I'm sorry. Really sorry. I need to stop doing songfics. Really I do.
Ehhh. Whatever, I enjoyed it.
So yeah. This is the song "Beaches of Cheyenne" by Garth Brooks. It's a bit dated and a country song, but it's worth listening too, or at least reading the lyrics (which, conveniently enough, are in the story!)
So: I don't own the song, or Hetalia (curses! D)
And, parings included are CanUS and FrUk.
Some language. Bleh.
Yeah. Character(s) death…and other stuff.
Um…yeah. Stuff and things. Enjoy?
They packed up all his buckles
And shipped his saddle to his dad
Arthur had never expected (never even anticipated or longed or hoped or knew or figured) that he would have to do this (this terrible unbelievable horrible unnecessary unthinkable thing); go through his sons belongings that the people had sent him. His lovable (absolutely stupid inconsiderate loud noisy idiotic dumb) (charming nice loving caring charitable gullible sweet chivalrous daring heroic) son who rode those damn beasts over in America. Those damn beasts that were bred to buck (to twist to turn to writhe to throw to kill) for the pleasure of onlookers as young men risked their lives for entertainment.
Stupid (fucking bloody idiotic) Yankees.
And by the way the house looked
She must have took it bad
Matthew had never anticipated (or longed or hoped or knew or figured or expected) that he would receive a call from the city board of riders. He'd never planned (or looked forward to or waited for) it to happen. The moment the phone was put back on the receiver (or, in reality, dropped and left to buzz with a detached noise as it hung from the spirally cord that kept it attached to the wall and slowly swung back and forth) the young man had stood silently.
For all of five seconds.
The workers come on Monday
To fix the door and patch the wall
They say she just went crazy
The night she got the call
No one had ever longed (or hoped or knew or figured or expected or anticipated) for such a cleanup job. The workers who showed themselves on the next Monday morning were shocked at the state of the building. The mess started in the kitchen, where the phone still beeped incessantly. Tables were turned; chairs were broke in two; pictures flung off of the walls and across the room; the walls themselves were bashed in with fists. The wreckage showed a clean line from the kitchen to the bedroom where sheets were stripped from the bed; books were torn from books shelves with pages ripped to bits; windows where nothing more than smashed glass shimmering on the floor like fresh fallen (deadly unconvincing pure disillusioning angering bloody) snow. From the bedroom the destruction went out the front door (which hung limply on broken hinges) and over the porch. After that, flowers were uprooted, fence posts kicked into slanted directions, and tree branches snapped. The workers were silent in their observations, knowing that they wouldn't have ever wished someone on the receiving end of whomever did all of this damage.
He was up in Wyoming
And drew a bull no man could ride
He promised her he'd turn out
Well it turned out that he lied
And all the dreams that they'd been livin'
In the California sand
Died right there beside him
in Cheyenne
Alfred had never hoped (or knew or figured or expected or anticipated or longed) for a chance at that particular bull; the one whom no one could conquer (the thing could throw the most experienced rider within one second out of the gate). But, he had drawn the name and goddammit he was a man of his word and he'd ride the animal. All that was left was to tell his everything (his lover his partner his confidant his best friend), and the only way to reach him from Wyoming (Cheyenne, to be exact) was by telephone. Which was how he'd arrived in this particular phone booth, the plastic device held loosely in his hand, forehead against the glass of the booth.
The phones ringing stopped short as his lover (his partner his confidant his best friend his everything) picked up on the other end.
"Hey Babe, I got that bull."
"Don't, Al. Please. For the love of God; don't ride it. I've got a terrible feeling about this. Please, Alfred."
"Come on, Mattie! I'll be fine. Nothing to worry about, gosh. It's not like I'm going to die!"
The conversation continued for a few minutes before Alfred was left with a dial tone. He yanked the pay phone receiver from his face and started at the plastic, eyes hard and angered. Shaking his head, Alfred brushed it off and went to the stadium. Matt would understand once he went the full eight seconds; he'd have to.
The bull was worse than he could have ever known (or figured or expected or anticipated or longed or hoped) it could be. The creature was larger than the others by a good five hundred pounds, and the creature's horns looked to have the same length plus half of a normal animals' and naturally sharpened to a point. Alfred smiled at the challenge. He's show his partner (his confidant his best friend his everything his lover); he'd show his Mattie.
Turns out that, as Alfred was flung off the beasts back, he was (incredibly inexplicably deadly very) wrong in the 'showing Mattie' department.
The fall from the creature was painful, his helmet cracked from the force of hitting the ground and Alfred could feel the blood starting to pool from the wound that he knew was on the back of his head. That was unimportant (in the sense that there was something more important going on) seeing as the rodeo clowns hadn't figured (or expected or anticipated or longed or hoped or knew) that Alfred (who was a well-known rider of trouble bulls) could've been thrown.
(Despite the fact that a rider, no matter how good they have been in the past, can always fall, given a variety of reasons: the bull, an off day, a
cold, ect.)
The clowns were right there though, when the bull charged, head lowered, at Alfred. The horns missed their mark, but the hooves were a terrible replacement. They collided with the flesh of the downed rider, ripping parts open, leaving ugly marks across the (previously whole and warmly tanned) skin. When the bull turned around and went after Alfred again, it didn't really matter that the beast's horns sunk deep into his stomach and chest.
The man's heart had already stopped with no intention to ever beating again.
The bull had to be shot numerous to keep it from killing more people (the clowns the riders the ropers the spectators the officials), and to allow the medics into the field.
The sanded field caked in slick (shiny ruby-red sticky human Alfred's) blood.
They say she just went crazy
Screamin' out his name
She ran out into the ocean
And to this day they claim
That if you go down by the water
You'll see her footprints in the sand
'Cause every night she walks the beaches of Cheyenne
"I'm serious, ve! I heard it! He ran down the street screaming 'Alfred!'!"
"Mmm. Me too, da ze. Except it was more…'No! I'm so sorry, Alfred! Please…'"
"I heard 'Please! Please, mon dieu, don't let it be true!' aru."
"First off, you're accent is terrible, mon Asiatique, and I 'eard 'im yelling out something about l'océan…"
"Well, since I'm the most awesome out of this group, I say we go down to the ocean and see what we can find?"
They never found her body
Just her diary by the bed
It told about the fight they had
And the words that she had said
It took three months for Francis to finally admit that the police (bâtards stupides) were right. The (for all intensive purposes) body (though Francis hated using the word to describe what was obviously true) had yet to turn up and the ocean was indeed a large place. Finding a small object in it would be a tremendous, if not impossible task.
The youngest blond had kept a diary. No one (save for himself and Alfred, except for now; everyone was on the list now) knew of the small blue bound book with the galloping horses and fluttering butterflies on the cover (a gift from one of the little first grade girls the younger taught – he had been her first crush, always was for the young girls) that recorded all Matthews daily goings and comings.
(Seriously, the man wrote practically everything that happened to him down in the book, and others that were just like it.)
It would be true that he wrote down the conversation he had with his confidant (his best friend his everything his lover his partner) that last day whilst on the telephone. The man had neat (small curly French-but-with-a-bit-of-English right-slanted proper) script that filled pages upon pages upon pages of his book(s). This page would have been no different, except for the deep colour that the last few lines were given; no doubt from the pressure of the pen the man used.
"Hey Babe, I got that bull."
"Don't, Al. Please. For the love of God; don't ride it. I've got a terrible feeling about this. Please, Alfred."
"Come on, Mattie! I'll be fine. Nothing to worry about, gosh. It's not like I'm going to die!"
"That's not even funny, Al. I'm serious. Don't. Please. If you love me, you won't ride that thing."
"Matt. I have to. I drew him. It's my job; riding these. No matter how dangerous, I have to put on a show. I…I don't just do it for the money you know. I love it. I live for it. I—"
"Do you love it more than me?"
"What?"
When he told her he was ridin'
She said then I don't give a damn
If you never come back from Cheyenne
"Do you love it more than me?"
"Of course not Matt! I love you way more than any bull riding tournament!"
"Then don't ride it."
"I…I can't, Matt. I need to. Not just for money or love or fame. I do it because I have to. A man is only as strong as his words, and I'd like to think that I'm true to mine. Always."
"Then, I'll have you know, Alfred. If you insist on riding, I don't give a damn—"
"Awesome, Mattie! I lov—"
"If you never come back from Cheyenne."
The blonds looked at each other, blinking slowly in realization. "Who knew?" Arthur mumbled lightly, before seeing the look in the others eyes. "Francis? Are you ok?"
Said man, though sitting stalk still and straight up, was lost. His eyes had clouded and before Arthur could prepare himself (he chalked it up to fate being an obnoxious and helpless romantic as opposed to being taken off guard. He was a British gentleman goddammit, and they were always prepared) (or was that an American Boy Scout…) the Frenchman let loose the flood gates for the first time since they had been informed of Matthews' suicide. Tears fell harsh and fast and the English man sat staring for a few seconds before pulling the other man to his chest.
He mused at how perfectly the man's face fit into the crock of his neck.
They say she just went crazy
Screamin' out his name
She ran out into the ocean
And to this day they claim
You can go down by the water
And see her footprints in the sand
'Cause every night she walks the beaches of Cheyenne
It was the talk of the town; everyone knew of it; the star-crossed lovers, the unrequited love, the lifetimes cut too short. It was important news, something that rarely showed up in their small town, and it was welcomed in the same way it was detested.
It was a three years gone when the small Italian brothers raced back home screaming about foot prints that they had found. Footprints that neither of them had left and that belonged to a shaded figure; a white splotch of a humanoid shape that wandered the beach ahead of them, and called softly out for 'Alfred'. Francis caught wind of the confession and spent a straight week on the shoreline, waiting.
He decided to return home when Arthur forcefully showed up on the beach and proceeded to drag him away from the water.
"Mon cheri! Please! Do not take me away from 'im! 'e's my son, I can't leave 'im alone!"
"...Francis," the England native pulled the Frenchman close to his chest, burying his face into the man's hair and taking in his scent, "I miss him too. And Alfred as well, but it's not li-"
"I miss Alfred too, mon cheri. I miss them both very much."
Arthur stopped, blinking slowly as he held his best friend (his everything his lover his partner his confidant), watching the sun set below the horizon line. Green orbs widened as they caught sight of the figure meandering up the beach. "Fran...Francis, look!" Shakily, Arthur raised a hand, pointing at the shape. Francis' breath caught in his throat.
"Mattuie..." the Frenchman thrashed in his lovers arms, pushing away from his chest and pelting down the beach. "Mattui-ACK! Arthur, get off me, you Rosbif!"
The Englishman, who had tackled the angry Frenchman to the ground, sighed. "I can't do that, Francis. He's gone, Love. There's nothing you or I can do to change that. Let's just watch for the time being. Please?" The Frenchman, though still fuming, nodded lightly, getting to his feet as Arthur moved to his.
Together, hand-in-hand, they followed the form on the beach, bordering the single track of footprints.
Nobody can explain it
Some say she's still alive
They even claim they've seen her
On the shoreline late at night
'Cause if you go down by the water
You'll see her footprints in the sand
'Cause every night she walks the beaches of Cheyenne
Matthew does indeed wander the beaches. He cries the same tears each night and screams the name of his true love. Some say he's grieving. Others; he wants revenge. There are even those who believe the man is alive and well; living off of some government money that he gets for being able to fool an entire town into believing in ghosts.
But Francis knows, and so does Arthur. They both know Matt's simply waiting. And he always will wait, well, until he is, once again, reunited with
Alfred.
(Once again, since the two had been buried next to each other, or to make it completely true, their headstones were next to each other. Alfred's body was laid to rest next to an almost empty coffin – almost except for the stuffed bear and the diaries. And the bottle of maple syrup – Matt would have killed them if he didn't have that)
Every night she walks the beaches of Cheyenne
Indeed, he's waiting. And, as Francis and Arthur found out on that night so long ago, Matthew did find his love.
The footprints they followed went on for miles, and the two living men kept on them, losing the sight of the man (being son person human ghost loved-one) they tracked a few times. Suddenly, the one pair or prints became two; one of bare feet and the other, pointy toed and heeled boots.
"No way..." Arthur breathed, freezing at the sight in front of himself, his body shivering a little as a breeze picked up over the ocean. Sitting side-by-side in the sand, no more than seven yards ahead of them, were two men.
Two ghosts of men; white and cloudy, but clear as day and filled with colour at the same time.
(Smiling laughing giggling shining happy)
Matthew and Alfred; side-by-side, laughing. Joy spread across Matthew face and it turned to focus on Arthurs' before sliding over to Francis'. The boy raised himself to his feet and pulled Alfred up to stand beside him. Alfred was smiling, his million-dollar grin shining against the darkness. His skin was unblemished, showing a ghostly white, but still lightly tanned.
The two stepped forward, Matthew silent as ever and Alfred's spurs clinging softly with each step. Hands rose in perfect synchronization and pressed lightly to the faces of the men; Matt's to Francis' and Alfred's to Arthurs. In time, the two leaned forward, ghosting lips over rough cheeks before stepping back.
Arthur and Francis blinked and the boys were gone, no longer wandering the beaches of Cheyenne, but forever together.
Yeah, so yeah.
I should be shot for how many songfics I write. Like, seriously. Shot.
Anyway…pretty straight forward.
So. Yeah.
Oh, French!
mon Asiatique – my Asian
mon cheri – my dear
Rosbif – derogatory word for the English. From Roast Beef – like Arthur calling France 'Frog'.
The rest should be pretty easy to figure out. If you have any questions, feel free to message me.
Hope you enjoyed it! I know I did! I got to kill both Mattie and Alfred while making France and England find love! It was amusing~
EDIT: Fixed the italics (hopefully)...and some spelling.