AN: Summer is here! Here is a little historical story to revive my writing skills and such, comments are greatly appreciated. Around the end of the week, some new [longer] one-shots will be uploaded, so you can look forward to that. All dialogue is from the past, and there should be forty-nine lines of speech too, if I can count. Okay, enjoy!
It has been nearly a hundred years. A century, a lifetime. It ached and moved along as things died and were reborn again. The world is cyclic. It repeats in a few steps.
Arthur Kirkland is just visiting. England is there on official business. His fingers are dusty on the coach wagon seat, peeling at the leather mindlessly. He isn't nervous.
The scenery rambles on. An endless monolog of blue skies and green grass. A bit too dull for him. A bit too innocent. It isn't at all how he liked to picture America. No, black hearts and fat, indignant people are the image in his mind.
Before, before, before. He used to see soft, smiling children. So eager, so unaware that the Earth was spinning and that beds went cold. The image gets ripped and rain pours through the sky, the clouds tearing themselves up in black-grey frenzy.
"And what will you do, then, without me?"
"I'll grow up, you would have never let me."
How do you like being an adult now, Alfred? The world isn't free. Love isn't pure. And there is no such thing as truth. Only opinions, only lies. No one will be there forever, but England is pretty damn close.
The wheels turn, he has miles to go. Though, it is almost like he's already there. Just breathing the air is painful. Everything is a memory. The birds chirp nostalgically and the rain is home-sick. The sky is a soft recollection and Arthur remembers when it was his.
"I would have let you, I would have given you anything."
"We both know that isn't true."
He doesn't mind the rain. It doesn't remind him of that day, because he has lived long enough to have a bad memory for every particular type of precipitation.
The driver speaks- his voice gruff and accented. So many immigrants now adding to America, what a place it has become.
Arthur responds, letting him know that it'd be fine to stop at a nearby town for a while. Not everyone has become accustomed to seeing through rain, snow, tears.
The town is not a town. There are no resting places, just houses. England has lost his power to charm people, so Arthur Kirkland takes over and stays in a bedroom above a bar.
"Don't worry, Britain, it will always be you. It can only, always be you."
"I, I apologise."
The sheets smell like moth balls and faintly like sweat. They haven't been washed in a while. They haven't been used in even longer.
England has only packed one small bag with enough things for a few days. He isn't staying for long, and the travelling will take up most of the time.
From his bag, he grabs a night gown; it is cool and smells familiar on his skin.
He can't hear the rain from inside; things are silenced between the thick walls. Murmurs from customers down stairs don't float up. Even mice aren't heard scurrying around the pitch blackness of floors.
He misses sound. Even if it is gunshots, footsteps of a man walking away-or of a boy growing up. There are so many dyings in life. He remembers Alfred's first dying. He takes pride in knowing he killed it.
"A sorry will never change anything. Will you think of me?"
"I promise I will, every time my heart beats, America."
Finally, noise fills the room as he sits on the bed. It groans and cries, unused to the use.
He leaves the light on, a small comfort. Minimising the dyings.
He falls in and out of sleep, plagued by dreams of sunshine and warmth that soon turn into nightmares of icy cold stares.
He won't let America haunt him; this has gone on long enough. Sometimes Arthur wishes he had never promised that, because miraculously it came true.
Thump-Alfred-beat-America-thump-Alfred-beat-America.
That is how the pattern goes, he is of the world, he is cyclic.
"I will try to forget you, you know."
"And we both know it will never work. Why are you doing this?"
Arthur has many regrets. He could list them off, read them like a will, but he won't.
Of them all, words are the main cause. This isn't what he wants. He doesn't want to feel the old bed cry beneath him, nor does he want to miss the sound of rain.
He doesn't know what he wants, but he knows it isn't this.
His mind races, wonders.
What happens when birds fly to high? He would be perfectly content becoming burnt crisps from the sun's too warm embrace.
America is not burnt yet, but almost there. Expanding over preset boundaries and exceeding limitations and expectations. No one wants to befriend him, everyone wants to be him. Arthur hates him.
"My heart is the same as yours."
"I am fairly certain I have no heart."
Another dying. So many, it's hard to figure what death will really be. Pieces of Arthur lay all around, pieces he has outgrown, over stepped. He misses them, sometimes. The way things were.
Still hours till dawn, he rolls onto his side, brushing blond strands out of his eyes. Trying to sleep would be pointless, but Arthur still does. Tomorrow will be long- he hopes.
"So does that mean you will never think of me?"
"You're old enough to detect lies."
Somehow, he fell asleep. Because before he knows it, the driver is standing over him, breathing on his neck, waking him up effectively.
England packs his bag, refolding his night gown carefully. He gives a half-hearted thanks to the tavern owner. He accepts it with little attention, cleaning wooden tables as Arthur walks out.
It doesn't rain, the sky still an endless blue as Arthur bumps along. This is America now.
So many dyings.
"The sky is endless, like your eyes."
"And the forest is finite, like yours."
"My eyes aren't for the trees. My eyes are for life."
Now they mirror death. He supposes he should be over it by now. European ties are broken and fixed in simple decades. Why is this one taking so long? Why is America so different?
They used to be so close. Sitting on the sun-warmed fields, watching the stars shift above them. That is where Alfred learnt to dream, from there things get indefinitely more complicated. From his dreams grew goals, and that lead to war.
War between others, friends and family meant nothing, just letters strung into words.
"You see this line, cross it."
"I can't. I could never."
Arthur didn't mean that. He could cross that line, he just won't. Not then, at least. But looking back that line would've made things a lot easier.
A simple kiss could have saved lives.
No, he will not let America haunt him. Not while he is awake, nor in his sleep. Arthur's mind is his own.
Everything is a dream, the long ride to an old friend, the restless nights, and the torturing memories.
Finally, they reach America's new house. It is built in Oregon Country, home of many Americans still seeking adventure. Still yearning for something not yet found.
"You are the only one I could ever love, you are the only one who has shown me love."
"Don't go looking for things that aren't there. Don't confuse dreams and reality."
America is not outside waiting for him. And why should he be? He shouldn't, should he?
England's fingers unfurl themselves from the leather, and pay the driver kindly for the long haul.
The walk from the wagon to the house is long in his mind, though relatively short is distance.
The grass is over grown and the plants tangle lively around his feet. England is wearing nice shoes.
His bag is loose in his sweaty palms, and he debates whether a smile or a frown would be most appropriate for the time.
This could be the start.
Or it could be another death.
The decision lay all on his face.
"Don't cry, I can't leave if you're crying."
"Then pretend that I'm whole, it won't change anything."
He settles on neutral. He is still powerful; he is still the better nation.
Maybe birds don't burn when they get to close to the sun. Maybe they relish the warmness and are rewarded for their courage. Arthur will never know.
The house is make-shift and new, very noble to give up everything like that. Before a porcelain fist is even raised, the door is opened.
Alfred is taller. That is what screams loudest when the door is opened. Not much taller, an inch or two at the most. But still.
"If we were other people, and I was someone new, would you still feel the way that you do?"
"Of course. It's only you. Always, only you."
Alfred doesn't speak at first. Amusement dances between his blue eyes, so easy to be drawn into. They pull Arthur in like wicked Sirens, trapping him the the beauty.
But then it is over, a quick, painless dying. His self-control is gone.
At first, it is silent. They both don't know how to act. It would take forever forgetting the history. They start with forgiving.
"You'll see me soon, right England?"
"Yes, I'll always come back for you. A gentleman's promise."
Arthur misses the days when America actually wanted to see him. Now the visits are far and few between the decades, spelling out war or trouble. He never comes for peace.
But now is the time to show Alfred how treaties work.
There is a curt nod, and Arthur steps inside, clutching his bag like it is a brief case. He doesn't want to seem expectant.
Alfred has done this before, but not with someone as special as England. This makes it different. Treaties are always different, especially this one. Usually with England, they ended war. But this one will bring about something better, and that is why it is different.
A compromise.
Alfred laughs too loud, and scratches the back of his head with rough, calloused hands. The hands of a worker.
"Think about things before you start wars."
"The problem is I did think about things."
It is up to Arthur to start things; he sets his bag down and looks at Alfred levelly in the eyes while taking off his well tailored overcoat. Arthur follows, taking off his hat and motioning for England to come to the bedroom.
It's strange, being in there. Arthur wonders for a moment who tucks Alfred in at night before realising no one does. He is a big boy now.
Now it is the trousers turn to be unbuttoned and slid out of. There is no time to feel shame before Alfred pushes him on the bed. The mattress squeaking in response.
"I want you, England."
"You're just a child. You don't know what you want yet."
Arthur of course doesn't give up that easily. He slides on top of Alfred, until he is balancing his weight on the toned chest of a certain American. His knees dig into Alfred's sides, warming up on the beautiful skin. The hot redness dances through his body and soon England is blushing.
"I'm not a child."
"Prove it."
Alfred quickly leans up to kiss England, who in turn stares wide-eyed and shocked.
You don't kiss in these sorts of things. You assert your power and hope to win. Hope to get the better deal out of the situation.
The kiss doesn't stop, simply goes lower until Arthur feels his jaw line being attacked by the wet warmness of a greedy mouth.
With the distraction, Alfred rolls over so he is on top. England grumbles at the dirty trick.
"I will, and you'll be sorry."
"What could I ever be sorry for?"
He's sorry for everything and for nothing. For giving too much and taking away everything.
He didn't mean to pick favourites. He didn't mean for Alfred to be his only source of joy.
America doesn't care; he is pulling off England's clothes with a feverish pace until it is just a pale angel beneath him. Really, that is how he sees England. All limbs and thin, lightly toned muscles. Heavenly green eyes and thick, masculine eyebrows that show emotion in their position. Inquisitive if up, angrily down, perplexed if tilted inwards.
Time stops; both wonder what it means to the other. It will mean everything.
America's shirt is still on, and England finds a quick remedy for that by lifting the others arms forcefully and pulling the shirt over the others head. It reveals a beautiful and matured stomach, slightly sweaty from excitement.
It is fascinating and new, and means too much. With nothing to hide beneath, their eagerness is easily seen- Arthur's pressed against America's stomach. His face turns red.
Alfred seems unsure what to do next. Maybe he thought it was all a dream up until then.
"Do the stars shine as bright at your house?"
"Even brighter, like jewels decorating the sky."
Arthur fills in the inexperience with his own knowledge. First, it is a touch, low and groan-worthy. He shifts slightly so the positions are changed, and from his spot on top of Alfred he regains control.
He grinds down, smirking even though he feels conflicted on the inside. Alfred groans in appreciation, grabbing England's hips to pull him closer and increase the fiction.
It felt good, so good, especially with Arthur grinning down on him. Alfred doesn't have to close his eyes and picture anyone else. He doesn't have to lie back and think of England. This is England.
But still, they aren't close enough. With a snap of self-restraint he pulls Arthur off of him, and switches their positions once more, the bed used to it, the sheets tangled around their waists but hastily pushed aside.
"Is there anything I can do? Anything I can say to change this?"
"I don't want anything from you anymore, Arthur."
Alfred wants to be inside of Arthur. He wants to feel the older Briton all around himself. He wants to make him scream and pled, but this is not how it works.
This is how it works:
They struggle for a few more moments, both nearly finishing prematurely. Then, reaching a compromise, Alfred grips a firm hand around both members, and with a shaky laughter pumps them both to completion, the warm cum spilling over the sides of his hands. Arthur eyes it with interests, and leans in to taste it- green orbs focused on Alfred while he does.
"I'll wait for you."
"Don't make promises you have no intentions of keeping, it just hurts more."
Arthur doesn't mind the taste; he loves the way Alfred's face turns an aroused and embarrassed dusty pink.
He finishes a few minutes later, Alfred's hand effectively cleaned off.
After an awkward pause of silence, England makes to get up, but an arm reaches out to grab around his stomach and pull him back on the bed.
"Don't leave, Alfred, please, don't leave."
"I have to. I have to be my own person."
The bed is more comfortable this time around. It feels a bit like home and England's eyes ignite again. The first time in years.
The sheets are found again, and pulled around their naked bodies for warmth, though Arthur's skin is still hot to touch.
Arthur doesn't know what to think. Is he supposed to think anything? He doesn't. He smiles and weaves his head between the strong haven of Alfred's arm and bare chest, listening to the heartbeat of someone he used to know so well.
Sleep is almost too easy to find, and the tired murmurs and conversations are pointless and perfect.
"England, can you tell me a story?"
"Always, I'll always have a story for you."
Dreams are pleasant, and of each other. Memories of the past century they spent together. When Alfred was nothing more than a whiny child, a whimsical teen who dreamt of higher skies and brighter sun's.
Alfred's dreams now are of the future. The future for him and the man sleeping between his arms.
He hopes it will be all good, that nothing with hurt anymore. No more little dyings. No more once adored things turning into blazing indifference or hatred.
He wants to love everything he had ever loved, and to want everything he had ever wanted. But greed and nostalgia are different.
"And after this, who will we be?"
"I wish I could tell you."
Morning is different. Arthur is not alone, but he remembers where he is. In America's bed, in America's arms. No, not that at all. In Alfred's arms wrapped so tight he might suffocate.
An eager, shy grin from Alfred snaps him back to reality. Arthur grins and rolls out of bed, declaring that a bath should be drawn.
He ends up needing to wear Alfred's shirt and trousers. The fit almost snuggly around him, loose in the hips- Alfred's growing. He didn't expect such a long trip.
And maybe today he'll sign some papers, but he has a feeling falling in love again will also be on the agenda. Even after all this time, Arthur could never get over someone like Alfred. He was a brother, a friend, an ally, an enemy, and now, maybe, a lover.
"Don't worry, Britain, it will always be you. It can only, always be you."
"Thank you."