Fireworks and Brits
Hetalia is © to Hima-papa.
Ironic-tan's Blah: I wrote this for my friend on a Human Zoo!AU-talia chat, buuuut you can still read it, of course. also this is a very late Fourth Of July fanfic
Rating: T
Warning(s): Slight OOC, AU, my first time writing this way, very little dialogue, PWP. (Plot? What Plot?)
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July 4, 2012, 7:56 p.m.
Alfred stares up at the unusually dark sky above New York. It's almost time for the fireworks to start. Today he's picked the perfect place to watch.
It was one of those really mysterious nights, where the moon is low and looks huge. He makes his way to the roof of the apartment, pausing when he sees someone silhouetted against the moon.
It's another person, curled up against the wall, knees hugged to his chest. He looks up at Alfred as his head appears over the top of the ladder. Alfred grins and offers a 'hello', but he just frowns a tad and scoots over. To make room, of course.
The American accepts the invitation and plonks himself down beside the other. Said other raises a massive eyebrow and looks back at the sky, which was ablaze with red, white and blue.
Alfred aah's quietly and grins, enthralled. He's seen this every year since he can remember, but it's never gotten old. The other just raises his other eyebrow and watches.
They sit like that for a long time, watching the moon and the fireworks. Alfred thinks it's very beautiful. His companion doesn't speak so he doesn't know what he thinks, but eh, that's alright.
It's late when the fireworks are over; nearly morning. Alfred stands and offers a hand to the other, but he's zonked out against the wall. He chuckles at this and pulls the other up, thinking he'll carry him down to his apartment.
But then again, how is he going to carry this guy to his apartment when he doesn't know the number? He's not. Alfred puts him down and gently shakes his shoulder, waking him up.
The other opens his eyes, mumbles an irritable 'hallo? Wot t'e 'ell?' and Alfred chuckles, because his accent is so cute and he recognizes it as a British accent. That explained the eyebrows.
He explains that he'd fallen asleep during the show, and Alfred was going to take him back to his apartment, but didn't know the number and settled on waking him up instead.
At this, he blushes and declares he's fine; he can get to his apartment on his own two legs. Alfred just laughs and nods, waving goodbye as he disappears into the early dawn.
Before he's gone, Alfred thinks he hears the other say his name is Arthur, Arthur Kirkland, a neighbor.
Alfred can't believe that he didn't notice this hottie until now.
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The next week is full of funny little meetings. Alfred meets Arthur at the library, at the park, at the gas station, over a bin of apples at the supermarket… Each time he says hello and asks how the Brit is doing, but he never answers clearly.
'Oh, well… The sun's up?' or 'my pet's gone. She was a pain.' or 'Do I look okay? I feel okay, but I don't look okay. I think.' These types of answers frustrated the blond American a tad.
He wanted things straight, dang it. Then one Wednesday he's at the flea market and he's chatting with Kiku, his Japanese friend. A tuft of blond hair catches his eye, and the next moment he's running after a certain Briton with green eyes.
Arthur pays him no heed, calmly talking back into his phone. It sounds like he's insulting someone. A... Bloody blond frog? But Alfred has no time to think about this.
He waits until Arthur finishes talking, and claps him on the shoulder, making him spin around and screech something unholy. Alfred winces a tad and takes a step back, because now Arthur looks really, really upset.
He demands to know why Alfred is stalking him and said American can't help but imagine him use that tone during bedroom activities-... Alfred is unresponsive for a moment, willing his thoughts away. Arthur waves a hand in his face and asks why, again.
The American adjusts his glasses and explains he wants to talk, y'know, maybe become friends? Something more? Arthur waves him off and tells him he has no interest in that, but as he leaves he 'accidentally' drops a paper – seems like a draft for a business card – with his information.
Alfred picks it up, cheering mentally, and goes home acting as if he's won the lottery. The lottery in his mind, perhaps, where this was the first step to winning Arthur, the best thing he could ever win.
….Ah, too much hanging out with Chao Minh.
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Today is a Friday, and Alfred's lazing around at his job. It's slow! Which is strange, because ice cream places aren't usually slow this time of day. There are usually rambunctious schoolkids that Alfred can remember so well, and young mothers with their cute little babies. Every once in a while the Vargas twins stop by and have a nice long chat with him over their bowls of chocolate gelato.
Today, though, there's a lull in the air and everyone's just strolling around, as if there's no great need to hurry. A certain blond pushes his way inside, muttering to himself about how hot it was. Alfred laughs and points out – to his great horror, it seems – that he's wearing a suit, of course it's hot.
The American looks absolutely amazed at seeing Arthur again. He waves the little paper he'd picked up from a few days ago, prattling on and on about how he'd tried to call but no one had answered.
Arthur sighs, running his hands through his hair and sitting himself down on one of the spinny stool thingys that kids love so much. Alfred grins and leans on the counter, asking what he wants.
The Briton just shakes his head and turns away, saying something about a cup of ice water. Alfred is overjoyed because he can do that, and more. He disappears for a moment, reappearing with two cups of ice cream for them. This was the nice thing about working here at Iceland, because the owner was a nice kid from… er, Iceland, and he let Alfred and the other guy – his boyfriend from Hong Kong – take a bit on really hot days.
Today happens to be one of those days, and Alfred is secretly praising the generosity of Sir Emil Steilsson. Arthur raises an eyebrow at the ice cream, but takes a tiny bite of it anyway. It's mint and chocolate, and the Briton seems to like it. A lot.
They talk for a little, and soon the ice cream is gone. There's a tiny mint chip on Arthur's bottom lip, and Alfred couldn't help himself. He leans over, swiping his tongue over Arthur's lip.
He takes a step back, flashing Arthur his million-watt smile, but it's replaced by a teary eyed look when the Brit smacks him across his face with his palm. Huffing and cursing, he makes his way out of the shop and into the sidewalk, where he's nearly bowled over by the hyperactive younger Vargas.
Alfred soon forgets his pain and laughs. This is another possible step to having Arthur! Well, now that he thinks about it, he might've scared the Brit off… Um, fuck…
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A couple days later, Alfred's hanging out with his alien friend, Toni, at the park. He's getting strange looks from parents, and adoring looks from the kids who apparently love sci-fi. A certain Brit just happens to stroll around the corner, into the park, and straight into Alfred's line of sight.
Smiling widely, he waves Arthur over. Said blond hesitantly makes his way toward Alfred, asking as soon as he was in earshot what he wants. Alfred pushes Toni forward, and Arthur shrieks, taking a step back and demanding what the hell the alien is.
The American pouts, explaining Toni is from outer space whilst gathering the alien into his arms. Arthur looks just a tad jealous, and Alfred giggles and lets go of Toni, pulling Arthur into a hug instead.
He shrieks, again, but it's not from the hug, it's that the alien is standing there, arms crossed as he glares and calls Arthur a 'limey bastard'. Alfred could curse the extraterrestrial now, if he wasn't said bespectacled blond's friend.
Arthur untangles himself from Alfred and makes a sarcastic comment about the American and his alien friend. Something about stereotypes? Yeah.
Alfred sighs and watches him go, shoulders sagging pitifully. Toni pats his back, and Alfred wants to pout and cry and chase after Arthur but he's long gone. Well, fine.
He'd just go to the expert.
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The wavy haired Frenchman across from him makes Alfred think about that day he met Arthur at the flea market. He holds back laughter when he realizes that this guy could be the one Arthur had been insulting.
From the way he'd reacted when Alfred had told him his love interest's name, he probably was. Right now he's clearing his throat and looking mildly amused.
Francis – that was the guy's name – suddenly stops chuckling or chortling or whatever they call that and leans forward all serious like.
He asks Alfred when this first started and what Alfred feels whenever he's near Arthur, grinning lewdly the entire time. Alfred is a bit creeped out by this guy to be honest, but he says nothing and thinks on how to phrase his answer instead.
He begins in a stammering sentence declaring the way he felt all fluttery and cheesy and grinned even wider than usual, ending with how much he wanted to fuck Arthur against the wall on a weekend perhaps.
Francis guffaws loudly at this, very loudly, and Alfred sinks down into his chair, cheeks painted red and wishing he hadn't said that. After a moment or two the Frenchman calms down and leans back, looking thoughtful.
He shrugs, and Alfred is suddenly sweating, suddenly scared, suddenly wanting to read minds. Francis raises an eyebrow at him and tells him to 'camay voo chair' or something like that. He doesn't get it, so Francis has to tell him it means calm down.
Ah, right. But wait, how can he calm down when he's trying to figure out if this is good or what? Nah, he'd just stay up tight for now.
Francis shrugs again. He bends over his desk, scribbling something on a piece of paper. When he's finished he gives it to Alfred, and the American can see it's an idea for a date.
He looks up, confused, and asks why Francis didn't just explain it, not on paper. Francis laughs again. He explains it's because he doesn't want to spend too much time telling the client what to do, because he wants them to follow their heart and all that and he's got a date himself.
Alfred mutters to himself and shakes his head. Francis thinks for a moment and suggests Oliver Garden on a Tuesday, and Alfred finds his tone a bit intimidating and forceful, but he decides he'll probably do that anyway.
This said, he stands, bows, and leaves Alfred alone and wondering who he's going on a date with. Also, his problem isn't really solved.
He's just closing his car door and looking into the rearview mirror when he sees a certain Frenchman kissing his Canadian half-brother in the parking lot.
Ah, no wonder Mattie was so concerned when he said that he was going to see Francis. No matter, right now he had a Brit to chase.
He'd talk to Francis later.
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It's a short, short week after the little visit Alfred had with Francis, and he's pacing because he's asked Arthur to a date at five and Arthur said yes, said yes, and goddamnit he's so nervous what if he messes up or goes too fast or-or…!
The Polish guy sitting across him giggles and tells him he should 'like totally calm down' and Alfred stops pacing, willing himself calm until all that's left of his previous jittery-ness is a slight shake of the hand now and then.
Feliks – that's the Polish guy – nods and gives him an excited thumbs-up, and Alfred departs to go pick Arthur up.
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At the very same time, Arthur is experiencing the same nervousness. Well, on a lower scale, maybe, he doesn't know. He can't decide whether to wear a hoodie or a sweater vest, but it was fucking Olive Garden, there's no need to wear a sweater vest, right?
He huffs and decides to just throw whatever together and go – best idea at the moment. It's five p.m. and Alfred's knocking on the door – calmer than last time he banged his fist against something. Which happened to be the counter at Iceland, ah.
Arthur hurries down the stairs, tugging on his shirt. He flings the door open and immediately considers slamming it shut in Alfred's face and demanding a five minute change time, because the American was just wearing jeans and a print t-shirt, and Arthur was wearing slacks and a button up shirt and damnit they were such a mismatched pair.
But no time to do that anymore, for Alfred had taken hold of his wrist and was dragging him along toward the car, prattling about how excited he was going to be for this date.
Arthur groans, hoping the mad pace they're going at distracts Alfred from the slight shiver than runs through his arm. All too soon said American lets go, yanking his car door open and ushering Arthur into the passenger seat, never stopping for even a breath this whole time.
The green eyed one wants to roll his eyes very badly but doesn't, because it seems right now that the littlest form of disapproval from him will break Alfred to pieces and he doesn't want to think about that right now, no.
So he settles on nodding and biting his lip, listening to whatever came to Alfred's mind. Which, at the moment, happened to be his mismatched attire. Fuck.
He reaches across the armrest of the car and gives the American a sound smack on the head, making him whine and swerve a little, but promise not to bring it up again. That night. Well, that was a step.
Much too soon they're at their destination, and Arthur is a bit miffed and uncomfortable because he has to step out of the relatively comfortable atmosphere that Alfred had created in the car, seemingly effortlessly by himself, and try to make conversation with said American whilst on the date.
He just hopes this would turn out well enough.
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Alfred is really confused right now, but doesn't say anything about the confusion, for he doesn't want to make it worse. He just guides Arthur after the waiter, who happens to be Francis. Arthur is muttering angrily at the Frenchman's back, who takes no notice.
Oh, this was probably why he'd given Alfred those instructions. The French one grins as the two sit down and take the menus. Alfred is curious, but has no time to ask, as Francis has already whisked himself away, leaving a suggestive 'I'll leave you alone to choose' hanging above them.
Arthur clears his throat, standing his menu so that he's sure Alfred can't see his face, but the blond makes sure to peek over it once in a while, and Arthur is smiling actually.
A mere three minutes later, Francis comes back, and Alfred is glad to break the silence that'd settled again, for it was getting quite uncomfortable. Arthur is getting Fettuccini Alfredo, whilst Alfred settles on a salad because he wants to impress Arthur.
Francis scribbles something down in the little pad and quirks an eyebrow at Arthur's choice, but the Briton grumbles and looks away, hurriedly explaining that he just likes it, and he's honestly not getting it because of the name.
Once Francis is gone, though, Alfred nudges Arthur's foot and grins, making the Briton sputter and blush. He tells Arthur not to worry; he's impressed by the choice, then, with a sheepish look, asks the passing waiter why there are no 'Arthur' related names on the menu.
His question goes unanswered, though, so he figures he'll search it when he gets home. At that moment, Francis shows up with their dinner, and Alfred is confused because it was ready so early.
Arthur looks as if he's about to yell at the Frenchman, but said blond disappears before the Briton can get violent.
To both their surprise, dinner goes very well. They make small talk at first, but soon it morphs into complaints about their respective sides on the family and that one time Arthur left his Tumblr page open when he was home and his brothers had answered all the questions with long winded descriptions of the few tattoos he'd gotten during his punk stage.
Alfred laughs and stabs at his salad, starting on his complaint about the times Matthew and Cherie, their cousin, had told on him. Arthur responds with a shrug and a well-at-least-your-brothers-didn't comment with a deadpan look in his eyes.
Aside from the looks they were getting from the other diners around them and the occasional wink when Francis came to check, dinner went surprisingly well.
Alfred says he's going to pay, but Arthur shakes his head and drops ten bucks into his glass of water, puts a few napkins over it and turns it over, cackling with delight. 'For the Frog', he explains, and tugs Alfred up.
The American notices the sudden blush and jerky movements as he leads Alfred out, though, and is about to comment on this when Francis appears out of nowhere and drops something into his pocket.
As soon as they reach the car Alfred shoves his hand into said pocket, feeling about until the cool, metallic wrapper nigh cuts his palm. Arthur glances at him, curious, but says nothing, turning red when Alfred held up a couple of wrapped condoms.
What the fuck, Francis, he won't be needing them now-!
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A year passes. Alfred and Arthur, with the help of the pushy Francis and supportive-but-still-sort-of-pushy Matthew, slowly fall in love.
They move out of the shabby little apartments that they'd been living at for so long and got an actual house on the edge of town.
Today it's Fourth Of July again, and Alfred and Arthur are getting ready to go the fireworks show. To Alfred it's very exciting, for it's his country's birthday and they're going to the place they met.
He was sure Arthur was excited for that, too, but the Brit hadn't let on anything at all. Nothing.
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July 4, 2013, 7:00 p.m.
Arthur and Alfred are sat on the roof again, joined this time by an excited Matthew and Francis.
They always come up here, now, when they want to see the fireworks, because it's one of the highest places. Alfred would have had this night and place all to themselves, but… it's better than nothing. Matthew will most probably zonk out halfway through; he's never been one to stay up late.
Then Francis will take him home.
Perfect.
That thought, he pulls Arthur a little closer and waits for the show to begin.
An hour. Two hours. It's not dark enough. Three, four. He believes it's the perfect time.
The American turns to Arthur and gently shakes his shoulder. Arthur responds by raising an eyebrow and tilting his head.
Alfred begins by telling Arthur how much he loves him, and Arthur blushes and shoves him away, although it's halfhearted. The bespectacled blond goes on to say that he's thankful he decided to brave the mosquitoes and sweat of last year's Fourth because he got to meet Arthur.
The Briton huffs and glances away, but asks him what he wants. Alfred grins sheepishly and takes Arthur's hands.
"Will you marry me, Arthur Kirkland?"
-f-i-n-
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Ironic-tan's End Blah:
in case you were wondering,
Arthur said yes
don't worry