Debris fell from the sky like cascading rain, and dust was flying everywhere from previous gunfire. The sky was bathed in grey, thick and condensed, but most of the area was. It was difficult to tell where the horizon was; everything seemed to blend in, blurred together like watery paint on a vertical canvas.
An eerie layer of fog danced over the dilapidated land, wisps of it mingling with the sudden drizzle that began to cascade from the growling skies. In a camouflaged tent lied two men, one frowning upwards as he listened to the rain crash against their shelter; the other was packing supplies with deliberate slowness, prolonging his chore. Perhaps it was to ensure nothing went a miss. Maybe he was searching for reasons not to fill the silence.
"I wish I were flying now," said his companion, and his wiry fingers stilled against the bag. He should have known that the prat couldn't remain silent for very long. It was a miracle he hadn't spoken previously.
Arthur hummed in response, sounding both irritable and uncaring at once. He was in no mood to humour the idiot, let alone engage in a conversation that would no doubt be utterly pointless. Besides, every time they had spoken thus far, it had not ended well at all; when he had marched into Alfred's tent, grabbed him by the collar and demanded what the bloody hell had taken him so long, they'd started arguing and the American troops didn't take his blusterous nature well. He had left with a few more bruises than he had entered with, but he gave as good as he got despite still recovering from a battle he'd rather not remember.
"I wonder how Amelia's doing," Alfred spoke again, and Arthur's grip on the backpack tightened slightly. "She's working on hospitals right now, helping out."
"Admirable," Arthur muttered waspishly, scowl deepening.
"Isn't she?" Alfred breathed, a small sigh escaping him. Arthur heard him shifting and bristled himself, shoulders stiffening as he paused again, refusing to turn around. "She should be at Spadina Military Hospital right now. Trained by the Red Cross," he clarified, sounding so pleased with a warm voice and a fond tone.
Arthur clenched his fists and stood abruptly, kicking the bag to the side and falling onto his makeshift bed, turning away from Alfred and curling up, crossing his arms and glaring furiously at the tent, watching droplets fall down the thin material. Blasted rain. It merely served to amplify the odd weight settling on his heart and tugging at it as his bones rattled and thoughts collided in his mind.
"What's gotten into you?" Alfred asked after a moment, sounding utterly oblivious. What an obnoxious twat he could be, always so bleeding clueless in serious instances, deluding himself with romantic thoughts about a human when it would only end in heartbreak and sounding so confused as to why Arthur was displeased.
… Why was he, actually? The question made him pause even as he opened his mouth to snap at Alfred, and suddenly he wasn't entirely sure. He was tired, tired of this fucking war, tired of the constant dull ache in his bones following the Somme, tired of actually caring and wondering if Francis was all right, tired of listening to Alfred talk about redundant and meaningless things that had nothing to do with this war.
Arthur wasn't ignorant. He caught the fleeting looks of despair on Alfred's face, the slight tremors in Alfred's hands as he gripped his weapon, the sharp intakes of breath when he woke up from a nightmare. And he supposed it would be hypocritical of him to lecture Alfred about thinking of something, anything to take his mind off of death and battle; likewise, it would be duplicitous to pretend he wasn't guilty of loving a human. Even if they were nations, they couldn't control their feelings…
"Nothing," he eventually murmured, the word bitter on his tongue, as bitter as his thoughts and the ache in his heart. He curled into himself more, the coil in his stomach intensifying as he clenched his eyes shut, trying to force apathy and finding it as impossible as he always had done. "Nothing at all."
The only sound that filled the silence after his whispers was the rain, cascading atop the tent and making it almost shudder, and soon enough Arthur found himself trembling, telling himself it was merely due to the cold. His eyelids fluttered when he heard Alfred shift again, half tempted to shout at him, half wishing the idiot would come over and talk at him, even if it was about ridiculous things, sentimental or otherwise, if only to stop his thoughts from drowning him.
"If you say so," he said instead, and a sardonic smirk formed on Arthur's cracked lips. Of course. Alfred had never been one to read the atmosphere…
"I do," he whispered, and they didn't exchange words for the rest of the evening.
x.
Wide, horrified eyes of an innocent adolescent soldier stared up at him fearfully, absolute terror evident on his bloodied features. His shaking hands were embedded in soil, and Arthur had watched as the kid had tried to wash the blood of his comrades off of his hands. Corpses littered the area like rain in London or smiles on children.
"Nein…" he whispered weakly, and Arthur could see the tears in his eyes even amidst all of the heavy rain.
He lifted his gun…
And suddenly, he fell to the floor himself, on his knees in mud that soaked through his uniform like the blood coating his body. His head felt heavy, his body almost bound by invisible chains, but as boots planted in front of him, he raised his head to meet the icy blue eyes of his enemy.
"Germany," he bit out, sounding just as livid as he did even when stronger. A wolf could still bite after its head was chopped off; Arthur could still fight when he was being torn apart.
"You have made some tactical errors, England," Ludwig muttered darkly, eyes almost overshadowed by his helmet. He raised his gun, pressing it against Arthur's forehead, and said, "Goodbye."He awoke to the sound of crackling thunder, wincing at memories of storms forcing him to hide beneath trees as the faeries vanished for cover and he waited them out alone. But he wasn't alone, he remembered, when he heard the grunts from the bunk on the other side of the tent. Sighing and rubbing the cold sweat from his forehead, he twisted around to see Alfred turning and shifting and clutching his thin pillow between shaking fingers.
"Al—" He paused, swallowing thickly, and banished the memories of when he would wake Alfred from a nightmare and hold him until he fell into a peaceful slumber. Those days had long since passed, and he had to… he had to move on. "America," he muttered, frowning when he didn't wake up, only flinched perceptibly and buried his face into his pillow. Heaving a long suffering sigh, Arthur threw his legs over the side of his cot, shuffling towards Alfred. He reached out to touch his shoulder, pausing as he took in the slight wrinkles beside his eyes from his bright smiles, freckles from exposure to the sun, and heaved a melancholy sigh. "Wake up, America," he insisted, shaking his shoulder. "America, wake u—!"
His arm was grasped tightly and he was pulled down, gasping and grimacing when he was pressed flush against the hard cot. He groaned, prepared to reprimand Alfred for his actions, only to freeze when he opened his eyes to find azure ones gazing back at him. The same eyes he used to see, only… less dependent, but freer, more… grown up. He exhaled shakily, shifting beneath Alfred's grasp and wincing when he felt the tight clasp Alfred had on him, his wrists held together and pinned down and his legs stuck beneath Alfred.
"America, get off!" he snapped, suddenly feeling exposed beneath his former charge. He wanted to lash out, refuse to allow Alfred to get the better of him or reveal his vulnerabilities. He clenched a fist and gritted his teeth, about to bark another furious order, and then—
"You were once… so big…"
That coil inside of him unfurled slightly, breaking a bit, and his fists shook. He wasn't sure if Alfred was saying that on purpose, if he enjoyed seeing Arthur stuck underneath him; or if he was simply the most oblivious man Arthur had been acquainted with, too blind to realise that Arthur wasn't two dimensional or utterly evil and those words didn't help to prevent him from snapping at Alfred.
"Get off," he hissed again. "That's an order!"
"Who are you," Alfred murmured lowly, voice suddenly dropping, deeper, deep enough to send odd reverberations down Arthur's spine, "to give me orders… England?"
"Insolent brat," he forced out, voice hoarse as he glared furiously into intense blues. "For one thing, I have been involved in far more warfare than you have. And, not to be accusatory, but I have also been in this war longer than you have been, America," he muttered threateningly, "so I suggest you do not overstep boundaries."
"I am not a child, England!" he snapped, eyes smouldering with rage as he glowered down at Arthur, increasing his grip on the man's pinned hands and almost delighting in the flicker of pain he saw. "There has never been a war of this scale before. You are just as scared as I am."
A mocking smirk came to Arthur's face and he breathed a chuckle. "I am dubious of that, America," he murmured dryly. "How many battles have you been through? How many people have you killed? What could you have possibly done to prepare yourself for a world war?"
Alfred's eyes darkened. His entire demeanour seemed to evolve – the defensive, scared little boy vanished, and suddenly he seemed all too old and knowing. He let go of Arthur's wrists only to clutch them tighter and shove them against the cot, leaning down to press their foreheads together. "Sometimes," he whispered, as if sharing a secret, like when he was little when he told Arthur he had found another star in the sky or a fish in a lake, "I still hear that voice… You know what I speak of, do you not, England? That scar… That disgusting scar going through the middle of me, as if separating me, cutting me in two… Do you remember? It is, I suppose, a legitimate question. You were hardly there…"
"Don't—"
"He tells me to do things, England," Alfred said, smiling, but there was no light in his voice. His lips brushed against Arthur's, hot breath joining Arthur's erratic ones. "Things that you have probably already done… all those times you left me at home. Remember, England?" he demanded, and shoved his lips roughly against Arthur's, teeth colliding painfully, his tongue invading Arthur's mouth and claiming it. His nails dug into the skin of Arthur's arms and he bit harshly on his lip, tasting that bittersweet metallic tang of blood. He sucked at it, biting down again, but was unconnected from the lip lock when he was shoved roughly to the ground, the collision knocking his breath out of him. The haze dispersed slowly, and he flinched, staring up at Arthur in astonishment and balking when he saw the blood on his lips. "A-Arthur—"
"I know," Arthur muttered, brushing his lip with his gloved hand and sighing, eyes drifting from his lap to Alfred and back again. He couldn't bring himself to apologise, perhaps because he wasn't sure if Alfred would forgive him, perhaps because he wouldn't be able to accept Alfred's forgiveness. Perhaps because… "You are right," he murmured, sighing and glowering at nothing. "I am… scared." He hesitated, almost wishing Alfred knew what to say to make it less strained. "I… I have never been one to reveal my feelings to others. It's… difficult. And… you did seem rather unnerved. I didn't wish to worsen it by expressing my own apprehension."
"Oh, Arthur," Alfred breathed, materialising back on the cot, and tentatively but willingly enveloped Arthur into a tight embrace, breathing in deeply and closing his eyes. "I… Honestly, I feel better knowing I am not alone in my fear."
Frowning against Alfred's shoulder and fighting back the defensiveness that told him to push him away, move, get out of this hold… Arthur carefully wrapped his own arms around Alfred, frown deepening when he realised how broad his back was and yet how dauntingly familiar this felt.
"…You are never alone, Alfred."
x.
Today's prompt was military. I was going to have them actually actively involved in combat, but I didn't want that to be too reminiscent of another fic I've done. Instead, they're in a tent waiting for their next move and getting into overly dramatic arguments… as they do.
This is meant to be set during WWI, around the December of 1917, although that won't be obvious. England's dream was more of a memory during the Somme. America's dream is unspecified and, while I have my own ideas, it's up to you to determine what it was. It was not perverse, by the way. :I Gosh, people.
I've seen a lot of perspectives on England's characterisation from what I've read, ranging from extremes of kawaiimoeblob!England to heartlessruthlessseme!England… neither of which appeal to me, but to each their own. I have found many middle grounds with England being developed as a well rounded character which I find refreshing, although I'm open to interpretations. In any case, the way I perceive him… I don't believe him to be entirely innocent, but nor utterly unfeeling either. He's done plenty of bad things, many of which he doesn't regret, but he does have a heart. I try to show him as a man tainted by time and his own wrongdoings, with walls and shields that are difficult to tear down.
If we reference canon, then it's obvious I take it way too seriously. XD But that's why these are headcanons, right? c:
Anyway, I'm sure America was downright terrified during WWI… The Civil War wasn't too long before it and the side effects would have been lasting, so I think he'd be paranoid. I think everyone would have been rather unnerved, having never engaged in a war of such a scale that it was described as a world war, even if they had been involved in numerous battles previously.
I do believe America was infatuated with Amelia Earhart, perhaps even loved her. The facts implemented in here are true, lest my sources be inaccurate and my findings lacklustre. ;u;' And England's jealous and doesn't even realise it. Really, man, you are so out of touch!
I've been mistaken for an England RP blog on Tumblr a few times in the past couple of days, which is rather odd. Perhaps it may be because I sent a couple of messages to America RPers as England on the fourth? I don't know, but now a few people are referring to me with male pronouns and as "Arthur". My URL wouldn't make sense for it to be an England account! It's nonsensical enough as it is. Oh, people. ;u;'
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this~ If you're wondering what I did for the third day, it was for the theme of science, and I actually drew a picture, which is here: http : / gosangoku . deviantart . com /#/ d3krzly
Thank you for reading!