A conclusion still hadn't been reached with Vietnam. As difficult a situation it was for Ivan's Soviet side, it was even more troublesome for the American.
"Dammit! We shouldn't do this, bullying a girl isn't what a hero should be doing!" Alfred yelled out orders to his troops, "We're withdrawing! Boys, let's go!"
Alfred was woken up one day by a noisy riot. He walked up to the tall, French windows of the White House and peered through the curtains to see a startling amount of his people shouting below. He furrowed his brows in distress.
Amidst the chaos, a young girl was moving between the soldiers and slipping flowers in the mouth of their rifles. At this scene, the people broke into an even more intense uproar.
"We are against the war! We are for peace! For justice! Withdraw the troops!"
Withdraw the troops….?
Alfred irritably thrust the curtains shut and dove into his covers, mumbling, "…And I was fighting the war for the good of all of you…"
He rolled around and pulled Arthur, who was sleeping beside him, into his arms. Alfred had dragged him to the bar last night, but Arthur had gotten drunk within the first two cups of beer with his horrible alcohol tolerance. So he stayed with Alfred for the night, and as of now, he would wake up with a terrible hangover.
"…So noisy…bloody wanker…" unfocused emerald eyes blinked sleepily as he complained to the American. He rubbed his sandy blonde hair. Arthur clearly hadn't felt like waking up yet.
"But Arthur—" Alfred dolefully looked at the other.
"Get off me you idiot, you're crushing me…!" said man protested while struggling to move his sore limbs.
Seeing that Alfred did not respond, nor did he seem like he had any intentions of moving, Arthur sighed as he stopped struggling and asked, "What's going on down there?"
"…" soft golden locks rubbed against Arthur's chin, but he did not receive a reply.
"….Alright then, if you won't say, I'll go see for myself." Arthur continued, "Get. Off!"
Alfred rubbed his nose and finally yelled, "Withdrawal! They want me to pull out all my troops! They're starting to get annoyed with me, Arthur!"
Arthur went rigid for a second before he fell silent. He gazed at the ceiling, letting Alfred cling to him.
"You're just too reckless for your own good." He combed his hand through Alfred's hair, voice mild, "…..too reckless."
Arthur thought of the muddy little boy in the prairies some 200 years ago. An innocent boy, yet to know anything. Yet to know of freedom, of independence, of goodbyes. Looking at a younger Britain with eyes only of an untainted, sky blue.
"…Arthur." His eyes were still the shade of a beautiful azure blue, but his voice was much deeper, and he was much taller, and stronger. Alfred propped his forearm next to Arthur's head and leaned in, capturing the man's lips in his own. Slowly from gentle to passionate, he kissed the other, then in the end, becoming violent and aggressive. A metallic tang creeped in between their lips and teeth. Arthur gasped for breath, hands planted on Alfred's sturdy chest, pushing him away in defense.
The dim room with the tightly shut curtains was very quiet, only the heavy breaths of the two were audible, and that made the clamor below them seem even louder, "Withdraw the troops! We want peace!"
Arthur rubbed his lips with the back of his hand and said softly to Alfred, "Two-hundred years ago, they stood beneath my home, yelling for independence. And now even after two-hundred years, they're still out there, yelling for peace. Alfred, why are your people always so vigorous?"
Alfred's lips trailed on Arthur's neck, he did not reply.
The Briton leaned back on the bedside and continued, "Always….so tiresome. Why don't you try Braginsky's old boss's way, like how they gathered all the protestors in a plaza and slaughtered them all?"
"Shut up." Alfred rested his forehead on the other's, his voice quiet and calm, "My sweet Arthur, don't give me any ideas."
Arthur scoffed in amusement.
"What are you planning to do?" as Alfred's hand moved to his waist, Arthur grunted softly and asked, "How are you going to deal with this? Don't get ahead of yourself, Alfred. Make one wrong move from now on, and you will meet a dead end. This is Ivan Braginsky you're dealing with."
A glint of unpredictability flashed through Alfred's eyes for a moment, then he smiled boyishly, "When are you going to stop treating me like a child?"
"You know the consequences if you lose to that maniac," Arthur rolled his eyes at Alfred's pout, "Even if you're in a hurry to die, I refuse pay the expenses for your funeral."
"…Will you stand on my side?"
"…"
"Arthur—"
"No," the Kirkland said, "I won't."
Alfred raised his brows, not surprised at all.
"Francis and the lot have been giving me too much pressure, I can't be too close with you, or else no one would be able to save my people if anything happens." Arthur told him truthfully.
"You've been carefully planning your every step." Alfred smiled, understanding.
"Every nation has been doing so, especially during your clash with Braginsky." Arthur gently slid Texas off Alfred's face and leaned in to kiss his lashes. It was a warm and pleasant touch, it was love in secrecy, unconsciously expressed.
"I have been carefully planning my every step, but what about you, Alfred? What makes you so at ease in this situation? It's time you learn to play the game by the rules."
Alfred slid easily into him, his entrance still lubricant from last night. Arthur arched his back and moaned softly, eyes watery and glazed over with pleasure. His hair was ruffled by Alfred's fingers sweeping through his locks.
"…I'm planning on visiting China this month." Alfred said softly.
"…Has being whacked by a wok become a hobby of yours?"
"What can a sickly nation like him do?" he chuckled, "Jealous?"
Arthur grunted.
"Of course not."
He slid his arms around Alfred's chest and his hands roamed the other's muscular back.
You're afraid, Alfred. You aren't the bold child you once were. Your fearlessness has faded long since you became the world's superpower.
Every man who's tasted of power would always worry about the outcomes of his conquest and his fate. Then he will gradually slow his footsteps until he has come to a full stop. Yao has been on this path, Antonio as well, and so have I. It is because we have tasted the bitter outcomes of this path of power that we've learnt the differences between struggle and failure. We've learnt to treasure what we have now—our family.
You have already come to this crossing-line, and of course you'd board this boat. I won't stop you. I can't stop you either. But you will come across storms and crashing currents, you will endure alone. You and Braginsky. You both are so powerful, and that is precisely why the two of you are so misunderstood, and don't even fully understand your own selves…
That day, Yao was at home making dumplings when he heard some knocking on his door. He opened it to see that it was Alfred, wearing a seemingly pure and bright grin. Yao knew very well that Alfred liked to pull some strange tricks from time to time. As Ivan would say, "I wouldn't be surprised even if Alfred ran across the beach wearing only his boxers, trying to reach Mars." So as Yao stood facing the unexpected guest, he merely raised his brows, not too excited.
"Yao!" his voice sounded a bit too obviously childish.
"…." the corner of Yao's lips twitched a bit. He said to Alfred, "Mr. Alfred Jones, if you've come to whine like a child, then I suggest you go to Mr. Kirkland for that. I'm busy right now."
Alfred adjusted his glasses and mumbled to himself, "…Thought you'd fall for the trick like Arthur…"
"Did you need anything?" Yao changed the topic, patting off the flour that had collected on his sleeves.
"Yeah." Alfred nodded his head, his cowlick bouncing about.
"…Come in and have a seat." Yao said after a moment of contemplating and moved aside.
After Yao tidied up a few things on the coffee table before he turned to Alfred and smiled, "Please."
The tall blond man sat down on the sofa and looked around the place, seemingly interested and intrigued by Yao's house, but he still hadn't starting talking about his original purpose of this visit. But Yao wasn't in a hurry either, he rested his chin on crossed fingers and watched with impassive eyes. Alfred soon became uncomfortable under his unwavering stare and cleared his throat just to say, "So…..you have any tea?"
Preparing tea was a basic sign of hospitality, and the fact that Yao hadn't prepared any had made it pretty clear that he did not welcome his 'guest'. But of course, Alfred was thick-skulled. He couldn't have noticed such blatant insinuations. Sometimes Alfred could be such a mystery to Yao, seeing that Alfred could be terribly intimidating and intelligent when he needed to be.
Hazel colored liquid filled the cup, and was gently placed in front of Alfred. He lifted the cup and took a gulp of the tea and scrunched up his brows, "It's so bitter."
Yao ignored him.
"Arthur always puts milk and sugar in his tea," he continued, "But it still tastes gross."
"Mr. Jones, if you could be straightforward with what you came here for?" Yao was still smiling, but his words were turning stiff.
Alfred took a breath while the white mist on his glasses gradually faded away from the hot steam of the tea. He took out a set of newspaper clippings from his jacket's pocket and handed it to Yao.
"I'm sure you're familiar with this."
Yao looked through the papers. It was an article of the news by the Washington Post from four years ago. The papers were already slightly yellowed, but they were still neat and smooth. The title boldly stated: The Soviet Union plans to start a surgical nuclear strike on boundary lines. After that, there was just a bunch of details and reports. Beneath those were information about the border dispute between China and the Soviet at the Ussuri River, followed by the description of what Ivan's government was planning—to take down Yao's government and soldiers.
"…..Ha." the more Yao read, the colder he felt his heart become. Four years ago was right when Yao's illness was at its peak. His boss was always busy handling so many cases but never told Yao how serious the situation really was, fearing his illness would worsen. Now, as Yao was reading through the article, he felt that is was all too ironic.
"…Braginsky really has some imagination, wanting to get rid of me." he tossed the newspaper article back on the coffee table, so frustrated that he laughed bitterly out loud.
Alfred retrieved the papers and shook his head, "Calm down, his plan had failed from the very beginning. I know you understand, both Arthur and I didn't want him to break the lock because although I have the power the destroy the world, he has the courage to do worse, and that's what's most terrifying. I wanted to warn everyone."
Yao lapsed into silence. At seeing Yao's reaction, Alfred quickly took it into his advantage and continued, "Braginsky's boss was furious, 'cause he thought that I had betrayed him. Heh, what's funny was that I was never on his side. How could there even be a betrayal?"
Alfred turned the teacup around and around, fondling aimlessly at the fine china as he continued with his speech, "Wang, you must be clear on this. It doesn't matter how much he supports you during the conferences. With the way he's treated you in the past, I think we're all very clear on how it really is between you and him—nothing but profits for your own countries. You won't be able to move forward on your own. I need your help as well…so…would you be willing to cooperate with me?"
Yao did not reply because just as Alfred brought up the world conference, his mind immediately lit up at the thought of the star-shaped badge pinned on Ivan's chest. The symbol of what was once their dream. At the proud but lonely glow of light shining in his mind, he hesitated. He didn't know whether to accept Alfred's offer or not.
At seeing Yao's uncertainty, Alfred lightly smiled, "…Before you decide, care to listen to a story?"
The tale was like a lingering dream basked in sunshine, warmth and the aroma of flowers as the Union Jack flapped in the wind. There were countless fairies and mythical creatures in the story, a kind and caring older brother as well. But of course, there was the naive little boy running around in the field, barefoot and carefree.
In those olden times, his days were idle and snug. The white, fluffy clouds seemed to have been fixed in the clear, blue sky. They were like herds of fluffy sheep—how soft it would have been to touch them. The sunlight that shone mildly in the gardens of fruit had also seemed to be permanently fixed there as well. Last but not least, there was always the arms of a gentleman there for him to jump into—how he loved the warm embrace.
The child's sweet, honeyed voice was like a fountain of fresh, clear water running through a creek, "When I grow up, I'm gonna be the hero!"
But the same pleasant story started to decline with the tipped over cup of tea. The story yellowed, and waned until it became the same sepia tone as the dripping liquid from the teacup. The green-eyed man snatched him by his collar, angrily yelling at him, expressing all the pain in his heart. If payed enough attention, you could see that those emerald eyes seemed to be overflowing with frustration and unshed tears.
The boy found his ambition but lost his way home. He'd become a young man in the blink of an eye. Not even the fairies could guide his way anymore. What could they do? He vowed to follow his own path. He wanted his own freedom.
The gentle and royal brother raised his rifle with trembling hands and aimed it at the throat of the young boy—perhaps he wasn't just a 'boy' anymore, because standing before him was a blue-eyed man with brilliant blonde locks of hair dressed in uniform. He'd then just realized that the young man had grown even taller than himself.
That day in the story, the heavens wept. It felt like the storm was about to wash away the whole world as it was pouring on their heads. But in a way, it cleansed and it healed. It washed away his tears of shame and misery.
At the end of the day, he still was not able to bring himself to pull the trigger.
The once grand and God-like big brother threw away all means of dignity and honor, he allowed himself to collapse to his knees on the soggy ground. He knelt before his beloved family member, the rain piercing like needles into his skin. The empire covered his face with a gloved hand, sobbing soundlessly as the rain carried away his gasps and grunts.
"…I can't continue on….like this…any longer…" his sentences came out ragged and broken, "Why must it always come to…betrayal, abandonment, and loneliness….Francis, and even you….is this how is must be for us nations? When will I ever learn…to look before I fall…"
The Union Jack fell into the mud, treaded on over and over again by boots of the military men.
"He'll never realize how much I wanted to drop my weapons and just hold him close. It pained me even more to see him cry—I loved him, for Christ's sake! But for my people, I had to force him to give up. I had to make him understand that my name will never belong to the British Empire." Alfred swallowed his tea as he calmly said to Yao.
Silence crept up once again between the two men.
"I was thinking you'd never bring up this topic again." Yao answered after a long pause. He aimlessly shifted his cup around.
Alfred smiled.
"Honda told me that he thought you'd never want to hear the story of two brothers again." his grin turned ever so slightly bitter.
The sunlight shot through the window behind Yao and wiped across the coffee table, disguising itself as a golden tablecloth. Yao suddenly felt that the scar on his back—the scar that Ivan had so tenderly applied medicine to, so gently showered with kisses—had started to hurt so agonizingly again. Alfred's story had only served to throw salt on the wound. The pain was so clear and real.
It had occurred to him that history had never left. Ivan had only so gently and subtly covered his eyes, blocking away all the grief, but also the light. Ivan had also unconsciously hindered him from tasting the dustiness of all the years that had gone by, and the gentle yet sad eyes of Kiku as well.
Ivan had protected and locked Yao in his arms for a decade, never forgetting to remind him, "Comrade Yao, I love you so much…"
Yao knew that it definitely was not a lie. Because when Ivan said it, he had a dying but honest heart. Yet, it was even more toxic than a lie.
"Yao?" Alfred called his name.
With a jerk of his hand, and a few drops of tea escaping from his cup, Yao came to reality again, apologetic.
"Oh, I apologize…"
The conversation after that was no longer stiff and tense. They carried on with the pot of tea until the last drop. The rays of sunlight continued to shower on them, the ice started to melt.
As Alfred walked out of Yao's front porch, he tilted his head up and glazed at the sky. Then out of the blue, a familiar tune drifted in his ear.
How many roads must a man walk down,
before they call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail
before she sleeps in the sand?
How many timesmust the cannon balls fly
before they are forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.
How many years must a mountain exist
before it is washed to the sea?
How many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
How many times can a man turn his head
and pretend that he just doesn't see?
The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.
How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
How many ears must one man have
before he can hear people cry?
How many deaths will it take
'till he knows that too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.
The answer is blowing in the wind…
As soon as Alfred stepped out of his house, Yao wearily closed his eyes. His mind was filled with the thought of that article from Washington Post. His nails dug into his palm, anger levels rising. He thought, If only I could burn away those days like the pair of shoes he gave me. The dark ashes fluttering like the wings of a swallowtail butterfly, never allowing him to turn back again. But of course, that was impossible. The affections, the words said, and the actions done would always be coiled in the most fragile corner of his heart. It wasn't for him to decide when he could rid of it. He could only leave it to grow and develop by itself. Blossoming into a lonely flower.
Oh boy...longest chapter yet! The song at the end is Blowin' in the Wind by Bob Dylan, for those of you who don't know.
..And guys... I just realized that I had been spelling Ivan's last name incorrectly this whole time! It's supposed to be BraginSKY intead of BraginSKI since -ski is used by the Polish, not the Russians...oh man...I'll just continue using Braginsky in the future chapters since I'm too lazy to go back and change all the Braginskis :D
Thanks for bearing with me! See you on the next chapter...
