A Perished Sun
By: The DayDreaming
Warnings: Language. A bit of angst and OOC-ness. Many, many grammatical errors and inconsistencies.
This chapter has not been beta'd or checked for mistakes. If you feel there are any glaring errors besides my poor vocabulary and grammar, feel free to point it out and I'll do my best to assuage the situation.
Chapter 3: The Dust has Only Just Begun to Fall
~o.O.o~
The next day, Prussia arrives on America's doorstep, severely jet-lagged and contemplating the ignominious fate of lawn décor.
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
0
Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of Victory
0
As he defeated-dying-
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!
-Emily Dickinson
Tony opens the door to find Prussia, speaking candidly to a 'Gilbird' about the finer details of masculine-detailed birdbaths as opposed to frilly little fairy decorations like the ones in England's garden, though from close observation it turns out he's addressing the yellow doorbell off to the left.
"Fucking kraut," the alien growls, slamming the door shut as the conversation shifts to a mysterious 'five meters.'
One hour later, Tony opens the door, only to have a thoroughly unconscious ex-nation fall through the entryway and lay across the doorstep like a particularly pale corpse. The small aviary creature from the last visit settles soundly on the smooth crown of his cranium, chirping out a quick salutation. Tony contemplates what to do about the situation.
Reaching a conclusion, he promptly attempts to close the door, thwacking the intruder a couple of times before deciding that trying to dislodge the obstruction from the door's path is too much trouble. Tony can hear the oven timer for his cookies going off, and so leaves the Prussian to act as an unwelcome doorstop for the time being (before departing, he gives one more heated effort to shut the ingress, though this proves unfruitful).
It's only after the day has passed, sun and earth melding together in a dying inferno and stars beginning to burn anew in the sky, that he returns, sees the nation curled in on himself in a fitful sleep. The other has managed to fall off the step, heaped himself onto the doormat; he's shivering, for even if it's summer, night is night, and a hard wind and rain will curtail the horizon in a few hours. The bird which has since been set atop his skull gives another chirp and flutters down to the nation. Tony is once again left to contemplate what to do.
Looking at the nation, cold and entwined within himself for a warmth that will not come, alone and bedraggled, he can see his young friend, sprawled on the floor in exhausted slumber, sickened and weak, or perhaps too apathetic to tell the difference between hard couch and hard floor. Tony sighs with the knowledge that Alfred won't be happy at the other's presence. He himself won't be happy for that matter, not if Prussia turns out to be just like those other nations, grubbing for money and support and all sorts of shit that they'll just throw back in Alfred's face later. Tony doesn't like the sounds of screaming and cursing in the household, not if it's coming from someone other than himself and Alfred when they're playing videogames or watching a marathon of horror movies (though, this decades' old tradition hasn't occurred for quite a while).
But he can't help thinking how much the man at his doorstep reminds him of Alfred during nights spent not-crying and almost-crying and falling asleep in the dark security of a closet, riddled in blankets and an old, patched-up rabbit doll with water stains too numerous to count. A night is all it takes for the world to tip over and spill-out; by morning, things can be okay again, because Alfred's great at pretending and ignoring and taking showers to wash the red blotches away, because his face gets stained just as easily as his rabbit.
Even if Alfred won't be happy at the presence of another, he would be even not-happier if he left the fucking kraut out to rot and get pneumonia.
Tony goes to get the dolly. (1)
Prussia awakens to warmth, head resting on what feels like the rough fabric of a throw-pillow and body consumed in the maws of two hand-made quilts. Cocooned as he is, Gilbert feels neither the need nor the desire to move; it smells pleasant, like apples and summer wind. He can remember this scent from over two hundred years prior, but he can't recall where from; only that it incites some of the most peaceful feelings he's ever had.
Blue skies and green leaves, rolling fields that fall into forests which become mountains and extend into infinity. Flashes of gold, like the sun; had Francis been there? Smiling, it had felt so good to smile during times so bitter and hopeful. It always tastes the best after a good, hard rain…
Maybe if he falls back to sleep he'll dream of it. Alas, he finds that his groggy mind is gradually growing aware of more persistent problems. He grudgingly shifts, uncoiling like a compressed spring, stretching cold toes that even the thickest blankets never seem to warm. He flops an arm out of his heated shell, only to be met with an alarmed chirp as Gilbird is almost smushed, reprimanding him with a soft nip before hopping along the length of his torso and squatting at his temple like a particularly smug cat. Everything feels slow, like wading through cotton; almost not worth the effort of extrication. But eventually he worms his way to the ground, off of what he now finds to be a couch, covered in a dusty, protective sheet.
The cold of the floor soaks into him like a sponge, though it's not particularly harsh or unpleasant; merely providing an inviting contrast to the lulling fever-warmth of the bedding still entwined about his legs and torso. It's almost enough to stay there, and yet he still pushes on, crawling toddler-like to his feet and stumbling out of the covers (he's too awesome to trip out of sheets, after all). Now more fully awake and aware, he takes in the details of the area; a sitting room with a recliner and loveseat, both covered in dust-protectors, set on either side of the couch to create a loose square. An end-table, also covered, rests parallel to the recliner with a small reading lamp and aged book, 'Walden' embossed in gold letters on the spine.
A grandfather clock stands resolutely by the door, though its face has long-since ceased movement, hands perpetually reading 8:46. The numbers look familiar, but Prussia can't put a finger on where he's seen them before.
Shrugging off the nagging thought, he heads out the door of the room, left slightly ajar. The hinges give a terrible squeal as he taps the wooden obstruction out of the way. Moving beyond the slightly musty room, Gilbert is slammed in the face with the odor of cooking meat, the air so heavily saturated and his stomach so empty that the lingering perfume of apples leaves his mind entirely.
He sets to wandering the numerous halls of what he assumes is America's house, since he can't really remember arriving where it is he woke up, or actually leaving for somewhere else, though the sparse walls and empty rooms he passes by are almost a dead giveaway to his current location. As he walks, he can see through a few windows that it's relatively early in the morning, watery sunlight peeking through a smattering of blue-rimmed clouds, yet to shake off the vestiges of night.
Thankfully, the first real place of use to him is a bathroom he finds after only a few minutes of aimless meandering, which he quickly utilizes. After that, the overwhelming problem on his mind is sniffing out the whereabouts of the kitchen. This task takes longer since, endless frustration upon endless frustration, he keeps running into dead ends, or rooms he's sure he's been in before, though it's hard to tell with their uniform starkness. Of course he isn't lost; just conducting a really long detour to take in all of the not-actually-there scenery, because he is awesome and cultured like that (so take that, Austria!).
It's only after he's sure he'll die of starvation that he stumbles upon an unnoticed door, directly across from the room he'd awoken in. Opening it reveals a familiar hall, a singular picture set squarely on the wall in front of the door, bearing an uncolored hamburger against a yellowed background. Painted under the food item in block letters are the words 'HAMBURGER; WHOLESOME, DELICIOUS.' A plaque set into the painting's wooden frame credits the author of the picture as Andy Warhol.
Prussia can't help but snort again at the painting, as he had when he'd first seen it the other day. It's absolutely ridiculous, and only America, the hamburger obsessed freak that he is, would want something like it hanging on his wall. But, now that he's seen it, he can recall that the kitchen is somewhere off to his left. Navigation is easier within the house, especially since ambient light from the windows isn't dimmed by the onset of evening, and he's able to move quickly to the front of the abode.
He's practically running by the time the entrance to the kitchen draws into the scope of his vision; with momentum on his side, he falls to his knees and slides the rest of the way, skidding to a stop in front of the opening with a certain amount of grace reserved for those who've been practicing for such occasions that required making a spectacle of one's self before even stepping foot into a room.
Tony, who is at this particular time carrying a hot tray of biscuits without oven mitts in front of said occupied entryway, merely stares at the Prussian, then turns to place the tray on a cooling rack atop a marble counter.
"Fucking kraut," it growls.
Gilbert huffs and pulls himself up, but decides to ignore the ignorant creature (it really had no appreciation for how exceedingly awesome that was) in exchange for stampeding into the cookery and snagging a biscuit, which he promptly drops at the discovery of its mildly blistering temperature. Tony makes an irritated click, and shakes its shoulders in what could be a sign of amusement, but otherwise remains silent.
A sudden noise has him whipping around, only to find America donning a ruffle-edged green apron. A frying pan, contents strewn across the floor, lays upside-down on the linoleum tiling, greased edges still sizzling. "Fuck," America swears, swiping at a large smear of hot oil on his apron and simultaneously staring at him in open surprise. Tony quickly moves to the other, picking up the pan and meat with no apparent discomfort before running both under water in the sink and patting them dry with a hand towel. It slaps the meat back into place and returns the pan to the stove, leaving America to wipe away the grease left on the floor.
America's mouth twists into an uneven half-smile as he breaks his stupor, looking Prussia up and down before bending to clean the linoleum with the wet hand towel that Tony had previously bestowed upon him. He takes off his ruined apron when he's finished and bundles the two used items together, wadding them under his arm as he stands again and gives Prussia another searching look.
"When did you get here?" blurts out of his mouth before he can really think about it.
Prussia is at a loss for what to say, since he can't really remember coming here himself except for a blurry memory of a rousing conversation with Gilbird on the correct sizing of 'equipment' for naked male lawn statues, so merely shrugs his shoulders and turns his attention back to trying to grab a biscuit.
America turns to Tony, who is currently flipping the finished ham-steak onto a pile of others, "Did you see him come in?"
Tony turns and stares at America, depthless red eyes piercing blue; Prussia watches the exchange, chewing noisily on the biscuit, though it's scorching his mouth.
"Yesterday?" America asks, brows furrowing. Tony nods, then grows still as America comments again, "He slept here?" At the next nod, America sighs, but then immediately smiles brightly, turning to Prussia with exuberance not unlike a sugar-high five year old.
Gilbert still wonders how it is that those two are able to communicate so thoroughly when one of the ones conversing is entirely silent; he figures it must be a weird America-thing.
"I wasn't expecting you so soon," America begins, walking past Prussia and over to a laundry basket sitting idly by the garbage bin. A lump of clothes has already formed in the container, what looks to be more aprons and hand towels awash in various bold colors. "I was actually wondering why Tony was asking for bread rolls and ham and stuff. That's what you and your brother eat for breakfast, right?"
"Yeah, most of time, I guess," Gilbert says, perplexed by the notion that the irate alien currently sending daggers at him via its enormous, glaring eyes would bother doing something like that.
"Tony's pretty awesome, right?" America's grin widens, stretching his cheeks and accentuating the bags under his eyes, "I don't know what I'd do without him!"
"Awesome's a word for it," he replies back, trying to resist the temptation to roll his eyes as the alien savagely cuts at the entire stack of ham-steaks with a butcher's knife while still intensely glaring at him. The alien might be pretending that the meat is Gilbert's head for the way it is stabbing as much as slicing at the pile.
"So…," America trails, looking at Prussia as though he is a particularly daunting puzzle. "So, uh…What are you doing here?"
Prussia honestly doesn't know. He can't understand what it is about the other nation that's bothering him so much. It's not his problem whether or not America is looking and acting like a wreck, nor is it his job to come over and babysit him or make him feel all better about the big, bad world. America, believe it or not, is his own nation, and has been so for years, no matter how many of those years have been spent solving a seemingly endless list of problems caused by the country itself. He shouldn't give a damn.
America is an idiot; always has been and always will be, but he's a hard-headed one that always manages to blunder his way through each and every error he makes. Others haven't been as lucky as him, haven't had as many second chances and third chances to right the wrongs and be forgiven over and over and over again. Prussia has certainly never gotten a second chance.
But, even then. He can't help but shake the feeling, stupid and useless and lame as it is, that what he says and does around the American can make a difference, can avert some kind of coming disaster or not-disaster. It's like a hum in his bones, singing a song like a turnabout warning.
The world has stopped turning to America for inspiration. The words 'Land of Opportunity' have ceased to apply, and instead of flocking to the globe's melting pot, people are running away. He's no longer classified as the top super power, though he is one, alongside Russia, and he's long since forfeited the title of strongest nation. China, as it had been predicted for some time, is the leader of the world, is given the prestigious honor of sitting at the head of meetings, and is looked upon admiringly and scornfully by the other nations.
Fifty years ago, Prussia thought he would have laughed at this situation; because to him, and to others, America was nothing but a nuisance, spoiled and impossible on the best of days. He would have laughed and laughed, sent nasty notes and reminders, shot spitballs at him during meetings. But when it actually did happen, when it became apparent that America had finally fallen from his throne atop the world (but it's not imperialism, listen to me please I'm sorrydon'tleavemealone), he said nothing, thought nothing of what he used to think he would. It was like a movie that used to have all the colors; each object vivid in its clarity. Even if the content is ugly and horrid, the world holds together through pigment; creates a complete picture. Then, one day, all the blue fades away and the sky is left an empty, suffocating grey, and the black ocean doesn't seem all that endless anymore. Everything is there, still whole and perfect, but things don't look quite as bright and cohesive as they used to be.
Somehow, Prussia, and perhaps the rest of the world, used to think it would be like victory once the mighty, obnoxious America lost his steam and fell to second-best. He wonders about that even now, the implications of those thoughts and their resulting actions and reactions.
All things considered, America has taken everything surprisingly gracefully, acceptance most likely ferried by China's humble attitude towards the situation (though Prussia couldn't exactly ignore the tiniest glint of superiority in the Asian's eyes the moment America looked away). The way everything happened, fast and without resistance, there was no time to really feel anything except for the unanticipated shock.
America walked out of the lime-light, of his own accord. He wasn't thrown, or pushed, or yanked; there were no tears.
He still holds his head high; is defiant, though not as loud, is strong, and determined. Prussia cannot help but admire him, even as the other nation frays at the seams.
But, as he is all these things, America is not invincible, and that's what worries Gilbert. The strong can fall. Germania fell. As did Ludwig.
And so too did Prussia.
He has no idea why he's here.
Prussia smirks at America, "I'm here for your party, duh."
America grins at him, though a hint of irritation enters his eyes, "I told you the other day I wasn't having one."
"I heard you're having cake and going swimming in a pool. Sounds like a party to me. I'm just here to make it awesome!" he says, lies falling off his tongue as well-rehearsed lines. It's one of the things he's best at, after all; he has a wicked poker-face that always lets him win against Francis and Antonio. He can even fool West sometimes, though the other has lived with him for so long that it's difficult to get away with. "I even got you a something, so be grateful."
America softens at the mention of a present (he has always loved gifts), and instead of standing to interrogate Prussia further, goes to the refrigerator to pull out a butter dish and jar of jelly.
"It's not exactly like your breakfasts," he explains as he pulls bananas and a bag of peaches off an open shelf, while Tony makes eggs over easy at the stove, "But, it'll do, right?" (2)
The first part of the day is spent baking.
Even if America says 'a cake,' he actually means an array of pastries that are to be consumed throughout the next few days, or century, as the amount of dough and batter and pie-filling Tony and he are preparing could feed an entire village for a year.
Prussia is left with the daunting task of spreading dough for cookies and pies with a floured rolling pin. Needless to say, he is an even paler albino than before, with pure white hair instead of natural silver. There is, in fact, a small mountain of flour around his feet, and the mint-green of the wall in front of him has gathered a fetching coat of chalky dust. A powdery ball of feathers sits primly atop Tony's head.
He doesn't feel particularly awesome at the moment. He keeps sneezing a combination of snot and flour, and his palms and arms ache from the repetitive motion of rolling and re-rolling the thick dough. The magenta apron tied to his front (it is not fucking pink, and it compliments his eyes, thanks) does not help in this distinct feeling of un-awesomeness.
America is ladling saucy cherry filling onto the bottoms of pie crusts and then creating surprisingly pretty woven lattice tops for the pies. (3) Tony is off to the side, stamping dough with a cookie cutter detailed to leave impressions of American flags.
America chats up a storm as he works, leaving little room for comebacks or remark as he jumps from topic to topic; Prussia gets the impression that he's doing it on purpose. At first he talks about an apparent storm that occurred sometime last night, and how some of the windows blew open and soaked the curtains. (Gilbert can really care less about the curtains; it's his fucking luggage that he's livid over, for the fact that it was left outside to soak in the rain and a goddamn puddle for the entire night. All of his clothes are now hanging out to dry in the back yard, since, apparently, Tony had gotten up quite early to do the laundry) Then he winds into a rant about how he went to the store the other day and one of shelf-stockers tipped over a display of canned cherries on him, which is how he got so many cherries for absolutely nothing. From there, he explains in excruciating detail about the sham story about his first boss chopping down a cherry tree as a boy and not lying about doing it (4), then giggles through an apparently hilarious encounter he had with a man working as a George Washington impersonator.
The assault is dizzying, and somewhat tiresome, and Prussia can't help but feel a tiny bit lop-sided on the matter since America won't stop talking and yet he doesn't mind. Despite the previous day's visit, with America apparently happily babbling away and Tony only making scary faces every now then, and with something to do besides be awkward and confused, he feels at ease. It isn't like this at home with Ludwig, who is often too busy with business or Italy to spend time baking German delicacies or cooking anything close to extravagant alongside his brother. He often eats out or alone, with very little thought put into what he consumes.
Here, working with the windows open and a fresh, summer-scented breeze blowing through, the heady scent of sugar and dough permeating the air, it is almost what he can imagine having a wife or an attentive family might be like.
As the day stretches into noon, there is a knocking on the front door. They're mostly finished with the kitchen, though Tony persists to buzz around inside while he and America carry half of the pies and plates of cookies and iced cupcakes, and an embarrassingly decorated cake the shape of, he couldn't believe, George Washington's head (how in the world had America managed to find cake pans like that?), to the door. America pastes on the biggest smile he can, and it slightly surprises Gilbert with how stunning it appears on the patriotic nation's youthful face. The younger nation opens the door, and standing before them are a few middle-aged women, all dressed for the occasion. They hustle into the foyer and 'oooh' and 'aaah' at him and America, still covered in flower and icing, then begin examining their plentiful stock of pastries.
It only occurs to him the moment they start hauling baskets of cookies and pies away that these women are not here to 'celebrate' with them, but to take away their cache of goodies to an unknown location.
His surprise must have shown on his face, because America promptly pats him on the shoulder and laughs, handing him the ugly George Washington cake and pointing to an old, beaten-up truck out on his winding, gravel driveway.
"Can't believe you're giving this shit away," he grumbles.
"Why? Gonna miss them?" America laughs.
Gilbert snorts, sliding the large George Washington monstrosity into the back seat of the truck and shuts the door. Everything is mostly in the bed by now, the women on a tight schedule and working fast. Contributions from other homes lay in piles against the back, though his and America's take up the rest of the available space.
"I like doing this every now and then, y'know. Usually when I have a party there's no time to do anything for my citizens. This year, when I moved in about six or seven months ago, I went to one of the community meetings and you wouldn't believe they were already planning for the Fourth so far in advance!" America closes up the hatch on the truck and gives it a pat. "Didn't see a reason why not to, so I signed up for it, too."
"But all of my awesome work is gone now!" Prussia whines, folding his arms across his chest. The gaggle of middle-aged women walk up to them, smiling and praising he and America for a job well done, then set to begging the pair to come down for the community picnic; the blond politely refuses, and the women, practically melting at his earnest smile and promise to come for the fireworks and singing of the national anthem ("What, you signed up for that, too?") later that evening.
At last, they drive off, arms waving out the windows, and America exuberantly waves back.
Once back inside the house, Prussia sighs and heads for the kitchen, America following gaily behind him. Things aren't as bad as he thought they would be; not nearly as annoying as previously thought. It almost feels like a vacation, with a different house and host and landscape. There is none of the obnoxious plays for attention or loud, unbearable fights that break out between countries; none of the tension of a tense dinner with West, or the outrageous shenanigans of the Bad Touch Trio; no Austria or Hungary bearing down on him for getting too rowdy or being too annoying.
He is a little concerned about his growing fondness for the empty house the residents contained within.
Inside the kitchen, the lights have been turned off, and the windows shut with thin, gauzy curtains drawn. On a round, wooden table set at the very corner of the kitchen and barely visible in the false twilight, three lights burn, illuminating the figure of Tony. America whoops, and rushes forward, hands patting at the edges of the table to try and gauge the proximity of the cake, then settle. Prussia walks up behind him, and can't help but smirk along with the giddy look of joy etched on America's face in candle-light detail.
A few seconds pass before America huffs, pouting towards Prussia, "Aren't you gonna sing me happy birthday?"
He almost laughs at the idea; it's just so lame. An awesome person like Prussia wouldn't be caught dead singing such a trashy song.
He starts singing it anyway, America loudly joining in and referring to himself in third person; Tony stands, staring intently up at America. Perhaps in his and America's secret language, he too is singing.
At the end of the second rendition, because the blond nation had begged for another verse, out of synch with each other and out of breath, America blows out the three candles and claps his hands, the lights flipping on in an instant to reveal smoke rising over a cake shaped as the American flag, red, white, and blue icing detailing all fifty stars and thirteen stripes.
This must be what Tony was working on behind their backs; here and there are added touches, things only of a significant value to America and the alien, like a plastic spaceship imbedded in a corner, a whale smiling and spouting water in another; an airplane, cowboy boots, and an astronaut on a false lunar surface.
And in the middle, three candles in the shapes of numbers: 2-5-0.
America picks up the five and licks icing from the stem, euphoria for the moment palpable in the air.
Prussia wants to ask what it was America wished for, in the instant before the world went out and the lights came on.
What did he wish for, in all his two hundred and fifty years, to make his eyes look so sad?
(1) Dolly: Also known as a trolley, hand truck, two-wheeler, etc. It's used to move boxes and stuff. Where I live, we call them dollies, but I've heard people call them other things. Just wanted to clear up some possible confusion. Here's a link to the Wikipedia page: http:/ . org/ wiki/ Hand(underscore)truck
(2) This is gotten off of Wikipedia, so I don't know how accurate it is, but German breakfasts usually consist of bread rolls, ham, butter, jam, soft-boiled eggs, and coffee, along with varying regional traditions. Sorry if it's wrong. D: Here's the link: http:/ . org/ wiki/ Breakfast
(3) Woven lattice tops: Remember those pretty, intricate looking pie tops, with the dough weaving over and under itself? That kind of top. Here's a link for pictures, and how to do it: http:/ simplyrecipes. com/ recipes/ how(underscore)to(underscore)make(underscore)a(underscore)lattice(underscore)top(underscore)for(underscore)a(underscore)pie(underscore)crust/
(4) True facts, y'all. Remember that story you were told as a kid, when George Washington chopped down a cherry tree because he was tired of picking cherries, and when his dad asked about it, he owned up to it? LIES. See here: http:/ americanhistory. suite101. com/ article. cfm/ washingtonscherrytree
DID I MENTION THAT THIS IS SET IN THE FUTURE? NO? Sheesh, why do I do this to myself? Chapters for this story shouldn't be this long. Damn. Anyways, please forgive me for such a poor update. :( I was half-asleep as I wrote three-quarters of this, and am in fact nodding off right now as I type.
TIME FOR SOME COMPLETELY USELESS INFORMATION ABOUT THE CHAPTER!
Virginia apples: I cannot believe it, but my plot device for apples actually has a basis. Yup, Virginia is a large grower of apples, having a great variety and contributing $250 million to the U.S.' economy each year. Harvesting begins in July (You know where this is going! ;)). I'd like you guys to try and piece together the significance of the 'wake-up' scene for yourselves, though if you know a bit about Revolutionary War history, you'll get what I'm saying. Here's a link: http:/ www. virginiaapples. org/ facts/ index. Html
Walden: This book was written by Henry David Thoreau, a transcendentalist, famous for writing about his stay at Walden Pond. I mention this book because of its significance to the story; the themes it expresses will give you a hint as to what might happen if America really does do something drastic. If you're curious, check out the Themes section here: http:/ en. wikipedia. org/ wiki/ Walden
The grandfather clock, stuck at 8:46: At 8:46 a.m. on September 11th, 2001, the first hi-jacked plane crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center. Here, these are some pretty interesting numbers: http:/ nymag. com/ news/ articles/ wtc/ 1year/ numbers. Htm
Hamburger, by Andy Warhol: Pop art! Andy Warhol was a famous American pop artist, known best for his depictions of Campbell's soup labels and his Marilyn Monroe diptych. I've always figured America would love pop art and Andy Warhol, especially for his depiction of our hero's favorite food. Quite a few links for this one:
Wiki on Andy Warhol: http:/ en. wikipedia. org/ wiki/ Andy(underscore)Warhol
Picture of Alfred's painting and other Warhol work (scroll down for Hamburger): http:/ www. art. com/ gallery/ id-a76/ andy-warhol-posters(underscore)p5. Htm
Andy Warhol, eating a hamburger (I'm not kidding. XD He eats a hamburger. Alfred would be appalled, though): http:/ www. tressugar. com/ Andy-Warhol-Eats-Burger-King-Hamburger-1070768
So, there we are. Once again, sorry for the poor chapter. This is more for set-up than anything else, though I do hope you enjoyed a bit more insight into what's happening. Things are coming together, eh? I feel really unsatisfied with it, but am too tired to do anything about it, as it is 2:30 in the morning, and my head is pounding. Sorry for poor characterization, too, now that I think of it.
A big thank you to everyone who reviewed!: PROKARIN-and-proud, Usagi Uchiha, pickingupstars, Elegant Spiral, and HeyThatsThatOneChick. You all left me such lovely reviews, I almost cried. Hope I didn't disappoint. Also, thanks to everyone who faved and alerted this story!
Also, PROKARIN-and-proud is amazing! He/she guessed which Emily Dickinson poem the title came from, and as a reward will receive a one-shot from me with a prompt of his/her choosing. Congrats, PROKARIN! Get back to me soon on what you'd like. :)
Finally, I won't be updating this story for the rest of the week, since I have three other stories that need to be updated. Next week will probably have another update, though. Maybe. Not making promises. Anyways, that's it. Sorry for horrendously long A/N.