XX
Here I am 08
XX
America sat watching England – Arthur, he should say – attempting to cook. It seemed, not matter what he would, he would be doomed to forever fail to master the art of frying eggs. The smell was already starting to drift over to where he sat, but he was used to the noxious fumes by now.
Silently, though with a hard frown on his lips, America watched Arthur bustle around the kitchen, hoping that pepper would be able to disguise the burnt taste. He certainly had the same zeal as England - although it was often misdirected - the same passion, and the bossy attitude along with the looks.
But there were differences, differences that even America was not blind to, although he loathed to accept them. He had not noticed at first, when Arthur's eyes were clouded with confusion and a sense of loss. However, as the days passed and he seemed to reconcile with his current situation the differences began to bloom.
This Arthur was…he could not put his finger on it…lighter, somehow. He looked more 'in the moment.' He looked like he was living instead of merely existing, like what England would probably look like if you picked him up and shook out all the dust and those musty memories that he held so dear.
"Don't you miss him?" Arthur's voice sailed right over him, as if reading his thoughts. He was wearing a green apron – England's apron – and a spatula crusted with burnt egg white in his hand.
"Who?" America acted dumb.
"England."
"No."
And it was the truth, he thought. Since he and England hardly ever met except to argue what was there to miss?
Arthur sighed, his brows furrowing with that motherly, worried look that America remembered England wearing so often in his colonial days; that look that he had made England wear. He hated that look.
"Why do you hate him so much?" Arthur asked.
"W – Why? It's obvious!" America snapped. He hated that too; how Arthur's questions always seemed to hit straight into the spot that was sorest. How could he be so perceptive when his counterpart was a stubborn idiot?
"He's…grumpy and he never has anything nice to say to me, he can't cook, he always has to be right, he treats me like a child, he's infuriating, annoying, bossy, a perfectionist, a control-freak, old-fashioned, and he can never let anything go! Even just looking at his face annoys me!" he cried, ticking off his fingers for every crime England had ever committed against him. Even talking about it made him feel frustrated; he wished he could just wrap his hands around it and get rid of the problem.
"It's not lonely when he's not around?"
"We never hung out so how could I feel lonely?" he snorted.
"I suppose so," Arthur shrugged, looking a little sad and America wished he would stop making those faces. For some reason, he felt like wincing every time he saw them.
The eggs – if the black mass of crumbs could be called eggs – were finally done. America watched Arthur scoop them into a plate next some tomatoes and long slabs of carbon that had once been toast. He sat down opposite him and began to eat in silence. Judging from his expression, he was thinking rather deeply on something – probably Alfred, America thought with contempt.
"…Do you want another story?" Arthur asked, quite suddenly, without any real reason to ask. He smiled, but for some reason it seemed to him that it was a patronising smile; the kind of smile England would give him when he was trying to mock him.
"Shut up," America grumbled, turning his head away. He ignored the small part of him that was curious to know more, that wanted to hear as badly as an addict needed his next fix.
He thought that it was somewhat masochistic of him to want to keep hearing stories. He could never become Alfred and England could never be the person Arthur was, they could never have that kind of life so why did he like to listen to those meaningless stories? It was not as if he wanted that life anyway. He was fine as he was, wasn't he?
"Why don't you tell me a story?" Arthur suggested.
"Huh?"
"Tell me a story about yourself. I've been telling you all about myself but I don't know anything about you."
America rolled his eyes. This Arthur was just as boring as England, making up lame suggestions like that. "But that's boring!" he protested.
"Your life is boring?" Arthur asked.
"My life is awesome!"
"Then tell me about it, Mr Awesome," he smiled and America scowled, knowing that he had walked right into that one.
"Awww, fine! If you really wanna be such a busy-body…" he muttered. He had to think hard first before he began; he did not want Arthur to think that his life was as mundane as Arthur's. After a moment, he started telling a tale about himself and Japan, purposefully avoiding all mention of England.
It started off interesting enough; it was about something during the westernisation of Japan, something that Arthur would not have been alive to see. Arthur himself listened rather attentively, but after a while America could see his attention wavering he frowned. He frowned. And England always used to scold him for having bad manners!
"I wonder what Alfred's doing right now…" Arthur murmured, perhaps not quite realising what he had just said aloud.
America glared at him. He glared at him because he was resentful that Arthur had stopped listening to the story that he had insisted on hearing in the first place, resentful that the story that he was wasting his precious time telling to him did not seem to interest Arthur, resentful that Arthur was thinking about another Alfred when he was the one right there with him.
And it felt lonely.
XX
Alfred's legs were trembling, his mind had gone blank; so much so that, at first, he hardly noticed when England stormed out of the room. However, the moment the door slammed shut, the sound snapped him back to his senses. Forcing his legs to move, he sprinted out of the apartment, down several flights of stairs in an attempt to catch England before he left.
"Wait, England!" he managed to grab the other, the one who looked just like the Arthur he knew, by the elbow, and pull him back just as he was about to leave the apartment block.
England glared at him with such hatefulness that he almost let go. His mind was spinning. He thought about the scars, the amnesia, the coldness and hostility that he had to endure over the past few weeks. So this was not Arthur? But how could that be? They looked so alike, identical even.
"If you're not Arthur then where is he? What have you done with him?" he demanded, gripping England's shoulders.
England snarled and pushed back, freeing himself from his grip. He was a lot stronger than the Arthur that Alfred knew. "I haven't done anything, you wanker! I was just minding my own business was suddenly I was here!" he snapped.
Alfred was not sure what to make of this but he decided to take this as the truth until he found a reason for England to lie to him. Besides, he really did not look as if he were lying.
"So you don't know where he is?" he asked, distraught. What if Arthur had still been on that ship? What if he had not made it out? By now he would already be…
"Logically, I suppose that he must be where I was. We probably switched places," England said with a coldness that prevented Alfred from feeling any relief. What kind of horrible, twisted world did England come from to make him so resentful and bitter? Was that the world that Arthur was in now, stuck and unable to find a way back to him?
"So…so you are from a different world?"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you!"
It sounded so impossible.
"…How?"
England shrugged. "Hell if I know," he said, but he looked at Alfred as if he blamed him for this anyway.
Alfred shook his head, still waiting for the enormity of everything that was happening to properly sink in. "But you look just like him!"
"Yes. Haven't you heard of parallel universes? There's a Francis and a Feliciano in my world too," England explained.
"And me?"
"…Yes…unfortunately," he grumbled, swiftly turning his gaze away.
Alfred's mouth opened and closed in a comical imitation of a fish. So Arthur, his Arthur, was in a parallel world where who knew what kinds of crazy things happened, and there as a Feliciano and a Francis and even another himself.
"No!" he cried in abject horror, clutching his sides of his head in his hands. This was the worst possible, if craziest, news he had ever heard since the Beatles disbanded. "I don't believe this! If Arthur's with another me then that other me will fall in love with him and will try to do all sorts of things to him!"
England snorted. Alfred wondered why his laughter always sounded so bitter. "Unlikely. He hates me. Anyone who looks like me he'll hate by default."
That was definitely a lie. Alfred was not sure why he would lie, but that definitely could be true. It was something he knew instinctively, something in his bones, as if he could connect with every other Alfred in the universe; no matter what world or what circumstances they were under, there was no way that he would not fall in love with Arthur.
"He could never hate Arthur!"
"Why's that?" England looked completely unconvinced.
"Because Arthur's so cute!" he cried automatically and had to suffer England's great rolling of eyes, but he did not care, he was too worked up with images of this other him. "Damn it, he better not lay a hand on my Arthur!"
"Your Arthur…right…" he heard England mutter.
"England…" Alfred's expression softened. He realised, while he had been worried about Arthur and ranting about how he would defend him even from another parallel world, he had totally ignored England's plight. He was stuck too. He just wanted to go home too, didn't he?
"Well I don't care whatever happens to Arthur or what America does to Arthur - "
"I'm America? That's so cool!"
England's eyebrow visibly twitched. "I thought you were ready to hate the other you."
"I – I was!"Alfred felt a goofy grin on his face. So in that other world they were all countries and he was America? "I still won't allow it if he tries anything funny, but that's kinda cool don't you think?"
"Ugh, please, I think I'm going to be sick."
"What, you don't like him?"
"I hate him!" England snapped, eyes sparking with utter resentment.
Alfred stepped back sharply, almost as if England's anger would burn him. His gazed on upon England, this other Arthur, with sadness. He wanted to reach out and touch his shoulder and tell him it would be alright, to hug him and smooth down his hair as he did when Arthur was upset, but he could not bring himself to do that anymore, not when he knew that this was not the Arthur he loved.
Yet still he felt something for England. Sympathy perhaps. Yet still it hurt to hear England say such things and look so hurt, because it still felt as if Arthur was saying those things, because he could still see those traces of Arthur in England's eyes.
"So that's why you're so cold to me..." he murmured.
"Don't be an idiot! Even I can tell the difference between you two," England snapped. "I hate you for completely different reasons!"
"But I don't hate you," he whispered back.
"What?"
"I mean, it's obvious that you're just a victim too. I know, let's work together to correct the universes and put everything in their proper place!"
And England groaned but agreed to return to the apartment. He had nowhere else to go after all. Going to bed was awkward. Alfred did not insist on spending the night together but let England take the spare room again – he felt a little guilty about having forced England into a situation that, now that he knew the truth, had been uncomfortable for him. Besides, he did not want to be accused of cheating on Arthur.
Yet, at night, listening to the wind blow through the trees and the darkness grow thicker and thicker, Alfred could not help but imagine that other world. He wondered what he was like in that world. England had told him that he was America but what would his personality be? Was America more charming than him? More powerful? More dashing? He frowned and turned over restlessly.
"Arthur…don't you dare fall in love with him!" he hissed and tried to get some sleep.
XX