Author Note:
Hello! I ah… Just want to say thanks for the reviews and favs on my last story—it means a lot!
This will most likely be a two-shot, maybe three chapters, depending on how it works out—bear with me here! It's sort of short, I suppose, and I could've worked it into a oneshot but it would've been a bit awkward. Also, I know it's super corny and I'm sorry? Aha? This could possibly be described as a song fic, but I really don't think so—
Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers: Hetalia. The song lyrics are from Snow Patrol's song Open Your Eyes. Clearly, I don't own those lyrics, either. Thanks for reading! :'3
People really loved Alfred F. Jones; Alfie, Al, A.F., Mr. Jones, no matter the alias, they liked him. They liked his songs. They liked his face and his cowlick and his blue eyes and his lips and nearly every part of him, even the parts they haven't seen.
They liked his voice.
But it wasn't his voice. His voice only came out when he was singing in the shower, or when he was alone and ready to face defeat, or when he was really, really desperate to prove something to someone. Alfred wasn't a bad singer, it's just that "his" voice was better.
The voice was that of his assistant, Arthur Kirkland; to the media, though, he was but an assistant, a manager-type helper, not the one with the wondrous voice. Alfred would go on stage, lip-sync without raising any suspicion, and get fans while Arthur stood backstage singing his heart out for the benefit someone else.
Arthur had always said, even as a boy, that he wanted his voice to be heard by millions. It's one of the reasons that he always says "be careful what you wish for" to anyone who will listen. Arthur wanted his words to be heard by millions, too, but he had little input on what lyrics would go where. Not even Alfred helped with that; the media, however, seemed oblivious to the lack of soul in the songs. Arthur figured it was because of Alfred's looks and dropped that thought train right there.
Now Arthur's sitting in his dressing—no, rehearsal room, they called it, a few hours before show time. It was just a small concert today, one that was more or less on the down low, and far from where they lived in New York City. It was somewhere in Montana, that Arthur knew, and he didn't press for much more. There was, however, one interesting rumor going about the concert that it had been funded for all by one man, for his daughter's sixteenth birthday, or something of the like. Kids these days, Arthur thought, and their parents. Good grief.
"Hey, Arthur!"
He hadn't even noticed the door had opened, but there was Alfred, smiling and beaming and looking so natural that if you didn't watch television you wouldn't know he was a singing teen idol. Arthur snorted as some sort of greeting before turning back to the sheets of music.
"Still going over songs…?" Alfred sounded a bit defeated here, but he kept going, swiftly picking up pep. "I thought maybe we could hang out! I'm sure there won't be any paparazzi or anything, so we could go get something to eat and stuff?"
Arthur tapped a pen on the table in thought, though he didn't want to appear as if he was actually thinking of accepting Alfred's offer. "I really can't right now, unlike you, I've got things to practice for."
"Oh, uh, yeah, okay, sorry for asking. I'll just go."
Alfred's words stung, but Arthur was completely against getting close to anyone, especially in America; he really didn't plan to stay here long, he only wanted to come to launch his career, likewise. But somehow he got into this mess and found himself unable to leave it all behind, to dissipate Alfred's career, their career.
It wouldn't be fair, not to Alfred. Whether either of them liked it or not, without the other, there was nothing to them. Arthur "had the voice", they said, "but not the image"; Alfred "had fantastic looks" and "a decent voice, but not decent enough".
Arthur turned back to his page of paper and continued writing a song; it wasn't long until he drifted into some sort of stressed, high-strung sleep.
Alfred was mad.
And it wasn't because Arthur blew him off, it was because of what he said. Even though Arthur did the main part, it was stressful being the one who had to go out and act it. Who had to go in front of tons of people and lip-sync, who had to bear the weight of the media… Who had to steal the credit from the one who deserved it.
It bore on him more than anyone would've guessed. Yes, Alfred was thick, but he was prone to guilt and he often trapped himself in his own thoughts; countless times during a day he would imagine what it would be like if he stopped it all. Alfred had been debating on stopping all of this for a long time, just calling Arthur out on stage and saying "this is the voice you've been hearing, this is who sings it, thanks for your time, but we'll no longer be making any more songs"; that would be it, the end, and they'd go their separate ways.
As tempting as that was for Alfred, it was the separate ways part that got him. He didn't want to go his separate ways with Arthur—he liked him. And he also knew that Arthur didn't like him, not even as a friend. There were still times when Arthur would call him "Mr. Jones" instead of Alfred, and it made Alfred feel as if Arthur were below him. If anything, Arthur was more important than him. All Alfred ever thought himself as was the face, just a pretty guy, moving his lips to someone else's voice.
Alfred was incredibly jealous of Arthur's talent. He'd even take those eyebrows if it meant he could sing like that; it'd be so worth it, that's how much Alfred admired his voice. Yet, he'd also never say that he thought the thick brows were charming, albeit in a way all their own.
What he didn't know was that if it weren't for him being him, Arthur would've left, and long ago. Of course Arthur liked him, it was hard not to like him. Alfred was still himself, after all of the fame, the fortune (most of which he politely declined, or sent it off to charity, muttering about some hero thing), everything; the girls that threw themselves at him, the guys that threw themselves with him. He never got with a fan. Arthur respected that, perhaps more than he should—if anything, he was relieved, because he could never see Alfred with anyone but—
He snored softly now, completely engulfed in sleep. Arthur hadn't been getting much of it lately, as he was trying to rehearse: there was a large concert coming up, the largest they've ever done, and it had to be perfect. It had to be perfect for the producers, for the fans, for Alfred.
The door creaked lightly, and there were soft footsteps made by large feet. Arthur didn't stir, encumbered in a deep, wistful sleep now, open notebook scrawled with lyrics. Alfred knew Arthur wrote songs, but he'd never show, and what would be the harm of just looking?
He peered over, careful not to ruffle sandy hair.
As he started to read them, his eyes went wide; they were good. He liked them a lot.
But something bugged him—it was, it was that it seemed that Arthur liked someone based on these lyrics. Alfred blinked a few times, scanned over the pitches and tune cues Arthur had written, and started to sing it softly. "All this feels strange and untrue, and I won't waste a minute without you…" He didn't see Arthur's eyes open slightly. "My bones ache, my skin feels cold; and I'm getting so tired and so old—"
There was a beefy shout mere seconds after Alfred finished the first verse. "Alfred! Get down here, we need to start getting you ready!"
Without saying anything, as if Arthur was still asleep, Alfred puttered out and clicked the door shut carefully. And, as if Arthur had just heard some sort of love confession, the tips of his ears peaked red and his cheeks flushed. Alfred's voice was lovely, he thought to himself, and he loved hearing it, and he hated having these thoughts, he hated thinking that he liked someone.
He sat up, threw the notebook on the end of the couch, and got ready to go down to rehearse.
He really didn't mind always being behind the curtain, when it came down to it.
It meant that he could always peer out and see everything without being seen; he could see what it was like for a celebrity without being one, he could see what it was like to love someone without telling them. He could hide behind his own personal curtain, his emotion's little lair, and he always had.
End Part One
