(Author's note: I thought I should just get something up, even though it's a tiny little chapter XD Sorry! D: Still have no real idea what I'm doing here yet. Uh, I think I'm supposed to say Hetalia does not belong to me. Because yeah, it doesn't. Errr...sorry for the fail of a commentary here. 3 Always, Miss Kitty )
"It's not that," he began, brow furrowing as he gathered his thoughts, "It's not that I don't want to be here, I merely believe it's better…for the both of us, if I wasn't." Even as the words left his mouth, he realized how trite and cliched they sounded. How hurtful in their over simplification of complicated emotions.
Even now, after all this time, it didn't take much to summon up memories of that chilly October day; the driving rain, the tears, and the blood seeping slowly through his heavy woolen red coat until his body was as miserably drenched as his soul, drowning in a tide of emotions. Emerald eyes had stared dully from beneath heavy brows, taking in the sight of his lover's leather boots in the mud before him, while his mind sought to grasp at fleeting rational thoughts, an explanation of how this could have come to pass.
"You used to be... so big...," Alfred's voice had held an inflection of surprise, almost wonder, and yet it had reached Arthur's ears with a quality of sadness and disenchantment. Even in his jilted state of mind, he had known that he had failed the other, had betrayed Alfred even as he himself had been forsaken. Filled with anguish and heartache, on his knees in the dirt, he had mourned not only for himself but for the one whose hand he had forced. The wisdom of age and experience had not saved him from ruin, it had merely whispered at the possibilities, had fed the fire of his doubts and fears, until he'd clung so tightly to his love, he had become that which he'd feared.
Standing with the lanky blonde now, Arthur could see the sting of the old wound mirrored back at him from the usually cheerful face. The haunting of memory was written in the lines now appearing on Alfred's face as his countenance fell, making the youth look older and wiser than his years.
"Look at what you have now, Alfred," he spoke, wanting to banish the pain from his former lover's face, hand ghosting along the other's arm, "You're grown up, strong, well off, able to take care of yourself and have your pick of partners, you've no need for an old sod like me."
It appeared this was not the appropriate response, at least not judging by the anguished look Alfred offered him in return.
"You know," came the American's voice, accompanied by bitter laughter, "for a smart guy, you're pretty damn stupid." Without waiting for Arthur to stop giving him a flabbergasted look, he gathered the shorter man to himself, pressing them close together.
"Alfr-" Arthur's protest was cut off by a hand cupping his chin and tilting his face upwards. The Brit was silenced by the intensity and seriousness in the other's cerulean gaze, the dilated pupils reminding him he still held Alfred's sunglasses clutched tightly in his sweaty grip.
"Shhh," Alfred's voice was husky, but somehow Arthur didn't think it was with lust or inebriation. This was more the sound of need, of desperation, "I know you always think I talk too much and wish I'd shut up, but this time, I have something really important to say. So give me a chance to say it. I don't want my pick of partners. I want you, Artie."
He didn't even bristle at the nickname, he found himself so hypnotized by the spell of Alfred's speech. A part of him, a steadily diminishing part, told him he had to speak up, to bring a stop to this tomfoolery before it went too far. But when you got to be his age, you began to grow weary of the fighting, of the continual careful mastery of thoughts and emotions, of being forever on guard. So while he found his mouth opening, there were no words to follow the motion.
"No, let me finish," the American was speaking again, now bringing his palm to rest gently, ever so gently, against Arthur's flushed cheek, "I needed to grow up, needed to find out who I was, without you. I know I hurt you, as you did me, but I didn't want to get lost in you, Art, not so soon, not before I could be my own person. I wanted you to want ME, not an idea of me that you built up in your mind. I had to become someone you could be proud of; someone I was proud of being."
Was he tearing up? No, that couldn't be, he'd only had one drink and he was no light-weight. He would have tried to hide the welling moisture in his eyes, but with Alfred holding his face, it was fairly impossible. The touch, the heat, the music pounding in his bones, the other's scent curling in his mind; it was all too much. He flushed a darker shade of scarlet as tears began to spill over his cheeks.
"But Arthur," his name was velvet on the American's tongue and a calloused thumb was tenderly brushing away the tears that fell impetuously from kohl lined eyes, "I AM my own person now and I can offer myself to you on equal footing. Arthur, it's you I want. You I love. It was always you."
