Painting The Rain, a hetalia - axis powers fanfic

Painting The Rain

{ g o s a n g o k u }

Doubt that the sun doth move,

doubt truth to be a liar,

but never doubt I love.

- Shakespeare, Hamlet to Ophelia.

Arthur liked colours.

He was particularly fond of secondary ones that were created when primary colours were mixed together to introduce a whole new colour. He liked them because they were more tangible; they held more texture and had more in them. There were different sides to secondary colours and they were not simply two-dimensional.

He hated black and white for the same reason.

They were too obvious and the transparancy was blatant. You could easily identify and understand them and their consistency. Or their lack of it, rather. But with secondary colours, you had to think of what composes them; what other elements are included in the process to create that shade, that tone, what sparks that feeling when you create the colours.

People were like colours.

Many who have depression would categorise the world in black and white and grey. But Arthur saw it differently. True, society was bleak enough to be grey, and the overcast skies blended in with the cities and the dull, unfulfilled people skulking through it. However, everybody seemed to have their own colour that fit them.

He couldn't decide on his own yet.

He dedicated colours to people.

Being an artist, he was fairly good at deducing a person's character, and subsequently what colour should be affiliated with them. Because of this, he visited the botanist every week and placed different coloured roses on the graves of the people he didn't know very well.

But he owed them a small trinket for paying him in such large quantities. He recalled their warily smiling faces as he asked if he could paint them, and then their terrified soul mirrors as he informed them that he required their own paint to complete his art. He remembered the screaming, the ungrateful screeches, as he took their blood and splayed it across his beautiful but unrealistic canvas.

And then it was ugly. It was real.

People died every day. Life was sullied every day by blood and senseless killing. Life's canvas was splattered with blood, guts, sweat, tears and bullet holes that tore through it. It was disgusting and repulsive to look at, but it was real and it reminded him how it felt to be alive.

To compensate, he spilt his own blood onto every piece of work and on the flowers that he bestowed upon tombstones and mud.

But his blood was tainted, and more ugly than anyone else's.

He was punished for his art.

His breathing was heavy and thick red liquid slipped down his arms and seeped out of his sides and drenched his dirty yellow hair.

Everything was spinning and it felt as if he had been caught in a whirlpool. But it was slow. Slow and torturous as he staggered everywhere and left a trail of blood behind him.

He slumped against the cold alley wall and brushed his crimson fingertips over the russet orange bricks, scraping his skin as he slipped down to the floor and into a stray puddle of blood and oil. Sparks of pain errupted all over his body as invisible blades slid smoothly into his marred flesh and he chuckled softly, his amusement only further enhanced when thick red splattered out in front of him.

He sat down, legs crossed and eyes up, just like when he was painting someone.

The sky, however, could see through his shell. They saw through his beautiful mixture of colours and loathed the ugliness of his heart underneath.

Because of that, the sky did not cry for him. It did not paint him.

Alfred was a religious man, if rather doubtful.

He attended church every Sunday and prayed every night even if his faith dwindled frequently. He scoffed at the crucifix that his late mother had hung by the front door and sniggered at the stained glass windows of Jesus washing peasant's feet. But in spite of his skepticism, he never failed to kneel before the symbol, clasp his hands together tightly and pray as if his life depended on it. He prayed for justice, he prayed for the world, but he never truly believed, and nor did he agree with the controversial teachings completely.

He worked at an opticians from nine until five every day aside from Sunday. He got the job after he developed a crush on one of the employees, some British guy who was always sick and always dyed his hair weird colours. But he disappeared one day without a word, and Alfred wondered if he had noticed how he watched him every day and transferred. No one ever mentioned it. He moved on.

It was ten past nine and Alfred shut off the lights and closed up the shop, and then made his way through the court, his scruffy trainers that his boss didn't approve of squeaking annoyingly against the white tiles. He rifled through his pockets, long fingers roaming through the denim to find that cold give away of his keys, only to come in contact with fabric and pocket lint.

He cursed in aggravation upon realising that he had left his car keys at home that day. Groaning and departing from the establishment, he began his trek back home. It took about twenty minutes to drive there, so if he walked fast then it probably wouldn't take too long. He usually drove at a fairly average speed, over his rebellious years of collecting tickets for his road rage. But he was also lazy, and so opted on kicking an empty tin of beer all the way to his apartment, ignoring the homeless man who looked up at him pleadingly as he passed.

He swore at a driver who ran a red light and then squinted as he made his way down the street and bright multi-coloured lights invaded his vision and momentarily blinded him. He tripped over a broken slab in the pavement and kicked it irritably, then wiggled his toes to make sure he hadn't broken them.

He got home around a quarter to ten, fished out the spare key hidden beneath the dry soil in the plant pot, and shoved it offhandedly into the door, leaning against it as he did so because it refused to open without a lot of pressure. It creaked open, and Alfred kicked it with vigour and it open, screeching against the floorboards, and he grimaced. Tossing the key back in the pot, he entered his apartment and shoved the door shut, flicking on the energy saving lights, grabbing a beer from the fridge as they gradually brightened.

Making a face and running his hand through his hair, he glared at the floor. His stupid landlord couldn't afford air conditioning in this place, so it always seemed so damn hot. Letting out a huff, he sipped at his drink, only to squawk and drop it when he heard a dull thump and congested coughing.

Grimacing at both the sound and the alcohol seeping into the floorboards, he looked up and scanned his apartment. Maybe it was his neighbour's?

But as he turned, he noticed a blur of red and white outside his window, and whirled back around to see... to see something on his veranda that he knew should not exist. Of course, he immediately surmised that it must be some drunk person, but... how the hell did he climb to the third floor?

Maybe he was a thief.

With that thought, he felt fear bubble up inside of him, but instantly brushed it off. He took kick boxing back in school - he would definitely be able to handle the person. Despite his inner reassurrances, he grabbed a lamp as he shuffled cautiously towards the glass doors. He tried to unlock it speedily but silently, but his shaking hands merely fumbled awkwardly for the lock, and he just ended up yanking it open sloppily, a crashing sound emitting when it collided with the wall and then shuddering because of the force of the blow. Alfred held the lamp up and prepared to hit the evil intruder over the head, only to freeze when he finally looked at the person. Or, at least, the things attached to the person.

Large white wings shot out of his back and bent painfully on the small veranda, many jumbled feathers stuck together and fluttering angrily in the chilling breeze, and half of them slick and wet with blood. Blood that had seeped onto the entire patio, and Alfred stepped back in shock and terror when he saw that he was standing in a puddle of crimson. Confused and scared, his head jerked up when he heard a small moan, eyes widening further at the sight of the owner of the wings pushing himself up on pale, thin arms that shuddered under his weight.

The wings shifted, and then froze as the... the angel-thing gasped and shivered violently, and Alfred then noticed the glint of red slipping out from where the feathers were attatched to the thin skin, suddenly feeling sick as he pictured his mother's mottled form, battered and bleeding and bruised after the police had found her, and he tried not to throw up.

"Hello," a soft, deep, melodious voice murmured softly, slipping into his ears and cutting off his thoughts. He glanced back at the angel, who was staring at him as if curious, but his green eyes were completely hollow. He felt sick again.

"Who... Who are you?" he rasped, hoarse from fear and trepidation and, oh, oh, God, he didn't even know what he was feeling now. His life was uneventful and normal and did not consist of nonexistent creatures...!

Blank green eyes met his turmultuous blue ones, and the bloodied wings fluttered, painting more red against the grey slate.

"I am your guardian angel."

"I don't like water."

Alfred paused, and then looked up from the tub of water at his feet. He dragged his eyes over muddy feet and skinny legs up to meet wide, unblinking green eyes. It was quite unnerving, and the American quickly glanced away from the perceptive orbs that he could feel boring into his skull to stare at the filthy feet again.

"Well, we've gotta use it to clean you," he explained, soaking a stray rag in the transparent liquid and wringing it out. His eyes darted up and then down again. "Lift your foot," he ordered and, after a moment's pause, the angel-creature-thing's foot swept itself up from off the ground and forcefully imposed itself in front of Alfred's face.

Pulling a face and grumbling complaints to himself, he grasped the dirty appendage and began wiping it clean, awkwardly at first, but then more confidently when he felt the other male shaking with suppressed laughter.

Grinning, he looked up at the angel, whose face was scrunched up, contorted in concentration. "Does it tickle?" he enquired innocently, as if he didn't know, and he felt somehow relieved when the other blond scowled at him. At least he wasn't emotionless like he seemingly had been when he crash landed on Alfred's veranda. Speaking of which... "Hey, how'd you end up here anyway?" he asked, looking back up into the angel's face.

Emerald eyes blinked owlishly at him before pale pink lips parted and a deep, melodious, but somehow hoarse and worn voice said, "God sent me."

God? Alfred thought, trying to refrain from pulling a face, but he must have failed because a small chuckle came from the man sitting before him.

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" the other man said, and the American looked up, torn between guilt and incredulousness in spite of the overwhelming evidence sitting before him. The other guy could easily be an actor from a show, for fuck sake! Hey... maybe Alfred was being punked! "I really am an angel, Alfred," the confusing and contrasting voice murmured, and the addressed man blinked up at the apparently non-mythological creature.

"Right... well..." the human began, running a hand through his hair and averting his gaze again when he couldn't form a sentence. Something about those eyes... "It's just sorta hard to believe that... things like you exist." He looked disbelieving for a moment, and then grinned apologetically. "I'm still kinda thinking you're either a guy from a TV show and there're hidden cameras here, or you're looking to steal my stuff. And by the way," he added quickly, "I don't have a lot. I mean, I work at a freakin'..."

"Opticians," the angel finished for him with a mysterious and knowing smile. "I know."

"Right, yeah..." Alfred agreed again, brows drawing together. "That's kinda creepy, y'know..."

Green eyes flickered up towards the ceiling, scrutinising the cracks and spiderwebs, the latter seeming to act as the glue piecing it together. Flecks of paint were peeling off of it and several little spiders were ominously looming in their corners, ready to strike if food were to appear. Arthur silently observed the arachnids, face void of any emotion, as he murmured softly, "It is the most ugly and disturbing things in the world that create the most beautiful art."

Stillness followed his statement, as Alfred was rather perturbed by the man's behaviour, and Arthur was fixated upon old fly carcasses littering broken spider webs.

The sky outside was overcast, hardly bursting with bright stars due to the immense amount of pollution filling the atmosphere. In their place, luminescent street lamps brightened circles on the pavement, momentarily illuminating certain areas. He watched expressionlessly as unnamed strangers briskly walked or drunkenly staggered through the princeton orange light, and then disappearing back into the darkness. Suppressing a cold shudder, deep saphire eyes examined the thick smoke vanishing into the air, and wondered just how a pure celestial being would ever descend from such a contaminated firmament. His breath was visible in the frosty weather, and he rubbed his arms, thankful that his faithful bomber jacket kept him warm. He licked his lips and frowned, longing for a cigarette as he watched his breath depart from his mouth and form a disintegrating cloud.

It had been three years. Three years since he had given up smoking. Because that was when he disappeared...

His thoughts drifted off to blurry images of a blank-faced man with bright green eyes. He couldn't remember much about him, but he had admired him. Why, he didn't know. The guy was weird as hell. Quirky didn't cover it. He was eccentric, enigmatic and just downright confusing. He hardly spoke and only showed emotion once in Alfred's presence, when he had received a phone call from some French guy...

He had never spoken to him, akin to most of the people who worked at the opticians. The guy hardly interacted at all, and the two times he acknowledged Alfred was once when he was having a smoke, and the weird guy had glided along, slipped the cancer stick from out of his lips, taken a drag, and then tossed it to the ground. He then walked away without a word, leaving Alfred torn between demanding he buy him another pack - since that was his last one - and just... staring like an idiot.

Needless to say, he opted for the latter.

The only other time he had, on some level, communicated with him, was not too long before he had vanished. He looked as passive as always, but there was something about the way he moved and the look in his jaded but so alive green eyes that made Alfred pause. He wished he had paused longer. Maybe then...

"What ifs plague the soul," someone said, and Alfred did not squeak like a woman, thank you very much. He turned swiftly, blinking in shock at the smiling angel.

His hand tightened against the edge of the veranda and he frowned. "What?" he muttered questioningly. Why did this guy speak so strangely?

Emerald eyes fluttered close as a breeze gently flew past, and the unearthly man swayed in the wisp of wind, as if listening to a silent symphony, just for him. "I said," he murmured, still not opening his eyes and continuing to move swimmingly from side to side. "Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, 'It might have been'..." Lips twitched into another apathetic smile. "Understand me now?" Toxic green eyes snapped open again, locking on Alfred's, and he felt almost like a target held at gun point.

He licked his lips and swallowed, throat unusually dry and several thoughts zipping through his head and making it difficult to think. "You've read 'Of Mice and Men'?" he enquired hoarsely, not sure why he was asking a question that was almost irrelevant.

But the angel, as calm as always, didn't falter. "I've read plenty," he replied, "although I'm not very old. I just like to think I'm capable of reading with haste."

"How old are you?" the American blurted out without thinking. He wasn't one for tact or subtlety, and he was just exceedingly talented at inadvertently insulting people. However, much to his chagrin, the angel kept an impassive mask on.

"I am twenty three." The celestial being looked down at the ground and, if it weren't for the soulless eyes, Alfred would have thought he would be the perfect picture of poignant longing somehow. "Please refrain from referencing a certain popular excuse for literature and asking me how long I have been twenty three for."

Alfred's lips twitched. So the guy had a sense of humour - he wasn't an android or something! And if he had a sense of humour, he had to have some emotion hidden in there somewhere, right? "No worries," he replied amiably, sidling up next to the angel and wrapping an arm around the thin shoulders, proud when he felt the smaller man tense. "If I did, I'd say I'm Jacob 'cause I'm hot - both in regards to body and temperature - and you lack different facial expressions." He beamed a fox-like, closed-eyed smile, missing the very brief flash of emotion that crossed the guy's face. "But anyway, it's cold as hell," he declared suddenly, and cut off the other's correction of his contradictory statement by adding, "Let's go inside and catch some zs." He grinned down at the green-eyed male, who merely blinked owlishly at him.

"I will never comprehend American phrases," he mumbled, brows drawing together slightly, and suddenly Alfred noticed how thick they were. Like... like furry caterpillars curled up! Or... or... some other metaphor relating to things that were big and fuzzy and blond. "I would appreciate it if you didn't stare at my well endowed eyebrows," he muttered, sounding almost irritated, and Alfred blinked in surprise, laughing sheepishly at being caught. He stuttered excuses and tried to think of a satisfactory comeback, but suddenly the thin angel slipped out from his grip and glided back into Alfred's apartment.

Alfred blinked at where he had previously been, and then turned to see the guy lowering himself onto the beat up sofa, hugging his knees to his chest as he stared at the carpet imploringly.

Oh, my God, he thought, He's a ninja.

"Hey," Alfred said quietly, remaining on the other side of the room and closing the glass door, scowling when it stuck, and wincing when it crashed shut. He locked it, and turned back to the smaller blond perched on the furniture.

Disturbingly bright green eyes peered up at him, shadowed but not dulled by his too-long pale blond fringe falling in front of them. The slight tilt of his head and the wide eyes made the angel look almost curious, if it wasn't for the absolutely dead look in his eyes. They were almost blank - monochromatic and devoid of any semblance of human emotion. And Alfred wondered if angels were as holy and pure as people made them out to be. He couldn't help but allow his eyes to drift to his wings - large and full of dirty feathers, covered in red, brown and... black? But that didn't make sense... Sure, when blood dried, it turned russet or copper coloured, but black?

"Yes?" the angel suddenly prompted, and Alfred was once more distracted by the green again. He blinked before stuttering responses, forgetting what he was going to say and stumbling over his words as he sheepishly scratched the back of his neck. A vague, empty smile formed on the other man's lips, and he murmured: "Are you always this articulate?"

And suddenly the American was picturing him dressed as Meg from Hercules - the Disney version, of course - with a low-cut violet dress and a ponytail and Greek. But this angel was not Greek, judging by his accent. He sounded British; his voice was almost the stereotypical posh accent of a Brit most would imagine, with the 'better than thou' tone ingrained into it. He tried to hold his tongue to stop himself, but he had always dived head first into things without thinking. He acted before thinking, but he had always been more intuitive than logical. So, he asked quickly, "Are you British?"

The angel blinked, seeming mildly surprised by the irrelevant question. Alfred wanted to pat himself on the back - his odd bouts of randomness accompanied by his jumbled thoughts and the ability to go off on a tangent seemed to have creased the shell of emptiness the angel displayed. After dusting off the mild confusion, the winged one nodded. "Yes," he replied. "Although, specifically, I'm English."

Alfred shrugged dismissively. He had never understood nor bothered to attempt to comprehend the difference between British and English or whatever. Instead, he continued interrogating the creature on his sofa that just couldn't be real. "What's your name?"

That question seemed to elicit a pregnant silence in the room. Bright green dulled to a murky tone, and they fluttered shut soon after. Long, thin fingers clenched and overgrown nails dug into pale flesh, and the angel rested his forehead against his knees that he hugged tightly to his chest, as if trying to protect himself. He didn't move. He wasn't shaking or showing any signs of unease or discomfort, but he just looked so vulnerable and small curled up like that, his large wings seeming to encompass him entirely, as if acting as a shield. The stillness of his form was disconcerting; he looked like a statue of a corpse - unmoving, unclean, and unfinished. And then, softly, quietly, almost inaudibly, he whispered, "I can't remember."

He sounded uncertain almost - as if he didn't know how he felt about it. Of course, if one couldn't remember something as simple as their own name, they would panic. However, this was not a regular person, apparently. Rather, he was an otherworldly being who resided up in the clouds and granted wishes and guided people and belonged in fairy tales. Angels were meant to be pure and beautiful on stained glass windows surrounding religious figures of the Christian faiths; this one was dirty, bloody, apathetic and holding himself on an average human's lacklustre furniture. Angels were meant to smile and be kind, gentle figures; he was passive, mysterious and didn't seem to care about being covered in blood.

In conclusion, Alfred thought as he moved towards the motionless angel, I guess we're both kinda confused. He stopped in front of the smaller blond, lifting a hand and then letting his appendage freeze in mid-air and wondering what to do. Touching such a... a holy representational figure seemed... sinful. But he couldn't just let the poor guy hurt on his own. That would be cruel to allow someone to do so much on their own. So, he carefully placed the palm of his hand on the head of the angel. He waited for a reaction, to see if any dark spirits would arouse and attack him for being near such a virtuous being. When nothing happened, he felt sort of silly, but looking at the creature in front of him kind of justified his worries.

"I'm shit at comforting people," he said apologetically, and then bit his lip immediately after. "Fuck, I didn't mean to curse. Oh, shi- Uh... I'm sorry. I-"

"It's all right," the angel said, cutting him off from his ramblings. He shifted slightly, and then became as still as cement once more. But, then again, new cement can replace the old and be moulded anew... "I'm not much good at it either." He raised his head and met Alfred's gaze unwaveringly. "But then again, I'm dead."

The American swallowed and almost looked away, but managed to keep his eyes focused on the angel. "I can see you," he pointed out, eyes widening slightly when the angel's lips twitched.

"Yes..." he replied softly, shutting his eyes once more. "I'm glad."

Still bewildered but realising that the surreal creature was tired of talking, Alfred sat beside him in silence, staring at the dark sky and invisible stars.

"I want to call you something though. It'd be weird if I just called you Angel..." he murmured, flushing slightly. It sounded like a pet name or something.

The other man sighed, looking away from the stars. "Perhaps Cain would suit me," he murmured with a sardonic smile that didn't meet his eyes. It never did.

"Not at all," Alfred said insistently, scowling at the angel. "How about Nathaniel? Nate for short."

"No." The angel frowned, looking almost sad at the proposal. "That name would never suit me."

Bewildered but able to understand that the ethereal being didn't want to pursue the topic, he finally blurted out: "Arthur."

Green eyes regarded him curiously. "Arthur..." he repeated softly, eyes fluttering half shut and Alfred could see the stars shining in them. "I like it... even if I'm more of a feline than I am a bear."

Alfred grinned impishly. "I was thinkin' of King Arthur actually."

Arthur's head rested against his shoulder and he stiffened, surprised by the action. "I'd reference Alfred the Great, but I wouldn't want your ego to implode." A pause. "He was a hero though, you know."

"They were both warriors," Alfred mumured, "so they fought. They fought to protect..."

The angel remained silent. I can't protect, he thought, I can only destroy...

Silky smooth but sticky threads, fragile and almost invisible unless the light met them just so that they glittered in the arbitrary luminescence that ebbed in and out, hung innocently in random scattered locations. Sweet little doll-like faeries flittered about them, zipping through the gaps, the spider lurking about the edge of the web not once noticing their presence, and so remained unperturbed by their childish games.

It was practically silent, save for the nearly inaudible fluttering of faeries' wings and the occasional drip of blood colliding with the floor. Ripples ebbed, deep crimson, and it appeared as if he was standing upon an ocean of blood. Black shadows slid and danced beneath the surface, quiet whispers emitting from them that he could scarcely hear.

A large hand slithered around his throat, constricting his air supply. It felt like a snake was strangling him, the monster's hand feeling slimey and disgusting. He repressed a shudder, unwilling to allow the bastard the pleasure of seeing him squirm. He gazed impassively into the darkness as scalding hot breath whipped over his neck and the stench of his breath almost made him want to expel stomach acid.

"You're down here because of what you did when you were alive," the ex-angel whispered darkly, voice soft but somehow sharp. The other man's nails dug into his neck and he could feel his flesh being pierced. He didn't move. "Why can you not do the same for me in death?"

Any breath that had previously been impossible to acquire was suddenly rushing around him. He tried not to appear vulnerable before the powerful being in front of him, but he couldn't help but gasp. He grimaced as he pushed himself onto his knees, realising that the ex-angel had tossed him against a wall of some sort within the black nothingness of whatever void they were in. Before he could stand, the same snake-like hand wove itself over his abused neck, entangling in his hair before tugging his face up to meet dilated scarlet eyes.

"You are promising, Thirteen," he muttered, "but to whom? You are a petty murderer who spilt people's blood for the sake of your psychopathic idea of art. And yet..." His burning lips pressed against the blond man's and he bit down, pleased by the pained gasp that left the Englishman's mouth. He dug his teeth in deeper, smirking against the smaller man's lips when he began to writhe and groan in agony. Finally, he pulled away, shoving Arthur back down into the black water, and stood again. "Yet you were still human. You possessed regular emotions that such beings experience, only they were buried." He chuckled softly, watching with an amused half-lidded stare as pained emerald eyes dulled and the other fallen angel began to sink beneath the water. "Here is some advice for you, Thirteen... don't allow yourself to feel."

He offered a smile to the only half-conscious man who was now being dragged beneath the surface by wispy shadows of arms and hands. Arthur caught sight of the expression before the shadows covered his eyes and there was no longer any trace of glinting red eyes or a sadistic, cruel smirk. There were only vague feelings of bruises and venom and spiders crawling over his body.

It was the sound of the six o'clock train that probed into his dreams to force him to wake. He groaned wearily, unwilling to open his eyes to the inevitable dull light that never failed to leave him blinded. But alas, he had to work to pay the bills for his shit apartment, so he had little choice. Heaving a frustrated sigh, he clenched his eyes shut and staggered out of bed, scrambling for his clothes. He blinked in surprise when he found his attire folded neatly on the side of his bed. The realisation was accompanied by the scent of coffee and burning wafting in from beyond the door. With a curse, he dashed out of his room, prepared to see the entire apartment alight, only to discover an irritated angel dousing a burning... something.

"Arthur...?" he ventured, approaching slowly so as not to startle the agitated Brit. He scanned the kitchen, raising a brow upon finding ashes of what might have previously been edible food scattered everywhere. With a huff, Arthur deposited his newest burnt food into the bin, and Alfred caught sight of several black things already in there. "Arthur," he repeated, exasperated by the angel's behaviour, twitching in annoyance when he was ignored once again in favour of scraping remains of god knows what off of the pan that seemed to be beyond saving. Finally, irritation getting the better of him, he grabbed the angel's thin arm and yanked him around... only to stifle laughter upon seeing the pale man's face blackened by what appeared to be soot. "Were you up a chimney or something?" He cackled.

Arthur scowled darkly, shrugging out of the American's strong grip. "Shut it," he snapped, tossing the ruined pan into the sink and folding his arms defensively. "Why aren't you dressed? You have to leave in half an hour, so get ready." He paused before grabbing a pathetic looking mug of coffee and shoving it into Alfred's hands. "And drink that too."

"Why are you so eager?" Alfred asked, gazing warily at the beverage before deciding that he was too tired to care and swigging it back. It wasn't as bad as Arthur's cooking seemed to be, at least. Speaking of which, he would most likely require a new bin...

"I simply don't want you to get in trouble for being late," the other replied monotonously, brows knitting together but eyes lacking the irritation that the expression should have portrayed.

Alfred turned away, placing the empty mug of coffee on the counter, and then avoided the Brit's hollow gaze as he drifted back into his room to get dressed. He just found it difficult to look at someone who sounded so alive and looked so... dead.

"I'm so sick of the rain."

His voice, a low baritone in comparison to its customary exuberant tone, was almost inaudible because of the seemingly neverending torrents of rain that spilt from the ongoing grey clouds. It was morning but the city was bleak, everything greyscale and white noise. The people were like walking corpses and the rain sounded more like blood splattering against the pavement.

"Rain is good for plants," Arthur returned quietly from beside him, wings compressed against his back and shuddering occasionally. Whilst nobody else could see him, they would be able to feel him were they to make contact, and subsequently he had to remain close beside Alfred.

"Not if it drowns 'em," the American retorted blandly, mood dulled by the abysmal weather. He longed for exotic locations - of tropical trees that towered over them, but colourful unlike the buildings of cities; of scorching hot sunshine and glistening cerulean oceans; of smiling faces and sociable people... "I don't like it here," he confessed quietly. "It's always so despondent somehow... You're always watchin' your back, feeling like someone's gonna jump out and get you and you're dead before you know it." He felt Arthur tense up beside him but didn't acknowledge it. "I used to be scared of the dark... until I found out that it wasn't the dark I was scared of. It's what's inside it."

The slightly shorter man's wings trembled violently for a moment, constricting more as if they were being tied together by ropes or chains. "What's inside the dark, Alfred?" He was always amazed by the lack of emotion his voice held. He could feel so much sometimes but he couldn't portray it. Perhaps it was compensation for his apathy during his life. Maybe compensation wasn't the correct word... It might have been God's idea of revenge.

No wonder I've been banished from heaven if I have these thoughts.

Alfred stopped walking suddenly, pausing before an alley that was emersed in utter darkness. Rattling and creaking could be heard along with rustling every few moments, but other than that it was silent with only the rain to fill the blackness. Finally, darkened sapphire eyes flickered down to meet Arthur's stoney green ones.

"Monsters."

"Why are you an optician, Alfred?"

The addressed man glanced up from his documents briefly and then returned to his chicken scratch writing. "Really, I wanna be a doctor," he replied. The pen stumbled across the paper making scratchy sounds as if it was tearing it. Black ink stained the white paper, embedded deeply within the sheet. "But this is a good first step, I guess. Besides..." He trailed off, frowning suddenly as the pen came to a halt.

Arthur tilted his head, leaning on the desk and scrutinising the thoughtful man. "Besides...?" he prompted quietly. He moved forwards more, only for his cold hand to brush over the American's. He drew back swiftly as if burnt and folded his arms tightly, eyes now trained on the wooden desk, trailing the inconsistent patterns.

"Well, for one thing," Alfred murmured, looking a bit lost after their hands had made contact. It had made him feel... cold. Cold and breathless and lifeless. He resisted the urge to shiver and tried to fixate upon his forms. "For one thing," he repeated, voice stronger this time as he attempted to distract himself, "there was someone who once worked here who I sorta admired." He grinned sheepishly, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "I dunno why... I mean, I admired him at first, but... suddenly, one day, he just stopped turning up as much." His forced smile slipped into a troubled frown and the pen ceased its movements once again. "It was... the day after he received a phone call. It was weird. He'd excused himself and went out back but he'd been out there a while, so I went after him... He was standing there silently." He swallowed thickly, unable to look up at the angel. Would the celestial being judge him for his lack of action...? "He shouted... I think he was talking to someone close to him. But then he just went quiet again. For a while. I was about to talk to him...

"But then he just suddenly dropped his phone and... he... he just screamed. No words, just screamed. It... it terrified me. I didn't know what to do. He was holding his head and screaming and crying."

The image of wide emerald eyes flickered in his mind's eye, pupils dilated as tears spilt from them. He flinched suddenly as if struck by a physical force, some sort of pressure tugging at his chest.

"Alfred."

And then the picture was gone. He could scarcely remember the incident all of a sudden, only reminded of the hysteric man by green eyes that were so similar to this angel's. His eyes fluttered slowly and he shook his head, feeling as if he had reached the surface of water after drowning, and took a deep breath.

"Sorry," he whispered.

Sound drifted back into his ears after the white noise and screams. Innocent audio - people talking, laughing, bustling about outside of the opticians.

"Do you want to get something to eat?" Arthur asked, and then Alfred's mind shifted from thoughts of a horror-stricken man to white features and the prospect of food.

He smiled. "Sure," he replied, relieved. "That sounds great."

It was loud and he was glad for that. He loathed silence. Silence often accompanied darkness, save for the infrequent creaks and groans of floorboards that left him considering the impossible such as demons or spirits haunting him. He wasn't one to believe in the supernatural, but quiet and dark awakened his childish fears.

Still, he was pleased by the distraction that food offered him. He was aware that he had love handles and he should probably go on a diet, but food comforted him. Besides, he did a lot of sports during his free time, so it should've made up for it. Or at least, that's how he defended himself.

His gaze rose from greasy chips to watch a musing Arthur. His chin rested on his hand and, appraising him properly, Alfred noticed just how pale he was. Not pale like beautiful porcelain that was considered a delicacy in many cultures, but pale akin to transparent butterfly wings or acidic bile. His fingers were long and boney, the skeletal frame of his hands visible beneath his white flesh, and his nails were long and unkempt as if he had been clawing at something. He was dressed in one of Alfred's oversized sweaters, navy blue with white stars lining the collar, and the long sleeves and high neck obscured much of his body from view. But, looking close, Alfred could make out patterns on his neck. Scars.

He couldn't help but wonder how Arthur had died.

"D'you want anything to eat?" he blurted out, once again trying not to continue with his dangerous thought process. One of the main aspects that defined his hot-headed and extroverted personality was his knack of distracting himself whenever bad thoughts slithered through his mind. But he couldn't just watch this hollow angel - so imperfect, unlike what he had imagined, so... human - and not be curious.

The Briton blinked slowly, lashes drifting over his pallid cheeks, as he glanced over at Alfred. He shook his head. "No, thank you," he muttered. "You can't taste things when you're dead. We don't need food."

Alfred gaped, looking horrified. "You serious? Fuck, I never want to die!" he exclaimed, only to gain irritated and reproachful looks from others in the restaurant. He grinned sheepishly and they warily turned away. He looked back at Arthur, whose brows were raised as if the man was questioning his mental state. "Shaddup," he said, taking a large bite of his burger and revelling in its taste, even if Arthur may have claimed it tasted like cardboard.

Arthur found himself staring out windows a lot. Although it was dreary and dull and most people moaned about it, although it felt like a prison cell, it was a lot more free than being trapped within immeasurable darkness with no end in sight. He knew he shouldn't grow too attached to the sky. The sky loathed him. But everything he had ever loved was forever destined to be unrequited on his part. He'd accepted that long ago.

He wondered why it was overcast and rainy so often. London, whilst infamous for its terrible weather, wasn't normally this bad. It was a bit ominous, really, how sinister the looming clouds seemed. It looked like they had faces, watching him, always watching him; judging him, never stopping. Murderer. Tainted, evil, twisted murderer. Sadistic artist. Masochistic bastard.

He tore his gaze away from the shuddering glass when his American's voice touched into his thoughts and they were immediately dispelled. He stood, prepared to meet Alfred to leave for home, only to halt upon another voice mingled with Alfred's. It was more soft spoken and Arthur could hardly hear it. He glided closer, glancing through the gap in the partially open door, and his gaze rested upon the American and another man, short of stature with dark eyes.

Alfred was smiling. And he was laughing.

For a minute, it felt as if some sunshine had ebbed through the London skies, warming the city and bathing it in an ethereal glow that everyone must have forgot existed, only for the moment to dissipate in a flash when he came to the realisation that the warm smile was for somebody else.

He stared for a moment, suddenly unable to move, feeling like all the breath had been taken from him, as if he was drowning.

As if anyone would ever smile at him like that.

He was a tainted angel. Pathetic, useless, worthless. A fallen pawn of Lucifer's.

Nobody would ever love a murderer. Nobody would ever love a twisted freak.

"Sorry for makin' you wait, Arthur," Alfred apologised, tone lighter than it had been in the morning. "It's time to go home now." He turned, bright smile still on his face, but blinked in confusion when he couldn't see the angel. "Arthur...? You in here?" he asked before huffing. "If he left without me, he could've at least told me..." He trailed off as his eyes fluttered to the floor. A black feather lied there innocently and he bent down to pick it up, curious, before flinching and falling backwards.

Droplets of crimson fell from the dark feather.

"I'm home," the American ventured anxiously, lowering his umbrella as he stepped inside, scouring his quiet apartment for any sign of the missing angel. He waited for a few moments, hoping that the Brit would materialise before him and cackle at him for falling for his little prank, but to no avail. He sighed, flicking the lights on, and tossed his drenched umbrella on the worn floor. Upon colliding with the hard ground, drops of rain slipped from the plastic and suddenly it looked less like rain and more like... blood.

Suddenly feeling sick, Alfred turned away abruptly. Despite the fact that he had once prided himself on heroics, after witnessing bullying and ignorance in his time he hadn't often stood up for the victims. Normally, he ducked his head and stared at his feet, feeling like the worst type of scum on the planet. He hated intolerance but he was terrified of not being accepted himself, even by those who didn't know him. He'd thought for so long that one day he'd be a hero in the eyes of many, but he had never fought for that. In his mind, he was Superman. In reality, he was...

"I'm just Alfred F. Jones," he whispered brokenly as the sound of rain falling heavily against his shuddering windows echoed in his ears. "A nobody from nowhere who's destined to be nothing." Extracting a cigarette from his pocket, he swiftly lit it with trembling fingers, leaning against the wall and took a long drag, breathing out a long sigh. The smoke lifted up into the air, circular wisps fading into nothing, but he could still smell the tell tale stench of tar. It reminded him of his father's tobacco that he had loathed.

A wry smirk came to his face but it soon dissolved into a sombre frown. He could fake a grin amongst friends, but when he was alone... what was the point in acting? He was past the denial. He moved on from pretending, after all of the years of bringing girlfriends home to please his father who never acknowledged him, after having sex with some girls just to please them when he found it boring and useless and kind of disgusting, after everything and never standing up to his father. Eventually, he ran away. That's all he ever did - he ran from his problems, fled from potential disaster, hid from troubles and tried not to ever think of them.

Thinking always led to unhappiness. Alfred didn't like that. He busied himself with science and astrology and maths when he thought - logical problems with logical solutions. Pondering over emotional investments just made his head hurt and made his heart ache. Once he had thought that there was some sort of scientific biological answer as to why he had a preference to men, but that proposition had long since died away and he was slightly repulsed by himself for considering such an ignorant notion. But more than that, he hated himself for never standing up for anyone, even though he knew he was exactly the same as those boys who were beat up for liking men or the girls who liked other girls. Since he'd been so involved in sports and grew out of his gangly, lanky phase and grew into a relatively toned man - lovehandles aside - most people assumed that he was straight, just because he wasn't slender or meek or kissing guys in public.

Idiotic bigots.

"If there is bad in the world, that means there's good too."

He choked on the next drag of his cigarette, patting his chest and turning to see Arthur, his wings low and sliding across the floor as if broken. The day the angel had arrived, he looked broken then, but he'd had little trouble picking himself up again. Alfred wished he was that strong...

"Where've you been?" he finally asked, voice strained.

The shorter blond let out a derisive snort, approaching the American and snagging the cigarette between his fingers. His lips closed around it and he breathed it in gratefully, then exhaled, the fumes fluttering against Alfred's own lips. His lip curled in disgust and he turned away.

"If you hate them so much, why are you smoking them?" Arthur asked, evading the question for whatever reason.

Alfred scoffed before running a hand through his hair, somehow unnerved slightly by the close proximity. He could feel Arthur's cold flesh pressed against his torso and he briefly wondered why the angel was so cold. Dozens of sinister thoughts chased through his mind and he tried to ignore them. He hated imagining such things.

"I dunno," he replied, and it was true. He always hated smoking. His grandmother had had cancer and she was a terrible smoker, his father was a smoker and god knows what else who was volatile and anxious all the time. He had an anxiety disorder, but his own personal 'cures' had never aided him with his condition. Alfred loathed the smell of it and the prospect of it and just it. "Why do you?" he countered, and it sounded challenging, childish, but he honestly wanted to know.

Arthur's lips curled up into some sort of twisted half smile that left Alfred feeling cold. He realised that he hadn't yet ever seen Arthur smile at him - not a real one. It hurt somehow. Arthur was an angel, wasn't he? So why did he seem so... dejected? Hurt? Empty? Angels... They shouldn't look so broken. Even if they were beautiful...

... No, Alfred. Don't you dare fucking think that. He's...

"When I was young," Arthur murmured softly, voice quiet and almost eerie, just like the thick smoke that evaporated slowly and contaminated the air, "some... complete tosser pretended to be my friend. I don't know why. Maybe he was sick in the head." He let out something that he might've intended to be a laugh, but it only sounded like a sigh. "I wasn't a strong child. I was sick a lot, but I think that was because my mum kept me locked in my room. I told her I could see things and it terrified her. Absolutely fucking terrified her." His feigned smile was completely gone now and his emerald eyes were dull and dark and dead. "My father hung himself because he saw things too. But he didn't see what I see," he whispered softly, eyes fluttering closed, lashes brushing over his pale cheeks. Suddenly, he didn't look like an enigmatic and discerning angel, but a tired young man who had seen too much.

And Alfred wanted to hold him.

"He saw monsters as monsters," Arthur continued, forehead pressed against the glass. The reflection of rain on his skin looked like blood beneath the flickering red streetlamp. "But who makes them monsters? We do. Our minds do. We all have monsters inside of us." He took a breath, small and almost inaudible, but Alfred heard it and it was shaky and made his heart twist painfully. "But some of us let our monsters control us. We create them and we let them destroy us. We can't stand the agony inside, the pulsating rhythm in our veins that never ends, never fucking ends, so we try to kill it. We hurt and hurt and hurt and it makes the monsters stronger."

"Arthur..." he murmured. He wished that this was some sort of movie or a novel so that someone could control what he said, make his words wise and helpful and life changing. But he was human and imperfect and he had no idea what to say to console the Englishman.

"I found him. When he hung himself. The rope around his neck and his blue lips and wide eyes. I just stood there and I felt nothing. I've always been an impassive freak. Maybe I was a sociopath. I was never diagnosed with anything though since I stayed inside most of the time." He didn't move. He was almost like a statue. A sculpture made of rock thousands of years ago that was worn and blunt and covered in graffiti and dirt. Invisible and overlooked. "I'm a freak. But some French bloke, an utter prat who flirted with anyone and anything and probably had sex with whatever was lying around too... he trailed after me. He picked on me, pushed me over and made fun of me. But he took me to his place and patched me up whenever... something happened.

He was a smoker. Said it calmed him down. He offered me one when I was eleven and then laughed when I grimaced and declined. Said I was too young anyway. So naturally, being the rebellious fucked up child that I was, I snagged the fag and took a drag. Not a pleasant experience. He laughed at me and so I bought more to practice so I wouldn't look like a fool again. By the time I grew accustomed to its repulsive taste, I'd developed some sort of dependence upon the nicotine. An addiction.

Once, I thought I loved him."

He shifted on his feet, and the hands hanging by his sides raised to touch the window. His breath didn't make it fog up. It was as if he wasn't there at all. Eyes fluttering open to reveal smouldering green, he sighed softly and stared at the scratched but clean glass. He didn't even look at Alfred, which the latter had anticipated. The guy just admitted that he was... well, he wasn't straight. Whether he was bisexual, homosexual, pansexual, whatever, Alfred had no idea, but he just confessed that he once had feelings for another man without grimacing or shaking or running away.

"Did you... Were you ever in a relationship with him?" Alfred managed to whisper, raspy and hoarse for reasons he couldn't fathom. He blamed it on the cigarette smoke and tried to dismiss the thought that it was emotion that made his throat hurt and his eyes burn.

Arthur chuckled. It was hollow. "He never loved me," he said quietly, trying to sound harsh, but it emitted as a soft murmur. "He fucked me, I fucked him, he fucked me over. He was, essentially, the embodiment of life itself. You go through life a virgin? No problem, you're still fucked over in the end. You might as well use your dick at some point."

Alfred wasn't sure how to react. Arthur seemed so... refined. He never expected to hear him be so crude... but he could comprehend his point, even if it was cynical.

"Why don't you have faith in humanity, Arthur?"

Finally, half-mast, tired eyes raised to meet his, and the angel whispered: "Because I was one of the humans that fucked people over."

x.

Arthur wasn't too sure how he felt about Starbucks.

It was filled to the brim with people. Teenagers giggling and tugging on their skirts that rode up their thighs, women tucking hair behind their ears and dusting off their prim beige coats and men with too much hair gel leaning against walls and staring at the artificial light, and people with laptops tapping away at their keys. Being the cynic that he was, Arthur imagined that the majority of them wouldn't get published. He would have liked to have been a writer, but he'd been too psychotic for that. When he was depressed and not schizophrenic and emotionless, he had written a lot. Dirty parchment with blunt pencils with tear stains and smudges of blood and it was entrancing, but they had all been torn up and the pieces were tossed out of the window and stolen away by the fleeting breeze.

His mother slapped him and screamed at him and said she hated him, she hated him for his father's death and his own self-destruction and why couldn't see have had an abortion...

"It would've looked weird if I'd bought two, so I got one that we can share," Alfred said suddenly, his smile making the sepia toned room burst with colour.

"It's fine," Arthur replied, averting his gaze to stare at the dusty tiled floor. "I don't like coffee."

Alfred gaped and gasped and they had argued until Arthur heard Alfred laughing, and he realised that it was more friendly banter than it was a fight. He was... relieved, somehow. Not quite relieved, but... something. Something he couldn't place and didn't want to.

He stilled entirely when he felt a warm hand placed against his forehead. His eyes widened and he flinched, staring up at the American in bewilderment and suspicion. Earnest blue eyes looked back at him, and Alfred's hand gently brushed some of Arthur's hair out of his face.

"Your face is red," he mumbled quietly.

Arthur looked away, scowling darkly at nothing in particular. "I have blood," he muttered. "I'm an angel but I have blood and organs and veins. Naturally, when my temperature rises, the blood flow..."

"I get it. I know science," Alfred said, looking rather exasperated. He sighed and rolled his eyes but gave a small smile. "But there're also things called feelings, Arthur."

"...Give me your bloody coffee. I'm thirsty."

It had started pouring half way home, so they'd ducked beneath under a bus stop for some shelter. Arthur hadn't spoken since they left the office and Alfred was irritated. The Briton denied anything being wrong, but he retracted his arm from Alfred's grip when he grabbed him and he made sure to walk a few feet away from him. Now, they were standing, wet and miserable, staring at the puddles on the floor and the ripples they created.

"Even the smallest of drops creates a large ripple," Arthur suddenly mumbled. Alfred risked a glance at him to see the angel staring at the ground before him, looking both fascinated and blasé at the same time. "And when there are a lot of little drops, they create a big impact..."

Why did he gave to be so vague and ambiguous?

Alfred blinked when the angel stepped out from under the shelter and into the rain, hair immediately falling against his face and clothes stucking to his skin. His wings trembled and the feathers shook and he caught a small wince before Arthur could mask it.

"What's wrong?" he asked, brows furrowing together before taking a sharp intake of breath when crimson fell from the feathers.

Arthur looked up at the dark sky, expressionless and, with a nearly monotonous voice, failing just at the end as it broke, he said: "Rain. The sky isn't crying, it's bleeding. It's hurt."

They stumbled inside Alfred's apartment, dripping all over the floor and breathing raggedly. They'd caught a taxi only to discover that they hadn't had the money to pay him. Arthur distracted the driver by pounding on his window, smirking at the clueless man who couldn't see them, and they had fled. Initially, Arthur had attempted to fly them back, but he hadn't stopped bleeding and something had cracked. They fell to the floor, shaking and grimacing, and then ran the rest of the way when the man shouted at them.

"I'll run you a bath," the American finally managed to say between breaths. "Whoa!" he exclaimed when the angel suddenly collapsed against him. "Arthur!"

"I'm... I'm fine," he breathed, burying his face into Alfred's shoulder and leaning into him. The younger man could feel him shuddering and his wings shaking violently.

"You aren't fine," he said firmly, gripping one of Arthur's wrists whilst his other arm remained around the celestial being's waist. "You're bleedin' and you're shakin' and you're barely conscious. You are not fucking fine."

With dazed eyes, Arthur gazed up at him curiously. "Your accent," he murmured tiredly, "gets stronger when you're angry..."

Befuddled by the angel's obervation and behaviour, he just sighed and slung a boney arm around his neck, dragging the tired man towards the bathroom. Cautiously, he sat him down on the seat of the loo, and started filling the bath with warm water, unwilling to hurt the pained angel even more. With a heavy sigh, he seated himself on the edge of the tub, perched like a bird inside of its cage, prepared to fly but prevented from doing so in its cell. He stared at the Brit, at his eyes that weren't so monochromatic but more dark green. The fire from before seemed to have burnt out, leaving behind deep lakes of solace with monsters lurking within. Didn't Virginia Woolf drown herself?

Why was he thinking of that...?

His skin was so pale... He looked almost transluscent. But it made sense. Alfred was the only one who could see him right now so he was invisible to the rest of the world. But he looked... frail.

Alfred sighed and turned the taps off, reluctantly standing and kneeling before the faraway Briton. He gently trailed his hand over Arthur's arm, stroking the pale skin carefully, freezing when he noticed the uneven scars littering the white flesh. Lines and circles and faded words and he felt like crying. He threaded their fingers together, clutching Arthur's hand tightly as if that could miraculously make them disappear, make his wings heal, make him alive again...

"Your bath's ready, Artie," he murmured quietly, breath ghosting over the chilly skin of Arthur's hands, of the knuckles that were wonky and sticking out too much, the skeletal frame of his arm. "Let me help you."

"I can do it... myself."

"I know," Alfred said, voice a conflicted mix of kindness and hurt. "But I wanna help."

Arthur looked up at him, face devoid of feeling, before a small, sad smile appeared on his chapped lips, and he said, "Okay." He swallowed thickly when Alfred pulled him up, but otherwise made no sound.

"I have to... I have to undress you," Alfred mumbled, inwardly berating himself for getting flustered. Could you blame him? He was going to undress a... a holy creature! It was just...

"It's fine," the Englishman whispered, eyes falling shut. "I'd rather have kind hands undress me than cruel ones touch me."

Swallowing nervously, Alfred had no time to ponder over the Brit's enigmatic words, and instead carefully unbuttoned the white shirt, almost transparent due to the rain. His hands were shaking, but not nearly as much as Arthur's wings. He glanced back up at the man, biting his lip when he felt like brushing that soft blond hair away from his face again, feel his skin, and he forced himself to keep control. Carefully peeling off the see through shirt, he slid it slowly off of the Englishman's trembling shoulders, devstation tugging at his heart strings when more scars were revealed.

"There are so many..." he breathed weakly, leaning forwards and, before he realised what he was doing, brushed his lips over a scar on his chest.

"Don't kiss something so ugly," Arthur hissed, muscles tense beneath Alfred's lips.

"Perhaps the stories behind them might be... dark," Alfred murmured, straightening up to look the uneasy Brit in the eye, "but nothing about you will ever be ugly."

Arthur flinched at that, looking as if he were in physical pain, and then just stared blankly at the wall. Alfred sighed softly, having expected some sort of reaction, some words, and unbuttoned the smaller man's trousers. Swallowing, he slowly pulled them down his legs, taking note of his creamy white thighs that shimmered with rain water. He bit his lip and tried not to look as he slid them down the rest of his long, glistening legs. He tried to think of a comment, some sort of jibe about how womanly they were, but when he looked up, he couldn't. Any words that were raising died in his throat when tears appeared in the angel's eyes.

"Oh, Arthur," he whispered, pulling the man forwards into his lap, intertwining their fingers and sliding his arm around his back to pull him closer. Arthur didn't protest and just lied against him, not sobbing or gasping or making any noise, just staring at nothing as droplets fell down his pale cheeks.

He couldn't remember the last time he cried.

In retrospect, he guessed he didn't want to.

It was quite a long while later that Alfred finally helped Arthur into the bath, sitting at the side and trying not to stare as he helped wash him, but his skin was so entrancing and his tainted wings were beautiful even if they were dirty. But most of all, Alfred liked his eyes, so he took the safe road and focused on the emeralds as he slid a cloth over his flesh, shuddering at the feeling of his skin. Smooth, jagged scar, smooth, soft scar. Repeat.

"How do you have so many scars?" Alfred breathed, poignant wonder in his voice as his fingertips trailed carefully over rough scars, serrated like some kind of barbarous saw. He didn't want to contemplate how much it had hurt to have contracted such agonising looking scars...

"I told you," Arthur said softly, "I was a fucked up human."

The American swallowed thickly, fury and sorrow clashing inside of him. "You hurt yourself," he whispered, whimsical at the very hopeful and optimistic idea of Arthur laughing suddenly and objecting to his assumptions, but those vague hopes were crashed as soon as the Brit's lips parted.

"Yes."

His eyes stung and his throat constricted. He felt hopeless. What on earth could he say? How would someone respond to that? He couldn't empathise since he himself had never voluntarily injured himself. He had a high pain tolerance when he had adrenaline, but he never got worked up enough to get that hormonal high. He often overlooked anything that might lead to a potential argument or a fight.

It hadn't always been that way though. Before he had known Ivan, he'd readily stand up for anyone, even though it was primarily to feed his ego. But it had got the best of him one day, a seemingly normal day in his presumably mediocre life because nobody knew that his dad was in jail or that his mother had cancer, and his friend Kiku turned up to school with a black eye. For the first time, he wasn't only pumped up to prove his martyrdom, but was truly angry for his friend's misfortune. He marched up to the Russian's class and punched him square in the jaw. Thinking he had won, he held his head up high and turned to depart...

He should have listened when Kiku told him never to turn his back on an opponent.

That day, his brother had been hurt for him. That day, his brother, the one who he forgot about and made fun of when he noticed him and the one he sometimes resented for being closer to their mother, took Alfred's blame. Ivan targetted Alfred, craving revenge in response to the American's brash actions, and Matthew saved him every time. Every goddamn time.

He had never been a hero. He never would be either.

"But I deserved it," Arthur suddenly said, and the picture of his brother's subdued but determined expression dissolved in his mind's eye.

"How could anybody possibly deserve that?" he whispered sullenly, heartbroken at the hollow man before him, whose blood was tinting the bath water red.

Emerald eyes flickered up to meet his again. For a moment, just a brief moment, they looked pained, and then it was gone. "I... was an artist, Alfred. I painted with blood."

"Rain, rain, go away, come again another day..."

Alfred raised his eyes from the faulty television that occasionally lapsed into white noise. He had already tried to fix it a dozen times and he was losing his patience and will. Giving up, he turned it off with a frustrated sigh, opting instead to watch the angel by the window. The Brit had been vague in his confession, an enigmatic being in himself, but Alfred had miraculously understood. He supposed he should have been terrified, horrified, mortified... He felt an unforgiving resentment for what Arthur had done, due to his morals, but... somehow he didn't hate him for it. It was wrong, he knew it was, and perhaps any sane man would have panicked and contemplated his own potential murder by the ethereal being.

But he didn't. But he didn't know why he didn't.

With slight reluctance, Alfred said, "It isn't raining, Arthur."

The angel's wings shuddered and two more feathers fell from them. They were beginning to look painful, the bone structure of the wings evident beneath the decaying feathers, and often Alfred found trails of blood around the apartment.

"It's always raining," Arthur whispered, eyes lowering to stare blankly at the fallen feathers. "It never stops."

Thunder crashed violently in the sky and a flash of furious lightning swiftly lit up the area, only for it to die down, only a vague glow of sickly orange streetlamps providing illumination in the otherwise dark streets. Thick grey clouds loomed ominously overhead, invisible in the blackness until the lightning returned.

Stray cars skidded down the roads, twisting awkwardly around corners and almost spinning off. Horns sounded and tires screeched and a few pedestrians screamed furiously, mostly employees who had worked overtime, brows furrowed in irritation and coffee stains on their shirts and hair messed up, eyes tired with exhausted bags beneath them. Some people stopped cars, leaning into the windows and exchanging quiet words, and a few coerced the drivers into letting them in, whilst others looked disgusted and so some people just wandered down the streets in stilletos or ruined loafers, scouring for a place to sleep.

It was the prostitutes who persuaded car owners into taking them home, and it was the beggars who were left wandering aimlessly. One man, scruffy with an untamed beard, beady eyes and shaggy hair, was drifting tiredly down the street, a sullen looking dog in tow, and for one reason or another, Arthur felt... sad.

With a despondent sigh, annoyed at himself, he allowed himself to become visible after ducking behind the bus stop, trying to appear casual as if he had been reading the directions. He pretended to double take when he saw the homeless man before digging his hands into his pockets. Really, he didn't have a lot of money on him, only spare change Alfred left around the flat. He found the shimmering objects intriguing, so he collected them. He left the bottle caps in his pockets and approached the man, arm outstretched with a collections of coins littering his palm.

The man blinked several times before raising his gaze to meet Arthur's, appearing stunned. Hesitantly, as if he'd be reprimanded, he lifted his own hand, and the Englishman dropped the money. The beggar's eyes bugged, astonished, and he closed his fingers tightly around it. He swallowed, pursing his lips and appearing unperturbed despite the cold saws on them, and nodded at the young blond man.

Arthur smiled.

"You're back late," Alfred observed when the angel drifted in through the rusty door, shutting it quietly behind him. "I was worried."

"You were with that Japanese guy," Arthur mumbled in response before he realised he spoke. For whatever reason, he felt his face heat up, and he looked at the floor, observing a spider crawl along.

The American blinked, briefly wondering if the angel was jealous, and then dismissed it. That was impossible. "Sorry," he said earnestly, "I couldn't really talk to you when he was around. It'd be weird if I spoke to nothing."

Arthur frowned. Whilst he understood Alfred's meaning, phrasing it that way... "Quite all right," he said airily. "I was simply bored. I'm not a gaming fanatic, so your talk of... whatever... disinterested me."

"You serious?" the younger man sounded astonished. "Then you've not tried my games! Come on, I'll teach you."

"I'd rather not," Arthur replied evasively, frowning and feeling a bit pressured and insecure. But... he couldn't deny that he enjoyed Alfred's attention.

Before he realised it, he was tugged forwards by a strong hand, and he fell into the American's torso. He flushed deeply, pushing himself away, but the arms snaked around him and pulled him into a fairly awkward embrace. He felt Alfred's warm breath drifting over his head, and the rise and fall of his chest made him feel sleepy. Finally, he relaxed in the American's arms, feeling... home.

Suddenly, he was turned around, lifted up and placed in Alfred's lap, those warm arms ghosting over his own and large hands enveloping his as a controller was forced into his grasp.

"Let me teach you," Alfred repeated, voice a husky whisper, and Arthur found he couldn't disobey.

Although he eventually got the hang of it, knowing the codes for certain attacks and techniques, he still feigned hopelessness, just to preserve the comforting feeling of the idiot human's arms around him. He felt safer than he had been in years. Eventually, he found himself leaning into the other man, their bodies fitting together somehow, and he allowed his head to fall against Alfred's shoulder. He felt intoxicated by the scent of the American, not overpowering, but strong enough to disarm him - the cologne, coffee beans, and altogether something that made him feel less cold.

He must have been staring longer than he initially thought, for Alfred's gaze slipped down to meet his own, the impish grin on his lips falling into a strange look, lips parted and eyes half-lidded.

Neither was certain as to who moved first. Perhaps it was both of them. Their lips brushed one another's, cold and warm colliding and sending electrifying jolts running through their veins, butterflies erupting in their stomachs and a dizzying feeling disorientating them.

Dazed, Alfred stared up at the Brit, who was now kneeling in his lap, hands on the American's shoulders and breathing erratically. Arthur leaned forwards again, forehead leaning on Alfred's, and he bit at the American's lip, who hissed in response. The angel's tongue slipped in, roaming, memorising every aspect of how he felt and tasted, and then grabbed the younger man's collar, deepening the kiss until they could scarcely breathe, toes curling and fingers gripping at one another's clothing desperately.

Alfred found himself falling into the cushions of the sofa and the angel's calloused hands snaked beneath his shirt, fingertips dancing over his skin and he couldn't tell if it was more ticklish or sensual. But his skin tingled more when their lips met again and he felt his blood rush through his body like a storm as waves of feeling fell over him. He let out a restrained groan as one of the Brit's hand brushed over an erect nipple, the sensitivity of it forcing waves of heat to course through his body.

"Alfred..." Arthur breathed, voice breathy and anxious but not altogether regretful or dubious.

The American's large hands drifted up Arthur's scarred arms, rubbing the cold appendages gently and offering a smile of reassurrance. "It's okay," he said softly, swallowing when he heard his own voice, thick with desire. "I want it..."

As the angel unzipped the American's trousers, he swept him up in a kiss. It wasn't a passionate tango or a docile dance, but it was somewhere in between - full of yearning, but not desperate, as both men attempted to restrain themselves for both the benefit of the other, and to protect their own hearts.

Alfred broke the kiss and flinched away when he felt a foreign feeling slip inside of him. He had only ever been with girls, so it felt alien to him. He let out a pained groan as Arthur carefully stretched him in preparation, not wanting to hurt the young man. He squirmed despite himself, torn between pulling away and pressing against the probing fingers, but his movements seized as another hand trailed over his dick, coaxing it to life with feather-light touches that, thanks to the insistent bucking of his hips, eventually turned into rough strokes, lacking rhythm but still making the American want more, more, more.

One of the hands that were gripping the Englishman's pale arm wandered down to his waistband, undoing the belt and slipping it off, then sliding his free hand into the man's pants, feeling the tufts of hair before slowly stroking the hardening flesh. He felt a victorious smile come to his face when Arthur gasped and arched into his touch, sweat accumulating on his brow and small shudders wracking his frame, his own hand tightening slightly around the American's flesh in response. His wings expanded outwards, fluttering.

"I'm... I'm ready, Arthur."

Looking dubious, the angel cautiously affirmed it, before he moved to find some sort of lubrication, only for a hand coated in gel to slide over his member. He let out a moan and sent Alfred a questioning look after regaining his composure, cheeks dusted a soft pink as he gasped for breath.

"I-I've had it for a while," Alfred mumbled, slightly embarrassed. "Just... I haven't used it in ages."

Arthur gave him a strange sort of half smile, looking a bit dejected somehow. Alfred was prepared to ask about it, but all thoughts disappeared from his mind when he suddenly felt an intrusion, and he breathed in quickly, biting his lip and digging his nails into Arthur's arms, toes clutching at the material of the sofa and eyes clenching tightly shut.

He felt butterfly kisses being trailed over his jaw, fluttering down his neck and then nipping gently at his collarbone, one hand cupping his cheek and another stroking his member, the pleasurable feeling inticing and inebriating and soon enough he was hard again. It still felt weird having something inside of him like that, buried deep, but he wanted... he wanted...

His arm slid up Arthur's back, prevented from roaming freely by the wings, and he gently felt them, hands drifting over the soft feathers and feeling them tremble in response. Arthur rolled his hips suddenly, a low moan escaping his throat at the feeling of his wings being touched, and Alfred groaned in response to the resulting feeling of Arthur being embedded deep within him.

As the sofa creaked and their moans and gasps filled the dark apartment, the smell of petrichor and tea and library books filling Alfred's senses as he pulled Arthur closer, lips meeting once again, full of longing as their bodies were entangled in needy passion, both thought I think I love you, I think I love you, but didn't dare speak it. They didn't scream when they reached their climax, but instead shuddered and moaned and whispered each other's names, and then gazed into one another's eyes, surprised and bewildered and slightly fearful.

Alfred felt warm drops land on his cheek and his eyes widened in shock when he stared into green eyes, full of tears that had remained unshed for who knows how long. Arthur averted his gaze as he pulled out, arms shaking, but before he could fall, Alfred gently pulled him to lie on his heaving chest. The angel's wings remained still for a moment, and then fell with a dull thump.

The human felt tears fall onto his skin and saw blood melt into the carpet, and suddenly he felt like crying too.

It was foggy outside, overcast and still slightly grey, but it was warmer than usual and the sun was waiting patiently behind the clouds. It wasn't bright or hot enough to be scantily clad, so Alfred was still wearing a precious bomber jacket and Arthur was still in the American's ever so slightly oversized attire. He didn't mind very much though. Although the clothes weren't his exact size and he wasn't fond of the style, it just made him feel less of a stranger.

"Arthur," Alfred said suddenly as they strolled down the street on the way to the opticians. The American had previously promised to buy new clothes for Arthur, who gave vague responses to avoid out-right telling the idiot that he liked wearing his clothes.

"Hm?"

"If you appear to somebody, can they see your wings? Aside from me," he asked, glancing down curiously at the tired angel.

The shorter blond sighed, glancing back and seeing his wings shudder before spreading out. As soon as they were outstretched, he felt a twinge of pain and winced at the feeling, as if bons were tearing themselves apart. Some feathers fell from them and he looked down at them, a grimace set upon his features. "They can't see my wings," he mumbled, "but they can see feathers when they fall off."

Alfred tilted his head, innocent questioning lingering inside of his blue eyes, but the foreboding feeling made him hesitate. "Why are your feathers coming off?"

The Englishman paused, raising his gaze to meet concerned cobalt eyes, and offered a small smile, looking hopeless. "I'm not sure, Alfred," he lied.

"Alfred-san," a new voice said suddenly, quiet but obviously calling out. The addressed man slowly turned away from the Brit and offered a bright grin at the Japanese man just across the road.

"Kiku!" he called, and their conversation was halted briefly as Alfred and Arthur crossed the road, the latter trailing behind with a blank expression. "How've you been?"

"I am well, thank you," the shorter man replied with a nod. "It seems you are early for once."

The American gave a sheepish grin, scratching his neck and laughing. "Guess so," he agreed amiably, and made idle chatter about video games as they walked inside the building.

Arthur wandered after them, staring at the floor before a young girl collided with him and looked up at him. He blinked at her and she smiled suddenly, opening her mouth only for no sound to pass her lips.

The Englishman smiled, but it was sad. He kneeled down to stroke the girl's head, gazing into her big brown eyes, naive and innocent and pure, and then he closed them with his fingertips. Murmuring something under his breath, the girl suddenly collapsed. He caught her, even though it was meaningless to do so, for she soon dissolved, disintergrated and remnants of her spirit rose and faded away.

If only you were a helpful human too, a cruel mocking voice sneered in his head, but he didn't react. Then you wouldn't be tied to me. But you are, dear Thirteen. He felt an invisible force tighten around his throat and it was difficult to breathe. You belong to me. You're mine and I want you to steal hearts.

Arthur swallowed, his gaze drifting to see the American's leather-clad back, animated arm gestures and a big grin on his face. He shook his head slowly, a fond look in his eyes. "I can't," he whispered softly, "I won't."

He let out some sort of a scream when he felt a sharp yank at his wings. He fell backwards, dizzy from the agony in his wings. He could feel the bones within them shaking to the core and it hurt so much, but he still couldn't get enough air because it felt like there was a hand around his neck.

It isn't a request, Thirteen, Lucifer's voice resounded in his head, reverberating like echoing footsteps in a cell. Arthur writhed in the invisible hold as regular people staggered past tiredly, oblivious to his struggle. The Brit tried to repress any pained sounds from escaping as he felt his wings being submitted to torture and he shook violently, gritting his teeth. Do not grow attached to these humans.

"I'm not," Arthur snapped after a moment's struggle of forcing out the words.

Lucifer sneered. Do you know why your wings are falling apart?

"You're torturing me?" he hissed darkly, screaming when he felt dozens of feathers being torn off. He slumped against the seemingly nonexistent force holding him up, breathing raggedly and trembling from the stinging agony.

You're torturing yourself. You deserve punishment in any case, the fallen angel muttered, voice sounding terrifyingly close. Your wings only disintegrate when you fall in love with a human, Arthur... You're killing yourself by feeling.

A hysterical bubble of laughter rose in the tormented angel's throat as he was dropped by the invisible moments, and the force around his throat disappeared but more feathers were scattering around him on the ground. "Doesn't everyone?" he whispered. "Everyone feels too much. That's why I stopped when I was alive. I stopped feeling emotions and instead felt blood. Blood and rain and floods of pain."

Forever a masochist, in life and death. You're a disgusting excuse for a human, an angel, and a fallen angel. You don't belong anywhere, worthless tool.

The voice faded away into a low buzz and the pain became a dull ache and as he lied down on the floor, surrounded by feathers with bleeding wings, strangers walked by without sparing him a glance.

Invisible.

"It was nice to see you, Alfred-san," Kiku murmured softly, a withdrawn smile on his face.

Alfred grinned in response. "Great to see you today too, man," he replied cordially, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Better get going now though."

The Japanese man looked a tad curious in spite of his monochromatic eyes that always displayed only apathy. It was fair enough as Alfred hadn't used to be in such a rush; he often remained behind to converse with other employees or grab a McDonald's or something, but since he'd met Arthur, he liked to be alone with him so that they could speak properly without disruption. Earlier, when he saw Kiku, his heart sort of... sunk. He cared about his friend a lot, don't get him wrong, but whenever he had to acknowledge someone else, he had to ignore the angel's presence. It made him feel guilty, especially since it seemed that Arthur became despondent over it. He didn't explicitly state that it made him feel bad, but the Brit always avoided his eyes and gave short replies afterwards.

It was sort of cute, really... And although it wasn't particularly chivalrous of him, he liked to see all of Arthur's emotions displayed on his face: happiness, sadness, anger, and the ongoing spectrum of feeling upon feeling that Alfred couldn't quite name. After having seen indifference on the angel's face for so long, he decided that he liked seeing it when hollow eyes lit up and sparkled whenever he was jubilant, the soft smile when he was content, how he looked away and his lashes brushed over his flushed cheeks, how he bit his lip and rubbed his arm and...

"Alfred-san?"

He blinked, flushing in embarrassment and grinned nervously. "Sorry," he apologised, "did you say something, Kiku?"

The Asian tilted his head before shaking it slowly. "It's all right," he replied, "you simply seemed lost in thought..."

Alfred chuckled, the sound low and less excitable than his usual rambunctious laughter. "Mm," he agreed. "I guess so. Recently, it happens a lot... Kinda weird, huh?"

"Not at all." Kiku smiled mysteriously. "It is a sign of falling in love."

The American opened his mouth, prepared to retort or laugh it off, but suddenly backtracked. His brows knitted together thoughtfully and he exhaled slowly. He let out a low hum as emerald eyes filled with stars and tears flashed in his mind. "Makes sense, I suppose..."

"You appear to be very distracted, Alfred-san..."

Glancing away from the windows that revealed dejected people walking briskly through the harsh breeze, he offered his coworker an apologetic smile. "My bad," he murmured quietly, a drastic contrast to his common commotions. Then again, ever since that guy's disappearance...

"If you aren't feeling well, then perhaps you should go home," Kiku said, scrutinising the American's face for any signs of illness, but there was an odd glint in his eye that suggested his appraisal was more meaningful than just checking for a fever. "Especially if you might have somebody waiting for you..."

Alfred balked, astonished, and gawked at his friend momentarily, before recovering swiftly and grinning to disguise how he faltered. He can't know about Arthur... He can't see him... "I'm fine, really!" he insisted, trying to force himself not to look around again. Arthur disappeared a lot, so he probably shouldn't have been concerned, but it was inopportune and the Brit always turned up paler than usual, even if he tried to hide it. Even though the angel had seemed emotionless when he had first encountered the ethereal being, Alfred was beginning to think that it was just a mask... and one that was slipping, for some reason that evaded him. "But it does look like it's gonna rain again soon..." he observed, sighing in frustration. He was sick of the rain. So fucking sick of it.

"Rain helps the plants to grow," Kiku offered, hoping to offer some optimism to the sudden negative twist in Alfred's mood.

"Not if it drowns 'em first." Narrowed cobalt eyes stared out the window, scowling darkly at the sky as if it had personally betrayed him. A low rumble of thunder rumbled outside and he felt a strange surge of anger rush through him, although he couldn't fathom why. "I hate grey skies."

The Japanese man folded his arms, appearing thoughtful, but Alfred knew better than to ask for insight. The shorter man never revealed what was on his mind. On the rare occasion that he did provide hints, they were often vague and enigmatic, and Alfred normally gave up attempting to decipher the hidden meanings behind the words.

"I believe that you should go home, Alfred-san," the dark haired man said softly. "I am sure that others may find grey skies disenchanting also... It is better to be miserable with company than without. When you do have someone else to share your sorrows with, you may find that they are soon resolved." With a small, mysterious smile, Kiku bid an almost inaudible farewell to his friend, before slipping outside to serve more customers.

Another crash of thunder growled and echoed around him, and the ghost of a smile flashed through his mind.

In spite of the frequent spells of thunder, it hadn't rained all day. Dark clouds loomed in the sky, looking almost threatening, but never spilt.

Leaning against the edge of his balcony, Alfred gazed down at the streets below, at the stray people who wandered aimlessly. One woman had her arms folded tightly over her chest and crossed the street when a guy in a hoodie was made visible, perched upon a run down bench beneath a streetlight. The boy didn't bother acknowledging the woman as she briskly walked down the street, and nor did he pay any heed to the man in a suit who sneered at him when he passed.

The kid checked his watch, flipped his phone open, and remained sitting there for another ten minutes before standing. He glanced both ways down the road, looking lost, but not in the sense of directions. Looking up at the flickering lamp above his head, the hood fell to reveal tanned skin covered in bruises and blood.

Alfred's eyes widened, surprised by the boy's appearance. He'd expected a common thug, just like the man and woman had, and felt a sudden pang of guilt. Even if he wasn't prejudiced, he still anticipated that people would live down to what was expected of them. He thought the teenager would shout crude comments at the woman or try to assault her or even mug the man, but he'd just sat there, looking as if he had nowhere to go.

Suddenly, the boy's mobile rang, some popular rap song, and he scrambled to answer it. He mumbled into it and flinched at whatever response he must have garnered, and then checked his watch again. His shoulders slumped and his lips moved, and then he paused. After a long moment, he lowered the phone, and then hung his head as he began to wander down the street, not even faltering as the clouds finally broke and drops cascaded from the midnight's sky.

Alfred cursed, grimacing as he felt the cold water swiftly drench his shirt, and moved to go back inside, the lingering regret over seeing that defeat boy's face still hanging strong over him. He entered his run-down apartment and shook his head, shuddering slightly, and immediately set about removing his shirt, irritated that the sky suddenly decided to break.

He turned to toss his shirt on the floor, gasping in shock when he saw Arthur standing there. "Jesus, Arthur!" he cried, exasperated and frustrated and just drained. "You scared the shit outta me," he hissed, running a hand through his hair. "Don't do that. God." He threw his wet shirt down and shook his head with an irritated sigh. "I'm gonna take a shower or somethin', so..."

He was abruptly interrupted, all words unable to leave his mouth when lips enveloped his own. Instinctively, despite his initial surprise, his arms wound around the angel's waist, and he felt boney fingertips clutching at his shoulders. Arthur moaned wantonly into the kiss, lips voluntarily parting to permit the American entrance, and Alfred responded eagerly, tongue sliding over Arthur's in an intimate dance. He felt Arthur's thin arms slither around his neck, tugging him down, closer, and their chests were pressed together. He could feel Arthur's skin beneath the layer of the Englishman's wet blouse, the man's nipples, perked due to the cold, pressing against his own chilled skin. He kept one hand gripping Arthur's waist, threading in with the material of his shirt, and ran the other down his side, clutching at his hip and rubbing it before trailing it around to his backside.

"Nnnh... haa..."

The gasps and moans of pleasure that the angel elicited filled the atmosphere and registered in the American's lustful haze. He was amazed that the sounds had previously eluded him, and suddenly become fixated upon the Englishman shaking in his arms. His eyes were half lidded and unfocused, lashes fluttering lightly against his cheeks which were dusted with a light flush. His lips were still parted, an open invitation for Alfred, and they were glistening thanks to the intimate kiss they had just shared. Ragged breaths escaped from his mouth sporadically and his brows were drawn together with suppressed feeling.

Alfred could still feel the smaller man trembling in his embrace and frowned worriedly. "Arthur..." he began, but couldn't finish as the angel's cold hands drifted up, one placed over his warm cheek and the other threading through his hair, forcefully tugging him back down into another heated kiss, which was now more reluctant on Alfred's part. Slowly, carefully, he pried Arthur's vice grip off of him and intertwined their hands, tilting his head as a worried and serious frown dominated his features. "Arthur, you're acting weird," he muttered calmly, not moving even when the angel squirmed and emitted an uncharacteristic whimper. "What happened?"

Arthur didn't answer him, shaking his head and merely following through with his previous ministrations. Shoving the American against the wall, he bucked his hips and grinded against the younger man. Alfred groaned at the friction, slumping against the wall, and Arthur pulled himself closer by perching on his bent leg, still thrusting needily against the American, and leaned up to touch their lips together once more.

Despite how the angel's actions were effecting to him, making a wave of heat and pleasure rush over him and ripple through his body, he felt as if he was taking advantage of the smaller blond somehow. So, with much self-control, he grabbed the older man's arms and pushed him. Having forgotten his own strength, he sent the Brit falling to the floor, and he grimaced when he heard the man's head collide with the ground.

"Fuck. Shit, I'm sorry, Arthur," he said quickly, dropping to his knees and hovering over the dazed angel. "I didn't mean to hurt you... Just - Shit, are you okay?"

Hazy green eyes stared back at him, the blush still prominent on his face, and his chest was heaving with his gasping breaths. Alfred scanned over the Englishman to ensure that he wasn't hurt and, swallowing nervously, slid the wet shirt from the man's shoulders and peeled it from his skin. His own breath caught in his throat at the sight of blotches and bruises and burns, recent ones, covering the man's skin - the crevices, the dips of his hip bones, the spaces in between his visible ribs. He felt sick.

"A-Arthur," he whispered, mortified, "what... what happened? Who...?"

"Don't want to hurt," the angel mumbled, voice hoarse and tired. He sounded almost like a scared child, which added to the American's anxiety. "I don't want to hurt, Alfred..." He blinked slowly and, although his eyes still seemed far away, he was staring right at the man above him. Brows knitting together as he sucked in another sharp breath, he writhed, gritting his teeth, but a sound of agonised pain still escaped him.

"What hurts, Artie?" he asked softly, horrified and worried beyond his imagination, but still feeling the need to stay strong and steady when Arthur was in such a condition.

Arthur bit his lip hard, teeth digging in deeply enough to puncture and draw blood, and his hands dug into the floor, red rising through his fingertips. Alfred gently grasped his hands so that he couldn't hurt himself further, and preoccupied the pained man with a soft kiss. He could feel the angel convulse beneath him, feel the grip on his own hands tighten considerably, and the Englishman's teeth digging into his tongue, clashing with his teeth and biting his lips, but he felt he could manage. The main seemed to be suffering, so he could at least share his burden.

"What hurts?" he whispered huskily during a small break between needy kisses. Gasps filled the air as their mouths met time and again, lips brushing before delving in, full of longing and so many feelings that they couldn't name, hopeless because Alfred didn't know what to do and Arthur didn't know what to say, hopeful as the American wished to relieve the angel of his unknown burden.

"Wings," Arthur finally managed, voice higher than usual, and it sounded almost as if he was about to cry, but Alfred could see no tears in his emerald eyes. Before the younger man could think, trembling arms snaked over his shoulders and pulled him down, and he realised that no words could comfort Arthur when he could scarcely hear but feel so much. He was still hesitant, wondering if he'd be taking advantage of him in a vulnerable state, but Arthur let out a strangled sound again and he couldn't just leave him hurting.

Decided, Alfred carefully sat up, and the Englishman's arms fell to the floor again. He gently lifted the pained angel into his arms, grip protectively tight but caringly soft. He was careful to avoid touching the Brit's wings, so it was an awkward hold, but effective; Arthur latched onto him, breathing heavily against his neck, and Alfred lowered him to the bed. The angel convulsed again, shaking violently as if being shocked, but the shudders subsided slightly when the American hovered over him again, leaning down to capture his lips.

Eventually, when Arthur required air again, he trailed butterfly kisses over the man's jaw before littering them down his neck, nipping and biting occassionally. He wanted to be gentle, but he couldn't help the strange possessive feeling that surged through him. He licked apologetically at a spot on the Brit's neck that he'd bit particularly hard, then licked down the rest of the length, before coming to a pause and nuzzling his teeth over his portruding collarbone.

He grasped one of Arthur's hands and squeezed it, pleased to receive the same response, and with his free hand he moved to shed both of them of their remaining attire. He kicked his jeans off and slid off the Brit's pants, then drifted his hand over the man's scarred thigh, feeling the rough and smooth stories in his skin and caressing it gently before his hand slid down to his dick, stroking the length. His movements were slow at first, but slowly increased in pace in rhythm with the Brit's bucking hips and his own ragged breathing.

"Alfred..."

"I'm right here, baby," he whispered softly against Arthur's lips, closing the distance. The Englishman clutched his hand tightly and leaned upwards to feel more of the younger man's mouth, taste more of that lingering arabica and faint tobacco.

"Don't go," he rushed out and felt like an idiot immediately after. With the pain clouding his mind, he could hardly think, and he knew that if he thought about it he wouldn't have had the courage to say it. But Alfred's resulting smile of reassurrance made him relax a bit, even if he could still feel burning pain course through him.

"I'll never leave you," he vowed, kissing the angel's neck gently as he felt for lubrication on his bedside table.

Arthur suddenly gasped and bucked his hips, a wanton moan escaping his lips and reveburating in his throat. He bit his lip to prevent any more unrestrained sounds of traitorous pleasure leaving him, and was relieved of his struggle when Alfred kissed him for the umpteenth time. He felt something cold slither inside of him, intrusive and different, but not altogether horrible. He squirmed uncomfortably but couldn't help but impale himself, thrusting downwards into the digits that were moving inside of him, stretching him and...!

"Ahh! Nnngh... Hhaaaa...!"

"There... There it is," Alfred gasped breathlessly, continuing for a moment to ensure that he was stretched enough so it wouldn't hurt terribly, and then coated his length in cold lube. Capturing Arthur in another distracting kiss, he sheathed himself inside of the trembling Brit. Arthur broke the liplock, turning away to gasp for breath, but the American gently tilted the older man's head around and offered him a reassurring smile. "Hey, look at me," he breathed, trying desperately to restrain himself from moving. He couldn't be rough with the pained angel. "Look only at me, Arthur... Into my eyes, so you know it's me. You know you're safe. I've got you, babe."

The Englishman's previous frown of agony dissolved, the pained expression giving way to something of confliction and distress before he blinked furiously, tears glistening in his eyes and spilling over flushed cheeks. "Alfred," he whispered disconsolately, smiling a smile that Alfred thought to be so beautifully broken. "You're my angel..." His lips ghosted over the American's, softly, gently, with the utmost care, and he kept smiling through his tears. "You have my heart... and you didn't even have to steal it. I... ah... I gave it up to you... willingly..."

It was somehow cliché, even if unbelievable, like some sort of twisted and bittersweet fairy tale that was left unfinished, or a symphony that had never been completed with off key notes, or a broken smile.

"Arthur," he gasped, thrusting his hips forwards and revelling in the pleasured moans that he elicited, the movement of the Adam's apple in Arthur's throat as he moaned and swallowed and bucked his hips in time with Alfred's thrusts and arched his back as hot pleasure rippled through him, "I... I love you. I don't know how, or when... I just do... I love you... Arthur..."

The sounds of skin colliding against skin, wet flesh, kisses full of lust and love and longing and moans of need and pleasure mingled together. To Alfred, it sounded like music.

Arthur cried out, clutching Alfred's hand tightly as his other arm clenched around the American's back, tugging him downwards. He let out some sort of sound caught in between a moan and a scream of Alfred's name, hips moving urgently and back arching as he could feel the amazing feelings encompassing build up - So close, so close, so...!

"Alfred!"

He threw his head back, bruised lips parting in a silent scream after the cry of his lover's name, and his neck, glistening with sweat, remained exposed. That red flush dusted across his cheeks and his lashes fluttering speedily over it, dusky blond hair framing the beautiful sight. Alfred felt the man clench around his dick, and it was so tight, such an amazing feeling and so, with a cry of the angel's name that he bestowed upon him himself, he reached his climax.

Stars exploded in his vision, everything white, and a strange buzzing sensation filtered through his ears, pleasure, ultimate pleasure flaring through him in a lasting explosion, before the sensation eventually fuelled down to a haze.

Not letting go of Arthur's hand, he rolled to the side and collapsed, and then tugged Arthur against him, pulling him up to his torso and clinging to him protectively, face pressed into the sweat soaked blond locks, pressing a kiss to the man's forehead.

"I meant it," he whispered upon catching his breath. "I love you."

He heard Arthur's breath catch in his throat, as if he were choking or being strangled, and then he buried his face in the American's chest. He felt the man's lashes tremble against his skin and the wetness that clung to them.

"I... I love you too, Alfred..."

He awoke to a torn feeling of bliss and foreboding, the afterglow of sex still sending pleasant tingling feelings fluttering through his body. But there was no angel encompassed in his protective embrace, and the side of the bed beside him was empty and cold.

Hurt despite himself but trying not to jump to conclusions, Alfred heaved himself out of bed, even though he wished that he could have just stayed there all day cuddling Arthur, and pulled on a stray pair of boxers.

"Arthur?" he called out as he padded out of the room, glancing around. There was no tell tale smell of coffee or stench of burning in the kitchen, nor was there a sound of running water or a buzzing of the television. It was silent. Still.

Empty.

"Arthur...?" he ventured, fear rising as he received no response. He appraised the entire apartment, wondering if he had gone out on another inopportune stroll, only to freeze upon glancing outside at the veranda.

Arthur, unclothed entirely, stood with his back towards Alfred. Two robin redbreasts were skipping and flittering around him, chirping innocently, and the sun shone down, the warm light illuminating the man's pale skin.

Black and white feathers circled around Arthur on the ground like autumn leaves, all drenched in crimson that had spilt from the Englishman's back, down his legs to the floor. Two large wounds covered the man's pallid back, shunning the other scars that littered it, both still emitting blood sluggishly, dripping down like rain at the end of a storm.

"Ar...thur..." His voice sounded foreign even to his own ears - scared but somehow hollow, and it almost reminded him of Arthur when they had first met.

"Good morning, Alfred," the angel murmured softly, voice a steady baritone that sounded calm and gentle as if everything was fine, as if it was a lovely spring morning and he was waiting for his boyfriend to wake up... as if everything was normal...

The American couldn't speak, but he leaned against the glass door, staring at the injuries on Arthur's back, feeling sick but unable to gag or retch.

"I lied to you, Alfred," he said quietly, not betraying his emotions. Alfred's head snapped up, tensing as he expected the man to take back everything, all the feelings, all the words, last night... "I'm no angel... I'm a monster." He bowed his head and the two birds's songs paused for a brief moment before continuing. Arthur slowly reached out and stroked one of the robin's small heads with a finger. The bird chirped, seemingly unaware of what was going on. "I'm a pawn of a monster too..." He breathed in deeply, shoulders shuddering before slumping once more. "I was sent up here to kill... to destroy."

He didn't even hesitate.

And Alfred... Alfred was scared. The emotionless voice, the blood, the birdsongs, the sun... It shouldn't have been as it was. They should be in love, holding each other, smiling and whispering sweet nothings...

"Did you lie then?" he choked out, clenching his fists tightly. Arthur didn't respond. "Did you lie when you said you loved me?" he demanded loudly, voice raising to a volume that could be heard on the streets below. "It was all a fucking act, was it? You fell from heaven to fucking lie to me and fuck me up? Just - No! Angels don't do that! You said you loved me!"

He breathed heavily, his chest heaving, eyes wide and frantic and furious to suppress the extruciating hurt and betrayal he felt by the man. He thought... He thought that...!

"I'm not an angel," Arthur whispered, "but I do love you."

His words only served to fuel Alfred's fury. Liar... Liar... Liar...! "Liar!"

"That's why... I lost my wings."

He froze, hands still in tight fists and shoulders hunched, eyes crazed and full of wrath, but he didn't move. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak.

"I'm a fallen angel, Alfred," Arthur murmured. "An inappropriate term, since I never was a real angel... I'm just a monster. I always have been." He breathed in slowly and exhaled, still seemingly calm. The birds continued singing sweetly, the sound like amber nectar and honey, unlike the man's dark words. "When I was alive, I killed people. I was a psychopath. It was in the name of art... or, I told myself that...

"I was a brutal serial killer who seemed to be a normal man... I had a regular job, although I only had one friend from when I was a kid. Francis, his name was. Francis... He was the only person I'd never harm. He was the only person I felt anything for. I'm not sure what... He made me angry, but he kept me safe. He cared about me and... I suppose I cared about him.

"He was the one who... He sort of... looked after me when I was little. After my parents... He stayed by my side, even though I became worse than when my father killed himself. I hurt myself and I hurt other people. The first time I killed somebody, it was an accident... and I did it again. And again. And again.

"It's ironic," he whispered, voice hoarse, growing more breathless and miserable as he spoke. "Francis, the one person I felt anything for... was killed... by someone other than myself. It was an accident. A car collision. And the... the last thing I said to him... I told him I didn't need him. And then he went and fucking died..."

Alfred had no idea what to do or how to react. Too horrified and conflicted about Arthur's sudden confessions, he couldn't move. Part of him felt wretched for him, but another part of him was disgusted by the admission of his wrong doings...

"I stopped killing people... and started trying to kill the monster inside of me that made me do it. Knives, razors, lighters, boiling water... I hated myself. I still hate myself, even more than before. I don't know... I... The monster is inside of my head, but the monster is me. I was the one who killed people and said horrible things, but I was also the one who wanted that part of me to die. I'm... repulsive. I'm a murderer.

"I'm one of Lucifer's pawns... Thirteen, he calls me. It's so fucking cliché. Nobody else is named after a number. They don't even have names. It's not as if I'm special. I don't know why... I'm not normally singled out, so why he chose me to come to this fucking earth to steal your heart and cause chaos...

"It's just because I'm capable."

Alfred suddenly noticed that the man had started shaking violently again, like the night before, only this time it didn't seem to be due to physical pain. He collapsed to his knees, shaking his head and clutching at it, swaying back and forth. The blood drenched more of his white skin, tainting it red, covering his scars and Alfred wondered if they looked like they did now when he'd first inflicted them.

"I'm a freak... A monster," Arthur whispered, shaking rhythmically, back and forth, back and forth... "but even though I'm a monster, I still... I still love you." His thin fingers shook and clenched, nails digging into his scalp, and he came to a halt in his shaking. "I don't want your heart because I'd only ruin it, but I want you to have mine. Even if you no longer wish to keep it safe because I'm just a monster, it's yours. It's already tainted but it's all yours and nobody else's... and it's repentent. It's sorry." He inhaled shakily, leaning forwards and curling up. "I'm sorry..."

What Arthur did was wrong. He didn't have morals, it seemed, and he honestly did sound as if he had been a monster. Alfred was mortified by anyone who could kill without remorse. He believed that anyone who would voluntarily murder was definitely a monster, and Arthur was no exception.

But...

Seeing him now, holding himself and shaking in his own blood, wounds of lost wings on his back, confessing everything...

"You are sorry, aren't you?" he finally managed to say. He was... He was still disgusted by what the older man had done and he could never overlook it and forget it... but he... he could sort of understand. Arthur had been sick, but he was never a monster. Not really. He had monsters in his mind, but it wasn't ever really him.

Arthur was the angel. He just had nameless demons running rampant in his head that he had never managed to tame. His mind monsters had overruled him, caught him and tied him down and he just acted upon their wishes.

Everyone had monsters inside of them, but everyone battled them in their own ways...

And Arthur had just accepted defeat.

"Arthur..."

On shaking legs, he staggered towards the tormented angel, falling to his knees in the blood. He swallowed back his revulsion and fear, cautiously reaching out to touch a thin shoulder. It was cold and trembling beneath his hand and he realised that even if part of Arthur was a monster, he still couldn't hate him... Not Arthur.

"If you're truly sorry, then... I..." He breathed in deeply, steadying himself. His grasp on the Englishman's shoulder tightened. "I want to help you fight all of your demons."

Arthur stilled under his touch, shocked and bewildered and thrown off by the unexpected behaviour. He had anticipated hatred and disgust and absolute fear... "You can't," he hissed, turning his head away and wrenching his shoulder out of Alfred's grasp. "I've already lost. That's why I was sent here from hell!"

"I refuse to give up on you!" Alfred shouted, adamant. He wouldn't back down... not anymore! Not when Arthur was so important to him! "It's not only for you, but for me! I love you... I want you. And I want to protect you! Even if I'm kind of scared of you right now... Even though I resent you for killing people needlessly, I... I don't hate you at all. Not in the least. So I refuse to give you up, even to someone as powerful as him..."

Grriting his teeth angrily when Arthur didn't respond, he grabbed the man's shoulder again and yanked him around, pulling the man into a tight embrace so that he couldn't escape.

"I love you, you hear me? I'm not lying! I'm accepting my feelings for the first time ever, and I... I'm falling in love with you." His rage subsided slightly into a more collected anger. Eyes narrowing and brows drawing together, he grasped the Englishman, holding him, before gently pushing him away at arm's length to look him in the eye. "I'm falling in love with you, Arthur," he repeated, softer, but even more determined. "I'm not going to let you go. I... Right now, I believe in God more than I ever have before, and... I want Him to realise that you are a good person. You're a good person who bad things have happened to. You've done some horrible things and maybe you can't make up for them... but you regret it. Only someone without remorse could be considered evil.

"You have a conscience, Arthur, even if it's bruised and battered. Just like your heart. Even if it's broken, I... I still want it. I'll look after it... but I also want to look after you.

"You're no monster, Arthur. You really are my guardian angel."

Wide, amazed, shocked emerald eyes stared into his own, and the Brit's lips parted, but no sound escaped. He gasped quietly as tears rose up in his astounded eyes, but he didn't even fight to stop them from falling. Instead, he threw his arms around Alfred's neck and embraced him, utterly speechless after the American's earnest words. Perhaps he didn't forgive him, but he accepted him... and he loved his despite the fowl things he had done, the terrible sins he had committed...

After a long moment as his tears seeped into the younger man's shoulder, he reluctantly pulled back, arms still intertwined around Alfred. He gazed into open, loving sky blue eyes and smiled. They moved forwards together, not even faltering before their lips met, gentle and full of true love. It wasn't passionate or erotic, but just pure. Simply them, their feelings, summarised by their lips locking together, as they fit together perfectly within one anothers' arms.

Slowly, the mixtures of tastes of bitter tea and sweet candies began to fade, and the feeling of arms around Alfred's back began to weaken. The lips dancing with his own gradually softened until he could hardly feel their kiss...

His eyes fluttered open, widening when the angel he was holding was glowing faintly, a white light surrounding him, bathing him in an ethereal glow. His shimmering emerald eyes were full of gratitude, adoration and love, but he was almost transluscent.

"A-Arthur...?" he breathed, trying to pull the angel closer as if that would keep him anchored, keep him bound to him, with him always.

"I'm sorry, love," Arthur whispered softly, breath barely felt against his lips, "but I have to take my leave... Parting, indeed, is such sweet sorrow..."

Alfred shook his head. "Don't go," he said, "Don't go!"

A poignant, remorseful, but absolutely loving smile graced Arthur's lips, and he brushed them over Alfred's as he began to disappear. "That I shall say good night 'til it be 'morrow..."

The glowing light brightened, almost blinding him, before fading slowly, sinking into the American's chest, above his heart. The two birds glided down, fluttering around him and singing softly, a bittersweet tune.

Alfred raised a hand, the feeling of Arthur's still encompassing him lingering on his skin, and touched it to his heart.

He didn't realise he was crying until he saw teardrops hit the ground.

Several years later...

"So, Mr. Jones, do you have any more questions?"

Sapphire eyes shifted from a painting of dancing angels to the face of his new boss. A small but bright smile lit up his face and he shook his head. "No, sir," he replied. "I'm ready for it."

The stern man nodded, appearing pleased by the response he'd received. Alfred was glad; the man seemed to be a very serious and strict person. He had initially been quite worried about disappointing him with his fairly eccentric and exuberant behaviour, but he had felt more reassurred upon meeting the man's partner, an excitable Italian man who seemed to enjoy physical contact a bit too much. His boss seemed to be a pretty nice guy underneath the tough exterior, but the American could see that he was still a pretty obstinate person.

"That's good," his superior said silkily with a formal nod. He stood, signalling for Alfred to do the same, and then stuck his hand out. "Then, Mr. Alfred F. Jones, allow me to welcome you to the force. I hope that you will do your best to uphold the laws and justice of the city."

With a grin that was somewhere in between comfortable and jubilant, but not insolent, Alfred grabbed the man's hand and shook it firmly. "You bet'cha," he agreed amiably.

"Your new partner should be arriving soon to show you the ropes," Ludwig informed him, retracting his hand and glancing around the American when he heard a sharp knock at the door. "Right on time, as he always is. Enter," he called loudly.

The door creaked as it opened, and a few footsteps echoed in the room, stopping just behind Alfred.

"Alfred Jones, this is your new partner," Ludwig introduced calmly. "He transferred here a few months ago from a unit in London. Arthur Kirkland, this is Jones. I trust that you will work well together."

Alfred momentarily felt time stop. Seconds ticked by and he stared with wide eyes at the German, not trusting himself just yet, because hearing the name Arthur after all these years...

"Please introduce yourselves."

Trying to dismiss his misconceptions and incorrect thoghts, because it was ludicrous, Alfred turned around, a smile already in place as he opened his mouth to greet his new accomplice. "Hi, Arthur," he murmured softly, "I'm Alfred."

Curious emerald eyes gazed up at him from beneath thick eyebrows and an unruly mess of blond hair. A small smile tugged at the man's lips before he forced a serious scowl upon his features and he held out his hand. "Nice to meet you," he said, only to let out an unmanly shriek as he was pulled into a tight embrace, strong arms wrapping around his waist and enveloping him into a warm hug.

"I'm so glad to have met you, Arthur... I know we'll be the best of partners!"

Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

Oh. Good. Lord.

Bloody hell, this took me unbelievably long to write. I wanted to do it all in one. I worried that if I made it into another chapter fic, I'd never finish it and this... is the result.

I began writing it a few months ago and took a long break from it. In all honesty, I'd almost given up on it... but I don't like abandoning my stories, so I eventually got around to completing it.

Aiyaaah... I'm sure I could comment on a lot, but I wrote a large segment of it just now in two hours although I got no sleep last night and I was out scouring the UCAS fair for university prospectuses early this morning... But I hope that there aren't an excessive amount of errors. I re-read it a couple of times but I'm sure I'm going to upload this and then spot countless mistakes. Bugger all. One day I shall have an editor for this! Haha.

When I wrote the part in which Arthur faded away, I couldn't help but think of Tsubasa RESERVoir CHRoNiCLE... ;n; Aiyaaa...

N-not that reading Tsubasa made me sad at all! It's really nothing like that!

At the end, I'll leave it up to you guys to decide whether or not it's Arthur as a human given a second chance without memories or if he does remember Alfred... Personally, I'd go for the former, just for more drama. *shot dead!*

I hope the lemons aren't terrible... I'm so unconfident with writing those, and for good reason. Mine are repetitive and wordy and more contemplative than full of action. /fail

I'll never be a porn writer.

Well, obviously... Not only am I unable to write it, but I'd be too embarrassed!

Tch...

Also, I never specified as to whether or not Alfred realised that angel!Arthur was the same one he'd seen at the opticians. There was a reason for it, I assure you. XD But if you want the short answer without enigmatic metaphors, yes, he did eventually make the link... but I don't want to tell you when he did. :P I'm just mean like that. Try to figure it out!

Urgh, I really am very tired... but even after I publish this, I bet I won't go to bed for a while. *has self-destructive tendancies* Mouu... In any case, I hope you'll enjoy this and I hope it doesn't seem too rushed... Thank you for reading it. Have a good day!

xoxo