A/N: Psh. This was to test a new writing style I had an idea of when reading a fanfic the other day. I realize that this may not be the best out there, so do bear with me and give constructive criticism if you wish to.
Disclaimer: Neither APH nor Regret Message by mothy belongs to me. The latter was used as inspiration.
He steps out of the car, the sea breeze deceptively calm and salty. The port is deserted, save for a straggler or two – it is early in the morning, everything tinted in a pale, pale blue. He turns back to lock the car, and with a nod, he heads off.
The walk is short yet fast – is time not supposed to slow down? – soon enough, he reaches the end of the dock. He hears nothing but the waves and the wind; his own heartbeat faint, not there.
Funny, he thought his heart had stopped beating some time ago.
He recalls coming to this port for the first time – back then, another nation had followed. He tilts his head back as if expecting a kiss, and remembers.
"Unhand me at once, Alfred, I have no need for you manhandling me, I can walk perfectly fine on my own. You will not treat me as if I am an invalid – Alfred? Are you even listening?"
They were at one of America's town along his coast – a small sleepy port with most of its cargo now transported by planes. Alfred had brought Arthur here with a grip stronger than necessary; his reasons were unknown, but it was very much in Alfred's best interest to tell him soon.
(Not that Arthur could do a thing, of course – his days of glory and being on top of the world were long past, gone.)
"Alfred," he snapped, patience worn thin and frayed, "I do not appreciate being dragged around as if I am a kite flown about in one of your parks. Why did you bring me here?"
He had turned around, eyes gleaming with something Arthur could not quite identify. "Did you know, Arthur?"
"There's a legend about this place."
The wind picks up, whipping a few strands of hair into his face. He reaches the end of the jetty, treading slowly even though the jetty was made of concrete. He can but will not move faster.
The waves crash into the side of the jetty, their volume almost deafening when coupled with the silence of the morning. He fumbles, takes out a bottle.
Smiles.
Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. "That's quite far-fetched, especially from you." He tugged his arm free from Alfred's grasp, wincing slightly as he gently prodded his wrist. The lad had a terribly strong grip. "I thought you didn't believe in magic?"
"It's not magic," Alfred had countered, "it's a legend. Magic isn't real." He decided not to mention a certain King Arthur.
"And a legend is," the not-a-king Arthur shot back. They stared at each other before Arthur gave in and chuckled. "So what does it say?"
"What?"
"The legend, git."
"Oh." Alfred blinked owlishly at Arthur. "Oh. If you write a wish, put it into a bottle and throw it into the sea, it'll come true." He paused. "If it doesn't break. The bottle, I mean."
"Isn't that littering?"
"Who are you, Germany?" Alfred snorted.
"No, a nation more worried over global warming than you apparently are." Arthur had snarked back.
Alfred laughed.
The bottle feels small.
He had almost gotten one made of plastic – if it breaks, he remembers, if it breaks – before deciding to stick to tradition. He does not know how many times he had written and rewritten with pencils and pens and pencils again.
He does use a cork. Surely he is allowed that.
"You're not serious." Arthur looked on in amusement as Alfred hastily scribbled something down on a scrap of paper and stuffed it into a Coca-Cola bottle.
"Am," Alfred answered. He drew his arm back and lobbed the bottle, wish and all, into the sea. The sun shone off the glass, a star in the light of the day, before it splashed down a few good metres away from them.
They watched as it bobbed about in the expanse of teal waves. "So what did you wish for?" Arthur had asked tentatively. "World peace?"
A shake of his head. "For you to be happy."
There was a pregnant pause. "Git. You don't need a wish for that."
"Huh? Why? Aw man, I thought it was romantic-"
Arthur interrupted. "In that case, it has already been granted." He smiled and slowly clasped Alfred's hand with his own.
The smile returned was blinding.
He carefully drops the bottle into the currents, watching as the waves sweep it about, closer and closer to the horizon. He hears the horizon is three miles away.
He hopes it is enough.
"Aren't you going to wish for anything?" Alfred asked as they strolled back towards the waiting car.
"A bit too late for that, don't you think?" Arthur had replied. "Besides, I'm already happy. You're already happy. You are, right…?"
"I am," he grinned, "I am."
He wonders if two wishes were allowed. He wants to believe they were.
It has been a year since Arthur had disappeared – passed away, Italy tells him, like Grandpa Rome and – since they first came to the port. Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and even Sealand are helping to manage their own affairs along with England's; just barely. France and Portugal are horribly subdued; those once under his colonial rule affected in one way or the other.
He supposes that he should have known, clues and all laid out before him like a deck of poker cards spread out for him to see; but Arthur is, was nothing short of an excellent actor, cracks too few to be found in his mask.
So now he has no Arthur to grant wishes for, he turns to the sea that has always been Arthur's, will always be Arthur's. He prays it will grant his own selfish wish.
Watching as the speck of white among gray waves bobs clear over the horizon, he finally turns to walk back to where he had parked his car, blithely dismissing drops of water as stray sea foam. He gets in, drives away.
(Surely, it will.)
~Epilogue~
"What's this? Did someone litter again? Oh, for heaven's sake – wait, there's something inside…"
A cork was popped off, a rolled-up slip of paper slid out.
"Don't even know why I'm bothering with this… Oh god, this guy is so sappy." A snort of derisive laughter. "What is he, some mourning dolt?"
Verdant green eyes stared solemnly at the message. "Well then, 'Alfred', I hope your message gets across." The small scroll slid back in, the bottle re-corked.
He threw the bottle back into the sea, watching silently as it bobbed away into the horizon.
(To meet you again one day. Alfred.)
A/N: And that's that. I never thought I'll be writing for Hetalia. -fidgets-
Constructive criticisms appreciated. I will (try my best to) reply to reviews.
If you feel confused - italics are in the past. The rest is up to your imagination.
Plenty of plotholes? Plenty. Will I rectify it? Maybe. Do I want to? Definitely. Have a nice day.