Thank you readers for all the wonderful reviews, favorites, and follows! They're all appreciated and I'm glad so many people have enjoyed this so far! Now, I must give my sincerest apologies for making y'all wait for three weeks for an update. I have no excuses; I am a terrible procrastinator and always get caught up in the details. I almost scrapped the whole chapter, but I wanted to upload before July came.
So I must say, thank you for your waiting!
But anyways...
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Couple(s): America/England
Warnings: physical/verbal abuse, self-loathing/self-deprecation, coarse language, heavy subjects
AU. Enjoy!
Moonlight filtered through the curtains, giving illumination to the otherwise dark room. A groan sounded in the silence as Alfred's eyes cracked open. As he floated into consciousness, pain jolted through his body, welling up to unbearable magnitudes, and he groaned again, limbs feeling too heavy to move and his body feeling overall, like he'd been run over with a bulldozer.
Slowly, to not jostle his head and deepen the pain, he lifted it up from the carpet and looked to where his alarm clock was on the bedside table. The red numbers flashed 2:13 at him. He sighed and lifted his body up with caution, muscles rigid as he tried to keep from aggravating the multiple wounds along his figure. By the time he got to a sitting position, he was already breathing heavily from the exertion, head pounding again and sharpening the pain in the back of his skull. He felt sick.
Sitting there, Alfred gazed up at the window, looking blankly at the picturesque nighttime scenery beyond the glass… it almost looked like a different world. A peaceful world, without pain, the moon's rays giving comfort to the earth. He knew better, though. He knew that beyond the glass, the world was just as harsh, just as ready to consume the weak as he had been consumed. His thoughts traced back to earlier that night with a dull apathy covering up the quivering part of him that shook with worry and fear. What the hell happened? Normally, the injuries weren't this severe. Had the man finally snapped? If he had, then it probably wouldn't be too long until Alfred found himself in a hospital.
The image was grotesquely clear in his mind. His body, mangled with cuts and bruises, distorted under the gashes and the blood, eyes too black and swollen to see the blue of his irises, his vision obscured… his arms oozing blood out on to a gurney, tourniquets slowing the blood circulation until they no longer bled, but arms still painted with red. Legs broken, breath hitching with each faint intake of air he took, fading in and out of conscious… men and women wearing masks and gloves tending to him, rushing to get him to a room, speaking to him, trying to coax out a response, yet receiving none, for there was none to give. On a hospital bed, the EKG beeping in time with his slow pulse, finally stopping, and then nurses and doctors rushing in, trying to revive him, futilely trying to save him, even when Alfred had already given up…
A shiver passed down his spine, taking him away from the scene. Alfred snorted softly, his dry, crusty eyes watering again. Is that what would become of him? Dying in a hospital without ever seeing Mattie and his mom again, without seeing Arthur? The thought made him free his resistance of the tears forming, and they slowly ran down his cheeks, over the bruises and stinging the cuts at his mouth. He let out a trembling breath, swiping away the tears with one hand and gasping at the pain that erupted from the movement. His mind refocused on his injuries, eyes glancing down at his battered figure. Putting more concentration into it than he thought possible at this moment, Alfred examined his injuries with the moonlight to guide him.
Luckily, as he gave a slow inspection of his body, he found no breaks, simply mass bruises forming and a lot of gashes; he couldn't tell much beyond that without the help of some good light. A sigh escaped his lips and he clicked his tongue. "Shit…" he muttered.
With more strength than he knew he had, Alfred hefted himself up into a standing position, though nearly fell back down from the wave of dizziness that overtook him. The pain engulfing his body was overwhelming, stabbing into every nerve and shutting down his ability to move. He waited for it to pass, then crossed the short distance to the bathroom, a limp slowing him down, closing the door behind him and flicking the lights on.
Seeing his face in the mirror made him cringe away from his reflection, the action only serving to flare up the pain. A large red mark was vibrant against his cheek from where the initial slap had been, and a punch had busted his lip and caused it to swell to a blood-red color. Blood was crusted in his hair, giving a red tinge to his bangs, and slight bruising had also formed around his left eye.
With his face checked out, he began to lift his shirt up to inspect his back and abdomen. His breath hitched as the fabric skimmed across the broken skin of his back, and he paused in his actions to get the pain under control before removing it completely.
Alfred turned his back to the mirror and looked over his shoulder to give his verdict to the injuries. His eyes widened when he saw the damage. Long ribbons of red cut through the tanned skin of his back; thick, deep lacerations that still had yet to scab over, blood slick in the open wounds. He reached a hand back and tentatively touched one of the cuts with one finger, then instantly retracted his hand and hissed from the pain that radiated from the simple touch. After a few moments, the pain evened out along his back and he was able to breathe again.
Turning back around, he looked at his abdomen. There was no bruising, despite the abuse his stomach had suffered. He knew that it had been injured, since it throbbed when he moved and touched it… muscle bruising, maybe? Alfred sighed. A quick inspection of his legs revealed one particular large bruise forming on his calf, and with it were several shallow cuts that had already scabbed over. His jeans had some blood staining them… nothing a little cleaner couldn't get out, he hoped. If he kept ruining clothes like this, he'd have to find some way to buy a whole new wardrobe. Damn it.
Alfred fished out the large box of first aid equipment from below his sink, tucked back behind random assortments of bottles and cleaners. He set it on the counter and rummaged through it until he found the bottle of rubbing alcohol and a large roll of gauze and linen bandages. He got a rag out and soaked it in the alcohol before gently pressing it to the scrapes along his arms that had been made by the bottle. Clenching his teeth, he choked down the pained sounds threatening to come out. Damn, it stung! Deep, heavy breaths came out of his nose as he made sure to not let out a sound; it'd be just his luck if he woke up that man while he was tending to his wounds.
When he felt that the alcohol had done work enough to keep out infections, he finished up tending to his arms by using the hydrogen peroxide and then bandaged them up. He wasn't sure what he was going to do about his back, though. That man had never inflicted so much damage before, and in a place that was hard to work with. Sighing softly, Alfred bent down until his back was almost at a ninety degree angle, and then, using the mirror as a guide, poured the alcohol on to the wound.
If it had made the scrapes on his arms hurt, then having it poured on his back was beyond pain. The substance settled into the dips and grooves of the long gashes, eating away at any potential infections, creating an agony almost on par to having been inflicted with the injuries in the first place. He bit his lip until it was bleeding, and then some, to keep back a loud string of curses. A moan of pain still escaped past his sealed lips and his eyes watered, even with his efforts.
It took Alfred a good while after using the alcohol to calm down enough to pour the hydrogen peroxide on his back, and when he did, it was with a slight trembling in his hand. The liquid bubbled and bubbled, and he found relief in the absence of the intense stinging that the alcohol had brought. When the peroxide's bubbling subsided, the blond patted his back down with another towel, making sure to catch the liquid that strayed and threatened to dip down below his jeans. When he retracted the towel, it came back with some spots of red against it.
He sighed again. What was he supposed to do about bandaging it? It sounded like too much work for him alone, and he was too damn tired to care much about it.
"Whatever..." Alfred grumbled quietly. I'll just leave it.
With that thought, he stood up straight again, taking only a moment to dab a bit of alcohol on his busted lip and scrub away at the blood on his scalp. He soaked the towels and rag in hydrogen peroxide and left them in the bowl before putting the equipment back under the sink. Alfred left the bathroom and wondered about getting some ice packs from the kitchen, but quickly discarded the thought. He didn't know where that man was in the house; he could have been in his room, in the hall, or on the couch. He didn't know, and he didn't want to find out.
Resigning himself to a night of pain, Alfred collapsed on to his bed, shirtless and exhausted. He checked the clock and saw that it had just passed three a.m., and closed his eyes. Just when he was about to succumb to blissful darkness, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and play the tune of "Airplanes" by The Ready Set.
Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars~
Alfred perked up curiously at the ringtone. It was the one he had set for Arthur. But why would the Englishman call him now? Wasn't he in school already? Nevertheless, he lifted his body up just enough to get the device out of his pocket, then collapsed again and answered the phone.
"Arthur?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
"Hello…" came the delightfully soothing voice of his friend.
"Aren't ya supposed to be in school now, Artie?"
"Yes," he affirmed, and continued in a sheepish voice, "I know that it's too early to be calling you now, but my gut was just telling me that I had to. Are you all right?"
Arthur's words stunned him into silence. He called just because he had a feeling. And here Alfred was, lying down with bruises and gashes and exhaustion lacing his body. He smiled and laughed at how his friend had such good timing. Out of everyone he knew and everything he had, Arthur was the only one who could give him such happiness simply from a phone call.
"I am now," he grinned into the phone, forgetting the pain in his body and the abuse and his hellish life.
Silence. And then, "That's good to hear. I suppose you want to get back to sleep?"
"No, no, no!" Alfred rushed to disagree. "As long as you're fine with it, we can keep talking."
"Okay." Arthur hummed into the phone, then began talking again, "How's football going?"
"Great! We've won all the games so far."
He was lying through his teeth. They were on a winning streak, but for Alfred, it was a disaster. He was on the verge of getting kicked off the team because of his grades; when he was able to play, his performance level was ridiculously low because he couldn't keep up with the others, his injuries sapping him of the energy needed for playing.
But Arthur didn't question it, and they continued talking, about everything and nothing, but never once did the topic of Alfred's household come up. He'd never told Arthur about the troubles that man had created, about the rift in the family, and especially about the abuse. It wasn't like Arthur hadn't been to his house before, anyhow. Since childhood, they'd gone back and forth between each other's houses. Back then, that man hadn't been as bad, but as the marriage progressed, more and more fights kept emerging, and Alfred had begun making excuses to keep Arthur away from his house. It'd worked, though with a bit of suspicion on Arthur's part, and the American had been able to keep the abuse a secret up until now.
He did tell Arthur when Matthew and his mom left, however. The Englishman was friends with both brothers, so it wasn't like he'd be able to keep it a secret. Alfred didn't know if they spoke anymore, and if they did, it was more than Alfred could say for himself. To what extent he knew, Alfred also wasn't sure. Matthew might have told him more than Alfred had, which was a vague, generalized reason that their parents just weren't compatible. If he did, Arthur never brought it up, and that was good enough for him.
Over an hour passed before Arthur regrettably had to hang up.
"I'll call you later, okay?" he reassured in an apologetic voice, "Get some sleep now."
"All right, I will." He spoke softly into the phone, a smile on his face.
"Bye."
"Bye—" Alfred said, but just as the word left his mouth, he blurted out, "Wait! Uh, Arthur…"
"Yes?" His friend asked in concern.
He pursed his lips lightly before saying, "Thanks for calling."
A small chuckle came from the other end of the line, "Anytime."
And then they clicked off, and Alfred reluctantly set his phone aside and curled up on his side, hugging one of his pillows to his chest. When he closed his eyes, he found that he was able to get to sleep much easier, even with the pain.
It was past five when Alfred woke up in the morning, his alarm clock beeping its obnoxious yet effective tune and only one hour of sleep to fuel him through the day. Without even having to look in a mirror, he knew there were dark circles under his eyes. It'd be a miracle if he could stay awake through first period.
He shivered from the cool air against his exposed back and slammed a hand down on the abominable device, silencing its shrieking. Alfred's entire body throbbed with a pulsing ache, the abuse it had endured last night causing it to feel heavy and dead. Ignoring the protests of his body, he got up and sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his mussed hair.
Moonlight still streamed through the window, and he was glad that he'd set his alarm to go off before dawn. Any later, and Alfred would have been afraid of that man waking up, even though he knew fully well that the chance of him waking up in the earlier hours of the morning were slim to none, courtesy of his alcoholic nature.
Letting out a soft breath, Alfred slowly stood and crossed the darkened room to his dresser situated by the bathroom door, getting out his wardrobe for the day, specifically picking out a long-sleeved shirt to hide his arms. He let the slept-in clothes fall to the floor and got dressed, tugging on the shirt last. He hissed in pain the material rubbed against the gashes on his back, and decided against wearing his bomber jacket, a memento from his grandfather before he died. Instead, he put it in his pack along with the rest of his books to keep it safe if the man decided that he wanted to destroy half of his belongs. Again.
Ten minutes later, Alfred's hair and teeth were brushed, his backpack was slung over his shoulder, and he headed for the door before remembering the painkillers the man always kept in the kitchen. In all honesty, he hated taking pills, but there was no way he was going to get through the day, much less a football game, with the pain he was in. He swallowed the pills dry and trudged out the door, moon slowly disappearing below the urban horizon. An hour and a half until dawn, probably. Sighing, he resigned himself to the long day ahead and got his bike.
With one foot, he kicked off, but abruptly stopped when he saw his neighbor coming out their door as well. The lady had an early job, or so he assumed, because her car was usually gone by this time. A few years back, they'd had pleasant conversations; sometimes he'd even gone over to her house for coffee, just to listen to all the tales she had. However, when that man started abusing Alfred's mother, when it became more than just disagreements, she'd distanced herself. They didn't speak anymore.
She looked up as she got out her car keys, and her eyes met his. Alfred tried a weak smile, but she avoided it and hurried unlocked the car and got in. Within a few seconds, she was out of the driveway and on to the street. A heavy frown pulled at his lips as he watched the car disappear around a turn. She ignored it too, the beatings. Everyone did. It was like his mother's screams had been silent, like his screams were now silent as well. They all knew, and they all did nothing. But he didn't do anything either, so he couldn't blame them. No. The only one he had to blame was himself.
Cutting off that train of thought, Alfred shook his head and rode off.
When he arrived at school, he stopped his bike beneath a lamppost and sat down, getting out his iPhone from the pocket of his jeans and putting his earbuds in. He'd been getting up this early ever since the start of the school year, just to get out of the house for a while more… to escape all the suffocating emotions and memories it held.
The painkillers were starting to kick in, and he was grateful as the aching subsided from his body, if only a little. He spent the next hour and a half letting the music blasting from his earbuds drown out the world. If only he could escape from the world all the time, simply allow the music to lull him into fantasy, into dreams of a better place. What he would give to escape… a lot. Too much.
Time slowly passed, and soon the sun was rising, the light from the lamppost flickering off. Hues of pink and orange painted the sky with the coming of dawn, and somehow, Alfred felt that the scene was too perfect, too beautiful, to be real. How could something be so beautiful when the world was hell?
"Ohayō, Alfed-san."
Blinking, the blond pulled out his earbuds and looked up to find his Japanese friend, Kiku, standing over him. He'd met Kiku in his freshman year, and they'd bonded over their love of video games. He was rather quiet and incredibly perceptive, but they didn't talk much these days. Alfred hadn't made an effort to keep up social relations since last year, though his friends still put in the effort to talk to him. He didn't know why. It was a waste of time and energy to try to coax him out of the box he'd put himself in. He suspected that they just assumed that his distance was because Arthur had moved way. Little did they know…
Alfred pocketed his phone and stood up, stretching and holding back a flinch at the pain that came with the motion; over the counter painkillers were never enough to get rid it completely. He flashed a grin at his friend. "Hey Kiku! How are ya, dude?"
Kiku was about to smile back when his lips turned down in frown. He stared up at Alfred, eyes unreadable, and the look made him squirm. Then, he abruptly asked, "What happened to your face?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, cackling as if he hadn't a care in the world. "Just some kids from school tryin' to bring up their rep by beatin' up the quarterback, y'know?" He began walking his bike up to the bike rack, Kiku following behind him. "'Course, they got more banged up than me!"
"I see…" was Kiku's short response.
The first time he'd come to school with bruises on his face, he'd miraculously been able to scramble out a believable story about some people picking fights with him. And his friends hadn't questioned it. Now, whenever he got injuries he couldn't cover up, that was his story. Only sucky thing about it was that he got long lectures from his coach about fighting and he couldn't talk to Arthur through webcam.
"You comin' to the game tonight?"
The Japanese man pursed his lips in thought, then responded with careful words, "If I have nothing going on with my family, I will."
"Awesome!" Alfred began rambling on about various subjects as they walked to their first classroom and settled down in their seats.
Time passed with him talking and Kiku occasionally responding, and then more students filed in as the bell rang. Only one other friend was in this class: Francis, the Frenchman who used to love bugging the crap out of Arthur and now did so with Alfred. Their relationship nowadays had an underlying current of tension, however, because Francis had been best friends with Matthew and ever since they left… there was a tangible rift in their friendship, mainly because it seemed that Mattie hadn't kept in contact with the Frenchman after leaving.
Francis sauntered up to them, smiling, but it quickly vanished when he saw the bruise on Alfred's face. "Mon ami, what happened to you?"
Shrugging, he gave him the same explanation that he gave Kiku, and when Francis opened his mouth to reply, their conversation was cut off as the teacher came in. Alfred grimaced when they began passing back the tests, and reluctantly tried to figure out some of the problems. However, the numbers and problems looked like gibberish to him. What was this class again, pre-calculus? He must've been insane not to drop it at the beginning of the year; it wasn't like he needed it.
He spent the rest of the class staring blankly at the page, sometimes attempting a problem, and then stopping halfway. When the bell rang, he turned in the test three-quarters empty and began the slow trek through the rest of the day.
Lunch finally came around after English class with yet another test, along with more questions about his face, and Alfred found himself sitting alone at one of the lunch tables at the cafeteria, earbuds in again. He didn't eat lunch anymore; his lack of appetite wouldn't let him down a lot of food. Besides, he had no lunch money and there was little food around the house to make one. Most of the time he got some junk food from McDonald's or Burger King –the two places which used to be his sanctuary— or scraped up what little was around the house. He knew it was severely unhealthy, but he didn't have the money or the appetite.
Francis sat down next to him, a tray of various cafeteria foods before him. "So Alfred, have you talked to Arthur lately?"
"Yep." He replied with a grin, "Talked to 'im just yesterday."
"I see…" Francis went silent for a few moments, munching on his salad. "Are you okay?"
"With what?" Alfred cocked his head to the side, furrowing his brows in pseudo-confusion.
"With Arthur being gone. You haven't been yourself since he left." It seemed this was one of the Frenchman's more serious moments.
He shrugged, grin still plastered on his face. "It's not like we'll never see each other again. I'm fine."
Francis gave him a doubtful look, but didn't question it further and they bantered about random subjects, Alfred intentionally veering away from anything about Mattie or Arthur. Kiku soon joined them, followed by Feliciano, an Italian one year younger than him, and Ludwig, a bulky German currently going out with the Italian who was also a junior. Amidst the conversing, Alfred let his replies fade out until he was silent, drowning out the voices of his friends with music.
"Jones, you can't be slacking off in practice! You gotta get your butt in gear for the game tonight!"
"Yes, coach!" Alfred called, panting as he took a swig from his water.
The field was blurring before his eyes and he couldn't focus on any one player; it felt as if he might pass out at any minute from the pain. The painkillers had worn off earlier during practice. It was stupid of him to try to practice without letting the injuries heal, but if he missed another practice, he'd be in loads of trouble. Alfred took a moment to catch his breath and ran back to join the rest of the team and they continued the drills and training for another hour or so until the coach let them go to rest before the big game.
Finally, it was over. He took off his helmet and grabbed his water, heading to the locker room with the rest of his team. Once inside, he sat down on one of the benches and sighed heavily. Around him was the stench of sweat and the bantering of the other guys as they changed, all of it only serving to intensify the pounding in his head. God, he felt nauseous again.
"Oi, Alfred," one of them called.
He looked up to see three of his teammates standings before him. "Hm?"
All three glared down at him, and the middle one forced him up with a grip on his shoulder pad. "You better not mess this one up for us. We don't care if you're the captain. This game's got a lot riding on it, and we don't want you to fuck things up, got it?"
Acting as if he was oblivious to their hostility, Alfred laughed. "Whatever you say, dude!"
His laughing made the three tense up, but he knew that they wouldn't dare start a fight before a game, and in the locker room, no less. With a growl, the guy let go of him and stormed off, his two lackeys in tow.
Silently, he waited for the rest of the team to leave, none of them bothering with him. Since his poor performance after the first few games, the rest of the team was ostracizing him, but Alfred just couldn't bring himself to care. With a groan, he got up and changed, unable to ignore the pain, but unable to do anything about it. When he was dressed, his coach dragged him into the office for a twenty-minute lecture, going off about fighting and grades and the team and other crap, before letting him go.
Arthur… he said in his mind, I hope you're doing better than I am. Alfred clenched his fists, letting his footsteps halt, and looked up at the sky, the blue sky covered by white, puffy clouds. If only Arthur were here…
Ohayō: Good morning (Japanese)
Mon ami: My friend (French)
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Thank you very much for reading! *sets out plate of cupcakes*
