Today, it is that boy's birthday.
On this day, it rains. A mere, slight drizzle, but still rain nonetheless. The gray clouds are gently crying, that's all. Bittersweetly, perhaps?
Alfred does not know.
The blonde man forgoes an umbrella. The drops of water soak his hair, and some of it sticks on his face, blocks some of his vision. He does not move the bothersome strands. Normally, he knows he would be scolded by that boy for having such a disheveled look and not caring enough to bring an umbrella. He can hear that beautifully accented voice playfully shaming.
Alfred looks to his side, just to make sure.
Today, it is that boy's birthday.
How coincidental, for it to be so dreary-looking on this day. London has always been such a gloomy place, but one would think that the sun could shine a bit? Just a little bit, please? A small speck of light would be appreciated. Londoners wish for a bit of the brightness, a bit of the warmth as they walk briskly down the street, umbrellas in hand, their destinations calling their names.
Alfred F. Jones walks opposite of the uniform crowd, past the disgruntled workers and carefree young adults; past the children that hop in the puddles and the mothers that either laugh jovially or provide a mild scolding; past those that choose to move forward.
Normally, Alfred would be walking with the crowd, with that boy by his side, describing the wonders London has to offer. Despite living there since the day he was born, London still fascinated him, and those emerald eyes would shine like the precious gems they are. That boy has seen everything, and yet he still remained awestruck.
Alfred would be asked if he is still surprised by the beauty of Chicago, of New York, of all the grand cities Alfred has lived at some point in his life. The young and reckless American could never properly answer the equally young and reckless Englishman.
But, as he walks towards his own destination, he realizes his answer: yes, those places still fascinated him, after all these years, but only when that boy was by his side; for he could see these places anew through emerald wonder, and feel the true beauty when Alfred's hand was grabbed and he was dragged through various landmarks.
Yes, he realizes it.
And realization hurts.
Today, it is that boy's birthday.
The rain does not show signs of letting up. It continues steadily, a constant routine. It is funny, how this is of the few consistent things in Alfred's life. The teardrops of the sky. Why do they cry so often? Why do they continue to be so sad?
They are questions Alfred asks himself often, and often fails to find the answer.
Alfred reaches his destination. Grass is blanketed in water droplets. He steps upon the only sign of life, walking further and further into the past. He is surrounded by it, this inevitable fate. He stops at one of the physical embodiments of this fate. Alfred moves his lips, the pained whisper escaping.
"Arthur…Happy Birthday."
The American bears no materalistic gifts. He, himself, is the gift. It is the best that he could do; it is the best he can ever do.
Alfred looks toward the sky. Oceanic eyes begin to sparkle.
It makes sense for the tombstone to match the color of the rain clouds.
Today, it is Arthur Kirkland's birthday.
Alfred celebrates it alone.
He cries with the clouds. Bittersweetly, perhaps?
Alfred does not know.
I always write angsty stuff for birthdays lol.
Happy (Belated) Birthday, England~! I love ya, ya old cute bastard.
