(VS)
USA House is fun, and the other Americans are fun, they really are. Alfred's already made a lot of new friends.
But a few days pass, and as the start of the season looms large, Alfred finds that old curiosity burning back up inside him. He'd tried to quash it, all through training and school and the ride to Versus, even. But it's still there.
What did they expect, those instructors? Telling them to hate hate hate all those other nations, and not expect them to wonder even a little bit what they were actually like? Isn't it practically natural to have treasonous feelings, to wonder, once in a while?
Well.
Not that it seems to be bothering Alfred's other classmates. They're doing just fine in USA House.
Okay, fine, so maybe Alfred is a little different. Whatever.
So he makes up his mind to it.
The rest of his classmates can sit around, Alfred decides. It's not like he's going against them or anything. He'll just—slip off, for a little.
So one day, before he can think too hard about the whole idea, Alfred tugs on the one coat he owns without some sort of identifying American sign on it, and bounces out the door, closing it decisively behind him. The air is chilly against his cheek as he glances back several times to make sure no American is following him, watching him.
Too late, Alfred wonders if his lack of insignia won't be enough of a disguise—the other nations wear them all the time, after all, and won't they notice him then? He begins walking, deciding he'll decide that when he gets there.
But then there's the other problem—where's there?
Fuck, they've never (obviously, duh) studied any of the other nations. Kinda weird, but whatever. And as hard as Alfred tries to conjure up images of the other first-years he briefly saw at the landing area, the only image that floats through his head is the word "barbarian."
If they see him will they attack on sight? Do people from other countries look different? They weren't, like, blue or anything, at least. But can't you tell, just by looking, an outsider from an insider? It seems to make sense. But, technically and all, why would there be a huge difference if they were all human?
Shit.
He should have thought this out.
The ominously silent streets (they're called no man's land, the tense gaps between the nations' houses where fights break out nearly daily) are starting to majorly creep Alfred out. Maybe he should just go back.
Come to think of it, Alfred may be in bigger trouble than he thought. In his ponderings, wandering randomly on in this long, empty street, Alfred's suddenly realizes not quite sure where he is. His feet ache with cold. How far has he walked?
He glances over at the Dome, visible from everywhere in the community, beginning to place where USA House should be. Shit, he's somehow come pretty far. He's pretty much on the opposite side of the Dome than where he started. They might be looking for him by now. And he still hasn't seen a single outsider.
Disappointed, Alfred's on the verge of heading back when he hears a very familiar sound, filtering through the air like a lifeline.
Is that…
English?
Trying very hard not to look like an American, his heart beating at hummingbird pace, Alfred hurries down the alleyway. Something on the surface of his mind whispers this isn't a good idea, it smells of treason all over but Alfred squashes it down forcefully. Let the voices of the instructors whisper away, he's been waiting too long for this. This is what he wants, Alfred reassures himself, and manages to keep himself from wimping out and running back to USA House.
Sound travels in deceptive ways in these empty quarters, and Alfred's much farther away from the source of it than he'd thought. When he finally does arrive, Alfred's lucky because there's a big soccer game going on and no one really notices a random ruffled looking blonde sliding up to the edge of the crowd, eyes wide with nervous expectation.
He's in the heart of enemy territory.
This is it. This is the moment.
Alfred takes a deep breath and furtively looks around.
It's.
Well.
It's not as…
Different as he'd expected.
The air rings with thick accents, enough to make Alfred reel, but other than that, it's just a street full of scruffy young people kicking a ball around and having fun. They don't look like they're out for blood.
Actually, looking around, it's rather difficult to imagine that most of these people have probably killed other nations in the Game, have wielded their weapons against America itself. They're just, people. Doing people things. Even the UK House, which is apparently where he's arrived at, doesn't look very different from USA House.
Alfred is torn between a weird disappointment and the bare edge of relief.
Meanwhile, the game rages before him.
"Pass it this way—"
"Come on, you wanker, come on, come on—"
"You all right?—"
"God, someone get me some water," and Alfred is positively fascinated with the way the word rolls of the man's tongue, sounding more to him like whah-tuh than the familiar waw-ter.
Entranced, buzzing with a strange kind of happiness, Alfred watches in comfort until—
"Hey, you!"
And Alfred turns around, and there's a kind of scrawny kid there with green eyes and huge eyebrows eyeing him and fuck, oh fuck, oh God oh God oh God he's talking to me, fuck what do I do, they know, I'm so so so screwed—
"What're you bloody standing around and watching for? Get in!" He takes Alfred's shoulders and spins him around and shoves—
And before he knows what's really happened, Alfred is the an American in the middle of a very much British soccer game, A ball is flying past his nose and his "teammates" are yelling at him and what's worse (or better, actually, probably?) is that no one suspects a thing and it all isn't real, it can't be real, this is too fucking surreal.
Alfred almost has to laugh.
He's in a game, but not the Game. He's playing the game-not-Game with a bunch of outsiders, who have no fucking clue he's an American. He's standing right the Hell smack-dab in front of the UK House and no one can see the difference and no one is trying to kill him and no one knows.
Is it wrong this makes him happy?
I'm so in trouble later, Alfred thinks, and kicks the ball hard.
An hour passes, and later becomes now.
As awesome as it is to play, Alfred's heart still pounds from far more than adrenaline. He plays a middling game, so that no one finds occasion to talk to him, and he clamps his mouth shut the whole way through. A single American word out of his mouth and there's a crowd of Brits waiting to kill him, Alfred is sure, even though it's hard to imagine it when that British kid from earlier goes sprawling in the street, yelling curses, and Alfred gives him his hand without really thinking about it and hauls him back up.
And he leaves the game pretty early, and no one bothers him on his way out, though he does receive one terrifying clap on the back as another player switches in.
As Alfred hurries back through the quiet, watching streets, trying to speed up the long journey back to USA House, he has the audacity to complement himself on a good sneak job, overall. For God's sake, he was in a fucking UK soccer game! That's something he bets none of the upperclassmen have done. Not that he's going to tell anyone, of course. Nope. People might call him an idiot but even he knows better than that. This one was going down with Alfred F. Jones, forever and ever. Key swallowed and all that mess.
Except for the part when he gets back to USA House and the door opens before he can touch it and the instructor is snarling in his face, dragging him up the stair by his un-insignia-ed coat collar and roaring at him—
"What were you thinking, Jones, what the Hell did you think you were doing, you always were a troublemaker, never did listen, never did—"
And he's stumbling up the stairs and half-saying something, trying to stammer out an excuse until the teacher mows him over with the incriminating question.
"So tell us, Alfred Jones, why were you leaving the US sector?"
Fuck, thinks Alfred. Fuck.
(VS)
Alfred's not the only one getting himself in to trouble, these tense seven days before the Circuit starts. He's not the only one seeking other nations outside of the Dome.
Because Antonio may be in the hospital and even Francis may be keeping his head down until the Games start, but Gilbert'll be fucked if he's going to stop making noise. C'mon. This is when screwing with the other nations is funnest, when you haven't seen them all summer and the rumors fly and you can make threats without following them up in the Dome (yet).
So Gilbert keeps talking, his eyes glowing, on the intersection of no man's land, even as his brother watches with a muted disapproval from the side.
"You know, I'm finally beginning to see why you keep that Nordic bitch around. I mean, I thought you were an idiot or something. But man! That was the best fuck I've had since—"
"Norway has nothing to do with me," grinds out Denmark in heavily accented German, snarling a smile that informs the younger man, this is the line, and you are about to cross it.
"Norway?" crows Gilbert, stepping on over, thanks for the invitation. "That's fucking cold, Matthias! See, I'll even use your fucking name, you piece of shit Dane. But really, the way you say it you could be talking about anyone. Is that really what you call him when you're in bed together? Oh, ew, don't tell me it's some sort of kinky thing—"
Very fast, two things happen.
Denmark's glove disintegrates as the nanomachines in his blood begin to form the axe handle in his hand.
At almost the same moment, Denmark himself slams into the ice-scarred ground with an exclamation point of a crack.
Ludwig is admittedly fascinated with the speed at which the blood proceeds to sprint out of the outsider's head. There is a veritable pond in a matter of seconds. It steams.
Gilbert pouts.
"Now what the hell was that for, Sweden?"
Sweden.
His turquoise eyes are embedded in his pale face like hard jewels. His spine is straighter than a crowbar. His hair is spiked ice. He towers.
Evidently, Sweden cannot understand German. Or maybe the total lack of change in facial expression is just natural for him, Ludwig doesn't know which. In any case he opts not to respond, just crouches over Denmark and drags him up by the collar of his jacket. The smaller man is dripping in a steady scarlet string.
"Ooooh," drawls Gilbert. "I got it. You just wanna fight him in the match tomorrow. I forgot all about that."
Right, Ludwig thinks. Because if Denmark calls his weapon, then he'll get collared for sure, and then he'll be on probation, and then. No match for Denmark, no match for Sweden.
The crowd of Danes look on, but don't do anything. They seem more curious than sympathetic. It occurs to Ludwig that Gilbert may not have been kidding about the Norway thing. And that's—just—
Fighting outsiders is fine. Killing them would be preferable if not for Switzerland's hawk of an eye. But talking with them? Learning their barbaric languages, even if just to taunt them? And the whole idea of sex-as-intimacy rather than sex-as-intimidation?
Weird.
Weird in the same way Gilbert is weird.
Ludwig shivers. Out of all the people in the community to be related to…
"Hey, I'm talking to you, you know."
Sweden doesn't say anything. Just drags Denmark up the street, painting the snow with an uneven red trail. Denmark does not regain consciousness. Sweden does not let up on his pace.
At the hospital, Feliciano lets out a miniature squeak as Sweden stomps in, dropping the blonde with a wet fracturing sound. Half-waking, Denmark twitches on the ground. Sweden then promptly swivels 180 degrees and marches back out in to the cold.
Feliciano runs for a nurse, and the man is shoved onto a stretcher and wheeled away.