Author: Enkou Sokugetsu
Title: November 25th, 1783
Fandom: Hetalia
Genre: nostalgic reminiscences, pretty angsty, unhappy ending.
Characters: Alfred (USA), Arthur (UK)
Pairings: Alfred x Arthur, implied. Very light, though.
Rating: K. It's just very sad, really.
Summary: When Alfred chooses freedom, Arthur can taste nothing else but defeat. (US x UK slightly implied, nothing major. Slightly Shonen Ai, Angsty)
Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine. But I'm Italian, heck, this must count as something, right? :D
Special Thanks: to my auntie, for beta-ing all my works, this included!
Dedicated to: my auntie, who loves Hetalia!
Notes: English is not my native language. If you spot any mistakes, please do tell me and I'll do my best to correct them! I'm not very good at writing about Hetalia, for some reasons. But I do like this fiction. I have chosen this title because, according to Wikipedia, it's the date when the last British ship left America. I thought it would be a good choice.
November 25th, 1783
They say that sorrow, pain and love are all shapeless things that fail to be perceived by our ordinary senses, falling under that blurry category called "feelings".
It's such a handy label to stick on anything you can't breathe, see, eat, kick, touch. If it's not of this world, then, it's a feeling.
Logical.
If it doesn't fit into the outstretched palm of your hand, then it's all in your head.
As far as his own mind was concerned, though, he begged to differ.
Rage, despair, shame, passion, hatred, sorrow, denial, regret, love...
he knew perfectly well every single taste, every single texture under his fingertips, every pang in his stomach. There wasn't a single shade of vagueness in the way those "sensations" fell upon him, in the way they wrenched his guts, sped his heartbeat, cut his breath.
Despair, for example, felt like sticky mud under his hand sunk into the wet soil, like the sensation of dampness crawling up from his knees as he stared ahead, like the grains of gravel that grazed his skin as sharp as blades when he clenched his fists, again and again.
Rage, instead, was a burning feeling, hot and moist like the tears falling down his cheeks, blurring his eyes and his mind, until everything went black and he coughed, coughed so hard he couldn't breathe, desperately, hurriedly, emptily.
That was when shame kicked in, just like a boot pressing against his stomach, a pain from within that poured out in waves. Like a snake made of smoke, it spiraled inside of his body and thickened to bring him on the verge of suffocation, numbing like the finest poison. His hands frantically reached for his own throat, but to no avail.
Then, as if that venomous mist had been cleared all of a sudden, a rush of cold air filled his lungs, spreading chills all over his shaken limbs, penetrating him swiftly, like a handful of needles. He sees flakes of white flutter before his widened irises, and on the background more white still, white like a pair of boots soaked in mud and blood, standing motionless like an omen of impending doom and he suddenly regrets. Regrets his past, regrets his present, regrets the future that could have been and the future that will, instead, be.
And, as a cascade of "why", "where", "when" and "how" runs wild, he realizes snow's turning into a heavy shower of rain that hits him like a hail of stones.
He smiles, bitterly.
He sinks his fingers further into the ground, he takes them out soiled and stares at them. He wasn't crying. It was snow melting on his face, it was rain pouring over him. He had never cried. He would never cry. Not over this, and not over him.
His smile turned into a laughter as he watched up into the sky, laughing harder and harder, watching every dagger of water fall down and hit him, yet leaving him unscathed.
He was strong. Way stronger than this, way stronger than him. Way stronger than their past, and stronger than their future. He would survive. He would stand on top of the world and watch the other tremble in fear. He wouldn't relent.
The white boots moved at the bottom of his vision field and he lowered his head. There was a body attached to those boots, indeed, and a face, of course, but it was a face he didn't wish to see.
His hands played again with the gravel and the mud. They dug out a bullet and held it tightly.
It was metal-cold and hard, but still, it slowly absorbed the heat radiating from his damp body and soon, very soon, all he could sense was warmth.
As the thought that he might be just like that bullet, his eyes widened and he let go as if palm had been burnt by liquid fire, watching the small object being swept away in a trickle of water.
The boots walked towards him until he could see a blue jacket sway right above the knees. He froze on the spot, bidding his body not to move, begging his limbs not to jerk forward, not to take a fistful of that rough, wet fabric. He took in a sharp breath, praying the figure would turn back soon, immediately, before he would lose another battle and look up, before he would show him those eyes so desperate, so sad, so honest.
And then, with a flutter of blue he saw it move away, away from him, away from his wreck, away from their – his? - life.
"...Captain Jones? What are we supposed to do with...?"
"Should we...?"
Voices were distant, hushed and mingled with the sound of water, but he knew they were talking about him.
Then, a tune he'd recognize in a million of tunes and drops, a tune he had become fond of, a tune he had heard crying, laughing, singing, begging, yelling, despising, panting.
"No. Leave him be. We're going home now. To our new home..."
It wasn't until the marching of troops were far enough to be just a faint buzz in the distance that Sir Arthur Kirkland managed to raise his head. He saw that strong back walk away from him, that back he had patted and cuddled so many times, that back that had rested against his chest on countless nights, that back he had sunk his nails in, that back he had washed, dressed, loved.
And still, as he saw his dreams being shattered in a mere second, he couldn't force his heart to hate, his mouth to scream, his hands to shoot.
For him, love would always be the taste of tears in a voiceless scream.
-Owari-