XX
Here I am 06
XX
Arthur was not sure what to make of his current circumstance. He was not sure exactly how things occurred, it all had just seemed to naturally collapse into the situation he currently had on his hands.
He knew America's excuse. Since Japan was staying with him in England's house for an indefinite period, America's only chance to see him other than at meetings was to come to the house for game nights of movie nights, or whatever it was that they did together. It seemed even America's adverse reaction to him was not enough to keep him away once games-withdrawal set in.
Thus it was with declining patience and growing annoyance that Arthur surveyed the mess in the living room as America ploughed in with an armful of snacks, DVDs and games, making a mess of the room he had not even been invited into. It might not have been Arthur's house technically, but he despised excess mess of all kinds.
He had tried to do his best to prevent America from turning the room into the aftermath of a war zone but there was nothing to be done. He was not even invited to join in – not that he would have wanted to anyway – and so the evenings ended with Japan's apologetic looks as he retired upstairs to the sound of gunfire and exploding spacecrafts blasting from the TV.
Before he knew it, it had already been a week. A week without gaining any ground on how to get home, and without getting any closer to America.
No, that was not quite true. They talked more and snapped at each other less, although that was only when Arthur was retelling some story about his time with Alfred. For some reason, America would only listen patiently to those stories.
It was half-way through the second week when Arthur was beginning to seriously consider never going back. He dreaded the thought, he did not even want to imagine it, but as the days passed his fear grew greater and greater. What is he was truly stuck here in this world? With these people? Not that he disliked Japan, but America was…well, he did not dislike America, but it was hard sometimes. Very hard.
"Dinner is ready, you two," Japan poked his head into the room where both Arthur and America had been lazily watching in the sports channel to fill up the voids their lack of conversation would create.
America eagerly rose to his feet, Arthur trailing behind less enthusiastically.
Light bathed the kitchen table, the warmth of spring sunlight pleasantly framing the room when they sat down to eat.
"Since you can't cook for shit, I'm guessing I – I mean, Alfred – did all the cooking in your world," America could not begin eating without his customary insult at Arthur. It did not matter what it was, whether it be his looks, his manners or his culinary skills, it was as customary as Japan's 'thanks for the food' as Japan picked up his chopsticks and dug in.
Arthur stiffened. His scowl deepened. "For your information I…it's not like that! Alfred just happens to like cooking!"
America snorted, causing Arthur's hackles to rise whilst Japan remained tactfully silent.
"It's not like he's any better than me. He put potatoes in the microwave once and they exploded! Almost broke the whole microwave!" he cried, forgetting his normally impeccable manners for a moment to wave his spoon around in the air.
"But I bet the remains were edible at least," America murmured just loud enough for Arthur to hear.
His mouth opened and closed, gaping like a fish. Humiliated that he could find no comeback other than to mutter 'twat', he dug his spoon into the prepared food, eating slowly with a sour expression on his face.
"Did he cook for you during university?" America asked, also digging into his food.
"Why do you want to know?" Arthur spat and immediately wished he had not said anything, for the look on America's face instantly became so cold and so closed off that it almost scared him.
"I don't," he muttered sullenly and turned all his concentration on to the food.
They ate in complete silence, Arthur swallowing his food around the lump of guilt that had formed in his throat.
"Ah, that reminds me Arthur-san," Japan suddenly spoke as they neared the end of their uncomfortably silent meal. America had been shovelling food into his gaping mouth and Arthur too had been eating quickly, hoping to excuse himself as soon as possible.
They both turned faces curious and thankful for the distraction towards Japan.
"I'm out rice. Could you get some for me?"
America's fork clattered against the china plate. "I'll go, Japan. This idiot probably doesn't even know where the shops are."
"I do!" Arthur snapped. He had been in this world long enough to know the local neighbourhood at least. He was not going to get lost on a simple errand to a corner shop. "Besides I need some fresh air," he added, folding his arms stubbornly.
"Why don't you both go then?" Japan suggested.
Perhaps he had not known, from their speechlessness, how insane his suggestion had been, perhaps he had. Arthur was inclined to believe the latter; Japan was a master of reading the atmosphere after all, though he did not want to believe that Japan had a single conniving bone in his body. Maybe he was going to have to reassess that opinion after all.
Before either of them could protest, Japan rose to his feet, clearing away their empty plates. "I'm glad that you two are starting to spend more time together. That makes me glad," he said, and neither of them could bring themselves to argue.
XX
"I can't believe I'm stuck with you. This sucks!" America shoves his hands in his jacket; keeping his pace at least three step in front of Arthur at all times. God forbid if anyone thought that they were together.
"I'm no longer surprised when you say stuff like that to me," Arthur muttered, trailing behind. "Besides, Alfred hated shopping too unless it was online shopping. Must be a shared trait."
"You never went shopping with him?" America glanced back.
"Of course I did! I managed to drag him out, away from the idiot box, sometimes! Though it usually wouldn't be worth the bother. He would get restless and try to annoy me in the supermarkets or run down the aisles on the trolleys like a little kid. Almost got us kicked out once."
America huffed, rolling his tense shoulders back. "You're just too stuffy. That's why you can't appreciate stuff like that."
Arthur scowled at America's back as they came to a crossing and stood side by side, although America was pointedly avoiding his gaze again. "Don't take his side!" he snapped.
"Who else is going to defend him when he's not here? That's what you and England have in common. You always have to be right," he muttered.
"I - " Arthur opened his mouth, taking a firm step out into the road in order to move away from America.
He noticed the way America stepped forward to follow him, he noticed the way his obstinate frown slowly came undone and the slightly chilly wind that brushed over the collar of his coat.
What he did not notice was the car driving racing towards him as he stepped out, not until he heard America's shout of "Look out!" and turned to see headlights almost right in front of him. The car honked loudly, as if that would get him to move on time, but Arthur's body had completely frozen. He heard tyres screech and an angry yell telling him to get out of the way before – before…
"…Alfred?"
Arthur looked up, shocked at the sudden change in temperature from the slightly cold weather outside to the warmth of the kitchen inside. He could smell tomato sauce and coffee and the hint of iron from tuna paste.
"Hmm?" Alfred turned. He was wearing the red, white and blue plastic apron he had bought him to stop his clothes getting messy every time he insisted on cooking. It was his Alfred. This was his kitchen – their kitchen – Arthur's heart was going to burst with joy.
"Alfred!" he rushed forward, ready to fling his arms around Alfred's neck, to cry with happiness. He was home! Finally, he was -
"Are you okay?"
Arthur blinked once and found himself standing on the other side of the road, watching the swerving car speed away as the driver swore loudly about people who could not read the traffic lights. America grabbed his shoulder, shaking him and shouting something that did not quite register in his dazed mind.
"Alfred?" Arthur glanced at him hopefully. Slow realisation made his face fall. He was back here, in this world that he did not belong in, and he was not looking at his Alfred anymore. "…America," he sighed. It was all a vision then? The way one's life flashed before your eyes before death? Somehow, it did not quite feel like that however.
He wished that he had better control of his expression, he wished that he had not looked so disappointed to realise where he was because, as soon as he sighed, America concerned expression drew back and became cold.
He let go of Arthur's shoulder.
"This is why you shouldn't go out. You can't even look after yourself! I'll get the rice. You go back home," he grumbled, as if Arthur was some incompetent child slowing him down.
Arthur realised his mistake too late. "Wait, America, I'm sorry," he attempted to apologise as America angrily turned his back to him.
"Well it's not like I could let you die. England would have survived being hit by a car but you're just a human, remember. Don't get arrogant!"
As much as he wanted to snap that it was not his plan to almost get run over, Arthur was too keen of America's hurt – though why should he feel hurt when he hated him so much? – to say anything unkind.
"…Thank you, America," he whispered, hardly daring to raise his voice.
America shrugged.
They stood a moment in silence, America firmly keeping his back to him.
"Um…America?"
"Huh? Oh, you're still here?"
Arthur winced. What could he say?
"…I'll…I'll leave it to you."
He almost ran all the way back.
XX
"England!" Alfred's too-loud, too-cheerful voice invaded England's thoughts. That fool had been ridiculously happy ever since they agreed to share a bed, though nothing had happened thank God. He should have known better than to get some peace and quiet. Even after Francis had finally been persuaded to leave Alfred made enough noise for the both of them.
"England, I called your workplace for you. They said that you should rest for now and come in once you're feeling better."
"Work?" England raised his head from his newspaper. Now that he thought about it, he did not know anything about the Arthur from this world, least of all what he did for a living.
Alfred nodded enthusiastically. "At the school, remember?"
At the sight England's blank face Alfred heaved his shoulders and sighed. "I've got a few weeks off too so I can take care of you."
"I don't need a babysitter!" he snapped.
"I'm going to make lunch. What do you want?"
He shrugged.
"I love you."
At that England finally jumped up from the couch. It was as if those words were needles, pricking his skin every moment a fatal 'I love you' was said. It hurt.
"You keep saying that. You sound like a parrot. A stupid one!" he retorted. He was frustrated. It had been a week. A whole week and not only was he not back in his house pleasantly embroidering and spending time with the fairies but, for all his spiteful words, he had not deterred Alfred from his foolish endeavours either.
"I keep saying that because it's true," Alfred replied with frustrating calm.
"So?" he scowled. "I keep telling you to leave me alone! Do you think that if you keep flinging love at someone that they'll just…"
He trailed away.
"England?" Alfred looked concerned at his sudden silence.
"I – I – It's nothing. I'm going to take a shower," he pushed away from him, heading towards the bathroom on shaky legs.
England was grateful for the hot water scorching his skin, burning into the scars from the various wars he had fought in. He wanted to think; something that he had not had much time to do lately what with annoyingly Alfred being so clingy all the time.
He wanted to think about the past, his past, and his life up until this moment, his way of living, the decisions he had taken, choices he had made and…
"America…"
It was true, was it not? He had even said it himself to Alfred out of anger. Even if you loved someone so much, those feelings might not necessarily touch them. He had wanted America to stay with him so much, but those feelings had not even made a beep on the map of America's consciousness.
What was the point of loving them then? Why did Alfred keep on loving him, or Arthur, when it failed to touch him? He could dismiss it as idiocy but he did not want to.
"I loved America when he was little," England told himself as water steamed over his head. "And now I…" he fell silent. He could not put it into words the way Alfred had said 'you don't love me.' To put it into words was to make it true and, really, what did he think about America?
"…Coward."
Alfred was in the kitchen humming to himself, making what looked like the beginning of tuna pasta, as England walked in, fully dressed in clean clothes after a thoroughly unsatisfactory shower. Alfred was wearing some ridiculous red, white and blue apron, though it was already covered with tomato stains and pits of tuna.
England shuffled in, not really sure what to say. He noticed a spoon rolling near his feet and frowned. Alfred always made such a mess! He took a step through the doorway, crouching down to pick it up…
…and heard the blaring honk of a car horn. England almost had a heart attack. It was right in front of him and it was too late to try to move even were he not a little disorientated. Where was he? What was going on? He heard a shout and turned to see America lunging for him. He could hardly believe the frantic, concerned look on his face. No, this must be a dream. There was no way America would look at him like that. Well, if it was a dream then it was fine to be run over. Maybe it would be a good thing; it was not like it could kill him after all, maybe just knock a little sense back in. The car, however, swerved and only just caught him on the side, sending him tumbling…
…onto the kitchen floor. He heard the clatter of spoons being dropped and Alfred's padded footsteps as he rushed to his aid.
"E – England? England!" he felt strong arms lifting him up. "H – Hey? Are you okay? What's wrong? England?" The car had clipped his shoulder. It was dislocated, dangling loosely by his side. It was not too painful but England still felt a little disorientated that it took a while to come back to his senses.
"I'm fine. Don't shout in my ear, you twat," he groaned once he had recovered enough, pushing his arm back in place. He winced with pain as it popped back in. It hurt, but it was not as painful as some of the things he had been through before. The Battle of Hastings, when horses had trampled over his body and shattered his ribs, now that had hurt, or the Blitz when it felt like his heart was going to physically explode. Compared to that, a dislocated shoulder was nothing.
Alfred, wincing at the loud pop, put his hand tentatively on his shoulder. He probably assumed that England had hit his shoulder against one of the work surfaces on his way down, resulting in the injury.
"Are you alright? Are you feeling dizzy? Is it a fever?"
"I'm fine, " he insisted.
Alfred's concerned face melted into one of overwhelming relief. "Thank goodness!" he hugged him tightly yet tenderly. It was the tenderness that made England wince.
"Why do you love me so much?" he whispered, almost desperate, almost pleading, begging him not to be kind, to not love him. Every time he was kind to him it hurt, but of course it was not really him that Alfred was kind to, was it? Don't be kind to me, he wanted to say. Don't smile like that because it's not me that you're looking at. It was not England that he was looking at, it was Arthur.
And how could England forgive him for that on top of everything? Not only did he unknowingly flaunt his oh-so-perfect relationship with Arthur in front of him at very moment, at every second of every day, he treated him so kindly, like something precious to be treasured above even life itself. He was making fun of him, right?
Surely Alfred knew what was going on and was taunting him for his ruined relationship with America, pointing out how incompetent England was when he could not make the relationship that worked so well between Alfred and Arthur work even on a cordial level between himself and America. It was humiliating. It hurt. How could England forgive him for that?
"E – Engl…" Alfred slowly unwrapped his arms to look at England's crying face.
God, he hated this. England raised his arms to hide his tears but it was useless now that they had been spotted. He hated this so much. He just wanted to go home now. He just wanted to go home, away from this kind of torture.
XX