by *gosangoku
"Christmas Eve was a night of song that wrapped itself about you like a shawl. But it warmed more than your body. It warmed your heart... filled it, too, with melody that would last forever."
- Bess Streeter Aldrich
x.
Crackling music slipped through the sepia toned atmosphere, and the notes were almost visible in Arthur's mind. He hummed along to the tune, allowing his emerald eyes to flutter closed and permitting his imagination to reign control and create beautiful images of snowy landscapes, innocent animals sleeping to ward off the cold, and naked trees swaying to their own silent sounds.
He couldn't help but let his mind wonder to lavender eyes, and his grasp on the wooden window sill tightened enough for his nails to dent the wood. He felt splinters probe at his skin and pierce it, but he couldn't feel any pain. His fingers were numb from cold, and his mind was numb from too many conflicting feelings leading to apathy.
France had told him that he and Canada couldn't visit him and America this year... Made up some pathetic excuse about the snow. England had bristled, clenching his fists and allowing his nails to form crescent-shaped indents in his palms, and spat poisonous words at the bastard in a hushed voice so that Canada wouldn't think they were fighting. He didn't want to ruin Christmas for the young ones... That was quite possibly the only thing they agreed on.
After a nearly silent argument, they had agreed that France would have them both for that Christmas... England wasn't sure if he had returned home because of his duties as a nation or because it hurt too much to see them all having such a good time without him.
Cursing the tell-tale tingling sensation in his eyes, he slammed his fists down on the wooden window sill, startling a few stray fairies. They zipped up into the air to avoid being hit, and then regarded him with melancholic stares. They knew... The fairies knew.
He was showered in fairydust, and his tears sparkled like the snow.
x.
Big eyes as blue and as free as the sky regarded him with a concentrated sense of curiosity, and he began to grow uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the innocent colony.
"America, is something the matter?" he asked briskly, unused to such close inspection, especially from someone like America with his attention problems. Whilst he adored the lad, he wasn't accustomed to being subjected to being examined like this - as if the eerie azure eyes bore into his very being...
"Not at all, England," America replied with a smile, voice slightly congested. England was uncertain as to whether it was a cold from being out in the snow for too long (without his permission!) or because he always sounded ever-so-slightly nasally. He was rather young, after all. "I was jus' wondering..." he began again after a moment's pause, and he tilted his head, eyes still fixated upon England.
"Speak up, America," he advised, licking his lips and shifting his weight from foot to foot before remembering his injuries from who knows what this time and he wisely chose to remain still. "It does no good to dwell on unspoken thoughts."
The younger male's face twitched, scrunching up in confusion at England's too-big choice of words. He always expected America to understand his weird way of speaking... Nonetheless, judging by the stern look gracing the Brit's features, he took the lexis as an invitation (or demand) for him to talk. "I was jus' wondering," he repeated slowly, drawing his words out just to irritate England. He grinned, unrepentant, when one big eyebrow twitched. He grew serious again as he continued, "if you ever get lonely."
Time stopped. The unrelenting winds that seemed to shake the house ceased, the tremours dying suddenly, and his heart stopped beating, yet he could feel his blood rushing through his veins like a broken dam-
Calm down, he told himself, praying to God that he wasn't trembling or gaping or doing something equally as ridiculous and unnecessary. "No," he breathed, and he seemed to force it out. It sounded as if he was choking, and he felt like it. He could feel hands wrapped tight around his throat, laughing cruelly as the invisible hands clenched down. He felt the twisted, macabre grins of the monsters of his mind against his neck, and he shuddered at the image of feral smirks in his mind's eye. "No..."
America stared for a moment longer, and then he smiled his deceptively innocent smile. "All right," he replied, as if nothing of meaning had just occurred. "Now read me a story, okay? And do not fall asleep before me this time!"
x.
"If only I could say that this is the first Christmas I've spent alone," he whispered into his chipped wine bottle, the cracked neck cutting into his lip. He slipped his tongue out to lap at the blood and the wine, the flavours mingling into some bitter sensation that stung his tongue. "Or, at the very least, the first I've spent without... him..."
The only response he received was that of his clock striking twelve o'clock midnight, signifying that it was Christmas day. His lips twisted into a pathetic excuse for a smile, and he listened to Big Ben chiming in the distance, his citizens merrily cheering and exchanging hugs and gifts...
He also felt the agonising pain of his other citizens - the ones who detested Christmas, sleeping in gutters and being able to hold only bottles of forgetful substances to comfort them, hopeless people leaning against the bridge and staring down with blank eyes and trying to find the motivation to actually jump...
He curled up, sniffling and holding himself together. The pleas of the fairies to unfold himself and let them spell away his tears went unheard, and the forgotten little specs of light sighed melodious sighs and flew up onto the mantle piece, seated beside pictures of England and America from yester-year.
"'M so lonely," he mumbled, words slurring together due to his state of intoxication, but only slightly. The fairies still heard his poignant words, and they watched, hopeless, as their friend fell apart before their eyes. "I am so alone..."
x.
Running... He was running. Where to? What from...? Colours flew past him, blurring together like ink on a page, and he felt as if his story was being written on a typewriter, memories being wiped out by xs being planted over previous thoughts and actions... He was running, but he couldn't feel it, even if his breathing was ragged and a vague sense of panic was surging through his entire being. He could hear a voice... Voices...? They were shouting... screaming... "America!" somebody shouted urgently, and he absently realised that it was his own voice... Why was he so tired...? "America! Where are you? America!" Everything stilled, the colour lapsing into greyscale, and he shivered violently as the temperature plummeted. His breath hitched and he tried to look around, but moving was so difficult... He felt a heavy weight slump over his shoulders, hair tickling his neck and lips brushing against his jaw. A sugary, hoarse voice whispered, "England... I am no longer your younger brother..." What? No. Stop it. Stop it, America. You've already- "I do not need you anymore..." Be quiet. Stop it. End this. It happened already! Stop it! "I hate you, England." No, he never said that... Why was he saying it now? America... Please, don't... "Goodnight, England... Happy holidays..." Don't leave me! A silhouette of a figure, steadily growing from a tiny little child into a free, independent adult, was walking away... Don't... leave...
He lurched awake, gasping and clawing at his throat as he stared wide-eyed at nothing and everything - his walls that seemed to be closing in on him and the shadowed reflection of trees forming monsters on his walls. All monsters had green eyes, all monsters had green eyes-
With a shakey hand, he grabbed his phone, jerkily dialling the memorised number and it was two zeros, not one -
It was ringing. He could hear it even if it wasn't held to his ear. He stared down at the phone, feeling it shudder in his hand and hearing the shrill ring that sounded like screaming and he knew what was coming after nine rings.
"Hey! You've reached the inbox of the absoluuutely awesome Alfred F. Jones! I'm probably out performing my heroic duties right now, so leave a message and I'll try to get back to ya."
Of course... He never answered on holidays. Aside from the fourth of July, but England never called on that eventful day.
Unlike England, America was made of stardust and bird feathers - he was born to soar and fly above all heights and break boundaries. England was made of fairydust and pages of old library books that were ruined and torn so very easily. There were more differences between them than their personalities...
He stared ruefully down at a photograph of America and himself from a few decades ago, when the 'Special Relationship' had been established and they were flustered and mortified but hopeful once more.
He tore his gaze away to stare at his freshly bandages hands (He really had to pay more attention. How did he manage to drop his tea cup and then hurt himself on the shards that remained?), willing away any pathetic emotions stirring within him. God, he was such a cry-baby... He cried alone to himself in private frequently, often when remembering the past and frequently for seemingly no reason. Perhaps he was neurotic, but... it always made him feel like crying. The wave of nostalgia that crashed over him and flooded his heart and the memories that tore at his heartstrings like his own daggers... or mustket...
He picked up his phone again in between his cold fingertips, not surprised when there were no messages or returned phone calls. The technological device slipped from his hands and provoked a dull thump when it collided with the floor. Red carpet... the colour of blood... the colour on so many flags... Did they all lust for blood? Did love cease to exist? Cravings were solely for pain, weren't they...?
Sliding out of bed, he stumbled out of his claustrophobia-inducing bedroom and staggered down the hallway, miraculously not falling down the stairs until he reached the last two. He slipped to the floor and grunted, having lost his breath from the short fall. But he yanked himself up on shaking legs and sidled over to the window and, with a half-lidded gaze, he stared out at the cascading snow with a vacant expression.
He began to sing as he made his way out into the snow.
x.
A recorded game from a few weeks ago was playing on the television, the comments, cheers and jeers tuned out by the music blasting into his ears as he skimmed through the songs on his iPod impatiently, not even getting half way through the songs before switching to another. He wasn't listening to the music or watching the game. Rather, he was trapped in his own mind, caged in by others' words and his own thoughts. Numerous voices reverberated through his skull, clashing with others and becoming practically incomprehensible. They were almost inaudible next to the white noise that his mind always tuned into whenever the voices were too much.
Lyrics mingled with voices and thoughts becoming a mangled mess of torturous nonsense.
Was he doomed to be trapped forever? He thought he would be freed once he had... left England. He thought he had evolved from a pathetic little bird into a bald eagle and flew away...
But he hadn't, had he?
He had merely broke the bars of the cage, but he hadn't ever really left, in a way... He remained perched on his ledge, flapping his wings but holding himself back from taking off... But why? Why didn't he fly away as soon as the bars holding him back had fallen?
He was torn out of his reverie by a nameless patriotic song playing from his phone. Abandoning his iPod, he allowed himself to fall into a lying position on the sofa and grabbed the phone that he had dropped into a bowl of popcorn earlier. Without checking who it was, he raised it to his ear and mumbled unenthusiastically, "Hey."
"It's great to year you too, America," his brother clipped dryly, obviously unimpressed by the lethargic greeting. "Glad to know you're in the festive spirit and all that, eh."
The American ran a hand through his hair and heaved a sigh. "Sorry, Canada," he grumbled, tugging at a stubborn knot tangled in his locks. "I was jus' thinking..."
He waited for the sarcastic quip but it never came. Instead, he heard his brother mimic his sigh before prompting, "Thinking about who, America?"
The more extroverted sibling pursed his lips, wondering if he was so predictable or if Canada was just secretly sly. Knowing his brother wouldn't taunt him, he mumbled, "Three guesses who, and the second two don't count."
"I thought so," Canada replied, and America fought the urge to snap, Of course you thought so. It's always him. It's always him but he held his tongue in favour of listening to his brother make frustrated and exasperated sounds over the phone. At least Arthur managed full curse words rather than mumbles, grunts and whispered French. His brother was truly passive aggressive panda... or polar bear. He was getting distracted, and his brother's incessant mumbling wasn't really helping.
"Hey, listen, Canada," he murmured absently, picking at his jeans and vaguely registering that they never had fluff on them when England washed them... "I've gotta go. I'll catch you later, a'ight?"
There was a pause, and they both knew that America wasn't busy at all. "Sure, America," his brother said quietly, and the American immediately felt guilt probe at him, unforgiving as always. Damn it. "I'll talk to you later, eh? Bye for now." He hung up abruptly, not waiting for a response.
Yeah, he was mad.
America sighed, prepared to flip his phone back down, but then realised that he had missed a call. He checked for a voicemail, but it was silent, only the tell-tale sign of a shakey breath giving someone away. Frowning, he checked the number.
He froze.
Arthur...
x.
He hardly knew what words were spilling from his trembling blue lips by now. He was lying in the snow, staring up at the steadily darkening sky, and he wished the stars were out. He had stargazed with America a few times in the past. He was once the teacher of everything, and now the... the man was forever returning to him with new discoveries that plagued his mind at night and kept him up staring at the mystery that was the sky - the mystery that was America...
"If you'll be my star, I'll be your sky... You can hide underneath me and come out at night... When I turn jet black, and you show off your light... I live to let you shine..." He blinked slowly, unable to lift his eyelids back open. Snowflakes coated his eyelashes and somehow he felt so heavy but so light at the same time. "I live... to let... you shine..." Alfred...
x.
"Pick up, Arthur... Pick up..." America whispered pleadingly, drumming his fingers on his steering wheel and glaring darkly at the slow driver in front. Sure, it was snowing, but it wasn't that bad! He cursed violently when the phone directed him to the Brit's voicemail. "Fuck!" he hissed, slamming his hands against the wheel again, and then pressed down on the pedals, following the annoyingly slow driver in front of him. "Damn it, Arthur, please answer the phone... I... I'm worried about you, okay?" he blurted out. He had to admit it, because... damn, he really was fucking worried and Arthur wasn't answering-!
His tires screeched as he turned hastily, narrowly avoiding a collision with another vehicle. He ignored their yelling and hit the accelerator, speeding along down the icy road but with precision and control. He could feel the wheels skidding and serving on the slippery road, but he had control. He just... He felt like he had to get to Arthur...
With a bewildering sense of urgency, he tried ringing him again, once more receiving the dial tone.
Hissing out profane curses, slamming his phone shut and tossing it on to the dashboard in frustration, grip tightening on the steering wheel as he sped furiously down the icy roads. For whatever reason, the elusive Brit's real name proceded to flow through his mind unrelentingly, although he didn't notice the sudden shift from referring to his former caretaker by his real name as opposed to the title of his nation.
Notwithstanding, his mind, inarticulate and jumbled, continued to plague him with thoughts of Arthur.
Why wasn't he answering his phone?
Was he avoiding him?
But he had called him first, hadn't he?
What if he had gotten sad because he hadn't answered immediately? He knew Arthur sulked about things easily, often opting to mope as soon as Alfred's attention was diverted to something over than him. And people called him childish... Nonetheless, it was sort of endearing... He always found himself smiling whenever Arthur started pouting and grousing about Alfred being too preoccupied with his bloody video games and he should pay more attention to his guests. In Arthur-speak, Alfred deduced that he meant, "Pay attention to me already, you git."
Needless to say, he couldn't help but tease him for the unspoken words. It wasn't his fault if Arthur took everything he said to heart...
Then again, he lamented painfully, I can never forget things he says to me... He allowed his teeth to dig into his lips and his fingers tighten on the wheel again, curling his toes inside of his sneakers as past words echoed in his mind. The unspoken words were buried deeper every time, the real feelings hidden by the arguments that they initiated; the cruel words used to disguise the reality underlying all of the insults and jibes.
"I hate you!" I don't know what I'm feeling for you, his mind corrected, but he refused to let the truthful words be reflected. He glowered at Arthur, as if daring him to say it back. Hurt flashed through wide emerald eyes before they narrowed and the owner of the beautiful orbs snarled. Alfred almost wished he had returned the words, because now a strong sense of guilt was bubbling inside of him. Arthur folded his arms tightly, which was somewhat of a defensive mechanism of his, as if he was holding himself together or blocking someone from trying to get too close to him. "You're so childish!" he retorted, voice venomous, and the American grimaced. "You always tell me you want me to view you as my equal, but how can I possibly do that when you resort to such pathetic words?" Alfred bristled, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth and cursing how the other man always knew the things that bothered him the most. They were... They were... maybe-friends, but... at times like this, they felt like enemies again... Arthur was tense and defensive just as he was during the Boston tea party, and he was ready to spring into attack. He always got slightly anxious when they argued, silently praying in the back of his mind that he wouldn't snap and hurt the other man. He was well aware Arthur put up a good fight (He had a few black eyes and bruised ribs in his time to know it very well), but he could fairly easily just render the older nation helpless... He was always worried that would happen. With Russia, he didn't really give a damn if he snapped and injured the other man. The only problem with that would be Arthur's disappointed face if he ended up fighting with the insufferable big-nosed bastard...
Whilst Alfred enjoyed seeing all of Arthur's faces, Disappointed Face was not one of them. He didn't mind Angry Face - Angry Face was someone he could tease, especially when it transformed into Flustered Face. But Disappointed Face was not a face that he could easily throw retorts and justifications back at, only able to stammer half-hearted arguments in his favour and throw childish insults to uphold his wounded honour whilst attempting to avoid the goddamn disillusioned eyes. He could deal with annoyance or even pure fury, but otherwise he found himself totally lost.
Drunk Arthur and Miserable Arthur went hand in hand on many an occasion, although they weren't entirely synonymous. Drunk Arthur was a miniscule, microscopic bit easier to deal with than purely Miserable Arthur. When he was inebriated, he just tended to pass out after crying and ranting and... and hugging Alfred... But when he was just dejected, he remained silent and mumbled dismissals to rare voices of concern and pretended to be okay until he got over whatever it was that was bugging him. And it bugged Alfred that he never found out. He wanted to know what made the older man tick - that's why he almost invited the arguments.
He shook his head swiftly as if to rid himself of layers of dust, reminding himself - a bit belatedly - not to become distracted. He proceded to swerve around a corner, skidding slightly on the ice but not so much that he threatened to slip off the road entirely. The sparse amount of other drivers on the roads cursed at him and grumbled to themselves, although he knew that Arthur's road rage differed greatly from his citizen's - he was passive aggressive for a while before going into a fully fledged rage. Alfred had to restrain him from getting out and wringing another driver's neck before. He almost wished he'd let him... if only for amusement's sake.
He blinked as he found himself slowing to a stop. Frowning, he dropped his eyes to see the stats and pulled a face. He had a full tank, so what the hell was the matter?
He tried to roll the window down, but it was frozen shut. Growling, he kicked the door open and heaved himself out, jogging around the back to inspect any problems, and then cursing violently when he realised the tires had deflated and became stuck in parts of the ice, little sharp daggers of it puncturing them. He allowed another growl to rumble in his throat, tempted to kick the car, but fearing breaking it. Opting for shouting insults at the inanimate object, he glanced up, pulling a face at the cascading snow but trying to feed his optimistic side upon realising that Arthur's house was only a five to ten minute walk from here...
Or run.
x.
He was... numb. He couldn't feel anything or see anything or hear anything; it was all blank. The snow falling on his exposed flesh and clothed body didn't faze him, unable to feel the flakes landing on him. He blinked slowly, eyes feeling incredibly heavy, but somehow feeling like he shouldn't fall asleep.
He parted his lips, prepared to ask the fairies of his whereabouts, but found that he could only allow a whispery sigh escape his numb lips. He tried calling out, but no sound slipped out. He allowed himself to slump back into the blanket of snow, eyes closing slowly. It seemed pointless... It wouldn't matter if he fell asleep...
"...ur..."
Nn...? Did he hear something...?
"...thur..."
It couldn't be though... He might as well ignore it. He was probably just imagining things.
"Ar...thur...!"
The sound was grating on his nerves. He was trying to sleep, and the voice was preventing him from pursuing that hope. He tried to tell the voice to go away, but he couldn't speak. He just curled into himself slightly, shutting his eyes tightly.
"...thur! Arthur! Arthur!"
"Nn..." he moaned softly. "G'... w'..." He inwardly groaned, confused as to why he was unable to formulate two simple words. How tired was he? Had he been drinking or something?
Suddenly, he felt a strange tingling sensation on his side, then his cheeks, his neck, and he tried to squirm away. It tickled... "St...o..." he tried, whining pathetically when he was unable to say it.
"Arthur!" the obnoxious and strangely warm voice exclaimed, relief and worry flooding its tone. "Thank God you're awake," he gasped, and he suddenly felt himself being lifted, and he blinked away the stars that erupted in his vision as gravity shifted. "Jesus fucking Christ, you idiot! Why the hell are you outside-?" he began, only to cut himself off abruptly when an almost unresponsive Arthur squirmed in his hold as if trying to escape. He grimaced, an undescribable feeling that he could almost compare with hurt tugging at him, and he let out a long-suffering sigh. "Let's get you warmed up so you can listen to me when I shout at you," he mumbled, manoeuvring the freezing Brit to lift him in a successful (if slightly shakey) fireman hold.
He jostled Arthur, successfully allowing the older man's head to fall weakly against his shoulder. His thick brows furrowed slightly, but he didn't have the strength to pull away. Serves him right, Alfred thought with conviction, not sure why having the Brit lean against him was a punishment... Ergh, whatever. Arthur owed him a burger too then. He glanced down at the half-asleep face of his former caretaker and felt his features soften and his resolve strengthen.
"And you call me foolish," he whispered, voice uncharacteristically soft as he pulled Arthur closer to him, furrowing his own brows as his eyes stung. "You idiot... Don't you know that... I'm just as scared of losing you as you are of losing me?"
He felt Arthur press his face harder against his shoulder, sighing softly as he pictured the man's crying face in his mind.
x
Warm...
He felt warmth around him and gladly snuggled into it, nuzzling against the soft source and exhaling softly as the warmth tightened its hold on him... and... chuckled...?
"Mmph..." His eyelids flickered and, with a bit of an effort, they fluttered open. He made a noise of discontent at the back of his throat as light invaded his senses, and he clenched his eyes shut again, cuddling closer to the warmth and burying his face into it, once again disrupted by the rumbling laughter it responded with.
If this was the fairies idea of a joke...
He opened his eyes again, glancing up through his messy hair, and stared vacantly at the amused and slightly sheepish blue that gazed back.
He knew he was blusing.
"Good evenin', Arthur," Alfred greeted genially, raising his hand and giving some kind of youthful gesture of peace or whatever. "Nice to see you awake."
He stared at the American blankly, mind slowly processing everything. Oh God, why is he here? Why is he looking at me? How did we get here? Why the bloody fuck is he fucking hugging me? "You called me Arthur," he blurted instead, immediately wanting to slap himself for not reigning control over his tongue.
Alfred blinked several times before offering a sheepish grin, a bit less extroverted and bright than his usual smile. "So I did," he murmured, and Arthur pulled a face at the mysterious tone.
Realising he wasn't going to get much else out of the enigmatic American, he just shook his head. "So then," he began, trying to sit up, "How did we get-?" He cut himself off as his trembling arms collapsed beneath him, leaving him to fall against the younger nation's torso again.
"All right there, Arthur?" Alfred asked, concerned but not urgent. They had been through worse, and they had always told the other not to worry too much when they were injured or sick or in a bad situation. He didn't know about Alfred, but he knew that he always worried on his own despite the pragmatic idiot's reassurring words. "You should take it easy. You were pretty much frozen when I hauled your sorry ass in here," he informed the Brit easily, smirking at Arthur's scowl.
"I'd thank you for... er..." He trailed off, coughing into a fist and glowering, feeling his cheeks heat up, "for saving me." He glared at the cocky lopsided grin on the taller blond man's face. "However, due to your poor choice of words, I'll refrain from expressing any gratitude I may have had." Sniffing haughtily, he turned his nose up, only to hastily turn away and sneeze into his hands, grimacing. "Ergh..." He shifted backwards on the sofa, pouting miserably at the American. "Go get me a tissue unless you want germs," he ordered, facial expression only deepening when Alfred made a show of rolling his eyes and heaving himself up as if it took some great effort on his part.
"Yes, your majesty," he muttered sarcastically, bowing for added effect, and Arthur would have tossed something at his head if not for the germs dominating his hands right now. So he just stuck his tongue out.
Alfred sniggered at him before disappearing through a door to locate tissues, and Arthur slowly felt himself deflate. Eyes dropping to his hands, he bowed his head, millions of thoughts colliding in his head. Why was Alfred here anyway? Why hadn't he just let him... fall asleep? ...Forever?
He hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face in them and drawing a shuddering breath. Stupid America... Stupid Alfred... Why did all his thoughts end up on Alfred? No matter what, it was always Alfred. It was always Alfred...
He paused suddenly as crackly music filtered in through the atmosphere. Something by an American artist... He had so many, so...
"I didn't think you'd still have a record player, Arthur," Alfred breathed suddenly, and Arthur stilled again, shoulders tensing up. "I mean... I still have mine too. So I dunno, I guess I'm glad... I mean..." The babbling stopped, and suddenly Arthur felt a reluctant tugging on his hand. Surprised, he raised his head, meeting deep blue eyes, nameless emotions swirling within their depths and skyrocketing within them. He swallowed as he allowed their fingers to thread together, and he felt himself being lifted off of the ground even before the American whispered, "Dance with me."
And he found himself swaying along to the crackling music, a wave of poignant nostalgia flooding the room and for a moment, a short, bittersweet moment, a younger America's face was smiling back at him, eyes full of innocence that would eventually be flooded with thoughts and feelings that Arthur found himself petrified to discern. Alfred wasn't the oblivious fool most presumed him to be. During the cold war, he slowly began to realise how grown up and how... how manipulative the younger nation could be. But, in contrast with that, during World War II, when he was drowning amidst the smog and agony of bombs in his heart, he recalled the other man holding him, whispering words he couldn't hear to him, voice soothing as he shakily intertwined their hands.
The same hands he had held when he found the small nation amidst a field of untrimmed, free grass... Wide, innocent blue eyes... An unfamiliar smile.
But now, staring back at the unusually sombre face of the same person (No, no, not the same at all, he's a different person now. He's an adult. He's grown up. He's... he's not the same. And right now he's Alfred, not America. There are no masks and this isn't a masquerade. This isn't a dream; it's a nightmarish reality.) he had known from centuries and centuries ago, he just felt something... break.
"You fool," he whispered, leaning forward and burying his face into the American's broad shoulder. "Why are you doing this to me?" For once, you blasted idiot, read the atmosphere. Don't say something stupid...
The strong arms (When did they become so strong?) around him tightened ever-so-slightly, and he was pulled closer to the warmer body, shuddering suddenly, but he blamed it on the cold. "Arthur," the younger man murmured softly, and one of his hands swept over his side and danced over the skin of his neck before snaking under his chin. "Look up."
The Englishman let out a sigh, feeling his cheeks heat up. "What, is there mistletoe-?" he began, only to be cut off abruptly by another set of lips brushing shyly, hopefully, longingly over his own. His lowered eyes flew open, shocked by the action, and he stared in amazement as the American, feeling his cheeks darken further as it set in that Alfred's face was hovering bearly inches away from his own. He swallowed suddenly, grip on the slightly taller man's shoulders tightening, fingers trembling against the worn leather of his prized jacket. His eyes flickered up, and then back again. He licked his lips and averted his eyes. "There..." He cleared his throat, embarrassed about the hitch in his breath. "There's no mistletoe..." he mumbled, emerald eyes glancing back up into azure ones.
Alfred's lips twitched slightly. "I know," he replied, warm breath ghosting over the Brit's lips. Anxiety was flickering within the depths of blue, and he suddenly realised that the other was as nervous as he was. He couldn't help but allow a small smile slip onto his face, and suddenly laughter was bubbling inside of him. It spilled past his lips and the sound of slightly broken laughter joined in with the music, throwing off the rhythm and making it real. Smiling up at the American, he wove his arms up to hover over his cheeks, and then lightly brushed his thumbs over the exposed flesh, as if washing away invisible, unshed tears.
The clock chimed loudly, and they could hear Big Ben ringing in the distance. The music was still flowing, unperturbed by the shift in atmosphere, and they both suddenly grinned at each other, as if unspoken words only they could hear were somehow acknowledged.
"Merry Christmas, Alfred," Arthur whispered, minimising the proximity between them even further.
"Merry Christmas, Arthur."
Their lips met, and the record player stopped.
x.Unwanted consciousness began to formulate, and he could feel himself waking up. Groaning, he buried his face into his pillow, holding it tighter and smiling into it. He heard a soft chuckle followed by a semi-ticklish and very soothing feeling, and belatedly realised that his hair was being played with. Breathing in deeply and inhaling the scent of... of autumn; old books, popery and tea leaves, some kind of spearmint toothpaste and he wondered why he didn't have that after-sex smell. Arthur always smelt(1) of autumn.
His eyes flickered open and he gazed up somnolently at the Englishman, staring fixatedly at him for a prolonged moment, the pale flesh marked by proof of his love (a very prominent one on his neck that would be impossible to hide without a scarf, and he vowed he would give him another lovebite like that in more heated weather), and then nuzzled his head into his lap. "Mornin', Arthur," he murmured, voice husky both due to last night's activities and the following sleep.
Emerald eyes fluttered, slipping away from staring out of the window to the American's face. He offered a shy smile and, if it didn't sound so pathetically sweet, Alfred would have said he had butterflies. The Brit leaned down and he shifted onto his elbows to meet the other man's lips in the middle. Alfred felt cold fingertips hovering above his, and he thread their fingers together, grinning into the kiss. They slowly pulled away, their faces barely an inch apart, and he maintained his beaming smile.
"Good morning, Alfred," Arthur replied belatedly before the American could say something embarrassing. "Merry Christmas," he said, and the younger man noticed that Arthur's face was illuminated by sunlight filtering in through the gaps in the curtains.
"Christmas..." Alfred breathed, and then lied back down with his head in Arthur's lap, smiling lopsidedly and raising his free arm to brush his hand over the other man's flushed cheeks. "An' I'm spending it with you..."
Arthur squeezed his hand almost imperceptibly, eyes glistening with some indiscernable emotions, plagued by thoughts Alfred was too scared to guess.
He squeezed back, smile softening. "I wouldn't want it any other way."
After a moment, Arthur smiled back.
They hadn't said I love you yet, but perhaps some day they would. x.
"The rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting." Originally written for a contest for which the theme was Although perhaps not as modern as that. "Well, why ever not? Kinship resides there in this festive season, and a talented - if perverse - man shall be cooking the dinner. It sounds swell." ...No, he... he would never say something like that. Oh God, it sounds so unbelievably But alas, due to America's and England's mutual awkwardness, grievances and UST post-revolution, accompanied by France's and England's mutual hate-love-hate relationship, England has opted to remain alone in "splendid" isolation. Not so splendid, eh? Oh, dear. I'm turning into Canada. Honestly, although I've been dubbed as England, in real life people forget my name, forget to do things they said they would do for me, forget I'm there, forget me... and I'm passive aggressive. I need some maple syrup and an elk then... (1) Just a grammar note. (Hush, I am taking English Language for my A Levels and subsequently you shall realise I have an obsession with grammar. Whilst I am not very good with it, I still want to explain myself.) This story seems fairly rushed to me. It's because there was a deadline for the contest I initially wrote it for. Now that I might not submit it, it seems incomplete somehow. I added the extra little scene at the bottom (Alfred waking up and having butterflies and generally acting like a smitten school girl) prior to posting it here. I also added this very elongated commentary, and I apologise for that. Perhaps you would like me to go into details? This week, I've undergone two English Language exams commenting on lexis, semantics, pragmatics, phonology, graphology and various other words that mean nothing to you. I'm so tempted to give a written lecture here, but I won't. (I want to be a teacher, so it's fine I'm restraining myself from lecturing. Some day I won't have to. I'll be like Kamijou Hiroki, however. I'll toss books at students when they aren't listening. Heh...) It's Christmas in about a week... I doubt my packages will arrive in time. I sent one to America (my America who lives in America and this explanation is unnecessary because you don't care) and another to Germany but it might be delayed due to the numerous people sending things. Grr. I'm not sure how I feel about Christmas. I used to love it. I'm not religious any more and I do not celebrate any religious events, but I do join in because my family are Catholics. I may not share the ideology, but I wish more people still celebrated religious events for the religion and not the materialistic possessions you're given. I'm so bad at receiving gifts, however - I feel I don't deserve them and I can't open them without feeling guilty. x.o; It sounds stupid. XD; Anyway, aside from that... I'm just going to be worried at Christmas anyway. I just never seem to stop worrying about things! It's so silly. I'm sorry for always rambling in my comments... I get really lonely a lot. Eheh... Sorry. Perdóname, por favor. No sé nada en este momento. Tengo miedo para otros. Ayúdarme. Qué debo hacer? Jaja, lo siento... Hablo espanol, pero solamente un poco, degraciadamente. Ehhh, por qué estoy escribiendo en espanol? Ah... porqué no puedo decir las cosas con sinceridad en Inglés. x.x; Suenda muy estupido... Voy a estar en silencio, lo siento. =w=;; Siento, si usted habla espanol y leer esto. ...Leer o leído? Pienso que es leído. - I'll stop now. Would you forgive me if I wrote a lemon? ...I'm not going to. - What do you like about Christmas, Hannukah, Kwanzaa, or whatever holiday you celebrate? Or don't celebrate, either way. Even if that's the case, is there anything you like about this time of year? I must say, a lot of Christmas films are horrendous. We've been watching them in Literature for the past week or so because we finished a lot of our work and we're ahead of the other Lit group. Terrible movies. XD But it was good since I was doing so much work in my other subjects... But my mock exams have finished now thankfully, so... I can sleep more after tomorrow... =w= Although it also means staying up until 5am to talk to my Am- ...Ambrosia...? N-nice save... Um. Goodbye. Er, happy holidays.
- Louisa May Alcottx.Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.