This is the last chapter! Not only that but it's also my first ever completed chapter story (granted that it was kind of cheap and cheesy). Now it's time to get back to my other stories!
Warning: This chapter is extremely cheesy and even stupid. I don't know what I was thinking when I made it but I'm surprisingly satisfied with it. Read on, but you have been warned.
Lovesick Radio (VII)
Here he was again, in front of Arthur's house. At two o'clock in the morning as usual, sitting by the gates, only this time with a bandaged hand and a bottle of vodka he'd picked up somewhere in a Russian minimarket. Taking another swig of the malodourous alcohol, Alfred decided that enough was enough. He groggily picked himself up, almost collapsing in the process, and stumbled to the Englishman's doorstep.
Luckily, he also had his guitar with him to use as a sort of cane. It was a beautiful piece, picked out by none other than Arthur himself. Despite the Brit's strict and stern attitude, Arthur had a completely opposite punk side to him. Alfred found this the hard way when he foolishly challenged Arthur to a bass solo competition. In doing so, he found the man's mind-blowing skills with an eight string (that's right, eight strings) and lost fifty bucks, plus hamburger rights.
Coming to Arthur's bedroom for the first time, Alfred was met with at least a dozen guitars, each a different type ranging from simple acoustics to electric guitars. Posters of punk bands littered the walls next to his bookshelves each sporting a peculiarity with the hair or facial expression. Arthur was a bit embarrassed with his punk obsession but cracked a smile when his boyfriend rated it enthusiastically.
To be honest, Alfred was more of a pop and country boy, but punk seemed like a good change of pace at that time. Throughout the years, the American accumulated stickers to put on his guitar, which the Brit greatly disapproved of and it was not just because most of the stickers were of the stars and stripes.
Alfred propped on leg up on the bench in front of the house and set the guitar on his leg. He fiddled with the acoustic trying to tune it before breaking out into small and easy strums. The blonde hummed the tune to their favorite song and plucked it on his guitar.
They had found the song skimming each other's CDs in the car and it was pretty much the only song they could both enjoy listening to. Arthur refused to hear Hank William's Honky Tonk Blues (which was "a true western classic" for the record) and Alfred couldn't bear the earsplitting screams of the Brit's heavy metal songs. However, the couple instantly fell in love with their song as soon as it started playing. Granted that it was an American pop song several decades old.
Alfred steadied his guitar finally bursting out into the song.
"You're just too good to be true.
Can't take my eyes off of you.
You'd be like heaven to touch.
I wanna hold you so much.
At long last love has arrived.
And I thank God I'm alive.
You're just too good to be true
Can't take my eyes off of you," the lyrics came out a bit slurred because of the alcohol in Alfred's system but it did not fail to do its job. In less than a second, Arthur was leaning out of his balcony looking very confused and disheveled. The man's hair was even messier than ever possible and there were dark bags under his moss-green eyes.
"What on earth are you doing here?" he called bewilderedly. To this Alfred sang even louder,
"I love you baby and if it's quite alright
I need you baby to warm the lonely nights
I love you baby. Trust in me when I say~"
Arthur's eyes widened, his face turning a bright, scarlet red. "Hush up, you idiot! The whole neighborhood is will hear you!"
Alfred gave him a drunken look that said 'that's the point; to scream it to the whole world that I love you Artie!'
"I need you baby, don't let me down, I pray.
Oh pretty baby, now that I found you, stay.
And let me love you, baby let me love you~" he howled. Lights turned on one by one in the surrounding houses as Alfred finished the chorus.
"Will you get out of here!" By now Arthur was hurling whatever he could get hold of in his room at the American down below.
"Not until you come down!" Alfred called back dodging a flying stuff toy and hair brush. He was thankful it wasn't one of Arthur's thick volumes of law books.
"Are you crazy!"
Alfred let out an exasperated breath and a smile. "Do you really want me to answer that?"
Arthur halted to a stop after throwing his alarm clock straight at the blue eyed blonde's head. He made a childish 'hmph' and disappeared inside. Alfred stood there clutching his guitar unsure what to do. In less than a moment he heard the front door clink and creak open. Arthur hid behind the door expecting a surprise attack. "Get on with it. What do you want?"
"Several things. One, an aspirin would be real nice. My head's killing me and my hand isn't doing so good either," he held up his poorly bandaged hand sheepishly. "And fourth, I really need to talk to you, man."
Arthur raised an unamused, fuzzy eyebrow. "First of all, the correct term is 'well' not 'good', so the sentence is read, 'my hand is not doing so well either.'" Alfred stifled a laugh at this.
"And second," Arthur emphasized the word, "you may come inside but I suggest you hush up."
The young man hesitantly opened the door for Alfred and ushered him in. Lights were turned on in a dim setting and the room brightened to a brilliant gray. Alfred could hear Arthur in the bathroom shuffling through the cabinets for an aspirin. Suddenly a sharp migraine overtook his senses and he groaned, resting his head on a table.
And that's when Arthur came back with a glass of water and a little pill. The American graciously took it and chugged down the water. He turned to Arthur with a thankful grin.
"Thanks. I seriously needed that." The Brit crinkled his nose in repulsion. He inched away from his guest pinching his nose.
"Bloody hell Alfred! You smell simply revolting. Have you been drinking?"
He scratched his head guiltily with his bandaged hand. "Yeah…sorta."
"Should I even ask what happened to that hand of yours?" Arthur seemed genuinely interested but he tried not to show it. He looked at Alfred expecting a good, rational answer. What came out of his mouth, however, was not a very good one.
"I punched holes in all my walls…and then it started bleeding. I tried fixing it but Kiku and Mattie saw and kicked me out. He's still angry with the whole ukulele thing, I guess..."
"You are such a dumb-arse." Arthur whacked him upside the head before dressing the wound properly with a new roll of bandage. They both stayed silent for they really didn't have anything to say. Alfred's face grew pinker, not from the alcohol itself, but from the sudden contact with his former lover. From his position, he could still smell Arthur's scent; tea and autumn rain with a hint of cocoa. A comment left the American's mouth unintentionally.
"How was the hot chocolate? It's been raining pretty cold recently even though, spring's already started. Perfect weather for a mug on a rainy day and a holiday is what I used to say," he sighed.
"A-Ah…y-yes. It was, umm, very good a-actually," Arthur sputtered as the question caught him off guard. "Perchance, h-how did you know that?"
Before the two of them could realize, Alfred pulled the smaller man into his arms with his nose tucked on the Brit's spiky, golden locks. "You smell of it."
Alfred chuckled inaudibly and added, "And you kinda have a chocolate mustache."
He wiped the stain from Arthur's upper lip with the sleeve of his jacket. Arthur's ears grew hot and furiously he rubbed the rest of the milk from his mouth. He cleared his throat awkwardly refusing to make eye contact.
"I'm surprise you still drink it. From what I can remember, you always complained about it and asked for tea instead," Alfred continued burying his nose deeper into the man's hair.
"Y-yes, w-well…" Damn it. He couldn't make a good comeback. He struggled to think of a smart one fast. Arthur opened his mouth to speak but once again, Alfred beat him to it.
"I really missed you Arthur. I don't think I can bear waking up without you anymore. Please. Please, come back. I'll get down and beg on my knees if I have to." He demonstrated this by literally getting down on his knees and kissing Arthur's hand causing the Brit to squeak in surprised.
"Look Alfred, I…," Arthur began shyly. Alfred's eyes lit up. Yes! This is it! This is the part where Arthur admits he loves me again and we'll live happily ever after like the endings on most of those USUK fanfics! Hallelujah!
That dream was forever shattered when Arthur peeled off his face revealing cheery little Peter.
Alfred's eyes turned into the size of large dinner plates as he released the boy from his arms. While sputtering unintelligent words and pointing at Peter, Arthur crept into the room loading a shiny new musket. It was only when Alfred heard the gun click that he realized that the other man was in the room scrutinizing the way he was holding his dear, little brother's hand like an obsessed courtesan.
"Arthur! P-Put the gun down, I swear it's not what it looks like. I-I can explain!" the poor American defended, cautiously eyeing the gun that was pointed at a dead aim. If he was smart, he would've just skedaddled on out of there but for some reason he stood his ground against the green-eyed mercenary.
"Aye, lad. There'd belter be a good reason why yer snoggin' my bruv like that, ya wee bastirt," the Brit replied with a heavy accent. He shockingly peeled his face, just as easily as Peter, to reveal roaring red hair and sharp, white teeth.
"Scotty!" yelped Alfred. He jumped and held Peter in front of him for protection. "I thought you said he was gone in Scotland for a time off, twerp," he whispered crossly at the child.
"He just came back today!" Peter shrugged.
"Oi! Git yer pretty boy arse over here and take it like a man!" Scott positioned his aim like a skilled expert at a different angle as to not hit Peter but surely kill Alfred. Much to his displeasure, the American did not succumb to the threat and held Peter as a shield.
"Amur gonnae count tae ten now and ah suggest ye put 'im down…ane... twa… thrie… fower… five… sax… seiven… aicht… nyne…" The Scot was now itching to pull the trigger.
"What in the bloody hell are you three doing down here so fucking early in the morning?"
Just like the two before him, another Arthur appeared before Alfred in his night clothes and bedraggled hair. It took a moment to sink in his brother and ex's position in warfare. In an instant after realizing, he grabbed his brother's arm holding the musket and directed it away from the two victims.
"Drop the gun, brother. We can handle this without shooting somebody's head off. As for you," Arthur directed to Alfred, "Kindly release my brother if you don't want to get hurt even more than I'm planning to make it."
Peter was released immediately and he skipped away to answer the rapping door.
"Is that really you, Arthur?" Alfred yanked Arthur's face for good measures with the Englishman screaming, "Of course this is me, now let go of my face!"
"Sorry dude, wacky morning today."
You're telling me…
Suddenly, Matthew exploded from the door riding on top of a Canadian moose. The fellow was wearing a bright, red Mountie uniform and holding a firearm. The normally peaceful Canadian was fuming with anger as he aimed his gun at the American.
"This is for my violin, eh?" Matthew fired his gun, approximately missing Alfred by a hair.
"Shit! You're crazy dude!" Alfred rolled over away from the door narrowly missing Scott's swipe with his musket. From the corner of his eye, he saw Kiku behind the Canadian muttering curses in Japanese. Of all people, Alfred did not expect his Japanese friend to be part of this predicament. What was the world coming to!
As if the situation wasn't fucked up enough, a blonde man entered from an open window carrying wine and cheese. "Wait for moi! I want to play to!"
In a blink of an eye, everyone was chasing him: Matthew was screaming a battle cry with his pet moose, Peter was riding on a billygoat while big brother, Scott trotted behind on a grey sheep his musket on one hand and the bagpipes on the other, and following after was a beautiful white horse with Arthur clad in an iron knight getup. Trailing at the very end was Francis and his red rose censored privacy.
Alfred ran and ran but he never seemed to go any faster than snail's pace. The others were gradually getting closer and shooting at him from all directions. He looked around for a place to hide and found himself in Wal-Mart's parking lot. A mailman had joined the chase showering him with massive piles of blood red cards. Alfred opened his mouth to scream but also found it duct tape shut. He ripped the tape from his face but another layer appeared under the other.
Arthur was now gaining upon him ahead of the group. In desperation, Alfred jumped on a metal shopping cart (or trolley for the Brits) and rolled away. Arthur was now jabbing him with a large jousting rod, laughing maniacally. The poor bloke wanted scream from all the hurt but the tape prevented him from releasing even a hoarse breath.
Thankfully, that was when he woke up. For some this ending is a total rip off, but for America it was a blessing from above. America blinked his cerulean irises open and released a sigh of relief. Right beside him was a peaceful, non-jousting England raising a rather humorous eyebrow. A taunting smirk was permanently placed on his amused expression as America shirked away uneasily.
America searched for Texas on his bedside table and got out a calendar. He almost cried of joy as when he saw the date.
"February! It's February 15!" he exclaimed to a confused England.
"I suppose it is…?"
"Don't you get it, dude? It's February 15, Not May 28! It's not May 28! I'm not gonna die!"
"I…don't…understand…"
"Okay, so I, like, totally had a whacked out dream and Canada was there, well his name was Matthew for some reason, but anyways, you were in it, and Scotland and Japan and… and Seaworld was there too! And so your old bro was like counting down to shoot me and he was all like 'an, twa, thrie, fower…' and-"
"For you information, Scotland does not sound like that! That was obviously all part of your imagination, you twit," England cut in unpleasantly.
"But-"
"I don't want to hear it, America. Now kindly get your arse out of bed and help me with breakfast. My brothers as well as yours, will be arriving any moment now and I don't want them arguing about the lack of good food and blah blah blah..." England threw a pillow at the dumbfounded country and walked off to the kitchen.
America was left there fixing the bed, wondering who Alfred F. Jones was and why Arthur Kirkland shockingly resembled England. Most importantly, why was his dream so cheesy and disturbing?
'Him and England? Seriously? The world must be ending tomorrow or something!' America mused.
"Hey America! Where is the cheese? I can't seem to find it in this enormous refrigerator of yours!" England called from the kitchen.
"Just use the can of aerosol cheese! It's on the very back!" he called back.
"I refuse to eat false cheese from something so disgusting. For the last time, where is the cheese?"
"Use the spray-on. It's pretty much the same thing! Damn it England, why do you have to be so picky?"
Hmm…de ja vu much?