Okay so, no I haven't died and gone to Hetalia Heaven...yet. Clearly, it's not summer anymore, like it was when I started this. Which means there was school...and other things that are supposedly "more important." But I'm back! Also, apparently I like writing angst...so prepare yourself for my longest chapter, that just so happens to be...you guessed it!...angst. After saying angst so many times it doesn't sound like a word...angstangstangstangst(off on a tangent). Enjoy this chapter!
After France left to go find him, Alfred really didn't know what to do with himself. Standing alone in the middle of the dance floor he felt out of place as smiling couples twirled past him. It felt suffocating. Pushing past them, he realized he just desperately wanted to be alone right now, which wasn't the easiest thing when you have a house crowded with literally the whole world. He couldn't believe how humiliating that was, having that little scene played out in front of everyone. He usually wasn't one to let his ego falter. He tried to ignore the questioning looks people gave him as he walked past. They all probably wanted to know what had happened; it was only natural to be curious. But he wasn't going to give them that right. At this point he didn't want to be talked to, let alone sympathized.
As if some other-worldly force was going against everything he seemed to want today, Kiku tugged on his sleeve, stopping him. "America-san, is everything alright?" Alfred turned to see the short, over-polite man looking at him with concern in his eyes. "I'm fine. It's nothing." He knew that Kiku probably didn't believe him, but he didn't care. He didn't want people to think he needed comforting. Heroes don't need pity.
He flashed him a fake grin. "Look. Really, I'm fine, dude!" Kiku was still hesitant, but he didn't want to pry. That would be impolite. He didn't stop Alfred as he turned and walked towards the stairway. Walking past the same broom closet, he noticed Feliciano was cuddling into Ludwig's side on the couch in the living room. He noticed Ludwig's ears getting red as the Italian stole a kiss on the lips. Good for freaking them.
He stormed up his staircase to find solace in his bedroom. Flopping himself onto his newly-made bed, he went into rage mode-usually reserved for 1-P shooting games-on his pillows, punching them furiously as if they were the source of his problems. "Stupid fucking England, why the hell can't he just fucking die in a hole!" Sounding much like a certain Italian he knew, he ranted to nobody as he continued to beat the crap out of his bed. He knew nobody could hear him. He could still feel the bass booming from the speakers downstairs making his floor vibrate a little. The only people he could think of that might be upstairs were his workers, though he was sure the mess downstairs was keeping them occupied.
What the hell was England's problem? He was older, he was supposed to be the mature one. Yet he was the one who just couldn't let it go. America thought he had put it behind himself centuries ago. That's why he even invited England to this every year, knowing perfectly well the risk of old wounds being opened, but choosing to show that British snob that he could be mature about this too. Arthur hadn't come the first couple of years he had thrown this annual get-together, and at the time Alfred thought it was merely out of spite.
The first year that England actually showed up came as a surprise to him. He thought that after a few years of England skipping out there must be some irreparable grudge he held against him, but that year he actually came. He was elated, of course. He felt that night that maybe England had finally accepted him for who he is, not the child he used to be. That night Alfred confessed his love for him. Given, they were both drunk late at night in a near-empty house–besides a drunk albino German snoring on the pool table and the frenchie in the guest bedroom with some chick he brought along. Under different circumstances he knew he probably wouldn't have said it, but Arthur's face was so close and his cologne was just intoxicating. Pink lips slightly parted and eyelids half-way closed...
Arthur had swiftly passed out after his confession. Not because he had been swept off his feet by this sudden revelation—ha, in his dreams, maybe—no, he was simply drunk off his ass. Al had to catch him to keep him from hitting his head. He remembered Arthur's face the next morning when he woke up sleeping next to him in his bed. Nothing had happened of course; Alfred had simply dragged him up to his bed—the guest bed was taken—and passed out right out next to him. He hated himself for thinking this, but he almost wish something had happened. The night hadn't exactly gone as he had planned and the pounding headache he got the next morning from his hangover and the pesky Brit next to him were definitely there to remind him of that fact. Once England was asleep though he was practically dead to the world until the next morning. Besides, taking advantage of someone when they're drunk isn't very heroic.
Arthur hadn't shown any signs of remembering anythingthat happened that night. Nothing, not a thing. He wasn't exactly surprised, but the thought made him want to kick himself knowing that he would have to go through the confession allover again. A sudden thought occurred to him that he hadn't considered before: what if Arthur had—unlikely as it was—remembered every word of Alfred's, and had simply been so disgusted by the thought of love between a former pirate—former Great British Empire at that—and what he still saw as a mere child in his eyes, that he had pulled the "drunkard card" on him.
Without realizing it, tears had started streaming down his cheeks uncontrollably. Flinging his now foggy glasses across onto his night stand, he realized his arms had started hurting. "D-damn it...," he said softly as his voice became broken from the sobs. He didn't understand why he was so upset. England and him had gotten into countless fights before, more often than not becoming physical. That slap hadn't really hurt that much; he doubted it would even leave a mark. It was just that look in Arthur's face as it happened.
He must really hate me...
It probably would have been best if he hadn't invited him. He knew the history they had shared very clearly. He had rebelled against England without a single doubt; for his country, for his rights, and for his freedom. He still felt just as strongly about that statement as he had over two centuries ago that early morning in Lexington. That was where it started. He still remembered the look on England's face that one gloomy day, years later, as if it were yesterday. And that was how it ended. At the time he just thought it was weakness.
He remembered with a cold laugh all the trouble he went through to have England's invite hand-delivered to his front porch. England probably didn't even know; he most likely thought that Alfred did this to all the countries, not just him. Not to mention the whole newspaper ordeal, which was really more trouble than it was worth. He didn't even know if Arthur had even read the paper or not. "Why do I even bother?" He said aloud to no one in particular.
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. Fidgeting with the TV remote, he turned it on and grabbed a controller off the floor. Somehow killing zombies always seemed to help let his frustrations out. He knew eventually he would have to return to his guests and help set up the fireworks display that would start at midnight. For now he figured that a little Call of Duty would-
There was a knock on the door. He didn't pause the game and considered not answering it. Whoever it was knocked again though, so he annoyedly rolled off his bed and opened the door. It was Arthur. He had his fist in the air, mid-knock. He blinked and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could Alfred slammed the door back in his face. Alfred was surprised, to say the least, that he even had the nerve to come back here and knock on his door. Plus, it made him kind of pissed. Did he really have the balls to come up here and apologize? Does he expect me to just up and forgive him, just like that?
No, he told himself. No, it could never be that simple...not with him.
"I don't care," he told himself, turning away from the door, hoping against hope he would just leave him the hell alone. He had half thought that Arthur might have just grabbed a plane by now back to Europe. He wouldn't have been surprised if he had. When Arthur wanted something, he'd do what it took, never once looking back. No regrets.
There was another, more consistent knock, this time with a muffled, "Alfred?" He clenched his fists in frustration. He should have known it wouldn't be that easy to shake Arthur off. He yanked open the door to see him there once again, this time with a more fixed expression on his face. This time he noticed he was holding a blue envelope in his hand at his side.
"And what the hell do you want?" Al spat out at him. Maybe a little harsher than was necessary, but the anger-driven adrenaline that rushed through him couldn't be stopped. Arthur blinked, surprised at his tone, but persisted. "I came to say I was sorry. What happened downstairs was foolish and uncalled for. I was acting childish and...and I ask that you might...forgive me." Arthur's eyes darted around, avoiding Alfred's eyes, but finally meeting those cold blue sapphires on the last phrase. Forgive me. His words came out rushed; they almost sounded rehearsed. Then again, England wasn't used to this whole apologetic side of things, though honestly he had meant every word.
For a moment, a brief second, Alfred considered doing just that. Just forgive him for the little skirmish and move on. No...no it's more than that. This wasn't one of their usual quarrels about America's diet or England's obscene cooking. This was deeper. Reaching back to the past they thought was forgotten, but still lingered like the coppery taste of blood after a battle. Re-opening wounds that had long since been stitched up. Looking painfully into Arthur's pure green orbs, he wondered what he saw there. Maybe not so pure as Alfred thought they were as a child. The child before the bloodshed. The child he knew Arthur still wished he was. And just knowing that, it hurt. It hurt like hell.