So I'm not going to apologize for not updating in a while. Everyone should know that life happens, and, whether good or bad, it can get in the way of other things people do. However, I am going to apologize for everyone who has waited for this update and for how small it is compared to other chapters in the fanfiction. I also want to ensure that I have every intention of finishing this story before any of my others. With that said enjoy my fanfiction of Himaruya's work Hetalia.
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Chapter 9
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"He said something about a 'sense' or something when that scrawny one – what's his name . . . Feliciano, I think – was getting in trouble for pouncing me during lunch. Do you know what that's all about?"
They were in the middle of the city, sightseeing of all things, in order to help him get his memory back. But as Alfred followed Kiku and Gilbert around, he started to think of Arthur's words. They had seemed somewhat trivial to him at the time. Yet after viewing museums, monuments, memorials, and nearly everywhere else in the city that had some hint of historical reference, Alfred had an itch to find out what the other blonde had meant.
"A sense, huh?" Gilbert thought, hiding under an old cowboy hat and big shades from the sun. He always hated when the rays would get too intense for him to go out normally. He felt like a vampire of the sparkling, angst-filled kind, who would, at any second, be killed for showing off his pale abs to the world. He felt too much like a teen romance character that was twisted in an even suckier fanfiction than a former badass empire. He hated it so. But he pushed off that elaborate thought to concentrate on Alfred's question. What did that snot-nosed brat mean . . . ?
"Oh!"
At Gilbert's sudden realization, Alfred jumped back a little. Japan, who was still taking pictures of colorful cakes in a bakery's window, just ignored it.
"Oh?"
"Ja! I'm pretty sure Arthur was talking about your battle sense."
"Battle sense?" Alfred was completely and utterly confused.
"Ja. It's something every nation develops over time, usually because of war or fierce battles."
Alfred thought back to the creepy man, and shivered a little.
"Basically, you have this gut feeling of when an enemy is poised to attack. Like those cool samurai characters in Japan's animations and all."
"Uh-huh."
"Ja! Ja!" Gilbert started to act out as he monologued, "Like when a ninja hears rustling in the bushes, or when a samurai hears someone walking down the hall – "
"Or when a Gundam fighter knows from where the enemy is going to attack," Kiku chimed in, face aglow from talk of his anime.
"Ja! Ja!" Gilbert repeated himself, becoming even more animated than before; Kiku following his actions.
Alfred could not help but laugh at the two, "You two should quit it. Everyone is going to stare."
Gilbert's grin grew even wider, "Let them stare! Then they'll know who their true king is! Me! The Kingdom of Prussia!"
As he maniacally laughed, with Kiku adding some visual effects of fake lightning behind him, Alfred's attention faded to the end of the street.
"Hey. Gil, Kiku."
The two stopped, looking over.
"Can we go there next?" he pointed down to a small art gallery.
"Ja, sure. But do you want to go to a boring place like that?"
Alfred shrugged a little, "I don't know . . . it just seems like a place I should go."
Both of his chaperones were taken aback as a tiny gleam in his eyes told them to just go. There was something America was trying to tell Alfred. Something that was down there.
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Britain was out on his small balcony, smoking his third cigarette. He was lucky enough to reserve a room that not only had a small out door space, but also faced the nearby park. The sounds of the street and city life were muffled by the buildings and trees. Here he could relax, if only for a little while.
But relaxing was nowhere to be found. All he could think about was how Amer – Alfred. It was just Alfred now.
All he could think about was how Alfred was doing. How he seemed to be suffering.
How his son seemed to be suffering.
Britain knew that he had always wanted Alfred to call him father. And for a short time, the boy did. For a short time that unbelievably strong, blond haired boy would rush up to him, giggling. He would ask him to tell stories of grand heroes and fierce dragons. He would want him to cook scones and pies. He would come crying to him whenever he fell down.
His son would run to him, and only him.
And then . . .
Well . . .
Then Alfred grew up before Arthur could stop him. He did not even notice how much older Alfred was growing, until he saw the young man for himself. Hell! It took him centuries to grow up! And Alfred! Only a few decades compared to him!
That rat of a boy!
Britain noticed the cigarette waned so much, barely anything was coming out of it. He flicked the nub into the ashtray and grabbed another one, stuck it in his mouth, and lit it up. He might die from cancer sooner rather than later if he kept going like this; but at the moment he could care less.
His own son was dying in front of his eyes.
Or maybe he had already died and just left a walking, talking corpse behind.
Or maybe Britain was being too cynical about it all as to help himself feel better about the situation.
Not that it would.
"Not that any of it would. . ." he mumbled.
He sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees. He huffed.
"That stupid boy."
He flicked the ashes of his cigarette out into its tray.
"Stupid boy!" he slammed his fist, making everything on the tiny table shake.
He huffed again, cradling his hand close to himself, "He should have been more careful."
Before he realized it, small tears fell onto his hands. His vision blurred from more building up.
He didn't bother wiping them away.
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The three musketeers had entered the art gallery just ten or so minutes ago, but they were already in the depths of the building. It had seemed small from the outside, but had so much more to offer on the inside. Like a certain blue box, Prussia had snickered.
The gallery was filled with all kinds of artwork, from abstract to realistic, with every single piece done by an American artist. In fact they were doing a special on a certain artist in the main hall, which was where Alfred had almost too excitedly raced to.
Once there, the three started to examine each piece. The artist was a realistic painter, who used both oils and sketches to create her art. She had dedicated these pieces to her grandfather.
"Look at this one! Your flag waving above New York City!"
Alfred looked at the work Gilbert was standing in front of, a city scape from the view of the flag. He smiled, "beautiful."
"So," Kiku chimed in, "is there anything that has caught your eye? Maybe ringed a few bells?"
"Uh . . ." Alfred looked around, inspecting the room, "well not really. But it does feel nice in here. Makes me feel somewhat a home, in all honesty."
Kiku and Gilbert seemed glad to see Alfred so excited. It was almost like having America back to normal.
As they kept walking, the pictures changed to another artist's work.
"Oh. Look at this one." Gilbert pointed out another interesting one.
But Alfred did not hear him this time. His sight had fallen on a certain painting that seemed to be pulling him towards itself. He followed the feeling.
Alfred looked down at the sign below it, reading the words: "May we never forget." He looked up, seeing a disastrous scene of four men in uniform limping from a battlefield.
The smile he had fell from his lips. His body stopped completely.
May we never forget . . .
Images ran through his mind.
Blood.
Gunfire.
Screams.
Bombs.
More men in uniform were being shot, dropping dead on the ground. Others were sent flying after stepping on mines. Even more hid in trenches, throwing grenades, slumping down as best they could.
There was more blood.
More shots fired.
More bombs.
Blood. Bombs. Shots. Screams. Blood. Bombs. Shots. Screams. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . –
"Hey man! What are you doing over here!" Gilbert rushed up right beside the younger one, "want to go –"
He stopped, taking in his friend's fallen composure. Alfred was shaking, eyes crying out. Gilbert glanced at the picture, and back to Alfred. He sighed.
"Japan," his voice was low, serious, "We need to go back right now. I don't think he can take this anymore."
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