Title: Carte Blanche
Description: It's not a rebellion, just a revolution. But he sits there, Persian rug scarred with tea and mouth parted in the late attempt to salvage the cup before his left hand bursts and snaps and burns bright with one thousand fires that still tear at his heart because he wants to apologize, grovel dearly to the other as if his flag was merely a piece of cloth and not the emblem of his exsistence.
Pairing: US/UK
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. 'Tis owned by Hidekaz Himaruya!
&&--
and the hero looks like he can't breathe;
the damsel just left everything
&&--
Soft pitter-patters of lace curtains caress the fickle sunlight that curiously spawns across the idle wood floor panels. It's a peculiar frenzy that stirs the air, despite lulling clouds and lackadaisical dust motes -- a vibration that creates little eddies within his tea, copper liquid trembling and the doorway looming. The threshold's barely painted on and it's about to crack, piece by piece that he'll hold in his hand because the tea cup can't bear it, handle it, because this is not right and the porcelain shards feel warm inside the fate line of his palm. The cool sensation of the tea bag flopping atop his knee permeating through his psyche, beloved trousers now forever-stained with this scene, he takes a breath and tries not to notice how the liquid is now cascading down his arm -- himself, useless as his eyes fixate upon the substance, trying to discard the fidgeting thought of crimson seeping into the once clear rivulets. It's almost noon.
And he sits there, Persian rug scarred with tea and mouth parted in the late attempt to salvage the cup before his left hand bursts and snaps and burns bright with one thousand fires that still tear at his heart because he wants to apologize, grovel dearly to the other as if his flag was merely a piece of cloth and not the emblem of his existence. Bright with mercenaries pleas and the god awful stench of musket smoke before he can turn away and maybe --
He blinks. The tea bag has become parched and frozen upon his kneecap where its kiss withers and dies feebly. He almost chokes at the pathetic death because this time he was not merely a commander but an offender -- and he wants to just apologize and tie his hand to the barrel because maybe --
"It's not a rebellion, just a revolution."
And he's torn from the putrid scene of murdering fine china to the awaiting eyes of Alfred, blue and endless and glaring, biting, taunting and gritting teeth to reach, reach, reach until he is forever ripped from his glorious side -- and the cup of tea appears whole once more. More than a little perplexed at the sudden swing of reality, Arthur blinks again to merely clear his head of inane thoughts such as the laughable notion of the young 'colony' actually leaving -- doors slamming and wrists clasped to idle parchment, cheek pressed hard against the pillow as the screams tear through and through and --
"Excuse me?"
Alfred grins, the usually casual quirk of the lips now tight and small -- almost as if his face is chained, forced to fit into narrow circles -- and nonchalantly throws an arm around the back of his chair, "And I repeat: Just a revolution, my dear England."
Arthur can feel his fingers tighten upon the delicate, aureate handle, nails almost scraping the fine shavings of gold as he watches Alfred's cerulean irises and how they do not glisten with amusement. It's silent and still. The air increasingly settles into stagnancy, solid even -- enough for Arthur to stutter and grasp at his chest in what he hopes appears to be just a gentleman-like clearing of his throat (even as his lungs flap helplessly and his heart slams against the indifferent bones of his ribs).
"What you mean to tell me is that you believe you are leaving, Alfred?"
The younger man sighs, the exaggerated motion of his body culminating to entirely rise and deflate (something Arthur stashes away to the deep depths of his mind to return to later if --) before he returns to Arthur, a serious glint betaking his eyes, glasses catching the light, "Not so much believing so as to doing so."
And he should have known, really --since Alfred's eyes have always been much too blue, too out of here and out of reach, limitless as the sky while he drowned in the grasp of the Earth and why should he have ever attempted to ground him so? but i'm selfishselfishselfish and i want, want, need --
But he sits. The clock somewhere above their heads still ticks, counting down the milliseconds between their breaths as they both wait (one for recognition, the other for anything). He can sense Alfred's gaze upon him, humble clothes of a man made from his own two hands clashing and stark against his own noble threads and he can't seem to clutch the tea cup any tighter. He stares unto the liquid, deeming it worthy enough to serve as a distraction as the man across from him -- merely a boy -- refuses to let go, mouth straight and undeterred, so far from pliable lips and jovial squints, but isn't everything so wrongwrongwrong . .?
He can feel the minute-hand close in softly, slinking like a predator and Arthur continues to fixate on the copper tea, little ripples forming from the waves of his breath -- oh, so his lungs are still working after all?
It's sometime later -- After.
After the final footsteps and the dejected sigh of something more than a playful child he used to be.
After the threshold in all its dividing glory crushes beneath Alfred's boot.
After the curtains fall asleep as the air outside stops.
And it's sometime later, when Arthur discovers the teabag now residing upon his knee, but instead of the jagged puzzle embedded into his palm, the shards dig into the wall -- the fortunate paneling that had shadowed Alfred's head Before the After. And somehow the tea has not just stained himself, now dribbling across the pale, cream wall and undoubtedly streaming from Alfred's once blithe countenance, covering them all in splendid marvels of scarlet as words blacken and his fist is pounding into the flesh of whose name he. cannot. remember. --
And he barely remembers (only recalling some subconscious intention that had pulled vehemently at his sleeve), the blind flame that cradled his voice and the violent swing of his arm and how his fingers let go to let the cup fly --
be free, be free.
&&--
A/N: First try at Hetalia. I've never read the manga nor watched the anime, surprisingly. I'm in the current search for any of the two outlets because I'm very interested in the concept. However, I have researched the manga and found out about the characters, gathering some sort of information about their personalities. I know that this scene, "America" wanting to break away from "England" probably went much differently in the manga/anime, but I wuv the drama =D
This is my interpretation of how Arthur would take the news of Alfred's wanting to break away -- shocked to silence before recklessly lashing out (and not remembering, hah). For those who are a bit befuddled with the beginning, think of it as a "premonition" of sorts -- the breaking of the tea cup can be a symbol for the threat of their friendship breaking as well.
Artistic license is lovelovelove.
Review if you enjoyed or wish to comment.
-- H.92