A/N: This is the thing that based the short-story I sent to a magazine. I just changed the names and shortened the story (Damn 6000 characters limit...). Anyway, sorry if this sucks! I didn't proofread this one, so... Yeah, the grammar kind of failed. And since I've decided to take writing for real, would you guys mind to give me critiques even harsh ones? I mean, I'm the type who won't get it if no one just said it right in front of me directly. So if you don't want me to keep trashing the Hetalia fandom and FFn especially... you might as well help me?
Disclaimer: Hetalia would turn into a sappy romance novel if it was owned by me, lacking the level of AWESOME AWESOMENESS that it has right now.
Warning: Character's death, sappy story, etc, etc.
Their love is as simple as the embarrassed yet warm, tiny smiles that would curl Arthur's lips up whenever Alfred steals a quick peck on the Briton's rosy cheeks. It is the 'good morning's said by gentle, warm squeezes of the hand whenever one wakes up; it is the contented smile on their lips whenever they feel the warmth of the other's bodies; it is the chaste, gentle kisses on the American's lips whenever he tries to say words long forgotten (He knew. Once, a long, long time ago. They were washed away by the tides of time, drowned in a sea of gray, static memories.)
Their love is the brief touches of skin against skin, saying 'I'm here, don't worry' without any words to voice; it is the love and care and damnitIloveyousomuch filling their pairs of azure and emerald eyes up to the very brim; it is the kisses and the touches and the silent words that voices none but conveys all.
Their love is silence.
Silence is their love.
'But how-', the florist pondered as his fingers danced on the red-tipped flower buds the greengrocer has ordered; '-can they live so happily-', asked the merchant to his vase of chrysanthemums on the glittering glass display in a lazy afternoon; '-so perfectly in harmony-', the mechanic thought to himself as he fixed the merchant's computer back into shape; '-when they cannot even hear each other's loving words?', the greengrocer wondered as he weighed the oranges the butcher has bought for a planned dinner.
None of them asked and none of them will ever hear the answer from their mouths. Because Alfred would hear no questions, and no words would leave Arthur's lips.
But there are words that Alfred is dying to say (They are words long, long forgotten. Words lost in a sea of static, gray memories. He heard them a lot, a long time ago. Spoken by faces he cannot remember, in gentle voices that falls mute as time goes by). Words that he can no longer hear and Arthur can no longer voice. That's why he wants to say it, those words. He wants to say it for their share, and Arthur to hear them for the both of them. But he cannot remember. He can no longer say those words. And because he cannot hear those words, he cannot hear them leaving his lips either. Has he said it right this time? How should he pronounce it? Has Arthur heard them?
Even though he parts his lips open, even though he can feel the warm air leaving his windpipes, blowing through his chapped lips, he doesn't know whether he has said it or not. Has he said the right thing?
But Arthur would always stride over to Alfred's spot and catch his lips in a gentle kiss. His pale, slender yet toned arms would snake around Alfred's waist and pull him into a warm hug. Then he would pull back, glassy emerald eyes gazing into his eyes with so much love Alfred's chest feels like it's about to burst with the warmth filling him, beautiful lips curled up into the gentle smile Alfred so much love.
And then the both of them would laugh. Started off with silent giggles, then silent laughs. And it would not matter. Because what is important is the red tinge on their cheeks and the broken laugh that would shake their body, paint such joyful expression on each other's handsome faces, send them doubling over in laughter.
They don't need to hear when they know. As long as the other is there, it will all be okay.
They live in a tiny apartment room on the outskirt, far from the hustle bustle of the city. With cream-painted walls as silent as they are (They painted it themselves. Arthur insisted that patterned wallpapers would be best, but Alfred retaliated by pointing at the super heroes and space-themed wallpapers while giving him the best puppy eyes he has. But Arthur remained strong, mostly because he dreads the thought of living in an apartment with walls displaying pictures of men and women in tight spandex. So after weeks long of battles and exasperating the store owner, they finally decided to just pain the walls cream), Victorian furnitures filling every rooms (Arthur always seemed to be extremely fond of antiques. Alfred thought that it's because he is an old man―Arthur is 23 and Alfred is only 19―but Arthur one day caught what his grin meant. His face reddened in anger―much to the American's delight―and he proceeded to sulk all day at the younger man. His plan failed, however, as Alfred offered him a share of his beloved burger which he usually never shares with anyone. Even though the frown that seems to be craved there permanently deepened, the delighted blush on his face kind of gave the look away. The sulking at that time still didn't teach the American any lesson, though. He still gave the Briton a broken laugh when he decorated the furnitures with his own hand-made laced clothes and pillows), and wooden bookshelves filled with thousands of books and comics (Arthur is a writer and Alfred is a comic book illustrator—It's a given that they would have tons of books in their home. Arthur used to glare at the American because he thought that the comic books are stealing his books' space, while Alfred does the same to him because he always thought that it is annoying how he sometimes mistakes his awesome-sauce comic books for Arthur's boring ones. Alfred then made an extra bookshelf, Arthur serving him tea—which he spats out and Arthur ended up drinking on his own while watching him did the work. The right side belongs to Arthur, and Alfred the left. Comic books are wrapped in the awesomely heroic blue and red shiny papers while Arthur's books green).
Their day usually starts rather late since the both of them work at home. Arthur usually wakes up earlier than Alfred does, but there are rare moments where Alfred actually manages to wake up earlier despite the hours of game-playing he spends in front of both the TV and the computer. They would laze around for a few minutes, relishing in the warmth of each other's bodies and the golden sunlight filtering through the slightly opened curtain. But then they would wake up lazily, dragging their bodies to the shower to wash and dress up (Alfred used to smirk mockingly at Arthur's choice of clothes, a vest and a collared shirt. Still do, actually. Then Arthur would just counter with frowns and gentle shakes of the head at his 'dirty, ugly, inappropriate' baggy shirt—sometimes with a hoodie or his trademark leather bomber jacket—and jeans). And then Arthur would cook them breakfast, forcing Alfred to gulp down the charred black things Arthur calls food(At these times, Alfred can't help but to be glad for his incapability of speaking coherently. He knows what kind of insult he will surely throw at the Englishman if he can).
Then they would spend their day together. Shopping when the food supplies are running out, working in their study (They have organized their room so that their backs can touch each other's when they are sitting on their chairs), reading together (Alfred would lay down on the carpeted floor while Arthur sits on the Victorian armchair. Then he would occasionally roll over so that he can touch Arthur's soft feet, rewarded by an embarrassed scowl and the light blush spreading across the Briton's cheeks), and drinking tea (now, this one is an action reserved for Arthur only. Alfred would never, ever touch the amber liquid no matter how much his lover stabs him with dirty looks. He's just too awesome for that. A mug of hot coffee would be enough, thank you).
But sometimes, although it rarely occurs, Arthur would have to leave their apartment for a day or two because of his job. While their editor has no problem with visiting to take their works, sometimes Arthur needs to attend the launching of his books (Alfred is not the main comic writer. He just sometimes illustrates the cover for some books and posters, so it doesn't matter much even if he refuses to attend those events. But he still has deadlines, and sometimes it clashes with Arthur's launching day). Alfred then would order burgers and carry all his work supplies and snacks to the pillowed spot near the window. He then would spend his whole day there, never leaving the spot. Because that way he can still see the shadows of his lover beside him, sitting on the hand-made pillows while he knits and read all day.
If he doesn't, then the silence would start whispering at him. The silence would drape itself on the American's shoulders. Heavy, suffocating him. And he would have to go through the day with dread settling itself on the pit of his stomach, the whispers of silence keeps reminding him over and over again.
He's alone.
(After all, Arthur is his ears and Alfred his words. You can't take one without the other.)
But at that day, Arthur was home with him. Arthur was smiling and frowning and glaring all day like he usually does. And he dreads it so much, the fact that Arthur—His lover, his ears, his entire world—was home with him that day. But maybe it was fated, that he would leave no matter where he was at the time. Alfred wishes he could fight fate. He wishes he could fight tooth and nail for his beloved lover, for his reason and his spirit.
No, he couldn't and he knows that.
They were sitting on their chairs, working. Alfred's deadline was due two days from then, so Arthur decided to accompany him even though his own deadline is still two months away. The day was growing late and the sun started to move upward. Alfred could feel Arthur getting up and tapping his broad shoulders gently to take his attention. He turns his head, azure meeting a pair of bright, gentle emerald. The older man pointed at the empty mug on his desk, then at the door. Grinning, the American nodded in thanks to be replied by an equally sweet smile. The Briton got up and left the room to make another cup of coffee. Alfred looked at the clock, it showed 1:00 pm. 'I've been staying all night, maybe a quick nap won't hurt', he thought as he threw his head onto the wooden desk.
If only Alfred stayed up just a bit longer, if only Alfred didn't stay up all night, if only he didn't let Arthur make him another cup of coffee, if only he can hear, if only his parents didn't throw him to the orphanage 18 years ago until he's forced to give up school and work as a comic illustrator, if only, if only, if only…
But it happened.
And it was more than a few hours later when he woke up. 10 hours. He has slept for 10 hours. He looked up, bleary and sleepy eyes glancing around the desk. There are no coffee mugs. Alfred was confused, but he thought that perhaps Arthur has decided to pour them down the sink and just make Alfred a new one when he wakes up. So Alfred got up and stumbled around to the kitchen, expecting to see Arthur in his apron with back facing him so that Alfred can sneak around and surprise him from behind (Although he usually fails. He can't hear himself, so he can never be too sure when he has been making much noises or not).
He let out a broken scream.
The kitchen was a mess. There were heavy dents on the walls, scratches on floor and dented pots as if they have been thrown around to hit the said walls and floor. Jars made of glass were broken, the insides were scattered and spilled on the white floor (Honey, maple syrup, pepper, cinnamons, chilli, and lots of other ingredients. Eggs were broken and milk has been spilled).The old, huge cabinet made of fine wood seemed to have fallen down from its broken, old screws. And lying under it was a lifeless body in a pool of crimson.
Arthur. Arthur. ArthurArthurArthur.
Alfred fell down on his knees (When had he fallen down? A year ago? A second ago? It felt like forever. He may as well have been on his knees since he was born), muscled hands supporting and dragging his body desperately to where his special person laid. The shards of glass cut his hands like it stabbed Arthur's skin, white shirt dirtied by the spilt ingredients all over the white floor. His shaking hands grabbed his lover's scratched hand and pressed it to his chest (No, no, don'tleavemeplease. Not alone. Not here. Don't go. Stay. Stay with me).
Hot tears rolled down his tanned cheeks and he laughed. He laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. He laughed like there were no tomorrows, laughed like he has never laughed before and will never again laugh in his life (perhaps he will never again. He doesn't even know).
He sobbed.
The silence, it laughed at him.
(He hasn't even said those words yet. The words long, long forgotten. Washed away by the tides of time, swallowed by a sea of static gray memories.)
A/N: Review and be as awesome as Gilbert.