Civil Wars
(A/N:
Something I wrote a while back when studying the Civil War. I actually tried out another writing style, I hope y'all enjoy!
Warning: some very slight gore (because I couldn't just stop at the Oliver fic, eh?) and some...ahem, drama. Okay, benders, enjoy~!
-Bo)
The clock read nine when Arthur gave it a glance. The house was silent, shrouded in a nightly suspense. The only sounds were the ones coming from upstairs, and the master clock in the front hall. He sighed, and resumed studying his paperwork, emerald eyes scraping at each word, trying their best to process the small type. He grew weary by the minute, as every clock in the house clicked harmoniously.
tick
tick
tick
His heartbeat slowed to match the constant of the clock, feeling his blood being pulsed in rhythm. It felt comforting to have something in order.
boom.
boom.
boom.
It was all but an eventful day for the Englishman. He had done nothing but fill out infinities of paper, a countries duty, it had taken a toll. Arthur sighed, holding his shock of yellow hair in his hands. He needed a break.
The blonde pushed himself from his chair, destination; the kitchen. He could really go for some herbal blend at the moment. The temperature of the linoleum stung his feet, as did the cold of the teacup handle. Everything was colder in the evening, it seemed, even the atmosphere seemed frozen. A drumming suspense was draped in the air, thick as soup and as stinging as acid. Arthur decided to ignore the looming sensation, and proceeded to fill the teapot with water, heating it under the fire.
The fire seemed cold.
He secretly wanted it to revert. The voice in the back of his head called like a siren. Hush, only time will thaw. Just wait another hour.. He refused to accept it, inhaling the fire smoke deeply, the sooty gas drenching his lungs of purity. It felt pleasant yet stung like a burn.
He turned from the fire. Time for more work.
Without any time to waste, he pushed the creeping sense of uncertainty out of his space, and on came a sense of determination. There is no room for procrastination. Yet his eyes grew heavy when he lays eyes on the stack of duty and promise. ..Just this once. Arthur sipped his tea, gracefully settling on his office couch, the beverage being the only warmth in his seemingly endless hell. It was so English and stereotypical to drink tea, he refused to do so in public; no need to enforce and confirm the assumption of his people. When he just sat down and drank it, alone, it felt like a supernatural remedy, blooming in his core and warming him from the inside out, and setting his thoughts on fire.
He also liked the taste.
The silent hum of early nightfall lulled Arthur in a retrospect, and there he sat, staring into space, ever so often lifting his arm for another sip of tea. It even felt like a painting too; slow, poised,
Cold.
The Englishman's immensely green eyes were just about to conceal behind his eyelids when a loud thump erupted from the upstairs. He jumped, catching his beverage before it spilled. His syncronized heartbeat threw out of rhythm; it was going twice as fast. Arthur sighed.
America.
His brother was always making noise, picking fights, he's been through too many wars at only 14. His morals were stellar, his intelligence higher than he lets on, his economy average, but he was conflicted, reckless. The blonde wished his little (adopted) brother would just settle down, stop asking for war and sacrifice. Theres no way to tame him.
The Brit sighed, pride and regret hitting his like a brick at the thought of the teenaged country, and he decided to go back upstairs. Curious whimpers and cried reached his ears as he padded up the stairs, he had no idea why. Probably just a kitten Greece left at the house….. He thought nothing of it.
Until he reached Alfred's room.
His eyes widened with shock as he listened to the conversation veiled by a door.
"N-no..I can't...we can't do this!" Another voice replied in a deep southern accent. "It's the only way, we depend on it. We have to make sacrifices if we want to stay on top, Northie" A gasp. "Do you have any common sense or humanity?" The words carried over Arthurs back, piercing and chilling his spine. Alfie has had attacks, but not like this.
Alfred has been suffering from split-personality disorder for the past through months. Pointless banters, personality changes….the country has been suffering for such a long time. The Englishman had taken him to many psychics in London; nothing worked. He would pace his room, two people arguing in one, screams echoing into Arthurs room. It was so eerie, they held on. The blonde had given him a wide berth for the past weeks, his attacks have been getting more and more severe. He was lost, both of them. They never knew when it had started, Alfred had just began to talk to himself; a sentence in his regular voice, and a sentence in an unfamiliar Southern accent. He originally thought his brother was joking around, he let it be. It only escalated, like a tornado. America had shut himself from the outdoor world, confining himself to the house,
Upstairs
His room
Arthur never sees him anymore. The American doesn't know it, but it burns like a fire.
England pressed his ear against the door for more. He could hear delicate sobs, the rustling of paper. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the very rusting of his brothers soul.
"I-I can't go on..." He drawled, sobbing to himself. The Englishman wondered his much fiery pain he was going through, he wanted to grab through the door, and pull him out of hell. He could only stand frozen, listening to the icy cold sound of a sword being pulled out of its sheath...
"NO!" When he slammed through the door, Alfred was gasping, laying in a rogue pool. His glasses were splattered with tears, and he turned away at the sight of his older brother. The bloodied sword still was clutched in his hand, his usual navy blue uniform sliced away to reveal..."No.." Arthur threw himself at America, sobbing. "What happened to you! I-I can't lose you, Alfred, WHAT BROUGHT YOU TO THIS?!" His little brother didn't speak, his shallow and decreasing breath the only thing that brought comfort. The Englishman peeled away the slashed shirt to reveal a long and deep slash, the line starting at his rocky mid chest, and finishing at the hip. His internal organs were visible, glistening with regret. It was too much, his hands were sticky with pain. Sweet, innocent blood was spurting out like a fountain, and Alfred cried out in anguish. He was almost...in half... He lay, sobs convulsing Iggy's back, it seemed like hours he was collapsed in a pool of his loved one's blood.
Arthur knew America couldn't die. It would take months upon end, but he would recover, carrying a scar that would remind him of his pain and wandering like a slap on the face. He wasn't talking about the physical scar, either, the sword wound would fade from existence in a year or two...it pained him like a stab in the chest to know that Alfred would never let go of this insanity, he would never forget the
madness that was the Civil War.