Arthur continued to frequent the bar. He heard the song once, maybe twice but he had gotten so tossed most of the times that he would never know for sure. The floor pulsed with every beat and yet the man still listened to the silence.
Over the next few months, the sun refused to come out. The visions of the past and present flew about him. They lashed at him and, occasionally, they would comfort him.
He continued to drink, but slowly the black leather and piercings began to leave him. He still talked to his friends, albeit distantly, and still continued with his schooling. He was on autopilot now. School. Home. Drink. Repeat. He started to dress like he did before the accident. No, not an accident, he would tell himself. A murder.
He was still there but the man was still broken. Still dormant while the sprig of hope lay defeated on the floor.
But one night was different.
He was sitting in the same booth, enjoying his fourth rum that night, when he saw her. She was sitting at the bar; drink in her hand, silently guarding her against the night. She would have been her twin, if the two were next to each other. She was dressed in a simple white dress; the fabric clinging to her tanned skin. The glow of the bar catching in her curly hair as she turned to greet her date.
Alfred, the git that he was, didn't know whom she looked like. Didn't know that her nose crinkled when she laughed and that she made small twittering sounds when she was amused.
He brooded for the hour that they were there. Alfred was the perfect gentleman. Caring, always paying for her drinks, making her laugh.
There was something off though. Every so often he would stare into the murky depths of the bar, away from the safety of the bar lights. As though he could tell. But then he would turn back Mariana's twin. He could tell she wasn't that interested. Her gaze went farther than his, as if gazing into the distance would somehow bring her closer to the object of her affection.
Then, Alfred whispered something in her ear. She looked at him with a look of confusion for a moment, and then flashed a dazzling smile. But Arthur knew it was strained. He just knew. They stood up, looking for a bartender to pay their tab.
Arthur stood up quickly as well, dropping the fifty he had been fingering for the last hour on the glass-laden tabletop. They began to make their way towards the door. The beat of the bass pounded in time with Arthur's heart. He had to catch them – he needed to keep his heart and his life separate – he had to see her.
He almost caught up to them, when they were exiting out the door. But Mariana turned back, looked into his soul, gave a half smile and fled the bar. Outside, through the windows, Arthur could see her catch up to him. Grasp his hand like a lifeline and tilt her head to whisper in his ear. He smiled down at her, slightly strained at the edges, and wrapped his warm arm around her. His arm. The arm that had held him in the wee and the long hours of the night. The arm that had pushed him and held him so softly, it could have belonged to another. But it was his.
Something inside Arthur boiled, some forgotten wheels began to turn and strike against one another. He felt electricity course through his veins and he could see nothing but the pair. The blonde dashed out side, stumbling across the curb. His. It echoed in the silent world, the only word he had not used in a while.
The only thing that had made him feel whole (ifonlyforawhile) was being stolen by his past. It was going to consume his sun and spit out the husk in a blinding supernova of passion. He could not, and would not let that happen to Alfred. His Alfred.
He would not let it taint his life any longer. He followed them up the street, stumbling and grasping various signs for support. People looked at him, pointed and mocked, but he didn't care. The man with the dull eyes had purpose once again.
He finally caught up to them, right below Fifth Avenue, near the subway entrance.
"Hey, Oi Git! Wait!" He sounded so stupid and clingy. He couldn't rely on anyone, yet here he was.
"Arthur?" Alfred turned back. Mariana – no, wait, it wasn't Mariana anymore – turned as well. The glitter on her cheeks sparkled like the city skyline.
"You can't do this." Arthur babbled moving closer to the sun. He was the new Icarus, destined to burn up for his pride. "Y-you can't, not with h-her." He tripped and Alfred grabbed him. Those arms, so warm and so soft and so strong, held him together.
"What the hell are you talking about Arthur?" The American leveled himself with the drunken man, trying to grasp what was different about him. He had seen Alfred buzzed before, slightly high, and asleep and everything in between but this was different.
"She's not real!" Arthur stamped his foot on the ground, looking several years younger. "She's not real." He whispered the last bit. Arthur started to leak, bits of his soul riding towards the ground along with his tears. Alfred simply looked at him.
"Ma'am, I've got to take this. Maybe I'll see you another time." He didn't turn towards the clone, keeping his blue eyes steadily on Arthur.
The clone said nothing. She just faded into the backdrop of the citizens of New York City, the harsh light of the subway station causing her image to fade.
"What the fuck was that all about, Arthur?" The taller blonde was trying to keep his voice low. People, even at this hour, streamed past, head low and walking in that New Yorker style. Arthur, despite how much he loved merry ol' London, probably loved New York second best. He needed the anonymous city desperately. He tried to stare at all the faces but it made his head spin. Can't have the past and present mix, old Arthur is gone were just about the only thoughts in his mind.
Eventually, his vision led him back to the American fixing him with a stare that could freeze people in their tracks, the face that could launch millions of warships and the eyes that one could only be drawn to. Arthur shook his head before the blush could overtake his face. New Arthur refused to blush; it was a weakness he despised.
"I…" his words failed him. He tried again. "I c-couldn't let you see h-her. She wasn't-t real…" The Brit was now having an even harder time focusing now that he realized the proximity of Alfred and the warm hands calmly gripping his shoulders.
The American stared at him for another minute, before releasing his shoulders and standing straight.
"Alright Iggy, let's get you home, then you can explain to me what the hell is going on." He scratched his head and looked thoughtful for a moment. "But I don't have your address… so, I guess I'll just take you home." Arthur said nothing.
Alfred wrapped his larger hand around his cold one and began to pull him out of the subway tunnel and onto the streets. The sky had christened the streets of New York with slight rain. It stopped five minutes into their walk. Arthur didn't dare look at the people he was sure were staring at him. He couldn't stand the fact that now everyone knew he was holding hands with a man. His dirty little secret, his need to be full, was out.
So instead, he stared at the streets, letting Alfred lead him through the twisting streets, watching the glittering sidewalk with interest. It's like looking at the sky from above, maybe I can touch the sky from below…
Eventually they stopped in front of a building with a deli on the garden level.
"Hey, Luís." Alfred called out hopping over the counter and opening the flip top for Arthur.
"Olà Alfredo~." The man returned. "Got a hot date, eh? He your new puta?"
"Vai levar no cu, asshole." Alfred ignored the man and pulled Arthur into he corridor. They waited for the elevator. "Sorry about that, Arthur. He's just your regular, fresh off the boat, Portuguese dick."
Arthur said nothing in return.
The elevator ride was quiet as well. So was getting the door open and yanking the native Brit into the room. As light filled the apartment, Arthur finally looked up, his neck slightly stiff from the previous position.
The room would be a 12 year-old boy's dream come true.
The walls, a muted blue, were covered in shelves filled with comic books, video games and movies. The posters on the wall advertised the classic American films and comic book heroes doing heroic things. The apartment, while of average size, was nothing special other than the occupant's choice of decoration. There was a living room, worn couch and a TV being flanked by filled bookshelves. Behind the couch was a desk, photographs covering most of the surface, and a laptop, humming along, the top covered by a large American flag sticker. The kitchenette was sparse but clean, the white counter tops and appliances contrasting with the vibrancy of the first room. The hallway that led elsewhere was dark.
"So… yeah." Alfred started uneasily. "This is my place." The words died in the air, much like the crisp leaves of Central Park in the fall.
He sighed again. "Alright, you sit on the couch, I'm going to make us something and then we'll talk."
Arthur moved stiffly and mutely to the couch and sat down, knees bent at a perfect ninety-degree angle. Alfred bumbled in the kitchen for a couple of minutes, letting the smell of whatever he was doing waft into the living room. He entered, carrying two mugs of what appeared to be hot chocolate.
"Sorry, it's all that I got." He sat down, molding into the couch, comfortable but with alertness in his eyes. Arthur took a small sip of the hot chocolate before setting it down.
The silence, while slightly less scary, was still there. All of Arthur's thought and possible answers had died in his mind. All the work of the walk there was useless now.
Alfred set down his mug before fixing the British man with a stare.
"What was that about, Arthur?"
"She wasn't re—"
"I get that, I'm not stupid. But why wasn't she real?"
"I used to live outside of London when I was younger." Alfred wanted to interject but something made him shut up. The tenseness of Arthur's shoulders, his distant stare, his broken voice that he only used when he was sleeping in the midst of a nightmare.
"I had a friend, Mariana…" he trailed off again. "She was driving to her boyfriend's house when a drunk driver hit her. He murdered her." He turned to face Alfred. "Murdered her and ran off." He stared back at the mug in his hands. "There was no one. None for Arthur." His voice took on a high, mocking tone. "No one for Arthur, who had to be the adult when daddy died, no one for Arthur when his friend died, no one for Arthur whe—when…" his voice petered out as he began to cry. Alfred gathered him in a hug, whispering half words and soft sounds in the still air. That was the tightness in his shoulders. He held the world, even when it turned away from him…
"Arthur," the taller man whispered after a few minutes. "You're my hero."
Eventually, the broken man had fallen into sleep. Alfred held him for a few moments, relishing in his smell. The man's regular scent was masked by alcohol and bar smoke, but it was still faintly there.
It was a subtle mixture or tea, fresh grass after the rain and something else…
It wasn't difficult to know what he was feeling was special for this British man. He didn't want to say that at first though. But his Canadian half brother, who looked more like his twin than anything, finally got it out of him after a while. Somewhere around three months, well past midnight, returning home to find the shockingly similar Matt staring at him from the kitchen table. It was scary and very creepy. Like that Russian communist who lived two blocks over and always tried to invite him over. Except it was Matt and he had cookies. And if Al knew only two things in his life, one was that aliens existed and two was that you never passed up anything Matt had made. So they sat together, closer than most people would assume half brothers would be, and they talked about Al's relationship with the mysteriously rude and improper Arthur. Though sometimes Arthur would correct his grammar (Don't you dare bastardize the Queen's English that way) and sometimes he would tell Alfred how to act (Sit up straight, will you. It's a wonder you haven't developed a scoliosis that way) or that he should dress better (You are a young man and a representative of your parents upbringing, but when you continue to dress like that you are putting you, your country, your generation, the whole lot of you, to shame). This was very unusual behavior for a 'punk', which he meant in a musical sense, not a Dane-Cook-Punkass-are-you-out-of-your-fucking-mind way.
But while Alfred was young, and occasionally (though he would ever admit it) naïve, he could see people's personalities pretty well. He could see that Matt was madder then he let on about Al always forgetting him, or that Kiku— his Japanese-American friend from school—was more perverted then he let on. So it was clear, but not important to him, that Arthur had a secret self that he didn't really care to share. And because it didn't have a significant impact in their 'fuck only' relationship, he let it lie.
But nine months in to their relationship, he felt something different growing in their relationship. At least in his half, anyway.
It had started when he had woken up one morning to soft sounds coming from Arthur's kitchen. Alfred crept down the hall, peeking into the space and catching a rather cute sight. Arthur was singing softly to himself, voice not at all unpleasant, wearing a pink apron over his bare chest and last night jeans ensemble, and cooking something at the stove. If Alfred held his breath and listened hard he could hear the words of the song.
" I'm riding hard on the last legs of every lie. And the BMX bike of my life is about to explode, I'm about to explode. I'm a mess, I'm a wreck. I am perfect and I have learned to accept: All my problems and short comings, Cause I am so visceral yet deeply inept. "
Later when he got back to his place, he looked up the song. It was an alternative song, bordering on emo. Something very un-punk. It would probably be damaging to his credibility.
But something stopped him from acting on this.
It was that same feeling from seeing him in the kitchen. Within a month and through his soul searching, he finally knew what that feeling was.
It was love.
Some weak or strange or weird form of love that he couldn't really understand. But he felt the need, the desire, the want to be near that man.
Arthur had fallen asleep somewhere in that revere and was sleeping without dreams hopefully.
Alfred picked him up—he had always been the strong guy and the man was pretty light—and walked him into the bedroom, laying him on the bed and pulling the covers over him. The man unconsciously clenched at the sheets.
He walked back into the room to take care of the mugs. Despite Arthur's sorrow at the girls death, (Mariana was it? Oh well, it was something Spanish or Brazilian. He could easily interchange most of those names from the numerous countries south of the border. Except for that Giselle from Victoria's Secret. She was hot like no other.) he just knew that Arthur didn't really know the girl. He didn't have much specific information about her or seemed really choked up about her. Just angry. But that second part, where he talked about all his weights, like the rocks in that Crucible movie he watched with Matt that one time, he was slowly being crushed.
He slowly turned on the sink and let the water pour over the mugs, dumping out all the leftover hot chocolate. It was while he was watching the clear liquid rinse over the red, white and blue mugs that he decided what he should do.
He was going to show Arthur that he didn't need to take care of everything.
And with that determined thought, Alfred ran into the bedroom, grabbed his favorite jacket (an old bomber jacket from his grampa), his wallet (Batman flavored FTW) and Arthur's wallet, and then dashed out the door and into the night.
However, he dashed back thirty seconds later, cursing, grabbing his keys, locking the door, and then returning to his heroic hunt.
[Author's Note]
So yeah,
It took me long enough. But as Malcolm said in Jurassic Park, "Life finds away." It's the longest part so far, and I rather love writing as Alfred. In my group of Hetalia-knowledgeable friends, I am America (with strains of PRUSSIA, because I like to remind everyone how awesome I am) so it was kind of cool to play with his stream of consciousness.
So there were a couple of references in this one…
Luìs… he would probably be Portugal, Nation wise. I wanted someone who would point out a part of Alfred that Arthur didn't really know but I also wanted to show some of Alfred's heroic, can-do spirit. The Portuguese that he used is bitch and then Alfred replies with 'go fuck yourself'. So naught, for innocent Alfred… (*o*)
The reference with the weight on his shoulders, its something I think all oldest children go through. I can't remember if I put him as an oldest child, but that's what our responsibilities are. Seriously, our motto should be "when the going gets tough, the tough get going."
Matt being his half brother. I kind of like it better than them both being twins separated at birth or some shit. They have the same mom but she divorced Alfred's dad and moved north, remarried, etc etc.
Loved writing Arthur's prim and proper voice, I just LOL'd.
Dane Cook is an American comedian, who I think is funny, but most of his audience is made of college students and is frowned upon by most 'high brow' comedians.
Alfred being able to know more than most think. I really think he's not as stupid as he lets on.
Arthur with the apron… SO CUTE!
The song is from Motion City Soundtrack and it's called "Let's Get Fucked Up and Die". The other song that is in this part of the story is "Sometime around Midnight " by the Airborne Toxic Event. They're my only favorite band and I love them to pieces.
Alfred liking Gisele Bündchen, how could he not. It's just like my sister and Lady Gaga, she would honestly go gay and marry her if she got the chance. That and Gisele is probably the most attractive, not super skinny model out there. And she played volleyball like a mofo.
Alfred's jacket duh, but his Batman wallet is probably different. Most people pick Superman, but I'm a big Batman, followed by Spiderman fan. I feel he would pick a character that would be more like him (as a human) being that Batman doesn't have powers. And he also has that 'going gets tuff' mentality that he finds attractive. And the Superman movies sucked compared to all the Batman movies. Even the George Clooney ones. (But damn, was Robin hot or what? (~w~) )
The Crucible is a movie about witch-hunts in America. Look up the 'more weight' scene if you want to know exactly what I'm referencing.
Alfred forgetting his stuff just made sense.
So that's it. I think I like explaining this a little better than writing them. Well, not really.
I also loooooooooovvvvvve writing New York City. It's my favorite place in the world. (second fave, Chicago)
Anyway, Here's to 3,458 words,
~VG4455