Disclaimer: OH HIMARUYA PAPAAAA~
A/N: Finished chapter four in a fucking day *fistpump* But I couldn't post because FFn was being a jerk and I couldn't log in. ;w; Anyway, thank you for the reviews!~ I ate them all with glee, and they were delicious! Again, let's wait for my awesome girl of a beta: themadnavigator, before we can read the less failage version of this fic.
Special Thanks: FalalalaLa (Thank you so much! Don't worry, the editor is not supposed to be recognized. He's not a Hetalia character, and I don't like adding recognizable OCs to fics. I wish I could've sent you a longer thank you message. ;_;), The Ninja Wangsta, Patrich11
Seychelles was a hard headed, annoying young girl. She refused to listen to Arthur's lecture on how to make a good cup of tea. Ludwig's assistant before didn't complain, and Arthur definitely could not understand why she would not do the same! (The man did, however, cower and tremble a bit as Arthur ranted, and downright wailed as he told the Italian that his tea-brewing skill was terrible)
She was named after the country she was born at, she told him one day after he had told her about England. Seychelles was a beautiful country, she said. She could see the blue seawater embracing the white bed of sand, sliding up gently over and over again. She remembered the beach as far as she knew. That was where her farthest memory could go. The seawater was cool and soothing as it rushed forward to wet her tiny toes. She was raised by the scent of freshly cooked fish on her table, the hisses of clear seawater sliding against white sand, and a gentle lullaby that she could only recall the tune of.
Seychelles loved Seychelles. To her death, she would always love it. It was home, it's always home no matter where she lives. Her heart never did leave, she told Arthur. At night, when she's about to sleep, she heard the hisses of clear seawater sliding against the white bed of sand, smelled the salty, clean air; and there the clear blue water that hugs the white sands would stretch on to the horizon under her eyelids.
She missed the fishermen, fishing with small ships and a spear. She missed her orphanage (home, she stressed to Arthur), the laughter and cries of children her age, and the touch of clean sand under her feet and between her toes.
"But, you see, children always dreams of the future. The adults instil this thought in them. Of how the future would be so bright, of how changes would surely be welcomed, of how bad it is to stay the way you are. Everyone got to change. And that's wrong. Sometimes, it's better for things to stay the way they are. Changes are good, but not all of them. This is why a lot of children are miserable. They change so much that things change and they grew into living lies, and the future they were promised was nothing but lies itself. And then they would grow into bad adults, adults that are sad, and disappointed and bitter. They would envy the young and wish for the clock to tick the wrong way. And then, they would teach the children the wrong thing too so that they would grow into bad adults just like them." She whispered to him as he passed by her desk.
One day, a French man came to her orphanage by the beach. The children were terribly fascinated by this new man. They wanted to meet him, to touch his silky smooth and pale skin, and pull on his fair golden hair and prickly goatee. To them, this man was more interesting than the really big fish that got stranded on their beach, or the men on the market with their shiny beads and colourful things. One of the girls there had a bead necklace once. It was nice and shiny and so colourful that the children vowed to protect it. It was the treasure kept by the kids, and they hid it in a special place near the reefs. One day, a very young boy from the village found it and thought that it was his to keep. The boy and his friends, and the kids from home fought and ended up breaking the beautiful necklace. Everyone cried for days. They kept the beads, though. The girl who had it gave the beads away, so everyone had a piece. Seychelles smiled and opened her locket. Inside, there was a fading black and white picture of a man with flowy hair and a goatee, and a shiny red glass bead that was no more than a quarter centimetre wide. She showed it to Arthur.
"The man spoke to our mother" she said. And by their mother, Arthur figured that she must have meant their caretaker. "They talked inside the office while we were shooed away to our rooms. We were never allowed to go inside the office. Only grown-ups went inside."
The children pressed their little hands on the doorway, trying to hold the door from opening up too much, and to keep at least a tiny gap for them to peek through. Seychelles was pressed between a younger boy and an older girl. She almost couldn't see what happened, but there was a gap between the feet of the children in front of her. So she crouched down to look.
The man was smiling, and so did her mother. They were chatting, and Seychelles thought that he must have been mother's old friend. But then theirmother seemed to have realised that they were there, and she apologized shortly to the man before marching to the door. The children had run away and hide by the time she slamed the door open.
The clock struck two, and Seychelles stopped her story. Turning her head, she stared blankly outside the window to the coffee shop they were in. The voices that filled the busy coffee shop seemed to be coming from somewhere far away, as if it was out of this world to Arthur. Seychelles's cup of coffee was left untouched. The white foam on top of it has died down a few minutes ago. "Lunch break's over. I'm going back." She whispered, as if to herself. Arthur watched her over the teacup he's been sipping his Chamomile tea from. Then after a few long minutes, the girl got up from her seat. She smiled politely to Arthur. "Nice talking to you, Kirkland."
(•ᴥ•)
That night, when Arthur closed his eyes and started to drift off to sleep, he thought he could see a huge bed of white sand embraced by the blue sea that stretched out far into the horizon. A little girl of five or six was running off from his right to the shore. Her naked feet planted tiny footprints on the beach. And she was running, running. The wind blew her brown hair and pale blue dress back and she kept on running.
Arthur remembered smiling before sleep whispered its magical mantra and whisked his consciousness away.
(•ᴥ•)
This particular day, Arthur somehow remembered very, very clearly. Even down to the smallest details. He does not know how that happened since that day was a pretty regular one, but isn't that how it has always been with human's memories? It has always been a mystery. A great, perhaps insolvable secret nearly as huge as the secret of existence itself. At least to Arthur, that is. People somehow can remember minor things with great detail; one of the regular days at the park, the feel of the wind blowing against your face as you open the window to the train you've always been riding to work every day, a family dinner together with all the conversations. Somehow, it is the usual things that people unconsciously hold dear inside their hearts. And for Arthur, it was a visit and the phone call that came at the same time.
Arthur paced around the room. The sound of the soles of his newly polished shoes padding against the floor filled the room together with his intelligible murmurs and groans. He did not expect the event to turn this way before! Peter was sitting on their sofa, glaring daggers at the teacups and teapot beautifully ornamented with carvings of the English rose. He swung his feet back and forth, back and forth. It made the old sofa creak loudly over and over again, as if begging to be spared. Arthur occasionally took a glance at him. "You should've told me that his brother will be visiting with him again!" he said exasperatedly at the younger boy.
Peter pouted. "You know you wouldn't let Raivis come over if I've told you before, jerk!" he shouted angrily. Arthur sighed as he started pacing around the room again. Peter's glare intensified and Arthur expected the tea inside the teapot would start boiling sometimes soon. Arthur was feeling guilty, very much so. After all, there were some truth in the little boy's words. No, not only some truth. It was perfectly true. But Arthur is a very, very proud man, you see. It is already a trait of his that would not go away. Later on, a man would tell him that it is part of his charm―but at this time it's just something that caused people to stay away from him. "Still, you know that you should've told me beforehand!" he retorted. He quickly stole a glance at Peter, and he saw that the boy was biting his lips. In guilt, he assumed.
"What is it that's so bad about Ivan anyway? He's nice!" he snapped, his face red with anger and his thick eyebrows scrunched together. Somehow Arthur thought that the boy's expression must have been alike to his own when he is angry. But then the boy looked away once more; eyes filled with guilt as he nibbled at his own lower lip again. "Well, not really... B- But you know what I meant!"
Arthur sighed again, his index finger and thumb kneading the bridge of his nose. Peter was right once more. Ivan had never done anything wrong (yet) and he had been nothing short of friendly since he moved in with his four sisters and brothers. He thought of how every morning the Russian man would flash him a cheery smile and a wave of hand while the bigger man would sharpen his knife on his yard. Or maybe the talks about how pleasant his job is as a butcher, how the workers keeps the knife very sharp so that it can glide easily against flesh; or maybe his side job as a plumber and how much he loves the cold, strong steel pipes and the voice it makes when he hits it repeatedly. Arthur shivered.
"Why can't Katyusha come instead?" Arthur remembered Katyusha, the eldest sister in the family. She was the one who visited their house at the first day of their stay with a jar of biscuits in hand. She said something about hoping to be good neighbours, but honestly Arthur did not listen. And no, he most definitely did not get distracted by the sheer size of those 'bubbles' on her chest. Arthur is a perfectly respectable gentleman with a perfectly respectable mind, thank you.
But something that Arthur has learnt in his life, is that everything bad would come faster if people talk about it. It happens all the time. And just as Peter opened his mouth to retort, someone rang the bell. Peter turned his head to look at Arthur, blue eyes widening in shock. Just as Arthur was actually going to pull out his ash-blonde hair in panic, something amazing happened.
Ring-ring-ring. Ring, ring, ring the phone went, and Arthur thought that he had never heard something so beautiful before. He looked at Peter and saw how the boy's eyes widened even more as realization hit him. Arthur smiled. "Go get the door, lad."
Peter glared. He glared really, really hard at Arthur. And Arthur would've found it surprisingly intimidating if only he was not too glad to care at that time. "Go on, open that door." Arthur encouraged him in a sweet voice. The creases between the younger boy's thick eyebrows deepened, but he finally relented and marched to the front door angrily.
Arthur bolted to his study.
Luckily, the phone was still ringing angrily when he slammed the wooden door opened, impatiently screaming to be answered. And answer the call Arthur certainly did. He let a rare smile slip onto his face as he hooked his fingers around the receiver and pressed it to his ears. "Good evening, Kirkland's residence here."
"Artie? Hey, it's Alfred! How're you doin'?"
Arthur blinked. Well, he surely did not see that coming. "Alfred?" he asked, surprised "How did you get my telephone number?" Alfred laughed from the other side of the phone, and somehow it sounded far and near at the same time. That's how technology is, he supposed. "That Gilbert dude gave me your number when he called me before, yanno . He said the Ludwig guy went away or somethin' like that, so he had to call me instead. Pretty cool guy, if you ask me. Jus' not as awesome." Arthur scowled. Well, no one sure did bother to ask permission from him first. "Just noticed… He's never called me since you met me. Yanno why?"
Arthur went quiet. He could faintly hear muffled conversations from the guest room. His study was quiet, perfectly the way he purposely designed it to be. The sunlight that streamed in from the yard was filtered by a thin white curtain, yet somehow he could feel the warmth on his pallid skin. It was a soothing warmth. Arthur closed his eyes, and he thought he could hear a bird singing a song outside. A Robin? But it was impossible, considering how late into the day it was.
"Artie?"
Arthur opened his green eyes. It gleamed slightly under the light. He smiled patiently. "I heard he eventually went with his brother." He could hear Alfred let out a sigh of relief. "Awesome. I was kinda worried for him. With the whole war thing, no one can ever tell if a commie's gonna jump from a shrub and kill ya!" A loud laugh "Let me guess, his bro's that uptight Ludwig guy?" It was Arthur's turn to laugh, or chuckle anyway. "Yes, yes, he is. But that matter aside, I am curious as to your motive for calling me?"
"Oh, yeah! That, I kinda remembered somethingabout my brother. I felt I gotta tell you since I know I'm going to forget it soon." Arthur chuckled again. He sure is having a nice mood today. Or maybe it's just because he managed to evade awkward, scary conversations with his neighbour? He reached for the small notebook placed on top of his desk and a ballpoint. Drawing back the wooden chair he has spent hundreds of hours writing on, he sat and made sure he had been sitting in a comfortable position. "Shoot away, boy."
Alfred laughed. "Well, it's not always fights and laughs together with Mattie, yanno. After dad died…"
After her husband died in a horrible accident out in the cold sea, the twins' mother turned as dark and cold as the ocean that swallowed her husband with hundreds of fellow navies at war. The warm, loving side of her that had became nothing but a lingering shadow when the man left then turned into a gaping, dark hole that swallowed all. She's not in the right mind, people said. And it was true. One day she dunked Matthew's head into the milk tank. Push inside, then pull out, push inside, then pull out. Rinse and repeat.
She did not hear the cries and pleads of her son, did not sense the fear and sorrow that Matthew felt. All the time she was screaming in burning anger and agony, screaming and shouting as if Matthew was their father. He is dead, she screamed. You are dead! Drowned! And she kept on pushing Matthew's head inside the tank of milk while her son slowly began to drown. No mom! No! Let me go! Dead, dead! You are dead, darling! No, mommy! Mom! No! Drowned! Now drown like you're supposed to be! Drown!
And then Alfred who heard someone shouting ran around the corner. His lower half was drenched with the milk inside the bucket that he held in his right hand. And he stared, and stared, and stared. Oh god, what happened. MOM WHAT ARE YOU DOING? And their mother stopped and let go of her son's golden hair. Strands of it stayed between her fingers, and she didn't even bother to rub them off. Matthew fell as soon as the only thing holding his head disappeared. He barely managed to hold himself away from drowning with his shaking hands. Alfred still stared and stared and stared, his blue eyes widened in horror.
Then their mother turned her head and smiled. She smiled at Alfred.
And the smile was so warm and happy that it seemed like the mother they had before their father went away, and in good days before their father died was back. But no, she didn't. She went away and she never is going to be back. And that was what made it so scary, so revolting. This woman, Alfred thought, was most certainly not their mommy. Not anymore. Yet the smile reminded him again and again, that yes, this was once her.
'Alfred, honey, what are ya doin'? Aww, sweetheart, your shirt's all wet.' she gently said, brows a little furrowed in worry as she noticed the dripping jeans he was wearing. Her voice was so sweet and warm, and it brought tears to his eyes because he can still see Matthew gasping for breath and coughing and puking out milk and crying behind her. He could feel warm droplets of tears dripping from his chin, and he couldn't stop it.
Then their mother smiled up at him as if she just realised something. 'Why don't we get ya a pair of nice, dry jeans, honey? And we can have some cookies while we dry you off, hmm? I'm sure gramma left a jar or two when she came yesterday.' The woman got up and brushed dirt and splashes of milk mixed with puke from her dress, but it only caked the dirt and create ugly smears all over her clothes. She clicked her tounge. Alfred tensed, bracing himself for something―something that was going to happen―when she started to walk up to him. But then she just passed him by and rounded the corner that Alfred came by.
Then Alfred let out a sob. A tiny one bubbled out from his throat, and once one came out, a string of others followed. He was a sobbing loudly as he walked over to his twin and supported him against his own shoulder, they were both wailing all the way as he walked them both to their neighbour's house. Alfred didn't even realise that he was gripping the handle of the milk bucket in his right hand all those time until the nice old lady next door made him let go of it.
A few minutes later the policemen came to take their mom away.
Alfred paused his story, and so Arthur waited. The crackles of the phone line filled his right ear, and his left caught muffled chatters from the main room. "...I'm sorry" it was a very faint whisper, barely audible. And it puzzled Arthur greatly at the time. Why would Alfred need to apologize to him? It's supposed to be Arthur who told him that. Arthur opened his mouth, but before he managed to get any words out, Alfred cut him. "I'm sorry for lying earlier, Artie."
And then it dawned on him, and he pursed his lips. Because he understood what Alfred had been lying about, and he was not mad about it. Because then he knew no one would ever be able to forget such a thing.
But he decided to wait for Alfred to continue with his story instead of telling him that. And so seconds passed until he started again.
"The next morning gramma and grampa rushed to home..."
The next morning their grandparents rushed to their home―the farm that they left for his grandma's dream house in New Orleans once their daughter got married and had a husband who was capable of taking care of the land. Their grandpa must have broken a few speed limits with how worried they looked like when they arrived at the neighbour's house. They cried, and so were Alfred and Matthew when they saw each other. 'It's gonna be okay, sweethearts. It's gonna be all okay.' They whispered to the boys' ears. At that time, the words felt like it was the truth.
Their grandparents took them to stay at their home. When his grandpa's truck passed by their farm, their grandparents and Matthew avoided to look at the land―only straight at the seemingly endless road that stretched far in front of them. But Alfred stared. His blue eyes stared at the place he has been brought up at for years. He saw yellow police lines scattered all over the place, and he saw police cars and policemen and women everywhere―looking busy and serious. Then he saw how blue and clear the sky was, as if it was just another day at the farm. The pigs must have been hungry, he thought. Who's going to milk the cows if he's going away? What about the calf that was just born last week? But then the blue sky reminded him of his mother's eyes, the eyes that was so warm and gentle and loving yesterday. So he cried.
The days spent in his grandparents' house felt so dull and strained. His grandpa and grandma were trying so hard to act as if nothing has ever happened, as if the boys were just having their summer holiday over. And they failed. They failed so hard. Matthew grew even more skittish and quiet. He was afraid of water, and he wouldn't drink the milk their grandma poured for him. And whenever Matthew would cry and wail and beg not to have a bath and not to have to drink the milk, their grandma would pat his head and silently leave. But then Alfred could hear the silent sobs when he pressed his ears against the door.
Alfred was also afraid of taking baths and drinking milk, but he was admittedly not as bad as Matthew was. He would still take baths just because he knew his grandmother would cry, but he would be very careful not to take baths when someone is around or at a closed space. The first time he tried drinking milk, the smell of it made him puke all over the carpet. It reminded him of how him, Matthew and his mother smelled like then. Of how the sweet, warm scent wafted in the air that hot day. And then he would cry because the smell of his puke and the burning in his throat also reminded him of how the ground and Matthew smelled like. Of how it was all very real indeed, and that it really did happen.
Their grandparents were very nice, but they were old and tired, and there is a limit as to how much they can do for a pair of broken boys. They must have called someone, must have found a number or two from the boys' father's note book, or maybe they still had some contacts; because a few weeks later a pair of old man and woman arrived at their doorstep.
They said they were Alfred and Matthew's grandparents.
But it was strange, Alfred thought, why had they never seen them before? They never came before, and they lived in Canada. They said that that was where their dad came from. They also said that they were coming to take their grandson with them. They tried to explain a lot of things, of how they think that it is too dangerous for the boys to live with their mother, and how their other grandparents wouldn't be able to raise them by themselves.
Then Matthew ran up the stairs, crying. Alfred didn't know what happened. He didn't understand why Matthew was crying and why their grandparents went away to the bar to leave them with these oldies claiming to be their other grandparents. Confused, he ran up the stairs and went inside their room. There he saw Matthew crying beside the bed. The smaller boy was burrying his face between his knees and sobbed.
'Matthew, why are you cryin'?' and Matthew sobbed louder and louder and Alfed had to close the door because he was somehow afraid that the oldies downstairs would hear. 'Matthew, why ya cryin'? I would miss gramma and grampa too, but they said we can visit them every summer.' But Matthew kept on crying without giving him an answer. So Alfred stepped closer. It was when Alfred stood up right in front of him, staring, that Matthew lifted his face to look at Alfred. His lavender eyes were puffy and red and the tears kept on flowing. He would have teased Matthew if they were still back in the farm, but they weren't, so Alfred kept his mouth shut.
'Don't you understand, Alfred? They're only gonna take me away.'
Alfred stared at Matthew as if he was the most ridiculous thing he has ever seen. 'What? No way! They're totally gonna take us both.' He argued, brows furrowed in annoyance and slight fear. 'No, they said they're going to take me.' Alfred's face began to grow red in anger. 'NO MATTHEW. WE'RE TWINS THEY'RE GOING TO TAKE US BOTH BECAUSE WE'RE BROTHERS. NO ONE CAN TAKE YOU WITHOUT TAKING ME. THAT'S NOT HOW BROTHERS ARE.' Then Matthew got angry as well, because Alfred was just being stupid and loud and he shouted at him. 'ALFRED, YOU'RE STUPID. OF COURSE THEY CAN. THEY SAID OLD PEOPLE CAN'T TAKE CARE OF TWO GROWING BOYS.' Then Alfred opened his mouth because he was going to retort, but he found nothing to say. So his face grew redder and redder, as if he was going to explode. Then his lips began to tremble, and his tears exploded. He started crying. He was sure that the other grandparents downstairs must have heard, but no one rushed upstairs to see what went wrong. Then seeing his twin crying like that, Matthew's own tears began to flow again. And so the both of them cried all night into the morning.
The next morning when Alfred woke up, Matthew was already gone.
Still waiting for information. Please?
RnR?
