matthew thinks, did I drive you away? Did we lose something important with petty words?
It takes time, but soon there is sound in the house, someone moving to the door. We were wrong. We were wrong. We were wrong please, please open the door.
Shocked, that's the look Matthew first notices on Arthur's face. He's holding the door in one hand, the other poised as if to tell the visitor that it's late and they should be leaving. His hair is bed mussed; looking as though the last time he passed a comb through it was before their falling out. Awkwardly, still feeling very much like he's intruding, Matthew waves, hands pale and freezing.
Arthur stares and Matthew fidgets, looking anywhere but at the man he came to see. Rain falls, reminiscent of the night he ran out. Matthew goes to say I'm sorry but before the words are formed, he's dragged inside by the wrist.
Arthur flutters about him, tsking and scolding, tones harsh and – "what the hell are you thinking? Are you daft, you'll catch your death out there!" There's an undertone of relief, beneath it all.
He's not sure what happens next. One minute he's alone in the entryway, the next he's being wrapped in warm towels and pulled upstairs. From there, he remembers being thrown in a drawn bath, and dressed in warm night clothes.
Arthur sits him at the table, swearing as he bumps his shoulder on the cupboard as he reaches for the kettle. When his back is turned, Matthew catches himself smiling quietly. He watches Arthur as he makes the tea, same gentle look never leaving his face. This is home, he thinks, this is home.
Arthur sets the mug down in front of him before taking one of his own. He's— skittish isn't the word, he's not outright nervous or, at least, none of his movements are stilted, the way Matthew's are. He seems calm, collected. The same somewhat cranky, snappish, quick-to-anger, Arthur that he always is.
He's just…different. There's something distinctly off.
Matthew wraps lean fingers around his mug, lifts it to his mouth, avoiding eye contact. They're no good at this. He's always been awkward and Arthur's pride has always been present. The air between them is stagnant, yet charged. Matthew doesn't like the feel of this silence because it feels like an ending occurred when he wasn't looking. It feels as though he's sitting with a stranger. Which isn't right because it's Arthur, it's Arthur why is this so hard why.
In the end, they both start talking at the same time.
"I'm sor—"
"About that figh—"
Which results in forced laughter and Matthew quietly looking away. All goes silent again aside from the ever-present rain against the windows and the clinking of Arthur's spoon.
But, something shifts.
Arthur sets his cup down forcefully and spits, "This is ridiculous! Skittering around each other like a mine might blow our sodding heads off."
This startles a laugh from Matthew, one that is soft and yet genuine. He smiles at the man across from him, eyes flickering from the surface of the table for the first time. He notices the cup Arthur's using and the smile quickly grows.
"You've kept it," he whispers. There are tears, forming in his eyes but he's laughing because this is something so insignificant, something completely unrelated to everything going on, something that should not mean as much as it does.
Arthur's frown changes slowly, "Of course I did," he mumbles, eyes softening and hand reaching across the table, "you made it for me." The way he says it is so matter of fact that Matthew shakes his head, wiping his eyes with one hand, and grasping Arthur's with the other.
There is a lot left unsaid. Apologies that are flitted around until actions overtake words and a simple 'I'm sorry" seems so pointless. It's a warm kiss across the table, hands tightly intertwined. It's moving together in actions of love against warmed sheets, whisper quiet words of endearment hushed in a dark room. It's holding close afterwards, tracing light patterns on bare skin. It's falling asleep, and not waking up alone.
It's in everything said and everything left unsaid.
He's in everything, Arthur thinks, he's in everything.