It's been a long time. All I can do is apologise. I could make excuses (I've had end of year exams, and family business, and a slightly traumatic experience involving a pineapple) but it wouldn't really make any difference. So, I'm really sorry, and better late than never, right? As always, I apologise for any spelling/grammar or continuity errors. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it!
Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia Axis Powers characters.
For a guy who seemed to exist entirely on hamburgers, milkshakes and soda, Alfred could walk surprisingly fast. Matthew wondered, as he dashed down the unfamiliar street after his brother, if there was an undiscovered link between playing video games (which Al did for hours) and muscle mass (which he seemed to have plenty of). Maybe Matthew should have persuaded his Mom to buy him that X-box after all…
He stumbled to a halt, then, as he realised that he was seriously considering the lunatic idea as a valid hypothesis. For a moment he'd been thinking of sending a petition to the government, ordering them to pay for experimentation facilities and test subjects and an economic scheme to bring video games to every home.
The Olympic Games were being held in London next year, so England would need all the muscle it could get… Oh dear, Matthew sighed to himself, I'm going crazy. I never even got to watch The Godfather 2. Do they have TV's in psychiatric hospitals?
He rubbed at his eyes with one hand, and some distant part of his brain noted with a touch of panic that Alfred had just turned the corner and vanished out of sight.
Pull yourself together, Matthew told himself sternly, Now is not the time to be pondering your impending insanity!
Luckily for his brother, Alfred wasn't very careful with his keys. In fact, it would take all of his fingers, all of his toes and a few of someone else's to count how many times they had been lost, run over, dropped into a river or accidentally swallowed.
As a result, they were worn and blunt, and had to be jabbed into the lock, turned exactly 33 degrees to the right, wiggled about, taken out, sworn at and shoved in again before they would actually open the front door to his house. When Matthew jogged up the path (a little out of breath, and wishing he hadn't swallowed so much of the swimming pool water) Alfred seemed to be stuck on the swearing part.
"Fucking bugger bumfuck!" Alfred screeched as Matthew approached. He threw the keys down onto the floor, stomped his foot, and leant his forehead against the wall.
His eyes were closed. Matthew tentatively stepped forward (perhaps everyone in England is mad? Maybe the rain acts as some kind of water torture, turning everyone it falls on slowly insane?) picked up the slightly wet keys, gently pushed them into the lock, and turned them. The door opened smoothly.
"Mattie…" Alfred murmured, his tone low and awe-struck, "You- You've got magic powers, bro." Matthew noted with the barest hint of annoyance that his supposed supernatural abilities didn't stop his brother from shoving past him quite rudely on his way into the hall.
He followed him inside, closing the door gently behind him. The taller boy strode off into to kitchen, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the carpet, and slammed the door.
Does Alfred have some particular grudge against doors? Maybe there was a traumatic incident in his youth involving one? Is it just doors, or all furniture? Perhaps he wakes up every night screaming from nightmares about being trapped in IKEA?
"I really need to go to bed," Matthew muttered aloud. He tugged off his shoes and trudged towards the kitchen to make the necessary small-talk with Arthur, but before he got there his brother's voice from inside the room yelled,
"Your stupid mistakes are going to haunt me for the rest of my life! It's not fair!"
There was a long-suffering sigh, then a voice Matthew recognised as Arthur's replied (slightly more quietly),
"Oh, be quiet, Alfred."
"No! I shouldn't have to put up with some smug bastard smirking at me just because you couldn't resist shagging a teenager!"
"I will not have you talk to me like that! You have no idea what happened. You're too young to understand."
"Too young? How many years older than me was that French prick? One? Two?"
"He was of age! Perhaps I should have said immature, and not young."
"Was it some kind of midlife crisis?"
"Midlife? I'm thirty-eight!"
"Exactly! He could have been your son."
"He was most definitely not my son. And while we're on the subject of paying for other people's mistakes, what about the Harrods incident? I had to pay a ridiculous amount in damages, and my PR woman was working overtime for weeks!"
"That was an accident!"
"An accident? How could tying an American flag around your forehead and jumping on top of an old woman, screaming about the Boston Tea Party, possibly be construed as an accident?"
"I was re-enacting history! She looked like the Queen!"
"I dread to think what would have happened if she hadn't known karate…"
"I had bruises for weeks, and you didn't even care! All you were concerned about was your bloody public image!"
"How dare you? After everything I've done for you! Sometimes I think you will never grow up."
"Maybe that's because the food you give me is absolute shit!"
"My cooking is perfectly fine!"
"I've been to hospital fourteen times with food poisoning! That toast you made killed the neighbour's dog!"
"That was never proved!"
Matthew blinked, and decided that the small talk could wait until tomorrow.
Gilbert stormed into the house. If he were a cartoon character, there would have been lightning and red wavy lines and cats with their fur on end, but unfortunately he was just a frustrated teenage boy. Probably for the best, actually, because his brother was allergic to cats.
The more he thought about it (and he couldn't stop thinking about it) the more he realised that his day, which he had previously waved off as a success, was actually a complete shambles. Yeah, he'd met an indecently cute boy, but he'd then made a total idiot of himself spitting coffee everywhere, half-admitted to eating faeces, and once again suffered for Francis' insatiable libido. He needed to forget. He needed beer.
Gilbert's father sat calmly in their living room, reading that day's newspaper. He ignored his son's entrance, but sighed as he heard him stomping off into the kitchen. Fireworks were set to go off in three, two, one…
"YOU PUT A PADLOCK ON THE FRIDGE? WHO PUTS A FUCKING PADLOCK ON A KITCHEN APPLIANCE? NO WONDER PEOPLE THINK THAT ALL GERMANS ARE NAZIS!"
The man carefully folded his newspaper, and put it down on the coffee table. His oldest son's face was red, his hair flattened from the rain, and he looked even more angry than usual. "I wouldn't have had to lock the fridge," Gilbert's father said evenly, "If you hadn't drunk every single one of the beers I bought last week. They were imported, and expensive. I cannot afford to maintain your lifestyle."
"Maintain my lifestyle? It was a couple of beers! I'm not picking up hookers and snorting cocaine!"
"The point still stands. When you are hungry or thirsty, ask Ludwig or I for permission to open the fridge, and we will gladly obey."
"You gave Ludwig a fucking key? What, do you think he's more responsible than me or something?"
"Exactly."
If Gilbert hadn't hidden a bottle of vodka under his mattress last week (for emergencies) he would have gone on one of his infamous rampages. Instead, he let out a screech, slammed his way upstairs, and in half an hour was blissfully drunk. Unfortunately, it wasn't helping him forget the day's events. Fortunately, it meant he didn't care about them any more.
"It's just like Romeo and Juliet," he slurred at the stain on his ceiling, "Only instead of the families, there's… Toni and fucking Francis – heh, fucking Francis, cos he fucks everybody – on my side, and… and… thingamabob's brother on the other side…"
He took another swig from the bottle, lost in his own swirling thoughts,
"And eventually… after some fighting and shit… we'll get to shag… oh, but then we'll die… I don't wanna die…Ah hah hah…"
Ludwig looked up from his algebra textbook (there was no work set over the summer, but he liked to keep his mind limber) as a cacophony of noise erupted from his brother's bedroom next door. He couldn't tell if Gilbert was laughing or crying.
He had told Father the padlock idea wouldn't work.
Thankyou for reading, and don't forget to review! PLEASE! Even if it's just a few words, I'll still be really grateful.