Death often takes a life away when you least expect Him to—especially when the soul was still so young, and the person still had so much potential with his whole life spread out in front of him.
That's why, at first, Arthur refuses to believe the doctor's solemn, grave words as he whispers, "I'm sorry" and walks away without another word. That's why Arthur screams and suddenly hates the doctors for not saving him, and the heavens for taking him away from him too soon. God, it was much too soon.
"Mon cheri, you must calm down," Francis whispers as he holds the Briton close to him. Arthur buries his face into Francis' shirt and cries so loudly he knows that the entire world is probably listening. For once though he doesn't care about such things as pride and dignity because Alfred's gone, gone, gone. And god, if that wasn't a reason to just let go of his pride for once, he didn't know what was.
Arthur vaguely wonders if this is God's punishment for his recent increasing neglect towards Alfred, even though he doesn't believe in such things as gods. But still, is this what he gets for getting so fed up with the American for no reason and continuously yelling and belittling him? Perhaps, is this karma?
Because suddenly, the guilt and shame are mixing terribly with the feelings of despair and longing as he remembers his last, harsh words to Alfred—"What do you want now?"—and he just wishes terribly that if he had Alfred back, he would never, ever yell at him like that again.
And Arthur realizes that he's been taking his boyfriend for granted for far too long, despite Alfred's attempts to please him at any way he could.
And that's what Arthur hates the most—the fact that he'll never be able to return those things to Alfred.
"Mooorning, Artie!" Alfred exclaimed in a singsong voice as he threw open the windows and jumped onto their master bed. The blonde hovered right over the Briton, smiling brightly as he tried to pull down the covers.
Arthur grumbled incoherently as he swatted the American's hands away.
Chuckling, Alfred said, "Come on, you don't wanna be late to work again, do you? Besides I made toast and eggs with your favorite, Earl Gray Tea! Aren't I amazing? Don't you just love me?"
Arthur finally opened his eyes a tad bit and focused on Alfred. "Hnngh… can you bring them to my bed?"
"No can do!" Alfred responded chirpily as he jumped off the bed while quickly tearing the covers away from Arthur.
The Briton immediately shivered and sat up in his bed as he sent the American a death glare. "Bloody hell, Alfred!" he hissed. "I'm cold!"
"That's why you should get dressed! Come downstairs afterwards, okay?" Winking, Alfred then whistled as he exited the master bedroom.
Irritated, Arthur grumbled under his breath, but nonetheless still got up from the bed and washed up. Afterwards, he dressed into clean slacks with the usual suit and tie and turned to his mirror. He frowned at his reflection as he then tried to run a comb through his tangled hair, but the effort was in vain as it continued to stick out in all different directions as always. Sighing, he tossed the comb aside instead then and exited the bedroom as he descended from the staircase.
Today was Friday, October 15th and Alfred always had Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays off. In the beginning, he actually never woke up early on Fridays to make Arthur breakfast and even pack him lunch like a housewife would do, but recently he began to do so. At first, this perplexed Arthur since Alfred never, ever woke up early unless the Briton practically forced him to by bribing him with the promise of burgers. But for a while now, Alfred had religiously woken up extra early on Fridays to make the two breakfast and send him off with a packed lunch always made with love and care.
Arthur never really asked him why he started this though. He had joked about it briefly from time to time, but Alfred would always grin goofily back and say nothing.
Eventually, the roles switched even on other workdays, as soon it was Alfred who was waking Arthur up for work, instead of the other way around.
Arthur sighed as he plopped down in his seat and immediately sipped his tea. He took the morning paper that was folded neatly on the dining table conveniently, opened it and began to read it.
Silence consumed the dining room, though that was nothing out of the ordinary for the two now for recently the pair have been talking less and less to each other, which suited Arthur just fine.
Much to the Briton's annoyance though, Alfred suddenly cleared his throat, obviously wanting his attention.
Rolling his eyes, Arthur lowered the paper a tad bit and raised a rather prominent eyebrow towards the American's direction, signaling him to go on with whatever he wanted to say.
Alfred actually looked a little… bashful, which Arthur didn't think was possible coming from the American. He stared down at his untouched plate and bit his lower lip. "Listen, Artie… I-I feel like we haven't been really… um, spending time with each other much…" He finally met Arthur's gaze and continued, "Sooo… I reserved a fancy dinner for the two of us tonight! How's that?" He looked at him with such hope like a puppy wagging his tail and asking for food from his owner.
The very thought made Arthur a little sick as he avoided the American's eyes and turned back to his paper.
"Sorry, I already have plans for tonight."
A pause.
"Can't… can't you cancel them?"
Arthur immediately lowered the paper once more and shot Alfred a scowl. "It's a business dinner, Alfred. I can't just cancel them! They're important, for God's sake."
"…But we're important too."
"…What?"
"Look, Artie, I don't know, but… things just don't feel the same anymore. I-I feel like you're avoiding me!"
A moment of stunned silence passed by, when Arthur finally tossed the paper back on the table and sighed out in exasperation. "I'm just busy with work, that's all! Why can't you understand that, you git? Sometimes I feel like you're a little kid, always needing my bloody attention!"
"I can understand that! I understand that you're busy and all, but so am I, and yet I still set aside time for you! I don't always need your attention, Artie, but… but I'd sure like to have your attention sometimes at least. Sometimes I feel like I'm talking to a wall, okay? You're just… you're not the same anymore!" Alfred finally snapped as he furrowed his eyebrows at Arthur.
Glaring equally back, Arthur stood up and sarcastically clapped his hands. "Oh bravo! Thank you for being such a brilliant boyfriend, Alfred—"
"That's not what I mea—!"
"—If you're finding my company oh so boring now then, why don't you find some new partner?"
"Will you stop twisting my words?" Alfred shouted as he stood up too while slamming his hands down on the table.
A thick, tense silence filled the dining room as the two glared darkly at each other. After a while though, Arthur's eyes softened and he allowed his stiff shoulders to relax. He glanced down at the ground and sighed out heavily.
"Look, Alfred…" he began, his voice softening, "I'm… I'm sorry for snapping at you like that, but… it's just that, well…" He struggled to find the words as he bit his lower lip and stared up awkwardly at the ceiling. "…Work hasn't exactly been going too well, alright?" He glanced back at Alfred with soft, apologetic eyes. "I promise we will spend some time together, but until then—"
"Listen to yourself!" Alfred interrupted, scowling as he clenched his fists. "You've been saying the same thing for the past four months! And you won't even tell me what's going on! You're deliberately avoiding me! Why are you doing that, Artie? Do you… do you not love me anymore?"
Arthur's eyes widened before he glared back as well. "Won't you listen to yourself? Things don't get easier just like that, you bloody wanker! I can't believe you're—you're skeptical about my feelings for you just because apparently I'm not feeding you enough attention for your blasted oversized ego!"
"Arth—"
"Save it! I'm going now," Arthur snapped as he turned his heel, grabbed his briefcase and stormed out of the dining room.
"Arthur, wait!" Alfred called as he quickly caught up with him and grabbed his arm.
"What do you want now?" he snapped as he turned and glared.
Alfred's cerulean eyes widened, hurt and hopeless, as he swallowed and softly said, "You… you forgot this." He handed a brown paper bag to Arthur, and he immediately knew that it was his packed lunch.
Arthur took the bag without giving the American a second glance or another word, turned his heel, and left the house.
It wasn't until an hour and a half later when Arthur received a call from the hospital, informing him that a drunk driver had just hit his boyfriend in a severe car accident.
Alfred…
As Arthur begins to open his eyes, blinking away the last sunrays streaming through the periwinkle curtains, he realizes that his eyes are swollen and puffy. They're probably red too, from all that sobbing he did just a few hours before.
He feels his heart sink at this as he realizes that everything was not some nightmare, but rather a reality. He's lying in Francis' bed, awaking at dusk, and he'll never see Alfred's face again.
The very realization makes Arthur pull his covers over his head and shut his eyes tightly. Maybe he can sleep his life away—until death approaches and then he'll meet Alfred again. The mere thought seems quite rational to the Briton at that moment as he wills himself to sleep, but of course sleep doesn't come and he knows he's fully awake.
After a moment of pause, Arthur finally pulls the covers back down and stares up at the ceiling, trying hard not to cry or think of Alfred. The former is surprisingly easy—perhaps he's cried so much, he has no more tears to shed—but the latter is infinitely difficult as his mind can't help but drift back to his last horrible conversation with the boy, along with snapshots of Alfred's smile, and other snapshots of memories tangled together with their laughter and their petty arguments and everything.
Arthur feels the tears threatening to spill, and finally wipes them away with the sleeve of his shirt—okay so perhaps he still hasn't run out of tears yet—as he finally sits up and kicks the blankets away. He decides to then look for Francis and exits the bedroom.
Arthur slowly descends from the staircase as he hears Francis' distant voice growing closer and closer. He soon realizes that he's on phone, and so he halts when he reaches the fifth to the last step and listens.
"Oui… The driver was drunk… I-I'm very sorry, Matthew…"
Arthur's heart stops.
Matthew. Matthew, Alfred's younger brother who's only apart by an year.
Arthur takes hold of the banister to keep himself steady as he uses his other hand to rub his forehead, where a bad migraine if forming.
"Okay… I understand… Do not worry about that, Matthew, there is plenty of room here… Oui, Arthur is here too… Alright, I will tell him that… Okay, goodbye Matthew."
Arthur can hear him close the phone and finally, after a moment of pause, he continues to step down the staircase.
As he reaches the bottom, he slowly trudges to the living room where Francis is sitting on the sofa, hunched over, with his face buried in his hands. He looks pathetic and pitiful, but it's nothing compared to what Arthur probably looked at the hospital, screaming and crying hysterically.
He swallows awkwardly before clearing his throat. "Francis…" His voice sounds hoarse and it cracks, like he hasn't drunk any water for days or hasn't spoken for weeks.
Francis immediately looks up from his hands and turns to the Briton. His eyes widen slightly before he instantly stands up from the sofa and takes quick, long strides over to Arthur, pulling him into an embrace. That's the second time they ever held each other—the first being earlier that day when Arthur literally clung onto him and sobbed hysterically. And this time, Arthur doesn't bother to push him away either. He doesn't do anything to encourage the hug either though.
"Arthur," he whispers, blatant worry slipping from his voice. "Did… did you sleep alright?"
Arthur feels himself nod into Francis' shoulder, and after a moment of pause, he finally says, "Francis, I-I'm going to go back to my own home now."
Francis stiffens at this and pulls the Briton away, his hands still resting on his shoulders though as he frowns at him like a disapproving parent. "Non, I will not allow that, Angleterre." Angleterre, which meant England in French, was one of the many nicknames Francis called Arthur in a joking, teasing manner since oftentimes their relationship mirrored France's and Britain's history together perfectly.
"You stay right here, okay? Besides… Matthew will be coming soon. He's now going to take the next plane here. Also, he's asked me to tell you that he's very sorry about what happened and he hopes to speak with you."
Arthur swallows again and sighs as he pushes Francis' hands away from his shoulders. He avoids his eyes as he repeats, "I'm going back home, Francis… I-I'll come in time when Matthew comes…" He trails off as he finally turns his heel and steps over to the doorway.
"Arthur…"
He stops, indicating that he's listening.
"Promise me you won't do anything reckless..."
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I won't," he responds half-heartedly, though he's not sure if he even believes himself. "You worry too much, Francis."
And without another word, he then picks up his jacket, pulls his shoes on and leaves the house before Francis can say anything else.
As Arthur strolls through the boulevard, he begins to feel a few drops of rain slipping down his clothes and hair, and soon it's pouring down heavily. With no rainproof gear, Arthur trudges through, weaving through crowds of people as he listens to the silent hush of the rain slapping against the sidewalks and allows it to soak his entire body. He feels refreshed and cold and so awake as he feels the rain seep through his clothes and his hair, that he actually begins to cry but he's not sure anymore if those are his tears or the rain.
Arthur then suddenly stops in the middle of the sidewalk and glances up where the dark heavy clouds have gathered. He manages a weak, bitter smile against the rain and his tears.
Alfred, are you listening?
Arthur stumbles into his house, shivering violently as water drips from him. He makes a trail of puddles of water as he trudges through the house and shakily climbs up the stairs. Shivering the entire way, he then peels his clothes off and throws them in the dryer before drying off and pulling on warmer clothes. Right now, he's much too tired and worn to shower.
Arthur then leans against the doorway, and listens to the deafening silence that's ringing through the entire room. It feels eerily quiet and empty, without the distant sound of Alfred's favorite TV show on, or the aroma of dinner on the stove, or simply even without the sound of his boisterous, hearty laugh… And yet now that he thinks about it, he hasn't heard Alfred laugh in a while.
What's worse is that everything's left just the way it was—with Alfred's favorite old bomber jacket hanging carelessly over his chair; his clothes strewn carelessly on the floor like the slob he is; his books and comic books wide open, sitting patiently on his desk as if he'll come back to them soon; his toothbrush leaning against Arthur's in the cup by the sink; his stuffed alien toy he named Tony sitting on the floor, leaning against Alfred's desk and staring up at Arthur with wide, crimson eyes; and his photos—his photos all perfectly framed and sitting neatly on Alfred's desk. It's probably the only thing that's neat around Alfred's part of the room.
Arthur picks up a photo from his desk and studies it. It's an old picture of the two of them, Arthur and Alfred, with their hands entwined and their smiles so goddamn happy. They're not even looking at the camera, but rather at each other, and they're laughing at something. Arthur doesn't remember what they were laughing at. He doesn't even remember ever taking this photo.
Arthur vaguely wonders who these people are—these two people in these photos, as they look so happy and so in love, god, when was the last time they looked like that? When was the last time they felt like that? He honestly can't remember.
Arthur finally puts down the photo, afraid he'll break down once more if he continues, and begins to sort of blindly trudge to his bed in the darkness that's consuming the bedroom from outside. He then accidentally bumps into the bookshelf, causing several books to fall and collapse onto the floor.
Sighing, Arthur switches the lamp light on that's by the bed and picks up the books as he begins to put them back on the shelf.
He pauses though when he gets to the last book, which is a thick, musty old looking book with a plain suede cover and no title.
He instantly recognizes it.
It's his spell book.
Arthur hasn't tried witchcraft in so long… In fact, perhaps the last time he used it was around three years ago, right before he got together with Alfred, when he tried some stupid trick on Francis as to prank him and get a good laugh. After that, he hadn't really found a reason to use magic. And soon enough, he began to forget he used to do magic.
Arthur brushes the dust away from the book before hesitantly opening it to find fragile, yellowing pages of a variety of spells. Each page is inscribed with a thick black pen, the spells all complicated with many side notes and footnotes, and various illustrations provided.
Then suddenly, as he's leisurely flipping through the pages, a horribly brilliant idea occurs to him. It makes his stomach twist in knots and soon, with trembling fingers, he flips the book to the end and opens it as it immediately opens up to a few hundred pages of all the forbidden spells in the world.
Swallowing, Arthur rapidly flips through the pages backwards until he finally reaches the page he's looking for, and his breath hitches.
Forbidden Spell 102: Reviving the Dead.
Forbidden Spell 102: Reviving the Dead.
Warning: Of course, as all forbidden spells are, this is dangerous, difficult, and most of all, illegal. If caught, you may be sent to wizardry court.
Of course, it is our duty to tell you specifically the dangers of using this spell, as to warn you to allow you to way the pros and cons for the consequences.
Carrying out this spell can cause a lot of disruption and disturbance to Mother Nature as it is going against the natural process of life and death. When using this spell, you may be damned to the deepest pits of Hell once your death approaches. There may be no chance of you ever seeing even a glimpse of Heaven in that way.
Also, this revival of the dead is NOT a permanent thing. A permanent revival spell has still not been discovered to this very day. So the person you wish to revive will only live for a full 24 hours. You will be taken back to the day the person passed away, and you will have that full 24 hours to be with him/her before he/she completely disappears.
On top of that, he/she will NOT remember you. In order to meet this person, you will need to find him/her where you FIRST met him/her and then it is up to you how you will handle their amnesiac situation.
However, you are NOT allowed to tell him/her of what you did, and of what happened. You are NOT allowed to tell him/her that you knew him/her before, etc. You will need to play along as if you do not know him/her too. Otherwise, he/she will grow very agitated and disturbed and will probably go insane from this truth. He/she will eventually disappear before the full 24 hours is up, and your chance with this person will be forever gone. But this revived person may have triggers of memories and may vaguely remember you or this place, and have a sense of déjà vu, but he/she will not be able to exactly place his/her finger on it. You are not to encourage this, but to merely lie and steer the topic elsewhere.
That brings us to another warning: You MAY continuously carry out this spell in order to be with this person forever even if he/she will never remember you the next time. Take note though that even if you're forever trapped in that one date that person passed away, you will still age and soon your entire life will be gone. This has become a tragic addiction to many, many people as they have wasted their entire lives on a single person and on a single date. This may also drive people insane. Having one day with a revived person is enough of an addiction to drive people to redo the spell, and the second time is suicide.
If you are still willing to carry out this dangerous spell though, please continue reading below.
The clock ticks midnight as Arthur finally finishes drawing the complicated spiritual circle around himself, along with the complicated foreign spell written inside it. He then lays locks of Alfred's hair he found in his comb right at the center of the circle before stepping outside of it.
Arthur then picks up the spell book, and turns to the revival of the dead spell right at the bottom of the page. He swallows and heaves in a deep breath.
"Promise me you won't do anything reckless," Francis' strained, concerned voice rings through his mind. He purses his lips as his grip tightens around the book, Francis' desperate words and eyes just flashing through his mind.
And for a moment, Arthur does hesitate. He wonders if this is right (of course it's not), but is it worth it? Is it worth the risk? And he realizes, yes. It is. It'd be worth it even if they asked for my arms and legs. Because he doesn't know how he will be able to sleep peacefully anymore knowing that he never had that one goddamn chance with Alfred to say everything he needed and give back everything he's given him.
He then swallows, and manages a humorless smile as he silently apologizes to Francis for breaking their promise.
And then, he begins to chant the spell, his tongue twisting in the foreign language, as he tastes the strange, uneven words against his tongue.
Soon, the spiritual circle lights up as it illuminates the entire basement. A gentle breeze picks up before the wind grows faster and harder, making Arthur's hair and clothes whip around as he begins to strain his voice, trying to talk over the wind.
And then, the floor begins to move under his feet and he feels the walls closing in. Bits of the ceilings fall, crashing onto the floor before finally the floor opens up, right in the middle of the circle. He gasps as he finds himself plummeting right through the cracks, falling, falling, falling.
Arthur thinks he's screaming, with his mouth opened wide, but he hears nothing escaping his throat as he plummets right through this endless pit of darkness.
And suddenly, he feels himself back on his bed, the scenes shifting as his cell phone suddenly rings impatiently—but not ringing as if it's a call, but rather a ring that indicates he has a new message in his inbox.
Panting, he sits up to see that he's back in his room, and it's broad daylight.
Arthur quickly kicks off his blankets, and grabs his cell phone to find a message from an unknown sender waiting in his inbox.
He opens it, and all the message says is:
8:00 AM, Friday October 15.
He checks the time. It's 8:00 AM, and sure enough, it is the beginning of October 15, the day of Alfred's death.
A/N: Just an fyi, none of my incomplete stories have gone past the first chapter. OTL But that doesn't mean this won't either! I'm going to really, really try and submit a second chapter to this so that I seriously won't have a record of never updating my stories, aghhh.
Ohmygod I seriously dragged this chapter on way too much. I added too much unnecessary details, and I'm really sorry about that. oTL Still debating whether this should be just a PROLOGUE or still chapter one! Ahh, decisions, decisions! I'd like to know your opinion!
Which brings me to: Reviews are much, much love! (Not to mention, they will definitely stimulate a faster, REAL update! /Cough.)