First of all, before anyone accuses me of stealing someone else's work, I published two parts of this on the ukcan tumblr (fuckyeahukcan . tumblr . com if you haven't been there yet and if you haven't get your ass over there please). Sometimes I submit ideas I have of stories that may or may not be expanded (sorry for all the teasing and taunting, darlings, I'm actually not such a huge troll).
Also, this is what happens when I start re-watching Disney movies. The Little Mermaid, Pocahontas, Tarzan, and Beauty and the Beast down, so many more to go. -evil laughter- Also, I've been rereading fairy tales and I've always been fascinated by mirrors and some fairytale elements so I was experimenting with this piece.
Oh and so Canada Day is coming up and, more importantly for me, sorry, is the 4th of July (AMERICA DAY FUCK YEAH) so...if I don't publish anything else, this is Canada's bday present. Sorry Alfred, you don't get anything but I will set off fireworks and eat an unnecessary amount of apple pie (its what George Washington would want). Also, no more mochi sex. I just...I was going to do Mochimerica/Mochi!Canada but mochimerica would probably do some fucked up shit to mochi!Canada like grow a barbed penis or a square penis because mochimerica is ALL SHADES OF FUCKED UP. Seriously. I'm horrified. What is this bullshittery? I do not need more nightmare fuel in my life. -cries- I can't even go up a dark staircase by myself.
Right, so, feel free to skip to the story at any point. The inspiration for this was...well...really just mirrors and fairytale stuff. It was actually hard to write. BUT PLEASE. ENJOY IT NONETHELESS.
Warnings: AU, slash, poor attempt to reconcile fairytales and stuff, OOCness, weirdness, hinted incest, attempt at being deep and philosophical
Pairings: Arthur/Matthew, onesided Alfred/Matthew (...at least its there? /shot)
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. You can bring the children out of hiding now. They're safe.
The mirror is an old, rusted thing with tarnished bronze corners coming to dulled point and faintly etched curlicues all about the chipped wood of the border. It's a rectangle, long and wide, not oval with twines and vines of thorns and roses that Arthur suspected his great aunt had found charming in some flea market in the outskirts of London. She gifted it to him on his twentieth birthday with a pinch on the cheek and slightly bland smile.
She was always a little barmy, that one. But she made tea perfectly and adored him, so it was all well and good.
And the mirror, he'll grant, is charming in a way. Arthur isn't a vain man, but he hangs it in his bedroom so he can make sure his tie is straight and that his eyebrows are appropriately brushed. The mirror's polished surface twinkles in the right light and sometimes Arthur thinks it pulses a little when the sun's rays, warm and bright, hit it just right and a multitude of color reflects and refracts off its gleaming façade which contains the entire scope of Arthur's bedroom.
"Mirror, mirror." Arthur says, spurred by some inexplicable urgency one morning that he dismisses as a lark, a quirk of which he is prone. "Show me the fairest of them all."
The mirror is silent, perhaps cross at the silly request, and Arthur laughs faintly, fingertips brushing the outer ridge of its border. His mother, romantic and flighty in the worst ways and prone to fits of fancy as demanded by her stage role (that dominated despite the finest part she could've had—being a beloved mum), had once touched his cheek, birdlike fingers flitting down the childish curve, had told him that he'd find the fairest of them all one day and all he had to do was kiss them awake because, dearest, one must always seal a promise with a kiss.
His mother was also a little barmy. But she was his mother. And that counts for something.
Arthur was raised on fairy tales, on stories of grandeur and heroics and valiant deeds. He was nursed on magic and fell asleep, warm with myth. He dreamt of chivalry and devious monsters and the spilt blood of evil.
He was a little bit of a romantic, but thankfully it was tempered by the cynicism that comes with the loneliness of adulthood and the fact that the most fair of the fair seemed to want nothing to do with him.
But even the Beast found love so there was hope. Hopefully.
Arthur turned his back after finishing his Windsor knot and attempted to fix his mangled sandy hair and, upon knighting it futile, huffed and turned away.
It was then the mirror clattered to the ground.
And Arthur, swearing at the sudden noise that cut through the yolky morning silence, squatted down quickly and grabbed the mirror firmly with two hands. Green eyes scrutinized the surface, finding no imperfections or cracks in the glass and he breathed a sigh of relief and held the mirror to the light.
But it was foggy. Its surface was clouded and stormy, warmth sparking under his touch.
And, then, suddenly, faded and blurred, he could see the outline of someone turning back, glancing towards him with wide eyes. And when the haze clears, there's a sheepishly smiling blond boy and he's looking right through Arthur.
"Sorry." He says, bashfully. "I must not have hung you up properly." And then the world seems to shift and expand and then rapidly narrows back to the mirror and Arthur and this mysterious boy.
Maybe madness runs in the family.
Because Arthur is a little enamored already.
Arthur lives a rather lonely life. His apartment overlooks a quiet back street. The apartment across the hall is empty and the one to the left belongs to a recluse Japanese man and the one to the right belongs to a solemn eyed Dutch man with a sordid past and whom no mother would want near their daughter.
His three older brothers hate him and the youngest is illegitimate and Arthur was the favorite so he's not on speaking terms with his family. His father is dead and his mother is in Bristol and he has too much money so he figures he can squander a few years trying to follow his dreams.
Arthur doesn't really have many friends either. He's a little too brusque, rough around the edges and he is, to be blunt, a dick.
The closest thing he had to a friend was Francis. And that's rather pathetic.
He goes from his home to school to a job that he only has so the days don't seem so tedious and back to a cold home with ornate furniture of expensive wood that his mother gave him because she was bored.
So, you can understand why he's so fixated on this mysterious boy in the mirror.
Arthur stares hard at the mirror for a moment or two too long, peering into its reflective depths for even a fleeting glimpse of the elusive figure.
But the mirror doesn't humor him.
Finally, after a week, he purposely steps up towards the mirror, less than a foot away, and demands, "Okay, you bastard, have at it."
And then he waits, hands on his hips, green eyes focused on the mirror.
Then he hears a soft chuckle and the bust of the blond appears, giving him an amused smile. "Have at what?"
And Arthur comes to himself rapidly as the boy just gives him a shy little smile.
"What are you doing in my mirror?" He asks, because he has no game.
The blond tilts his head. "I could ask you the same." He points out, violet eyes bright with mischief. "Mirror, mirror on the wall…" He whispers. "Do you want to see the fairest of them all?"
And the surface of the mirror ripples, the blond's pale face distorted in the waves and Arthur teethed on grim fairy tales and Grimm fairy tales so he doesn't back away even though common sense is screeching at him.
But nothing happens and he breathes out, a little haltingly perhaps, as the other's reflection smoothes and stills and the boy introduces himself.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Matthew." Arthur, a little pompous and perhaps even charming, says. "I trust that you don't watch me change."
Matthew laughs, soft and ephemeral, and the glass ripples and Arthur's heart beats a little faster.
Arthur comes back from class exhausted, collapsing onto his bed face first into a pillow. He toes off his patent leather shoes, sighing audibly when he stretches his toes, and closes his eyes for a quick nap.
He wakes up to the sound of scratching and he sits up, hair tousled and eyes bleary. But the scratching turns to tapping and he looks across the room to the mirror and he scrambles to his feet, rushing to the mirror and exhaling, "Matthew?"
And Matthew appears, a little put out, but manages a small grin. "I can't decide if I'm trapped in your mirror or if you're trapped in mine." He admits, tapping at the glass with a slender finger. "Frankly, neither thought is pleasant."
"No." Arthur agrees.
"And…I wonder…are you dead? Because I'm not and I don't like ghosts."
"I'm very much alive."
Matthew smiles, perking up a little at the wry grin Arthur gives him, and then asks, "Are you free, then?"
"Right now, yes." He's a little befuddled now because Matthew looks befuddled. "Sometimes I work at the library and sometimes I have class but its 7 pm and I only have a composition to finish." He almost misses the wistful look on the other's face before it is replaced by a pleasant twist of his lips.
"What is the composition about?"
"I don't know yet." Arthur admits, a little embarrassed. "I'll probably write something half-hearted and mediocre and maybe, if I'm lucky, inspiration will strike and I will write something beautiful." He gives a bitter laugh. "That's the curse of being an English major. You're not worth paper if you can't string together words and make something beautiful out of nonsense."
"Should I leave you to your work?"
"I would much rather prefer company."
"What's it like…on that side?" Matthew asks suddenly and Arthur looks up from his laptop at the mirror up on the wall.
"Its rather boring." He says, after a moment of thought. "Perhaps if you tell me what you're expecting, I can give you a better idea."
Matthew looks stumped, then, and then pensive. "Do you have dragons?"
Arthur proceeds to make a strangled sort of choking noise. "You have dragons?"
"No."
"Well, why would you—"
Matthew shrugged. "I've read about them and I always wanted them to still exist. The last one was slayed over a millennium ago."
Words abandon him and Arthur just sits. "We never had dragons." He admits then. "Just what is your world?"
"Well, we have talking bears and roads that go beyond the horizon and not nearly enough signs to keep from getting lost." The blond explains, amethyst eyes drifting in thought. "We also have overprotective brothers and it is always cloudy."
"Sounds like magic." Arthur muses, cheek resting on a propped fist. "We have too many stupid people and we've all outgrown unicorns, mermaids, and fairies."
"Not you though." Matthew says brightly, warm like filtered sunlight. "Though, let me warn you, it's not as wonderful as you think."
The mirror falls again another day but this time it shatters into a thousand little shards and Arthur's chest aches as he stands in the doorway, flares of light flung about the room and he rushes to the spill and cuts his fingers and smears his blood on polished silver that was hidden behind the glass when he grabs it and the suddenly he is submerged and crushed and then wrung like a towel.
And then he finds himself in a circular room, darkened, the only light coming from the icy little stars clinging to the inky sky. There is a bed with straight lines with a figure curled up in the center, piles of sheets wrapped around him.
Arthur pushes himself off his knees and shivers and realizes that this is Matthew's room and this is very strange.
But he steps over to the bed and sees Matthew asleep, his pale face peeking over the curve of his pillow, starlight in his curls and mouth parted and Arthur feels as though he is intruding on hallowed ground.
So he sits on the edge of the bed until the sun rises and when Matthew wakes up and sees him, he nearly flies out of bed.
"What did you do?" He whispers and Arthur feels rejected.
"The mirror broke." He replied with a little huff. "And suddenly I'm here. Its not as though I planned this."
Matthew gives him an unreadable look before he relaxes, tension flitting from his lips, and he sighs. "Why didn't you wake me?"
Arthur doesn't say that he was too busy watching Matthew sleep.
After an hour and five minutes of making sure, Arthur realizes that Matthew's room has two doors—one to a washroom of sorts and one to a kitchen of sorts. And, as the sandy-haired man walks circles and circles, the many books and tomes stocked in the walls spinning dizzying bands of color, there is no secret exit.
"Have you read all of these?"
"Many times." Matthew shrugs, casually plucking the fifth book from the fourth shelf three feet to the right of the window facing east. "I think you'll enjoy this book." He hands the leather bound text to Arthur with a smile. "Its about faeries."
Arthur stares at the offered book and then at Matthew's face and then he grabs the book, tosses it to the side and pulls the boy close to him by his wrist and says, "I should've done this the moment I arrived."
And he kisses Matthew.
Matthew is flitting nervously about the room, fingers tapping a cadence against his palms, and Arthur wants to kiss him again, but he's been exiled to the bed.
"I'm usually not so forward." He defends. "I'm just very attracted to you."
Matthew pauses in his pacing and gives him a sad look. He opens his mouth and then closes it, repeating the same action twice more before he turns away and goes to the window. He stares out of it, at the infinite lush canopies of trees, mouth set in a thin line.
Arthur stares at him. Illuminated by the evening light, dust motes lazy in the warmth, Matthew is troubled, brow furrowed and worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He's tall, though one wouldn't really know from the way he holds himself, all sharp lines softened by the light and the odd curve here and there. His trousers and shirt hang loose on his frame and there's a careless sort of unboundedness to him and Arthur wonders how it's even possible.
"You're so beautiful." He breathes out and Matthew looks over at him, a little surprised at the reverent tone.
Arthur wakes up on the floor, caked blood on his fingers and the shattered mirror discarded next to him. He blinks, groggy, once and again and hesitantly touches the cold surface.
The room is silent and oppressive. There is no sunset in the window or smell of musty books. He can see his abandoned satchel by the door and his unmade bed and there is a striking sense of loss just behind his heart and he doesn't know how long he's been out.
He was sickly as a child and too full of arrogance as a youth. Now he's just tired and trying to fit into the rest of the puzzle but its like putting a square into a circle and he's never really belonged.
Apparently, he doesn't belong in the otherworld either.
Matthew feels guilty, peering through his mirror at Arthur. The man is working, fevered and frantic, typing away on that sleek contraption, click click click.
It started out as a bit of amusement. It had been so long since he had any company aside from his stuffed bear (but even the spell on that had waned and the poor thing was becoming forgetful). He was tired of his books and found himself sleeping more and more for longer and longer.
He hadn't really questioned Arthur's sudden appearance in his mirror. Rather, he welcomed it because there was something sweetly innocent in the other's attention and inattention. It was such a pleasant change from Alfred's smothering gaze.
In fact, the mirror had been a gift from his brother.
"Surprise!" Alfred grinned, his upper body leaning out of the mirror.
Matthew, reclining in the window, stiffens, gaze a little north of horrified, and isn't quite sure what to say when Alfred tumbles out completely onto the stone floor, rubbing the back of his neck and laughing.
"You need some more carpet, brother mine." He grins, vivacious and cavalier, as he stands. He takes up the entire room, sometimes, and Matthew can't avoid him. "Want me to bring it next time?"
"No need." Matthew said lightly, tone a little cool. "I like the stone."
Alfred makes a face but doesn't argue, bounding over to the bed and sprawling across the quilt. "Hey, Mattie, I need your advice."
"Are you actually going to follow it this time?"
"If its good, maybe." Alfred grins, wide and sincere. "So, I'm torn between these two princesses. One is a babe but I think she hates my guts. The other can't even fill out the top of her dress but she adores me. Which should I choose?"
"You're kidding." Matthew says flatly. He turns and glares at his brother. "You come all this way after all this time to ask me that? Don't you have advisers for that?" He huffed, turning back to the window and wonders what Arthur is doing and if he ever has to deal with such blatant stupidity.
"Of course I do." Alfred says off-handedly. "But they're not you."
And Matthew pauses, his hand resting on the stone frame of the window and he doesn't even realize Alfred is right behind him until he feels warm breath at his neck.
"One has your eyes but the other has your temperament." Alfred whispers, broad palms sliding up his arms and gripping his biceps. "I miss you so much it hurts, you know." He admits, a little shy and boyish. "The advisers don't know I'm here. They don't even know you're still alive." Alfred nuzzles just below his ear and Matthew is repulsed. "You wouldn't even exist if it weren't for me. A secret all my own."
Arthur is writing nonsense. He can't find rhyme or reason in his harried words, the words he pulls out of air and twists and shoves into sentences.
His professors are stunned by the rejuvenation his writing displays. Its evocative, brilliant, stunning, they all claim. He's talented—a genius.
Arthur only writes to feel anchored. He doesn't think he's weaving magic. His words cage his torment and try to do justice to the burden he thinks he's bearing.
He thinks of a blond times and worlds and many even dimensions away. He's haunted and he doesn't know why but he can still taste Matthew and feel the other's heartbeat under his touch and he wants.
The mirror is back on the wall, its gleaming silver surface mocking him and one day, in a fit of fury, he storms back to it and glares hatefully at it.
"Mirror, mirror. Show me the fairest of them all." He sneers.
The mirror is silent and he's left feeling emptier than before.
Matthew is the bastard son of the King, born from a scullery maid who pushed out of a window by the jealous Queen.
He is the exact image of the King and the Queen, jealous and prone to fits of fury, is still a woman and a woman in love, at that, so she can't find it in her to kill the child.
She kept him close though. She wouldn't let anyone else raise the boy so he spent hours and hours with her every day until her death.
Some people say she loved him instead because the King couldn't stand to touch her when he had a fleet of nubile virgins with scheming hearts at his knees. Others believe she preferred Matthew to her own son. And the crueler say that she only wanted to make sure that the son didn't inherit his mother's sins.
Matthew never said a word, even though he cried at her funeral more than Alfred who shed not a single tear.
The funeral of Alfred's mother was also the first day Alfred met his half-brother.
The mirror ripples under his touch, silver wet and slippery to the touch, and Arthur takes a deep breath and pulls himself through.
Matthew is asleep again and this time Arthur doesn't hesitate.
He strides over and kisses Matthew awake.
"You shouldn't be here." Is the first thing Matthew says.
But he's holding onto Arthur like the man is going to disapitate.
"You don't even really know me. I might not even exist. I don't really know you either. You might not even exist. None of this could be real. It might all be a dream." Matthew is babbling, nervous.
"I love needlepoint." Arthur interrupts. "I hate the color grey. I can't swim. And if this is all a dream, then I'm happy it's about you."
"You're terrible." Matthew whispered, a smile playing on his lips.
"You seem distracted." Alfred noted, blue eyes scrutinizing despite his easy smile. "What's on your mind, brother mine?"
Matthew looks up from the book in his hands and gives Alfred an innocent smile. "Nothing."
Alfred doesn't seem to believe him but goes back to regaling Matthew with stories from the Court.
But Matthew is too busy reading the messages Arthur left him in a borrowed book to really be listening.
"'Time is meaningless for me. Which is lucky, I suppose, because then all our meetings last an eternity and I am happy.'" Arthur finds himself smiling at the other's loopy writing in between illustrations of griffins and gargoyles. He adds his own message on the next page, in between the lines about the mating rituals of griffins and perhaps he's being vulgar but the thought of Matthew turning pink upon reading the words has him turning pink and he's not being cruel, he's just in love.
"'The wind blows and I feel your lips against my cheek. Your laughter is the rustling leaves and your smile is the morning sun. I look at the sunset and its as though I am gazing into your eyes.'"
"Alfred, stop it."
"'I can imagine you supine among the sheets and I would be ashamed if I didn't find the idea of it so exhilarating.'" Alfred's jaw is taut and his fingers are bone-white as they dig into the old spine of the book as he glares down at Arthur's scrawl.
Matthew looks at the floor and Alfred is dangerously silent.
"I don't think I'm okay with this." He then says, softly, distantly. His voice sounds tinny in the stagnant air and Matthew has really only felt two emotions strongly before and right now he's feeling a third.
He can't move.
The King was a vain man. He commissioned a mirror for each woman in his life and each mirror was enchanted so the King could make sure that no woman was unfaithful. Because even if he didn't want the woman the day after, he needed to make sure that no one else did.
A King is only a King because he has something someone else does not. Because he is made better by what he hoards.
Arthur's mirror was a gift. It was a re-gifted gift.
There is a reason for his great-aunt's madness.
Arthur still thinks madness runs in the family.
Because he is fairly certain he is mad.
"I don't understand." He snapped, palms pressed against the glass. "Matthew, love, you're not making sense."
"I could love you forever I think." Matthew said, smiling bittersweet. His palms match up with Arthur's and between them they smudge and blur and become indistinguishable as far as love and lifelines. "But let's keep that a secret between us?"
"Darling, please—"
"Promise me you'll keep being happy."
"Impossible. I wasn't happy before I met you and I can't see how I could possibly—"
"Promise." Matthew said sternly. "Promise and seal it with a kiss, Arthur."
Arthur wakes up and the mirror is whole and new and on the ground sideways but the phantom warmth on his lips and the memory of another body and the boom of a heartbeat plagues him but no matter how much he begs, holding the looking glass up in the air, the mirror does not indulge him.
But his feverish writings remain and he has missed calls from his graduate adviser and its dawn.
Arthur sits down and writes of the best and worst thing he's ever known.
I'm just...gonna leave this here... -walks away-