[fanfic] Let it Mean Something 6
Fanfiction: Let it Mean Something
Author: 9mm_meg
Characters/Pairings: USUK, a smidge of Canada
Rating: T
Part 6 Word Count: 1199
Total Word Count: 5455
Warnings: character death, serious angst, short chapters
Summary: The vehicular manslaughter charge has been wiped from his record, but Alfred can't get over what he's done. His last-ditch effort at closure is an attempt to get to know the man he never meant to kill. (Kink meme de-anon)
Disclaimer: Hetalia isn't mine, blah blah
Alfred had managed to survive the evening, and even scrapped together a decent time, despite the street corner a block away from the club that had stared him down and threatened to drown him in unpleasant memories. He’d been kept busy enough that he hadn’t had time to think on Arthur’s unimportant whatever-it-was that he was so into-
Wait, no. It said meaningless, not unimportant. Twice.
It’s the next day before he starts realizing that there may be a connection.
“Please, let it mean something…”
He suddenly feels very strange, and ventures a look into the journal. Sure enough, today’s entry is there. It’s short, but it’s there.
--
So… No.
No, I won’t read anything more into this. It’s nothing-it doesn’t mean anything. It’s meaningless. No meaning whatsoever.
… Francis has invited me out with them again next Friday. I may go.
(Just to confirm the obvious lack of meaning.)
--
There it is again. All this meaning stuff…
He doesn’t quite know what to make of it, but every time he tries to think about it, the ache is back, and all he can hear are those five quiet words whispered against his ear that he’s never understood, but knows are important.
=====
He looks up the word precipice, just to make sure it means what he thinks it does. It’s all about cliff faces and perilous and precarious situations, and it still sounds about right to him.
They’re back at the club with the number name at the wrong end of downtown, about a month later, and Alfred understands something more.
There’s another entry in the journal for this evening… a long one, and Alfred’s bored. He’s standing out on the steps of said club, sounds from within loud and obnoxious as Arthur says, waiting for the rest of the group to be ready to leave… So he reads.
He’s barely halfway through it before he realizes that he’s not on the edge of his precipice anymore, and hasn’t been for some time…
--
Alright. Fine.
Fine, I’ll explain, but only so that once I have it in writing, I can look back and see how utterly… meaningless this whole foolish thing is.
On the first Saturday we went to the hated club, I was ready to leave a few minutes before Francis’s little gang were (well, as soon as we got there, really), so I went outside, hoping to make it obvious (although I’m sure the ‘If you don’t get me home in the next twenty fucking minutes, frog, I will end you’ I added upon standing helped with that).
I managed to miss the last step on the way out, but instead of sprawling across the sidewalk and possibly into the street, I was caught and tipped back up on my feet by this… person. He was standing by the door, looking preoccupied and anxious, and had been presumably before my misstep as well, because he went straight back to it after setting me upright.
But I think what struck me was despite all his obvious concern for whatever it was he was so worried about, he managed to toss me this sort of careless grin and a ‘No prob’, when I thanked him. It’s stupid, I know, but… it’s almost as if he’d taken that one moment aside, just for me, just to tell me it was alright, just to smile.
… Christ, I am such a woman.
But like I said. Meaningless. No reason to read anything else into that. Of course not.
… And the fact that he was there the next night and I happened to accidentally bump into him next to the bar (completely by accident, I swear-I didn’t even realise it was him at first)… and the fact that he gave me this apologetic smile so similar to the first, with all the sincerity and genuineness… Naturally, that’s meaningless, too. He seems the sort to smile like that at everyone. It’s just in his nature. It’s nothing… meaningful.
Nor was tonight.
Nor any other evening in the past month when I may or may not have seen him.
… Seven times, by the way.
Not that I’m counting.
--
There’s no more until a month later, but there are only three entries left before Arthur’s journal abruptly ends, and Alfred can’t fight the tightness in his chest… so he keeps reading.
--
Good God, am I smitten. Pity I don’t know his name.
(Pity it’s meaningless as well.)
--
There’s another entry another week later, and he devours it, absently noting how badly his hands are shaking.
--
I’ve realised that I haven’t properly described him yet. Young (barely 21, I’ll wager), tall, blondish, glasses. Sort of… athletic. Not so much American footballer as… hm. Baseball maybe? Less bulk, more tone. It’s hard to tell with all those offensive coloured lights in the club, but his eyes could be blue… ish. The glasses are nice on him, though. I wouldn’t mind seeing him without them, but they’re nice.
There. I managed to get through that with no cheesy sunshine-related metaphors.
--
The very last entry in the journal is another week later, date heartbreakingly familiar and just less than one year ago.
--
Heading out with Francis again in a moment. The insufferable bastard seems to have noticed my lack of reluctance in going to a certain club, and I wish he’d just taunt me about it openly rather than keep up all his quiet innuendo. I’m certain he hasn’t worked out exactly what’s been keeping me interested, but knowing him, it’s only a matter of time.
(It’s rather sad that part of me is hoping he will, just so he’ll feel the need to ‘encourage l’amour’ and find some way of getting the two of us together, because I’m not certain that just smiling back will get anything done for me.)
(Yes, that’s my brilliant plan, by the way. I’m going to smile.)
(Pathetic.)
And there’s the frog now. Expect more meaningless descriptions of meaningless, stupid American smiles from me later.
Oh, and speaking of… I can’t believe I didn’t mention this sooner-I heard someone, one of his friends, call him Alfred.
(I’m having trouble deciding whether or not it fits him.)
--
Alfred is not on the edge of his metaphorical precipice. In fact, he’s far from it.
He’s already falling.
=====
When Matthew finds him later, Alfred is at the street corner, one block away.
He’s sitting on the curb, head between his knees and Arthur’s journal on the pavement next to him. Matthew takes a wide path around, probably attempting to get a look at his face before he says anything, but Alfred saves him the trouble and lifts his head.
He’s pretty proud of how together he’s keeping it, and for a moment, Matthew appreciates it as well.
“Very nice, Al,” he says with a slight smile, then crouches down to face his twin. “Now quit trying so hard before you sprain something.”
Alfred mumbles something about too late and hopes Matthew will catch him when he gives up and falls over.
He probably will. He is Matthew, after all.
A/N: Firstly, so much love to everyone still reading and reviewing <333
Secondly, a friendly public service announcement for those who like to know when the end's coming: There will be three more parts to this fic, one last chapter and then two alternate epilogues. I hope everyone sticks around and enjoys them <3
Author: 9mm_meg
Characters/Pairings: USUK, a smidge of Canada
Rating: T
Part 6 Word Count: 1199
Total Word Count: 5455
Warnings: character death, serious angst, short chapters
Summary: The vehicular manslaughter charge has been wiped from his record, but Alfred can't get over what he's done. His last-ditch effort at closure is an attempt to get to know the man he never meant to kill. (Kink meme de-anon)
Disclaimer: Hetalia isn't mine, blah blah
Alfred had managed to survive the evening, and even scrapped together a decent time, despite the street corner a block away from the club that had stared him down and threatened to drown him in unpleasant memories. He’d been kept busy enough that he hadn’t had time to think on Arthur’s unimportant whatever-it-was that he was so into-
Wait, no. It said meaningless, not unimportant. Twice.
It’s the next day before he starts realizing that there may be a connection.
“Please, let it mean something…”
He suddenly feels very strange, and ventures a look into the journal. Sure enough, today’s entry is there. It’s short, but it’s there.
--
So… No.
No, I won’t read anything more into this. It’s nothing-it doesn’t mean anything. It’s meaningless. No meaning whatsoever.
… Francis has invited me out with them again next Friday. I may go.
(Just to confirm the obvious lack of meaning.)
--
There it is again. All this meaning stuff…
He doesn’t quite know what to make of it, but every time he tries to think about it, the ache is back, and all he can hear are those five quiet words whispered against his ear that he’s never understood, but knows are important.
=====
He looks up the word precipice, just to make sure it means what he thinks it does. It’s all about cliff faces and perilous and precarious situations, and it still sounds about right to him.
They’re back at the club with the number name at the wrong end of downtown, about a month later, and Alfred understands something more.
There’s another entry in the journal for this evening… a long one, and Alfred’s bored. He’s standing out on the steps of said club, sounds from within loud and obnoxious as Arthur says, waiting for the rest of the group to be ready to leave… So he reads.
He’s barely halfway through it before he realizes that he’s not on the edge of his precipice anymore, and hasn’t been for some time…
--
Alright. Fine.
Fine, I’ll explain, but only so that once I have it in writing, I can look back and see how utterly… meaningless this whole foolish thing is.
On the first Saturday we went to the hated club, I was ready to leave a few minutes before Francis’s little gang were (well, as soon as we got there, really), so I went outside, hoping to make it obvious (although I’m sure the ‘If you don’t get me home in the next twenty fucking minutes, frog, I will end you’ I added upon standing helped with that).
I managed to miss the last step on the way out, but instead of sprawling across the sidewalk and possibly into the street, I was caught and tipped back up on my feet by this… person. He was standing by the door, looking preoccupied and anxious, and had been presumably before my misstep as well, because he went straight back to it after setting me upright.
But I think what struck me was despite all his obvious concern for whatever it was he was so worried about, he managed to toss me this sort of careless grin and a ‘No prob’, when I thanked him. It’s stupid, I know, but… it’s almost as if he’d taken that one moment aside, just for me, just to tell me it was alright, just to smile.
… Christ, I am such a woman.
But like I said. Meaningless. No reason to read anything else into that. Of course not.
… And the fact that he was there the next night and I happened to accidentally bump into him next to the bar (completely by accident, I swear-I didn’t even realise it was him at first)… and the fact that he gave me this apologetic smile so similar to the first, with all the sincerity and genuineness… Naturally, that’s meaningless, too. He seems the sort to smile like that at everyone. It’s just in his nature. It’s nothing… meaningful.
Nor was tonight.
Nor any other evening in the past month when I may or may not have seen him.
… Seven times, by the way.
Not that I’m counting.
--
There’s no more until a month later, but there are only three entries left before Arthur’s journal abruptly ends, and Alfred can’t fight the tightness in his chest… so he keeps reading.
--
Good God, am I smitten. Pity I don’t know his name.
(Pity it’s meaningless as well.)
--
There’s another entry another week later, and he devours it, absently noting how badly his hands are shaking.
--
I’ve realised that I haven’t properly described him yet. Young (barely 21, I’ll wager), tall, blondish, glasses. Sort of… athletic. Not so much American footballer as… hm. Baseball maybe? Less bulk, more tone. It’s hard to tell with all those offensive coloured lights in the club, but his eyes could be blue… ish. The glasses are nice on him, though. I wouldn’t mind seeing him without them, but they’re nice.
There. I managed to get through that with no cheesy sunshine-related metaphors.
--
The very last entry in the journal is another week later, date heartbreakingly familiar and just less than one year ago.
--
Heading out with Francis again in a moment. The insufferable bastard seems to have noticed my lack of reluctance in going to a certain club, and I wish he’d just taunt me about it openly rather than keep up all his quiet innuendo. I’m certain he hasn’t worked out exactly what’s been keeping me interested, but knowing him, it’s only a matter of time.
(It’s rather sad that part of me is hoping he will, just so he’ll feel the need to ‘encourage l’amour’ and find some way of getting the two of us together, because I’m not certain that just smiling back will get anything done for me.)
(Yes, that’s my brilliant plan, by the way. I’m going to smile.)
(Pathetic.)
And there’s the frog now. Expect more meaningless descriptions of meaningless, stupid American smiles from me later.
Oh, and speaking of… I can’t believe I didn’t mention this sooner-I heard someone, one of his friends, call him Alfred.
(I’m having trouble deciding whether or not it fits him.)
--
Alfred is not on the edge of his metaphorical precipice. In fact, he’s far from it.
He’s already falling.
=====
When Matthew finds him later, Alfred is at the street corner, one block away.
He’s sitting on the curb, head between his knees and Arthur’s journal on the pavement next to him. Matthew takes a wide path around, probably attempting to get a look at his face before he says anything, but Alfred saves him the trouble and lifts his head.
He’s pretty proud of how together he’s keeping it, and for a moment, Matthew appreciates it as well.
“Very nice, Al,” he says with a slight smile, then crouches down to face his twin. “Now quit trying so hard before you sprain something.”
Alfred mumbles something about too late and hopes Matthew will catch him when he gives up and falls over.
He probably will. He is Matthew, after all.
A/N: Firstly, so much love to everyone still reading and reviewing <333
Secondly, a friendly public service announcement for those who like to know when the end's coming: There will be three more parts to this fic, one last chapter and then two alternate epilogues. I hope everyone sticks around and enjoys them <3