Warnings for mentions of sex and swearing.
I don't own Hetalia
They could've had it all. Arthur's eyes are locked on Alfred as he sleeps next to him. But now the sex is just sex, meaningless and rhythmic thrusts that are simply a cold and rehearsed shadow of what it used to be. Nowadays Alfred is far to fucking concerned with that god damn Russian for him to be passionate about much else. Arthur gets out of bed and lights his cigarette, anger consuming him. His heart simply burns with rage and pain in a mockery of this thing "cold war" that is source of all the red Arthur is seeing.
Alfred is seeing red. Banners of red waving across the television screen with that god damn hammer and sickle menacingly crossed. Banners that represent all that Alfred resents. The red is everywhere; it covers up half the map. Alfred can't escape it. The red creeps closer and for all he knows it's already inside him, festering amongst his own people. The red scares him. He has no idea what it's capable of. How much it can hurt him. The red is everywhere, all consuming and omnipresent. Alfred can't escape.
Escape was never an option. Arthur knows that now. He will never willingly leave this beautiful man he has come to love with all his heart and soul. Not even now, in 1960 something, at the height of everything that is wrong with Alfred. Arthur sometimes tries to pretend. Pretend it is 1940 something when they held each other in those trenches, mud and cold and sweat and blood caking them together and binding them so closely it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Arthur will never forget that. It has been seared onto his memory with a hot iron. He can't forget that.
Alfred will never forget his first time. No one does. It was 1860 something, right in the middle of his civil war. When he truly felt like his soul was trying to tear itself in two. And oh god Ivan was there and he was so big and alive and unwavering and Alfred just needed something to soothe his mind. So he fucked him. It was quick and painful but satisfying in a way Alfred can't describe. And now Ivan, his first, this nation that he feels a bizarre entitlement to, is the representation of everything he loathes. Alfred is angry, furious in a way that is completely unrivaled. He feels betrayed.
Betrayal. Betrayalbetrayalbetrayal. Arthur's head won't stop. How can Alfred sleep so deeply in his bed? How can he still claim to love him when it is painstakingly obvious he is thinking of another, even in their most passionate exchanges? Coffee in the morning. Alfred is fixed to the news about the communist. All day working. Solely to defeat that communist. Over Dinner. It's all he talks about as he shovels food into his mouth. Beneath the sheets. Arthur swears Alfred whispers Ivan as he comes. Alfred says it's over. That that was a hundred years ago. The bloody liar.
Liar. Ivan tells Alfred that it is nothing personal. That his communism is his own, and it will stay that way. But Alfred is sure he's lying. He's lied before. He told him, back in 1860 something, that he was there for him. But he lied. He used him to get his warships away from that fucking frozen wasteland he calls home. And he has the audacity to tell him no, it wasn't just about the ships. That he cared, he really did. It wasn't just a meaningless and convenient fuck. But Alfred knows it's just another one of his filthy lies. And it fucking hurts.
Arthur hurts so god damn much. Sometimes it knocks the breath out of him, how devoid Alfred is of any true feelings for him, he wants to scream, to take Alfred's face in his hands and force him to tear his eyes away from that Russian and actually look at him for once in 10 bloody years. He wants Alfred to confess everything and crawl back to him begging for some fucking forgiveness. And maybe Arthur could forgive him. He would extract every ounce of truth and grief and regret until he was completely satisfied. And the Alfred would be his. He would take him, throw him down, and claim him for his own. And then he could never leave him again, physically or mentally. They would be locked together the way it is supposed to be. Arthur takes another drag from his cigarette and tries to hold back bitter tears. They could've had it all.
Another product of my sudden outflow of creativity. Finally I write about my OTP! You can definitely expect to see more about these two from me in the future. Maybe even next time minus Russia. Hahaha. Obviously inspired by the fantastic Adele's "Rolling in the Deep." Thanks for reading, dearies!