Chapter 8
Diplomacy is vital to your state of mind. So you wait until Arthur has (possibly) forgotten about the whole thing with Atlantis and the television before—of course—pestering him again.
It's an hour later and he's sitting in his couch, boring as can be, reading a newspaper with glasses on like an old world-weary man. You'd never admit they looked good on him.
Besides, that would blow your cover.
Currently you're positioned behind the entrance to the parlor, peeking in. Arthur has his back to you; he adjusts his glasses and gives an annoyed huff, as if enjoying the news is a fact that needs to be kept top-secret, even from himself. It looks like he hasn't had enough tea; he stops and puts aside his paper to take a sip from the teacup on a nearby table.
You decide it's time.
Quick as a flash you dart across the room in the opposite direction of his line of sight, thanking whatever deity up high that the floor is carpeted and not tiled. In no time at all you're next to the couch—he still hasn't noticed!—and take the opportunity to plop yourself down beside him.
"Arthur!"
It still gives you a strange feeling, calling him by his first name. He must have thought so too, because the teacup jerks in his hand and spills its contents all over his shirt as he jumps up like a scalded chicken.
"_ !" he shouts angrily. "What the hell!"
You grin and decide to ignore the swearing. "Your newspaper looks so boring, Arthur." To prove your point you pick it up and scan the front page. "France has problems with his budget? What does that mean?"
A fuming Arthur snatches it out of your hands. "Will you stop with this already and tell me why on earth you decided to appear out of nowhere like a wraith? Look what you did to my shirt!" Indeed, under his wildly animated gestures, a dark tea stain has begun to spread (quite rapidly) across that particular article of clothing. The situation can only be improved in one way.
"It looks better like that," you answer cheekily.
The Englishman's face reddens (almost adorably, you think) and he throws his hands up and stalks out of the room. "If I knew this was going to happen, I wouldn't have brought you here. What did I ever do to deserve this..." His voice fades around the corner and you have to bite back a snicker.
That had certainly been entertaining. Even if you didn't get any of your questions answered.
You can hear the sound of multiple doors and drawers slamming loudly in an upstairs room; Arthur's probably having a hard time finding a replacement shirt. Patiently you sit and wait for him to return, counting the flowers in the wallpaper to pass the time. How strange. Arthur never seemed like one to like flowers. You suppose he's just one of those people who happen to be full of surprises.
After five minutes you've gone from flowers and Arthur to missing Alfred. He'd know how to entertain anyone, just by being himself. And eating his hamburgers. You wonder how he's doing, back in America—
Ding dong, the doorbell shouts.
Yes, shouts, because someone's banging on it as hard as he humanly can. Someone in a bad temper, most likely.
"Arthur!" A male voice bellows. "Open the hell up already!"
But there's no answer from Arthur, or he's too far upstairs to hear. There's nothing for it; you heave a great sigh and take the stairs two at a time.
"Arthur!" you call, wondering if he fell asleep in his closet. You reach what you assume to be his door and open it. "Arthur—"
You stop short.
And with good reason, because there stands Arthur with a shirt in his hand. That he has not yet put on.
You know you should be looking away, or better yet, running back out the way you came. But despite yourself, your eyes are already taking in the sight that is Arthur without a shirt. He's rather pale, and not quite muscular compared to others like, say, Ivan Braginsky (who must've had grenades under his coat the last time you saw him). But the Englishman's figure is... not bad. His chest is toned enough and his arms look fairly strong, strong enough to wrap around someone and hold them ti—
"What are you doing in my room?" screeches the very same, red-faced Englishman.
Caught. In. The. Act.
Right then your face decides to turn a marvelous shade of crimson, and immediately you back away. Sadly, your voice has not yet recovered. "Th-there's—a man—a man knocking on the door and calling for you," you manage to choke out.
And as if to prove your point, the voice comes again, even louder this time.
"Arthur Kirkland! I'm telling you if you don't get down here in the next two nanoseconds I will break down this door and take my damn wand back, see if I don't—"
"God damn," says Arthur in a decidedly ungentlemanly way, pulling on his shirt as fast as he can (of course that didn't disappoint you). "Now if you could please excuse me—and stop staring—Mint, now is not the time—"
"Mint?" you ask in confusion, staring at the patch of air he was just talking to. Something isn't right here...
But Arthur's already leaping down the stairs, and it would probably be improper (not to mention highly suspicious) to remain in his room, alone. So you follow him. He reaches the front door and flings it open most irritably.
"Well. I was just about to make good on my threat," says the man, stepping into the house. He cuts a striking figure—pale and tall, taller even than Alfred, with dark eyes and a shock of very red hair. "About time."
"About time you bought yourself a watch," Arthur replies sarcastically. "Since you can barely count as it is, brother."
Brother!?
But the man only raises an eyebrow in a bored fashion, quite similar to Arthur's, on second glance. "About time you bought one, you mean. Three months and you haven't returned my wand. I actually need it for important purposes, you know—" His eye suddenly lights on you, and he gives a loud whoop of surprise.
"Artie, my boy!" he shouts, all sugary-sweet now, ruffling a horrified Arthur's hair. "You never told me you kept... playthings!"
"WHAT!?" you shout at the same time Arthur screeches, "The hell are you saying!?"
"I meant—ahem—what is a more polite way to ask this, I don't believe there is any—Ouch, that's my wand arm!"
Of course it's Arthur who punched him, right in the arm where, apparently it hurts his brother the most. "If I hear one more word, Allistor, you will get hell and I mean it!"
The man called Allistor grins and rubs his arm ruefully. "I am sorry," he says, addressing you directly at last. "You see, I've been telling Arthur to get a girl or a guy for over a century. And here I was thinking I'd succeeded."
"Apology not accepted," you say stiffly, and hear an approving snort from Arthur. Allistor staggers back with his hand over his chest.
"Thou hast pierced me straight to the heart!" he cries, mock swooning. "O fair being, if thou canst only bestow thy pardon, even once..."
"Oh, stop being a drama king," Arthur says disgustedly. "You had it coming. _ is a country and you'd best remember it."
"A country!?" Now Allistor looks extremely interested—and not in a good way, either. "Well, nice to meet you, fellow country. I'm Allistor Kirkland, or Scotland, whatever you will. How come I've never seen you around?" He lifts your chin to scrutinize your face, but you wriggle out of his grasp with a glare, sparking a laugh from him. "You're a feisty one, to be sure. What are you?"
By now you know he means What country are you? But you still don't have a good answer for that.
"We haven't found out yet," Arthur says helpfully, sprawling on the (slightly tea-dampened) couch. "Though I do think it might have something to do with—"
Sadly, you never get to hear what your identity might be related to, because Allistor has leapt up excitedly once more. "Give me my wand!" he shouts. "I know a spell that might do the trick—come on, Artie! Heaven knows what you've been doing with it all this time..."
"For your information," Arthur retorts, "I was actually working on a spell to help that bloody frog."
"Ah, did he catch something again? Last time I remember he had some terrible 'ailment' that spread right to his—"
"Oh, shut up," Arthur interrupts, beet-red now. "You're traumatizing poor _ . She has a delicate mind."
"I do not!" you retort and Allistor laughs.
"You're cute. Say, _ , would you like to come with me someday to the—"
"No."
"Rejected again!" groans Allistor tragically. "Oh, when will this ever end? You have shattered my heart into tiny, irreplaceable pieces, _ ," he laments, gesturing to invisible shards strewing the ground and covering his eyes like a wronged monarch.
"Can you please stop flirting with every living creature you meet?" Arthur snaps, returning with a long black rod in one hand. "Really, it's annoying as hell."
"Jealous, are you?"
"Shut up," orders Arthur, his cheeks pinking. You decide to interrupt before their brotherly relationship suffers any further blows.
"Is that really a wand? A magic one?"
"Yes, my dear," answers Allistor, a dreamy look entering his eyes. "This baby's all mine. I even have a Scottish name for her—"
"Her!?"
"Ignore him," Arthur advises. "He has issues."
"Do not!"
"Do too!"
"May I touch it?" you inquire curiously, and both of them immediately turn to you.
"Of course," says Allistor after a moment. "Though it won't do any good—if you can't do magic, it's just like holding a stick." He takes the wand from Arthur; the moment it contacts his fingers, it glows a faint silver. "You've gt to have some sorcery in your blood for it to work."
Still you want to hold it, and you reach to take it from Allistor's hands. The silvery glow vanishes immediately as you grip the wand in your fingers. But it still feels warm, almost as if it's alive...
And then it flashes, a brilliant violet glow lighting it from top to bottom.
"Holy mother of God," says Allistor in awe.
"What on earth—" whispers Arthur.
You don't know what to say. You can't stop staring at the lit wand in your hand, feeling as if it were meant to be there. The light grows ever brighter as you watch, and the wand suddenly heats up—
"Ow!" you gasp as a burning sensation shoots through your palm, and you drop the rod; it falls to the ground, the light fading immediately, and once more it is harmless-looking. A long silence follows. Allistor finally breaks it when he picks up the wand.
"I've never seen anything like that before," he murmurs, subdued. "That—that was something else altogether. A new kind of magic, perhaps." He stares at you as though trying to see into your soul. "Not many countries have magic, and certainly none like yours..." And then come the inevitable questions. "How? Who are you?"
"I—I don't know," you whisper, feeling bewildered. Your hand still tingles from the heat of the wand, and you look at it. In the palm of your hand is a violet mark shaped like a star.
Arthur grabs hold of your hand and stares at it. "That's strange," he mutters. "Wands never leave marks on people, least of all nations..." He frowns and lets go of your hand suddenly, a concerned look on his face. " _ , your hand is burning. Are you all right?"
You nod slowly, not knowing how to answer. Your head feels oddly light, and somehow all your limbs are tingling. You barely feel Arthur's hand as he reaches up to touch your forehead.
"Bloody hell," he exclaims, "you're hotter than a furnace!"
In any other situation you might have taken that as a compliment, which would make you blush for days because of course it's coming from Arthur—but now it's different. The moment he says it you become aware of how drained you really feel, and slowly but surely the room begins to spin, becoming increasingly unfocused.
" _ ," you can hear Arthur saying, from somewhere far away. " _ , talk to me, what's wrong—"
Though you try to answer, you can't. You can't speak or breathe or even feel his arms around you; you're already falling, and blessed darkness envelops you and pulls you down into a realm of dreams.
