from the author: this was written in chinese originally, by usukonly
I am only translating this. I don't own hetalia, and credit goes to usukonly for the storyline.
-~=o=o{[-[ 1 ]-]}o=o=~-
"Arthur-san?"
"Yes Kiku? What is it?"
The street seemed to lengthen and expand in the dry, summer air. Under the scorching sun, everything seemed to follow the rule of expansion by heat, and was doing so erratically. Too-bright-colors and ice cream stalls and children with their boundless energy and couples in summer clothes dotted the landscape.
Summer. California.
Not many can walk patiently on the sun-scorched streets for an hour or two; These two were an exception. The thin one, slightly taller, was wrapped in a coat wholly inappropriate for the season. His face was pale, but without any trace of beading sweat; his eyes were the darkened green of aged copper, like a gem set in 18th century Indian ivory. The other one, shorter by a head, had an Asian countenance, black hair cut down to his ears, and ink colored irises.
They stopped, the first time they have done so on the famous street.
"Look, Arthur-san."
"Hmm?"
The one called Arthur followed where the Oriental youth was pointing, and looked out onto the busiest plaza in the city. The plaza's granite tiles harshly reflected the rays of the sun, while skyscrapers, resting behind it, looked down on the pair from afar. Finally, Arthur settled his eyes on the correct object- a LED screen about ten meters wide, towering atop the plaza, currently playing a series of visuals.
"Arthur-san, I am talking about that man."
Arthur looked at the man featured on the LED screen. The figure was wearing a blue and white garb for prisoners, but it was tidy and clean. Healthy, as apparent from his toned figure. His hair was a creamy gold, and his face from underneathe the hair was serene and unfathomable. Eyes azure like the sea in Capri, glasses white from the glare of a light. Aside from a stubborn cowlick atop his head, he was a classic American youth- sunny, bright, and fascinating.
"What of him?"
"Arthur-san... do you know... he is culprit of the so-called Californian Chainsaw Massacre. He has murdered 7, and according to him, he has nothing against them. He killed them simply because he felt like it."
"Scum of the Earth, the likes of him. So, is he going to be executed? Or still on trial?"
Time seemed to freeze.
Kiku's needle-like eyes seemed to bore holes into the European youth. Arthur, almost subconsciously, averted his vision. When did Kiku get so... haughty? Asians are usually very modest.
"He is to be executed in three days... Do you want to watch it, Arthur-san? It will be broadcasted live here."
"What?"
Arthur looked up, confused at being asked such a question, and noticed the Oriental's piercing gaze, pointed towards him like a gun.
"Why of course, If you want to. But…why? You like the jolly scene?"
Kiku smiled stiffly, his Japanese-English statement making Arthur utterly confused.
No. It is merely a consideration for our friendship.
-~=o=o{[-[ 2 ]-]}o=o=~-
After the utterly confusing question, and after they decided to return in three days, Kiku's face resumed his usual blank expression, the curt and pointed look disappearing. The two resumed their journey.
Their journey here was entirely Kiku's idea. From what he has heard, Arthur can guess that he was born with some sort of periodic mental instablility. As a result of this illness, and although he was fully capable of speech and mental processing, he needed to be assisted in many aspects of life.
And so, at age eleven, Arthur Kirkland was introduced to Kiku Honda: a friend, assistant, and of course a doctor. The money needed to hire such a person was not a problem for the Kirkland family, and the two were compatible as friends.
All in all, Kiku did his job well. From what Arthur can remember, throughout his years in elementary, middle, and high school, Kiku had always been there. Almost made for the job, Kiku was orderly, clean, and a decent companion in times of loneliness and pain. It was true that part of this was due to his high salary, but Kiku and Arthur did, in fact, form a deep bond of friendship over the course of their years together.
Three weeks ago, Arthur Kirkland woke up from a deep slumber wrapped in thick bandages, and to the odor of detergent. He assumed that he had become uncouscious- waking up in the hospital was a frequent occurrance. Kiku however, informed him (a little bluntly) that he has suffered a severe car accident; and that because of this, his mental instability may worsen. It would be best that he travel and relax a while; meanwhile they can examine his condition more closely.
Arthur agreed.
To his surprise Kiku chose California as their destination. Arthur had thought that Kiku would hate the bright U.S. sun, too, like he did. But, not having any real care for the journey, Arthur conformed to his wishes. They had quickly packed and started on their journey to the other side of the Atlantic.
"Arthur-san, dinner is ready."
"Oh, yes, thank you Kiku, in a moment." The youth replied, raising his head and meeting the Oriental's black, worried eyes.
"...Arthur-san, your hand."
Only when he lowered his head did Arthur feel the slick warmth coating his hand. Looking down at his pale, cold hands he was startled. Long cuts ran across his palm, the uneven incision and the flesh under it still trembling slightly. It was new, and it was accompanied by an alarming red, filled with a burning sensation.
"I am so sorry..."
Kiku took a deep breath, and exhaled heavily. His face contorted into one of remorse.
"Were you... slicing apples again, by yourself, Arthur-san?"
"What?.. I am... slicing apples!?"
"My apologies, this is all my fault... I should have removed all sharp objects... I am so sorry that I have forgotten to do so this time."
"It's fine... Funny, I never realized that my hand was moving... Kiku, I haven't had such symptoms before, right?"
"I am not sure."
Kiku's eyes wandered, then, as if making up his mind, he stared directly at Arthur, and said,
"To be honest, I was not always with you. Not all the time."
"What do you mean by that?"
"The truth is... difficult to explain fully..."
Contemplating the situation, the Oriental man decided to end the topic.
"It's not an important thing, and there is no need to remember. I'm here now, so Arthur-san will be fine."
-~=o=o{[-[ 3 ]-]}o=o=~-
Before the car accident, Arthur's dreams have always been predictable and continuous: clear visuals, relaxing sounds, an endless repetition of details from the previous day but never boring. He used to think that his dreams were calmer, smoother than reality; at least there was no illness or pain, and his dreams reflected the more positive memories in life.
Now, though, something seemed to shift. His memory and peace was snatched away by an intruder, and being in a world where he is simply content has become a futile dream.
He's dreamed of many strange and grotesque things, his imagination surpassing his calmer and more realistic life...
...of speeding down a road, graves and tombs at his side, reflecting the blood-colored full moon that was too large, too ominous to be normal. The road was a living corpse, dripping blood, skin puckered because of the cold
...of running through a dense tropical forest, thorns blossoming under his feet, making him sore, draining his energy; his blood trickling down and watering the thorns and carnivorous things
...of sitting atop the carcass of a mamoth, its glistening bones rubbing his legs raw
...of blundering about an endless maze, glass shards at his feet, the night wind and storm clouds surrounding him in a somewhat Gothic air. He plods along aimlessly, purposelessly trying every possible combination to try to get out, plagued with fear and worry.
However, that night, Arthur Kirkland dreamed of something... a little different.
He dreamed of the American.
He was running through the streets, as if trying to escape from some unseen monster or death. Suddenly, a brand new Lamborghini appeared; the door opened quickly, and then he saw the face, the same visage as the one on the screen.
The man stood there, smiling, as if the smile can melt everything, including the terror of death currently chasing Arthur. His eyes were the same Capri blue, his hair bright like the Californian sun, a classic Hollywood smile lingering at his lips. He was standing at the end of death, standing at the edge of a dark, impregnable wall. He himself was like a black hole, drinking in every ounce of Arthur's terror.
"This way, Arthur! Hurry! You're in danger!"
What? He knows my name?
"The Hero will save you!"
What the bloody hell is this. What an ironic name for a serial killer. Arthur was stuffed in the car, a little roughly, still utterly confused about the situation. Was he safe? Or heading towards a more dangerous place?
"Hey you git, where are you kidnapping me?"
"Kidnap? Don't be silly, the Hero is helping you!
What a strange person.
But why is he dreaming of this? Why is he talking to such a strange, but familiar person?
His eyes turned back to the man, and saw an inkblot of alarming red spreading on his coffee-colored shirt. Unseeing irises, drooping cowlick, blood splattered glasses. Still a tranquil expression. The man seemed to have only the energy to tremble.
"Hey!" ...what's happening...
Even in dreams, Arthur was unequipped to handle situations like this. And the dream was clear too, like pieces of a puzzle fitting together.
"What..."
Lips quivering, the man breathed lightly.
"It's okay Arthur, Don't worry...
You have to remember... you did nothing. Nothing happened..."
"...So what do you mean, you git!?"
His whole body shivering, Arthur looked down, and saw that his hands were bathed in blood.
-~=o=o{[-[ 4 ]-]}o=o=~-
Bloody horrible.
Arthur buttered his toast, glancing at the fish and chips before him. Across the table, Kiku was intently drinking his miso soup, only two sushis left in his plate.
Arthur was not sure how much time he has spent reliving the dream, but whenever he closed his eyes, the pain-racked and calm face and his chest filled with blood, face pale from blood loss appeared before him like a phantom image. It drove his other thoughts into the void.
And the trembling. He remembered himself howling with pain, crying, sobbing uncontrollably, the stale cold air slicing his lungs raw. Arthur felt his whole being extonated and pieced back together, body collapsing in a pile...The strangest thing, however, was the dream itself. It had seemed to awaken long-dead feelings for the dead.
"Kiku."
"Yes, Arthur san?"
"The man yesterday... Do I know him?"
The rhythm of chopsticks changed suddenly.
"Which man?"
"You know, at the plaza... The criminal."
"I do not know. It depends on what you think."
Kiku's words sounded strangely distant. Arthur stirred his oatmeal.
"Then, Do you know his name?"
"... Alfred F. Jones."
"Ah. I still don't know him. No memory of him at all.
"I see. You have denied knowing this person, based on your own knowledge. I will not direct your thinking in any way."
Finishing the miso soup, the black haired youth stood and started tidying the table.
-~=o=o{[-[ 5 ]-]}o=o=~-
It was the night before the execution that Arthur Kirkland dreamed again of Alfred F. Jones.
The spirited American youth grabbed his arm the second he fell asleep, screaming excitely. "Arthur you're late!"
Why are you interfering with my dream, you git!?
Arthur felt like saying this, but held back. Arguing with people in his dreams is a bit idiotic. He can only watch as the figure in his dream dragged him somewhere, feelings his skin heating up at the other's touch. For once, he was content to be led.
"Where are you going?"
"A SUPER-AWESOME place! You'll love it Arthur!"
"I'm not one of you scum, I have no interest in your vulgar doings!"
The words slipped through his lips. Arthur was cursing at someone, a rare but exciting thing.
The car rumbled along the road, sunlight and the landscape rolling past the windows.
Farmland and dusk mixed at the horizon, accompanied by the sweet scent of wheat and milk. It was like traveling under the deep blue ocean, looking up, and seeing the wind ruffle the water into ripples of patterns against the soft glow of the sun.
Transcendent light filled the wilderness.
Alfred was driving by his side. A song was playing; Arthur knew it, but couldn't remember how; something country rock. It was pacifying, the beats and rhythms placating him like a mother calming a baby.
Sunlight streamed through Alfred's lashes, separated into two halves, while under his eyes were shadows, made by the over-colored leaves of autumn. The shadows formed shapes, almost like a black and white silent him, the air was perfumed by the fragrance of ripe apples.
The American didn't notice his gaze.
He was still driving.
The road extended into the horizon, without end, without walls. Their faces were sunlight, mixed with pure bliss, mixed with hope. Wheels turning, as if they would never stop.
Wheels turning, as if they would never stop.
When he looked back he could see all his hopes and tears crashing, dead, into his hand.
-~=o=o{[-[ 6 ]-]}o=o=~-
Not many can walk patiently on the sun-scorched streets for an hour or two; These two were an exception. The thin one, slightly taller, was wrapped in a coat wholly inappropriate for the season. His face was pale, but without any trace of beading sweat; his eyes were the darkened green of aged copper, like a gem set in 18th century Indian ivory. The other one, shorter by a head, had an Asian countenance, black hair cut down to his ears, and ink colored irises.
The stopped, the second time they have done so on the famous street.
"It's starting, Arthur-san."
"...hmm"
The crowd around them buzzed with anticipation, their words swimming through Arthur's ears, things like they're glad that such a vile being should be put to death today.
Arthur could only raised his head weakly.
This is the second time that he has seen Alfred outside of his dreams. Immediately, he felt his eyes anchoring on the ethereal figure. The sea of Capri is still shining, the California sun still bright as always, the smile still relaxed and carefree. But, Arthur knew, in a moment, his body would turn stiff. His smile a petrified remnant; the California sun overshadowed by ominous clouds; the sea of Capri merely dingy puddles.
"Arthur-san, please hold my hand. Please do not nervous."
"Kiku, for the last time, do I know him!"
The youth smiled stiffly.
"What does Arthur-san think?"
"Well, it hardly matters now, does it?"
"The execution will begin now!"
The camera settled on the face of the accused, and to every Californian's disappointment, discovered no sign of guilt or remorse. Then, the criminal raised his, raised a hand that took away the lives of seven, and stared directly at the camera. His eyes were bereft of pain or agitation, as if trying to console a distant soul through the layers of metal and glass and electrical wire.
"Hey Artie!"
"The Hero wants to say something to you! Even if you're not listening right now!"
"I love you."
-~=o=o{[-[ 7 ]-]}o=o=~-
Nitwit. Stupid. Bloody idiot.
His shattered memory whirled in shards around his brain, assaulting his head, so painful it is as if his soul would explode.
"It's okay Arthur, Don't worry...
You have to remember... YOU DID NOTHING. Nothing happened.
Oh Artie, don't cry... here, change your clothes and leave, now, Kiku is waiting in the car outside...
We're running out of time, you have to go now! It's ok, The Hero will be fine...
and, leave your chainsaw here with me...
The Hero likes this one."
From the author: so i hope you enjoyed this angsty fic XD I had loads of fun (and feelz attacks) translating this. Again, usukonly wrote this in Chinese and I'm translating. The original story is here:
s/11017136/1/%E7%94%B5%E9%94%AF%E6%9D%80%E4%BA%BA%E7%8B%82
story ID (in case i need to include it): 11017136