Chapter 2: Love Rekindled to Ashen Dregs
Pre-Year 1000:
The emotion of joy was drastically audible in Arthur's humming voice, reverberating in volume off of the deep set wrinkled trees of the autumn woods. A distinct smell of oak and the crispy leaves filled the young adolescent's lungs as he drunk the beautiful atmosphere with a lightened heart. Underneath Arthur's feet, the dried leaves that gave off such an intoxicating fragrance, made an oddly satisfying crunch.
The little screams of the leaves, the chlorophyll draining from their bodies like blood from injured wounds, did make him feel sadistic in a sense for treading so happily upon the path of tree's miniature limbs held before him – though the delicious atmosphere of autumn and the singing woods made the strange thought flutter for only an inconceivable second.
There were oranges, browns, greens, and reds… the overflow of colours flashing through his eyes as Arthur swirled to and fro, as an artist's experimental canvas. It was an art and design project that only the gods could have conceived, and he found himself trapped in infatuation with the autumn breeze and the rustle of the leaves as they cascaded to the ground, or tumbled together on the earth just like children playing games. It was with that same childish bliss that he became so thoroughly satisfied; wishing sweetly that the defiant frozen pangs of winter would never come.
Arthur was a sweet boy; one that harboured many dreams and wishes for himself. As a nation, he wished vibrantly to expand his roots – flourish within the new world slowly being discovered around him, make new connections with other people just like himself, and nurture the seed to the largest empire to grace the Earth! He was going to do it, no doubts – he was going to be on top of the world; smiling and regarding his people with open arms. He could imagine it so vividly… the sun would never set on the British Empire!
The child stopped playing around in the leaves and other flora scattered through the decorative autumn woods; resting down by a gigantic horse chestnut tree. Not his best idea – the tree was anchoring its seeds upon saggy branches; huge green cages with spikes, the size of Arthur's little clenched fist, loomed up in the sky, suspended loosely by the umbilical cords attaching them to their mother. He had never been hit by one of the little green bombs, nor seen anyone be attacked either, so recognition of potential danger had been lost. That said; for that autumn, the child was safe. That little conker incident was an amusement belonging to another distant year.
He loved these woods, so he thought with a contented sigh; he cared about the beautiful landscape scattering about the plains around him more than anything that he could bear. Not only because of the majestic colours, swarming around in the many variations of brown, gold, and red – nor the endearing animals that were scattered here and there; squirrels, owls, centipedes, et cetera. But also the lands were close to his heart for another reason; because they were him. Every leaf that fled the trees in the cooling bane of September, every daffodil that rose in the delights of spring; every little inch he stood on… was him. All of it was him.
It was beautiful. He was beautiful…
He had met his best of friends, and bizarre foes, within those woods – the fairies, goblins, golems, ghouls, poltergeists, kelpies, wizards, wythern, boggarts, pixies, imps…et cetera… he could go on for hours and hours describing the fun he had with his mystical friends; the mystical creatures that nobody else could see. He was special in that way. Nobody else could understand the fantastic delights of being acquainted with a supernatural world presents. It was all for him... a child could never feel much more special.
Then there were his neighbours: other people like him – connected somehow spiritually and physically to the lands that are tread upon by their own two feet… nations. He had met and been invaded by a lot of nations, he had to admit. He was young, naïve, and unable to defend his lands as brutally as he so wished. The time will eventually come when he would be able to stretch out his angelic wings and embrace the furthest reaches of the world… but not now. Not for a long time. He was still young… barely old enough in physical age to wield a sword.
Almost everyone, nations that is, he had ever met had tried to dominate these lands; the Roman Empire had taken his mother under his iron plated grasp, the Saxons from Germania were even more successful, and the Norsemen from the east had used him for their own benefits in the past… so forth. The evolution of the land that had slowly and surely whittled down to one single being, him, was a fully versed and intriguing one; although from the beginning, he was conceived purely from the unification of cultures from lands far and wide. Everyone used him. All except from one… Arthur picked up a leaf from the ground and examined the spiralling veins spewing forth from the stalk; intrigued by its colourful visage and the small drops of morning dew dripping on its dying tips. That one was…
"Angleterre! I'm happy I found you!" A singing voice called through the woodland grove; an accent originating from somewhere that Arthur had never graced his footsteps as of yet - a foreign place, accessible by only a small channel of water between them. So close, yet so far. Arthur grimaced, shoving his leaf back on the ground and promptly folding his arms in an annoyed huff.
…France.
"…Fuck…" He growled as the Frenchman came into view, appearing from the nearby distance just as prominently as a ghostly figure rising from the ground. Arthur quirked his overly characteristic eyebrows into weaving a heavily set scowl, before rolling his eyes and refusing to further acknowledge the Frenchmen's presence.
"Mm, how is mon amour today?" That Frenchman said sweetly, bending down to stroke the little boy's endearing blond locks; picking out a few speckles of forest dirt as he did so. The Frenchman was several years older than said boy in physical age and real age both; if Arthur was comparable to an eleven year old boy of human variety, Francis would have been around fourteen or fifteen. Still adolescences to a few other nations; but they were rapidly growing in strength. He gave a contented smile, dragging his fingers away from the hair to touch the child's pinkish cheeks.
"Mon amour? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Arthur asked aggressively, slapping away Francis's inappropriately straying hand. The language that Francis spoke was vibrantly different to his own; though it didn't stop Francis from trying to teach him it, and using it constantly within his own speech. Arthur was certain that he was just arrogantly flaunting his own creation. But his language was better, definitely, Arthur thought with an angry frown sitting upon his face.
"My Love!" Francis declared happily, wrapping the younger boy in his arms.
"What? I'm not your 'mon amo~our', stupid frog! We aren't in love! Now go away!" Arthur snapped, elbowing the Frenchman in the stomach and trying to force his way out of the teenager's hands – to no true avail. The other country was older and stronger than him, for now. That definitely was going to change in the future; so Arthur promised himself. But for now, he gave in and glared at the Frenchman with a loathing glower.
"Mm? You don't love me, mon cher?" Francis cooed with a stupid pout on his face, withdrawing slightly from the closely knit embrace he had entangled Arthur within. The British boy scoffed.
"Don't use that pathetic language of yours around me, frog! And no I bloody well don't!"
"Not even if I do this?" Francis leaned forwards, grabbing Arthur by the chin and angling his face towards him; forcing the Brit to stare at him in the eyes – dark blue, bordering violet, eyes clashed with green emeralds orbs. He pulled Arthur closer, and pressed their lips together for a bare second. Arthur's cheeks immediately turned red faster than a mood ring adjusting to the temperature of one's finger. Francis parted, giving Arthur a disconcerting wink. He had just stolen the Brit's first kiss, and he knew it.
"…A-Ah, n-n-no! Don't touch me, you insufferable pervert!" Arthur spat through tingling lips – the ghost of his first encounter remaining prominently clung onto his flesh. He jerked himself away from Francis quickly, finally managing to squirm out of his fellow nation's grasp, and begun pacing through the enhancing colours of the forest. Francis laughed heartily and hastily followed.
"You're blushing – that means you liked it." He teased, flying to his side and prodding the Brit on his furiously flushed cheeks. Arthur stopped abruptly, looking up to give Francis the most fulfilling look of abhorrence he could possibly muster. He clenched his fist.
"I'm only fucking blushing because you're pissing me off! Read my lips! No, don't you dare twist that! Look, just G-O A-W-A-Y!" He shouted, spelling out his last words and pointing out into the stretches of the woods. Anything to get Francis to leave him alone would be good. He didn't want to deal with the Frenchman's antics as of yet.
"Such a rude child Angleterre. I was only showing some affection." Francis moaned, placing his hands on his hips and presenting that agitating pout on his face again.
"I'm only being rude because you've ruined my day! You spoilt my mood with your pathetic face! Wipe away that pout of yours! It's infuriating!" Arthur growled, glancing at that very pout with non-adolescent cruelty lighting up his eyes.
"Oh come now, mon cher. You love me being around really, don't you? I'm your closest neighbour after all, non?" Francis smiled; watching Arthur intently as his temperate glance weakened just a little.
"I don't love you. Get lost." The Brit rolled his eyes and folded his arms stubbornly, looking away in a momentary lapse of patience and concentration.
"Oh, but you do! Here." Francis grappled his shoulders, and smooched his neighbouring nation on the very tip of his nose. Arthur froze up, becoming rigid with embarrassment. "See, you've gone redder, mon petit lapin! Tu es trés mignon! Ah; je t'aime de tout mon Coeur!"
"You love me with all your what?" Arthur shoved off Francis's hands.
"Heart, mon cher!"
"Good. I thought you would have said somewhere else – knowing you. Jump back into reality, moron." He sighed, turning his back to the French annoyance.
"Oh Angleterre. Stop being so brazen. Il n'est rien de plus réel que le rêve et l'amour." The French annoyance leapt forwards, standing quickly behind his cute little rabbit and spreading his words in a sweet whisper into the Brit's ear.
"I don't even want to know what the heck you just said." Arthur said strongly.
"…It was something nice, mon cher. Regardless, you're mine. Je t'aime. And one day I'll prove that to you! Je promets!" Francis fiddled with Arthur's hair, stroking each golden line slowly and appreciatively. He placed a kiss against one of the blond locks.
"…Oh go die already." Arthur exclaimed; keeping his arms dominantly crossed. He gave up on trying teaching the Frenchman some manners already by now. The man just couldn't be tamed when it came to this 'love' business. Romance Shmomance. Francis turned him around, till once again they were staring accidentally intimately into each other's eyes.
"Angle…non, Arthur. Arthur, I'll always love you. Not just your lands, your angry blush, and that smile… but also your heart. I'll make you mine one day. One way or another. You'll be mine." Francis smiled.
"...D-Don't say such embarrassing things. Go sexually harass someone else." Arthur stuttered, looking away from the Frenchman's glinting eyes far later than he had hoped. Francis laughed.
"Mm. Oui." He began to move away, before speedily stealing another quick kiss from the Briton's lips. He laughed again, pleasing himself with Arthur's fuming frown and scarlet blush, and rushed off in the direction that the Brit had pointed to before. "You'll see, Arthur. I promise that you'll see. Bonne journée."
"…Je… Je ne t'aime pas, you fucking French twat! Je ne t'aime pas!" Arthur spat angrily as Francis ran away. Hatred was expressed even more prominently in the language of the one accused. As Francis disappeared from sight, Arthur stood still – hand hovering over his lips.
He hated Francis. He hated everything about him; that stupid long flowing hairstyle of his, those repulsively azure blue eyes, his petty perverted grin, his infuriating personality… everything. However, just as one can harbour the emotions of both happiness and sadness within one vessel – emotions of hatred and its antonym can arise within the same person at once. Arthur licked his lips, and went to crouch back down by his horse chestnut tree – his angry and composed visage dropping again now that he was alone.
"…C-C'est un mensonge… isn't it Arthur? C'est un mensonge."
Present Day:
The room remained plunged into absolute total darkness when the English nation finally regained the strength to open his eyes; such a trivial task reduced to a challenge in his physical and mental state. The drugs had by now worn off, the sensation of pain no longer as dulled – his muscles screamed and contracted with revulsion, forcing him to accept the truth whether he wished to or not. His hip was scorching with excruciation, a burning heat akin to that of the chilling crack of bones, smashed fully blown into his body. It felt like he was just rammed straight on the lap by a car, or something just as potentially lethal… it hurt so intensely…
He blinked, glaring at the dust ridden concrete flooring with his lungs wheezing desperately for clearer air. Why did Francis bring him to a place like this to steal his body and dignity away from him? It made utterly no sense whatsoever. Francis had always struck him as the sort of person who would, yes, end up taking people only half willing… but at least do it in a place with a little romanticism and class. He hated to admit, but the Frenchman was far more tasteful. So why the bloody hell did it have to happen here?
The immediate thought that Francis didn't ever want him to escape came to mind. But that really couldn't have been the reason, when he knew that Francis allowed a telephone to be in his disposal. Maybe he thought that he would call someone and try getting his way home, or maybe he wanted Arthur to contact Alfred – so he had an excuse to cause his life to end. There was always that unspoken tension between them both.
Or maybe; Francis knew that he couldn't muster the strength to leave. Whether that applied to physically strength, or dignity, he could not foretell.
Arthur wrenched himself from the floor, wiping off the dust and smog from his thin, pallid body. He allowed his eyes to readjust to the catastrophically minimal levels of light, and scuffled around the floor to find the remainder of his clothes. His shirt was ruined; ripped literally to shreds as the impatient Frenchman tore the fabric quickly away, but he managed to find his underwear and trousers intact. After the most painful and awkward dressing session he had ever experienced, expending all of the energy he possibly could have retained, Arthur collapsed back on the floor besides the telephone – filtering out the smell of sickness, blood, dust and sex from his airways with his fingers.
He lost the ability to cry further – going over the point where the will to sob was impossible to invoke. To weep would expend salt and hydration that he was devoid of, and the cluttered chokes and shudders they presented would only cause significantly more damage. There was no point; no use, no way. He had never felt so empty ever before… never before. He was fading away. His eyelids were beginning to become a burden to lift again and the same unwillingness was occurring with his hyperventilating breath. He couldn't hold on much further. But if he left consciousness again; who's to say that he would ever wake up?
Did he even want to wake up? To this?
He closed his eyes. The darkness was so comforting. He never wanted it to go away. If he could linger there forever, wait until all the sores disappeared and his dignity welled back up to a sustainable level at least, willing the time away – watching as the sands of time ticked off the seconds to the end of his life – then he would. He hated this place; he had been ravished sexually and had his pride irreversibly sapped from his mind within those inhospitable walls – but the outside world would always be just as horrific to him now. Light offered no comfort. Nothing could comfort him now… he just knew it. His sanity was over.
Arthur barely batted an eyelid when the roar of an engine came within hearing distance, nor when he heard keys switch off the ignition and the crunch of feet hitting the ground. It didn't matter whether they managed to find him in the darkness or not. He was incapable of standing on his own two feet, and he didn't want anyone to see – not any nation, not Francis (he didn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction), and especially not Alfred. His mind half-heartedly sunk away, and he hugged himself tightly in violently shaking arms.
Please… don't let Alfred see me like this… please.
"…This can't be the right place…"
Alfred was correct to assume that it was a land-line that had rung him. That was incredibly lucky. If it wasn't for the 'pressing 1-4-7-1 to get the number of the line that just rang you' method, he probably wouldn't have found the place at all. And thank God for the internet, for being able to tell him where to go. The internet boffins were geniuses… and praise the heavens for Google. You can find anything! Except the number for a good Chinese place that wasn't about £12/$26 a pop or something pathetic like that...
The place was severely run down; it looked like something you would see in a cheap knock-off of a horror movie, where people got attacked by ghosts or vicious axe murderers or something. Definitely not one of his Hollywood blockbusters, he could have proudly assured you of that. Though still, the looming atmosphere of dread clung to Alfred's heart. If Arthur really was there… and he was as pained as his voice suggested, then it was far more petrifying than that.
As he stepped up to the doorway, pressing his gloved hand against the crumbling faux-architecture of the faltering wood, he couldn't stop the chills from running down his spine. The thought was horrific… a guy like Arthur, total gentleman – dignified, if not harsh with his judgment and punishment – being confined somewhere inside the little derelict place he was before him… it just wasn't right. That wasn't Arthur. Why would he be there? …He must have gotten the wrong place. Surely!
He shook the handle. It was locked.
He would have checked the google on his cell phone for the eightieth time that hour, but he didn't have time to procrastinate. Arthur was waiting for him – waiting for his hero. He promised the handsome Brit that he would come take him home, and he was going to fulfil that offer. What kind of hero would he be if he broke his promises? Alfred sucked in a deep breath, stood back, and launched a running kick at the door – smashing the lock to bitter metallic fragments, and forcing it open with relative ease.
"Arthur? Hey—British guy!" Alfred shouted. His voice echoed like an eerie ghost through the halls, bouncing off the walls and spreading whispers of his voice in ethereal murmurs.
He stepped inside, reluctantly – arms wrapping around his own body to stop him from shivering, and heart literally leaping out of his chest with tension. He moved to close the door behind him… but decided that it was better with it hung ajar, soaking the fresh air inside. Both for want of light, which the horrible place was devoid of, but also because he really didn't like the feeling of being closed in within such a scary place… it was just like a haunted house.
He continued to wander inside; considerably jumpy at everything. He squeaked when he saw something crawl in the corner of his eye. Just a spider's web fluttering in the incoming wind… nothing to be afraid of; ha, ha! Hero's don't get scared! No! He wasn't scared. He wasn't scared. Nothing was going to jump out at him from the dark. Nothing was going to suddenly grab his shoulders and drag him down into the depths of Hell, (or worse; Arthur's kitchen – ha, ha…ha… no. This really wasn't the time for jokes…).
If it wasn't for the chance of Arthur being around, he would certainly be running away for dear life… too scary… too scary. Forget the hero façade for now. Even hero's can be afraid every once in a while, right? Right? Ha, ha, ha… Oh God. He was absolutely petrified.
He laughed awkwardly to himself, peering into one of the rooms embarking away from the hallway. The room was absolutely flooded with darkness. Anything could be inside, waiting to attack him or jump out at him and leave him screaming with sheer terror. It smelt, simply, of blood, dirt, sick, and musky dust. He mumbled a little, fingers shaking as he fumbled against the wall to find the light switch. The last thing he needed was someone, or something, to make a-
"-Don't turn on the light!" A sudden voice croaked. Alfred jumped a practical mile, snatching his hand away from the wall and holding it quickly to his chest. He flicked his eyes about the room, trying desperately to find the source of the noise.
It sounded more demonic than human… the kind of voice one would associate to the living dead. His heart beat heightened another smidgeon faster. The floorboards creaked under his weight, moaning compellingly with metaphoric pain.
It took him a full ten seconds or so to realize that it was Arthur that had spoken.
"…Arthur?" Alfred whispered. He wished, prayed, internally that the voice would not confirm his worst fears.
"…Alfred, p-p-please. Whatever you do… please don't turn on the light…" Arthur's croaking voice sobbed through barely conceivable or coherent breaths. Alfred felt his heart skip a beat, threatening to cease through fear. It didn't take a genius (and he was one – being awesome America and all), to figure out that the Brit had been crying his eyes out. The very thought chilled Alfred to the bone.
He had only ever seen Arthur cry two times before. The first; when England lost the American Revolution… and the second...
He didn't want to talk about the second.
That was not a good memory.
Arthur didn't cry unless something was violently wrong. He never shed a tear for himself for a single second when he had gotten himself hurt, or was upset. That wasn't Arthur. He was strong willed, far too stubborn for some, and obedient to protecting his own pride. He only cried when that pride was completely shattered. It left him heartbroken for days, weeks, months… years even. Alfred's breath hitched awkwardly as he stepped a few paces forwards into the darkness. He should know. He had broken that pride of Arthur's once in the past already… and they both suffered unconditionally for it.
"A-Arthur…? Where are you?" Alfred asked awkward, walking with his arms parting the disgustingly stench-ridden air, as if his magical touch could suddenly make the darkness split away and disappear – flooding the room with temporary light.
"…There's a lamp over here…" Arthur murmured. Alfred expected the room to soon be flooded with some light, to calm his nerves and reveal Arthur's positioning; though the Englishman's shuffles could not be heard, nor did the comfort of light soak through the never-ending darkness. The atmosphere was so sodden with so much tension that Alfred felt like he was drowning in the void.
"...A-Alfred… how did you find me? …I told you to forget."
"Caller ID. That doesn't matter right now. Of course I'm not going to forget about you! Look… Arthur – are you okay?" Alfred insisted, looking out into the more or less direction of Arthur's voice. His eyes were taking their sweet time in adjusting to the black abyss between them. But he could have sworn he could identify the outline of the Englishman's figure on the ground. The silhouette dropped its head.
"…N-n-no…"
The whisper came sleekly through the tension ridden smog. Alfred felt his heart begin to oscillate even quicker. His British friend was obviously in significant agony – and that struck daggers straight into his heart, needles puncturing both of their prides irreversibly. Alfred was thankful that no one else was there to see them both break down into terror filled panics. He flicked away the tears that ran down his cheeks, though new ones soon followed in the ghosts of their trails.
"W-What happened, Arthur? You suddenly went silent on the phone. I was so fucking scared! I thought you had died or something!" Alfred gave in trying to stop his voice from straining with dread. He floorboards creaked again as he tried to walk over to the figure cloaked in the shroud of darkness. He watched with eyes illuminated with worry as said figure recoiled and shivered violently after his words had fled him.
"… I-I-I d-d-don't…"
"…Fuck, Arthur. Calm down…! I'm here now, okay? Turn the lamp on." Alfred flopped down besides the shuddering form of the British nation. He reached out to grasp Arthur's hand, reassuring him of comfort – and relieving comfort for himself for that matter. The Brit immediately shrunk away.
"I-I don't want you to see." He spoke quietly, soundly.
"...S-See what? Art, I need to get you out of here. Quickly…" The American replied quickly, imagination running wild with the possibilities of the violent conquest against him – them both. He could feel his heart snapping into two right there and then; seeing the man he collaborated with strength and decency, break down into murmurs of torment and with breathing caught by his sobs.
This couldn't be the Arthur he knew. This couldn't be.
Not his Arthur…
"Please." The smaller man pleaded.
"Oh fuck, Artie, you sound so… what happened? Were you attacked or something? Arthur, tell me." Alfred begun to accentuate his voice, heart pounding ever harder in his chest and throat drying out with his impatience.
"…please…"
"Listen, awesome ol' me is going to get you out of here, okay? I'll take care of you, I promise… I'll take care of you. Arthur… please, please turn the lamp on." He whispered, down on his knees and practically begging. Arthur didn't move – too reluctant and afraid to wander another inch.
Alfred shook his head and leaned over to the bedside table, nudging past the old style telephone and, very hesitantly, switching on the light. The small corner of the room was flooded with a dim, dying, orange glow; more akin to that of candlelight than the seeds sewn from a regular light bulb's bud.
Tentatively, he looked back at Arthur. His face whitened to the colour of brittle bone. Droplets ceased to fall from his raw eyes. He was far too upset and shocked to cry. He felt like he was going to be sick; a violent sense of tragedy tying knots within his chest.
That was not Arthur. It couldn't have been.
He was utterly speechless.
He had lived for hundreds of years; but there were only two other times he had ever been speechless. Both of those times came hand in hand with Arthur's tears. It was just one shock after another.
The first thing that reached Alfred was the thickened sensation of blood filling his lungs. The entire of Arthur's bare, abused, naked chest was teeming with scarlet – the thin line running all the way from his collar bone to the very peak of his hip was still oozing with too much split red. Maroon Poppy bruises, the sizes and shapes of fingers and fists left lasting indents in the Brit's body, memorials of the violation remained beaten into previously beautiful pallid skin. His hair was mottled, mangled with sweat and rough from actions that Alfred didn't dare to think of.
"What the hell happened to you?"
And those eyes… Arthur's beautiful, gloriously gorgeous eyes… capable of drowning men and women both within their emerald tinted chasms – filled with life, splendour, romanticism… everything of Arthur that Alfred fell catastrophically in love with...
…Gone. Just like that.
Dead.
Arthur... where…are you?
"D-D-Don't touch…!" Arthur whimpered; flinching away again when Alfred's finger trailed closer to smoothly run over the bold bruises and cuts ripped into the Englishman's body. His eyes flickered down to the horrific burns torn into his wrists; the dregs of rope seen surrounding them upon the floor, alongside the grey clogging dust. His eyes landed on the knife… discarded to the floor, unwanted – though the blood, Arthur's blood, remained dried to the tang of its blade.
Alfred shook his head, and leaned in a little closer to Arthur – severe caution at the ready just in case. As his slender fingers reached up, the Brit recoiled again… bunching up as if trying to protect himself from an enemy's touch, expecting to be struck. The very thought made Alfred frown more convincingly then he ever had done before. He touched the tip of Arthur's cheek, heart skipping a beat when the Englishman winced, and wiped a stray hair away from the ruined British gentleman's dead eyes.
What the hell had happened to him? Was it an assault, and a kidnapping? Or was it… something more? Alfred's eyes flickered again to the floor. The ripped away fragments of Arthur's shirt remained within view. They, whoever they were, had forced him into indecent exposure. How far down did that lead?
"…Who did this to you?" Alfred said, a solemn frown still forming on his face. He shuffled closer, hazarding to reach up with a second hand. He wiped away the residues of Arthur's sweet tears with the edge of his thumb, and soothingly stroked his hair – removing the tangled knots and calming away the static. Sweat, tears, and blood coalesced on his blank canvas cheeks. Despite his efforts, Arthur didn't calm. He tensed even further when Alfred asked him about… him.
"…I don-" Arthur begun to croak through chapped, bloodied lips. Alfred leered down and kissed Arthur on the forehead, pulling the Brit into his arms.
"…It's okay Arthur. You don't have to tell me. Alright?" He lulled. Arthur reluctantly hugged him back, incredibly loosely, while his arms were still devoid of strength. Alfred kissed his hair, struggling to calm him as the Englishman sobbed into his shoulder. Alfred let both their tears run, dying from anguish and worry within each other's embrace.
"…T-thank you…"
"Arthur, I said I'd come find you… right? I kept my promise, didn't I? I kept my promise. I'll take you home." He looked him in the face – emerald green orbs and striking blue clashing solemnly, thankfully, lovingly.
"I'll take care of you. I'm the hero, remember? I'll save you Art, I'll protect you. Okay?" Alfred whispered, struggling to administer the consoling of a smile to support his words. "…I'll take you to live at mine for a while. I don't want to let you out of my sights ever again. I fucking promise you that I won't let you get hurt again. I promise."
Je promets!
He laughed awkwardly; an absolutely false cheer in every sense. Any way to expel the horrific nerves and calm his mind was good. Not a second passed after his words before the high and mighty America broke down into another fit of tears; shuddering with his hands covering his face, seeming like he was oscillating with laughter.
"…I-I love you A-Arthur." Alfred struggled to choke out through haphazard breaths. "I've always loved you – from the very beginning. Oh God. Arthur… I-I…"
…He loved him, but he couldn't save him. What kind of hero was he?
Je ne t'aime pas! Je ne t'aime pas!
Silence…
"Arthur?" Alfred questioned, looking down at the Brit held softly within his arms. The previously beautiful British gentleman, ruined by an abuse that Alfred didn't want to hear the details of, had his eyes closed and had gone suddenly limp. The salty droplets running from Alfred's eyes fell onto Arthur's cheeks, mingling with the dirt fogging away his pale face. Had he fallen asleep, or fainted from the blood loss and pain? Alfred didn't want to know the answer. He was already broken down enough in his obliviousness.
He leant down and kissed Arthur sweetly on his blood soaked lips; bringing his unconscious love as closely as he could without causing further harm. Their first kiss together. Not one of fairy tales… no fireworks, nor sparks, nor anything wonderful novels pretend occur – soaked pitifully within their own fantasies. It was a sweet kiss made out of panic and desperation. Reality was not that beautiful… reality doesn't let there be a happy ending.
C-C'est un mensonge…isn't it, Arthur? C'est un mensonge.
Alfred kept himself entrapped in Arthur's lips; pressing them together and rocking back and forth. Like a widowed lover consoling their beloved's corpse. His hands instinctively ran smoothly up Arthur's naked torso, wincing away from any indications of sore bumps, and stopped when they reached the very core of Arthur's chest. A great sense of relief flooded through him as he felt Art's heart beat and chest rise exasperatedly still. That heartbeat was far more than a lifeline to him. It was everything… his whole world.
Alfred withdrew, finally, and licked the dark specks off his own lips.
Je t'aime de tout mon Coeur!
"…I love you with all my heart, Arthur." The American whispered – begging that Arthur would hear him in his sleep. "I'll always love you. No matter what anyone has done to you. I need you… so… s-so…"
Those eyes were…
"-don't disappear, okay?" Alfred begged. Forget the hero composure. He didn't need it right now. He was far too desperate.
...So empty.
Arthur, where are you?
"Come back…" He murmured; burying the Brit's head into his shoulder and smothering himself within Arthur's unruly blond locks; running little desperate butterfly kisses down the Englishman's battered neck, as if his lips could magically will them away with each soft embrace. No luck. Each poppy bloomed just as detestably flourishingly as before.
His fingers trailed down the sides of Arthur's naked torso, stroking even further down than he would have ever dared if the Brit was awake. The tips smoothly rubbed the throbbing exposed skin, lovingly remembering and tracing the curvature of the body he fell unconditionally in love with – more a deed of tragic romance gripping him rather than an indecent act. He stopped immediately when he felt that something about it was wrong.
He could feel a very definite crack split into Arthur's hip – the bone shifted in a manner that made Alfred's fingers tingle with anxious sensitivity and abnormality. A shiver ran like a ghost's fragile touch up his spine. Alfred placed another kiss onto Arthur's lips, easing both their pain away, and scooped the Englishman into his arms. He held the fragile body, a body more sacred to him than crystal and more brittle than glass, close to his chest – sharing warmth to heal that ripple of goose bumps on Arthur's skin.
"…Let's go Arthur…"
The dim orange light illuminating the room went out with a shrieking buzz and a flash. They were plunged into darkness once more.
Translation notes:
Mon petit Lapin = My little Rabbit
Tu es trés mignon = You are very cute!
Je t'aime de tout mon Coeur! = I love you with all my heart!
Il n'est rien de plus réel que le rêve et l'amour = Nothing is real but dreams and love.
Je promets = I promise!
Bonne journée = Have a good day.
Je ne t'aime pas = I do not love you!
C'est un mensonge = That/it is a lie.
One of the future chapters, I'll delve into the origin of where both Alfred and Arthur's love for each other came from – because obviously, it's a bit weird just shoving them both in and saying 'oh yeah, you two totally dig one another. Like; no reason.'
…That came out like something Poland would say…
Don't hate France just because I'm making him a jerk in this story. The reason for this, by the way, is something that I intend on tackling soon. Though I've a few things to achieve first.
Thanks very much for reading again guys. I hope the way I'm going with the story is good enough for you… *nervous laugh*…
D-Shi.