I spent a portion of last night thinking of potential future cosplay videos between Sierra and myself as Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland respectively. Since it'll be a long while before we'll be able to actually cosplay together, let alone acquire all the necessities for it, I decided that I'll write it out for now. c: Especially as I wanted to write this for Sierra, and not to mention Nessie isn't feeling well, and so... I always justify everything, don't I? XD;
x.
Title – The Great Fall
Pairing – USUK/UKUS... Really, it's just equal.
Rating – T to be safe.
Summary – It's the 1930s. The United States has been hit hard by the Great Depression, and England finds America's cryptic and cynical demeanour daunting. He always has to talk some sense into the idiot, doesn't he?
x.
Rain cascaded heavily upon the windows, the sound oddly reminiscent of stormy seas, although it lacked the panicked shouts of men trying to reign in the ships. Arthur found himself gazing out of the window absently, hair still plastered to his pallid skin after stumbling inside through the consistent rainfall. Faeries had vanished as of late, rarely appearing to console him, they themselves consumed by rue as they could do little to heal the world's persistent darkness.
"Utterly hopeless," Arthur heard his companion say, and finally lifted his dazed gaze from the swaying foliage and thousands of droplets slipping down the glass. He found himself staring at a crestfallen blond, shoulders hunched beneath his bomber jacket, golden locks falling to hide his face and frame it with shadow; his expression was not to be seen, and he had recently been reluctant to look anyone in the eye.
"What?" the Brit murmured, frowning balefully at the other man, refraining from making irksome comments regarding his abysmal posture. When the younger nation didn't respond, he sniffed irritably, the sound less haughty than it once was, and he was annoyed to discover how forlorn he himself sounded. Whilst Alfred was looking defeated and sheepish and remorseful, Arthur sounded it. As it was, the American sounded apathetic, but the guilt shone in his eyes, as obvious as a falling star.
"Everything," Alfred finally muttered, and then inhaled slowly, deliberately. He clenched and unclenched his fists before sighing quietly. "I'm useless." His voice was something in between a whisper and a hiss, his trembling fists displaying his self-loathing rage and his lowered head making his distraught anguish evident.
"Don't be stupid," the older man chastised, snapping almost. He was, as reluctant as he might have been to admit it, deeply concerned for the other nation; his once lively oceanic blue eyes were devoid of so much nowadays, his stoicism only combated by his frequent sighs that he thought nobody noticed. Arthur always heard them, counted them, and tried to suppress his growing worry and distress. Truly, he... he cared for Alfred; at least enough to not want the overgrown prat to destroy himself, but that was precisely what he was doing.
"I'm killing the world," Alfred mumbled quietly, voice rumbling with suppressed anguish. He swallowed thickly, and Arthur wished that he was able to just envelop him into a gentle but protective embrace as he would have done centuries ago. He couldn't now. He simply couldn't, and he abhorred himself for his excessive pride that restrained him from being honest in any form. "I'm dragging everyone down to hell. You're sick too, aren't you? The world's dying, and it's all because of me."
Arthur's eyes widened, astonishment washing over him and forcing him into stillness as if he had witnessed something mortifying. He stood stiffly, movements robotic and body tense as he approached the American, and stood before him. Once, he may have had appeared imposing and intimidating; now, Alfred's head, even when ducked, was parallel with his torso, and he felt small and insignificant as he had done on that faithful day. He knew he had to stop comparing this Alfred to the one from back then though. This Alfred was a man, not his darling boy. "You're not hopeless," he muttered with a frown, agitated that Alfred refused to look at him. "You simply aren't allowing yourself to have faith."
"Faith?" Alfred repeated softly before barking out an incredulous snort, shaking his head. "Never had it."
"Liar," Arthur snapped, pent up fury washing over him, heat shooting through his veins like electricity as he clenched his own fists, nails digging sharply into his pale hands. "What about that 'liberty and justice for all' you spout so often? Although I may have rebuked you for its nonsensical nature, it was... I was merely being my pessimistic self. It's a... an admittedly rather admirable feat that you've accomplished already."
Alfred remained silent for a prolonged moment, the discerningly loud sound of the grandfather clock ticking as seconds past by, flew by as time itself must have been chortling at their expense, until the American finally heaved yet a sigh, leaning back into the sofa and regarding Arthur with a weary gaze. The Briton felt his heartbeat accelerate as if oftentimes did upon receiving Alfred's unrelenting attention, especially with such smouldering azure eyes and that intense frown that he absently wore so frequently as of late. Now, it was for a different reason for the most part; Arthur hated seeing Alfred look so tired, as if the man was just exhausted of life itself, like he wanted to give up and fall asleep forever.
"Please, England," he murmured breathlessly, words snaking past his lips just barely, sounding more like eloquent sighs than lexis. "Just leave me be."
Arthur winced, recoiling slightly as if he had been physically pained by those words, before he glowered darkly at the younger nation, green eyes venomous instead of mellow, indicative more of acid than foliage. "No," he hissed angrily, gritting his teeth and puffing out his chest as Alfred levelled him with a scowl that seemed more exasperated by a troublesome child than argumentative with an elder. "You aren't listening to me, America—"
"Don't," he mumbled, blue eyes falling shut again, and he rubbed a large hand over his face, calloused and sun-kissed and strong even in what appeared to be a frail state. "I know you hate me, but I don't want to argue. Not now, England."
And then the heated haze of anger disappeared, replaced only by a cold grip twisting at his heart. Suddenly, his knees felt weak, shudders wracking his frame as sepia toned images of innocent smiles and tiny hands grasping his own, of optimistic words and comforting whispers pressed against his bandaged flesh, and he felt as if invisible but tangible shadowed hands, wiry and icy against his skin, asphyxiated him, strangled him with the nostalgia of ghosts from yester-year, and a haze of black invaded his senses for a long moment as he heard laughter from his memories.
He shuddered and fell to his knees before the American, suppressing a bitter chuckle at how familiar it felt being at his feet, and it seemed voluntary. He truly was a pathetic person and failure as an empire. It was a wonder he still had it, although he was more distant from his colonies nowadays, the only person who he was relatively close to being Matthew, and he... he obviously missed his brother as much as Arthur missed the moron, even if he spent many of his days writing paperwork and forcing himself to stay awake but trying not to think about him.
"Hate you?" Even after his internal reverie combined with painful memories, his words emitted like a gasp, but Alfred still refused to look at him. "How... How dare you—?" He shook his head, unable to even fathom...
"Don't pretend," Alfred mumbled, sounding so dull and blasé that Arthur could feel that previous anger swell up inside of him again.
"Pretend? Alfred... Bloody hell, you really are stupid," he hissed, eyes narrowed. He glared darkly up at Alfred, shoulders shaking with his fury, and he bit out: "Of course I resent you, Alfred, but... hate you?" His gaze softened slightly, just a bit, and if you hadn't known him well, you would have missed how his eyes lost their poison and his slightly pursed lips were parted as if he was sighing silently. Carefully, a pale hand drifted above the American's waist, bony fingers twitching sporadically before gently touching the material covering him. "I know of your scars." He felt Alfred tense. "This one through the middle of you, cutting you into two... It's self-inflicted. From the Civil W—"
A loud slap echoed in the dark room, Arthur's head forcibly flung to the side, damp hair falling in his eyes after droplets flew from the blow. Alfred breathed erratically, eyes suddenly wide and gaze crazed and wild and scared as he glared at Arthur with fear and rage, but the Englishman hardly moved. The ticking of the clock resumed after the loud smack, and the only light that filled the room was the occasional flicker of street lamps being lit.
"The Civil War," Arthur finally continued, voice subdued, gentle and almost kind, but not condescending, "left a horrible physical scar and dozens of mental ones that leave you gasping awake, drenched in sweat and shaking in absolute terror..." He finally looked up, cheek blazing red where he had been hit, and he regarded Alfred a stern but soothing look. "We acquire many scars throughout our history, and the tale of time healing all wounds is a fairytale. It will always hurt. You will wake up and look in the mirror and see the memories flash in your eyes, try to hide your scars whenever you're in the company of others, and even from yourself."
Alfred wanted to look away, the words daunting and confirming his fears that he would live in everlasting anxiety and anguish, but those beautiful emerald eyes reminded him of so much happiness. They were like a beacon in a storm, a tiny semblance of hope in an otherwise bleak world.
"But do you know what scars truly are?" Arthur asked softly, voice far more gentle than Alfred had heard in a long time, reminiscent of when he would whisper words of consolation when he protected the American from monsters of his mind as a child. "Testaments to your strength, Alfred. Stories of hardships you have overcome." His hand slid off of the American's waist and rose to cautiously touch his shoulder. Alfred could feel it trembling even as it hovered above him. "As we gain more scars, we also possess more tales of how we have remained strong through our difficulties. Even when it feels as if all you wish to do is disappear, be forgotten, vanish completely because you're of no use to anyone; you know you're falling," he whispered, eyes flashing and darkening with some sort of resignation. "But you won't. You won't fall because I refuse to allow all my time to go to waste. I know you're stronger than that. And, I...
I can't believe you'd think I hate you." His own eyes fell shut now, brows knitted together as his lashes fluttered above ashen flesh, and he looked pained. "Admittedly, I still harbour some resentment for you. I might forever remain substantially bitter because I... I thought I'd done everything for you." He swallowed, neck straining as he felt his throat constrict with emotions, but he breathed out shakily and squeezed the American's shoulder. "I was... angry," he admitted. "I thought I'd been protecting you and you hadn't appreciated my efforts... but I suppose... somewhere along the line, that protectiveness transformed into a more sinister possessiveness fuelled both by greed and my... care... for you." It sounded almost as if he choked on that word.
His eyes snapped open immediately when he felt a warm finger brush over his cheek. He stared up at Alfred, wide-eyed and bewildered, before the younger nation retracted his hand just slightly, a tear clinging to his skin. Arthur inhaled sharply, shocked, and lifted a hand to rub at his face, only for his thin wrist to be caught by Alfred's strong hand, the grip tight enough to prevent him from moving, but loose enough not to hurt. He glowered, using irritation to disguise his vulnerability, feeling unusually exposed when he met Alfred's eyes, with the other man gazing down at him almost in appraisal, blue eyes less emotionless than before. He didn't want to think about it.
His breath caught in his throat as Alfred leaned down towards him, and he tensed again when he felt warm breath ghost across his lips, the temperature comforting after he had spent so long out in the rain. He felt frozen, torn between disquietly pulling away and abandoning all pretences and leaning in, submitting to unconscious wishes and acquiescing to the whispers in his dreams that told him to give himself to Alfred wholly. He stayed still, eyes iridescent as he subconsciously shook, unsure of what to do for once, whilst cobalt eyes bore into his own, a deep frown marring his beautiful features. Their lips barely brushed, delicately and deliberately, and then the grip on wrist went slack, and his arm fell into his lap as he stared at Alfred.
"Al—" he began, only to be cut off abruptly.
"It's getting late," the American muttered, looking away after that odd moment, and Arthur felt his heart plummet. Those undetectable hands constricting his breathing vanished and he breathed in deeply, but his head didn't feel any clearer; an ache in his chest was palpable as it thumped periodically, blood rushing hurriedly through his veins as his lips tingled and his hands quivered with agitated and unnerved excitement and disappointment. "We should get some sleep."
He was avoiding his gaze, Arthur realised belatedly, and felt his blood run cold. The pain in his cheek became prominent, as well as the stinging of his eyes, and he rose to his feet slowly, arms held tightly by his sides. "Fine," he spat, all gentleness seemingly having dissipated. "Then please excuse me. I'll be going first." With that, he turned abruptly on his heel, whirling around and ascending the stairs, not once looking back. He slammed the door to his bedroom and leaned against his heavily as he felt more tears rise up in his eyes, chest aching and throat hurting as he covered his mouth with his hand, forcing back sobs. "Goddamn you, Alfred..."
Downstairs, unbeknownst to Arthur, Alfred hung his head in his hands, thinking the same thing.
x.
Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Remember, though... the lower you fall, the higher you'll fly.
I'm a big Chuck Palahniuk fan. I wonder if anyone's noticed.
Initially, I only wrote this to post on Tumblr, but since it's being an error-inducing derp at the moment, I'm posting this poignant little drabble here. I can't begin to explain how difficult it was not to reference Of Mice and Men in this. In any case, this is set in the 1930s during the Great Depression. Soon, I'll be writing an AU fic set in the fifties, but in that they'll not be countries, they'll be humans. There's a little twist on it too. ;) ... A few, actually, but you'll see. It's primarily for a friend of mine who goes by the name Raptor-22 on Tumblr.
Anyway, I'm getting distracted. I always digress. I hope you enjoyed this, even if it wasn't all too interesting. It could've been a lot longer, but it was originally only a drabble... I just had an urge to write angst. XD
Be safe, all. xoxo