[fanfic] Meant to Be 1
Fanfiction: Meant to Be
Author: 9mm_meg
Characters/Pairings: USUK, Canada, eventual others
Rating: M overall, T this chapter
Warnings: Language for now
Summary: Sequel to Let It Mean Something. Alfred's got the second chance he never dared to dream of, but no matter how in love he is, it doesn't change the fact that he might not actually know Arthur at all.
Disclaimer: Hetalia isn’t mine
A/N: Oh here we go…
This is a sequel to my old KM de-anon, Let It Mean Something. If you haven’t read it, you probably won’t really get this fic. It might be sad and angsty, but don’t worry-we’ve got this fic to make it better ^_^ (Also, it’s not very long.) Go read it and come back.
If you’ve read it, you’ll understand what I mean when I say this is a continuation of Epilogue 2. We’re going to assume Epilogue 1 didn’t happen for the purposes of this fic.
Also, I’m actually a really slow writer, which is why I like to have things mostly written before I start posting. Well… this isn’t mostly written, so please be patient with me.
“So… Matt.”
Alfred thinks of mirrors when his brother looks up at him with the same apprehensive expression he’s certain is on his own face, dark blond brows drawn together above his glasses, the slight curve of his mouth hinting at a frown.
He never uses Matt. Not unless it’s something serious, and the both of them know it.
Matthew says nothing; he only waits, drink in his hand paused halfway to his mouth, and Alfred instantly knows that he’s not going to be able to do this.
“… D-did you decide if you’re going back to Montreal next summer?” he asks instead, and seeing as he already knows what Matthew’s reply will be, since he’s already had this conversation once before, he spends the rest of it only vaguely listening, wondering if he’ll ever manage to tell his twin.
Or if he even should…
The club is loud and obnoxious as ever it was. There are plenty of familiar people, who are a bit more familiar now just because he’s spent most of his evenings the last week sitting in this same spot at the bar, scanning each of their faces and hoping that the next one through the door will be Arthur’s.
He knows his science fiction, so he’s already come to terms with the fact that things will not be the same this time around. It may have been brief, but the slightly extended encounter between them that first night was enough to alter this new reality or whatever it is, and after the devastating no-show, Alfred had spent Sunday night beating himself up for his ridiculous inability to keep his eyes in his head screwing this up for him.
(Of course, he’s certain that there’s no way in hell he could have responded in any other way than to gawk, so acceptance was the only logical reaction.)
He also knows his eighties movies, and a rather Marty McFly sort of thought had him rushing home after he was certain Arthur wouldn’t turn up that night, digging through the diary to check if the ‘future’ entries had been changed in any way. But the 25th of September’s recount remained the same, still detailing their first meeting the way it had happened the first time, still mentioning how they had run into each other the night after. He’d been a little disappointed, A) because it could have contained useful information for him, B) because the idea of seeing more of Arthur’s inner thought process made him giddy, and C) because he loves those movies, and-seriously-how cool would that have been?
But it’s been a week of unexpectedly early alarms, classes that he’d already doodled on his notebook through once before, vaguely remembered pickup games down at the park with his old baseball buddies, no Arthur damnit, and agonizing over whether or not he should even attempt to explain the situation to Matthew. Alfred likes to think that he’s matured a bit in the last four years, and he really has, but he’s never been that great at keeping secrets. His brother has already noticed the difference in him, giving him these slightly confused, appraising looks when he slips up and says something a little more rational than his 21-year-old self would have, and just laughing it off (Geez, Mattie-have a little faith in me, bro!) hasn’t seemed to alleviate his suspicion.
God-but it would be such a relief to sit his twin down and say, “By the way, I’m actually Future Me that died in a plane crash in 2015 and randomly wound up back here a week ago. Incidentally, I would recommend not dating that Natalia chick you’ve got the hots for.” He’d brought Matthew with him to the club yesterday to try and tell him (he still had to watch for Arthur, Life-Changing Conversation to be had or not), but once Matthew had started talking about Oh Canada, his home and native land or whatever, he’d temporarily given it up as a lost cause. He still thinks that, someday, he’s just going to blurt it out, or slip up so badly that Matthew can’t help but notice that he’s not the same person anymore, and then he’ll just have to wait and see if his brother thinks he’s completely lost his mind, or if he believes him.
“G and T, please.”
Alfred’s heart stops when the space between his stool and the next is suddenly occupied, then starts back up a million times faster when he follows the bartender’s confused look to the man next to him, who rolls his (OhMaryMotherofGod gorgeous) green eyes and mutters Americans under his breath.
“Gin and tonic?” he tries again, and this time, the bartender rolls his own eyes and starts on the drink.
It takes longer than it should for Alfred to remember that staring is not the proper course of action, but thankfully not long enough for Arthur to notice that he’s doing it again. He looks back down into his glass of scotch, gives himself a quick mental pep talk (he probably already likes you, you can be charming, don’t overdo it, don’t tell him he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, don’t tell him his accent is sexy, don’t fuck this up!), takes a deep breath, and turns back-
Aaaand he’s gone.
“Shit!”
Alfred snatches his glass off the bar and slides off his stool with as much grace as a ten-ton truck, trying to hurry after the head of scruffy blond hair easily slipping-and now disappearing-through the crowd. But the wall of bodies closes behind him, and Alfred pauses, realizing that he had no idea what he would have said if he’d caught the man anyway. He leans back on the stool, steadying himself, and tries to calm his breathing. Arthur’s a drinker, right? He’ll be back to the bar. Right?
Right.
Somewhere between recounting the next four World Series to the exasperated bartender and telling his neighbor that he always knew those stupid Mayans would be laughing their asses off somewhere in Mexico on December 22, 2012, when the world poked its head out of bunkers and bars and churches and muttered a collective, We’ve got to clean this mess up now, don’t we, Alfred realizes that, despite the fact that his alcohol tolerance is impressive in 2015, it’s now 2010, and his younger body has only been beer-ponging and sipping umbrella-bearing drinks with more fruit juice than rum in them for a few months now. That, and there’s a nearly empty bottle of scotch in his hand that he’s using to gesture at his less than captive audience, and why hasn’t Arthur come back already?!
“Thah guy,” he says, pointing when he sees Arthur and the infamous trio making their own clumsy way out the door. “Killed ‘im once… Stupid. But I love ‘im, yaknow? Izzokay now. I can fixit.”
The bartender gives him a look, but it’s really two looks, because there’s two of him, and Alfred sets the bottle down sideways on the bar with a splash.
“I’m drunk,” he says solemnly, then, “I’ma call my brother now,” and falls off his stool.
“So… Al.”
Alfred grunts into the vinyl tabletop, turns his head sideways, and blearily looks up at Matthew, who might be smirking at him, but he can’t tell with the sunlight coming in through the window painfully bright behind him.
“Who’s Arthur?”
“Ugh,” Alfred says, then lets his forehead hit the table again with a thunk.
Author: 9mm_meg
Characters/Pairings: USUK, Canada, eventual others
Rating: M overall, T this chapter
Warnings: Language for now
Summary: Sequel to Let It Mean Something. Alfred's got the second chance he never dared to dream of, but no matter how in love he is, it doesn't change the fact that he might not actually know Arthur at all.
Disclaimer: Hetalia isn’t mine
A/N: Oh here we go…
This is a sequel to my old KM de-anon, Let It Mean Something. If you haven’t read it, you probably won’t really get this fic. It might be sad and angsty, but don’t worry-we’ve got this fic to make it better ^_^ (Also, it’s not very long.) Go read it and come back.
If you’ve read it, you’ll understand what I mean when I say this is a continuation of Epilogue 2. We’re going to assume Epilogue 1 didn’t happen for the purposes of this fic.
Also, I’m actually a really slow writer, which is why I like to have things mostly written before I start posting. Well… this isn’t mostly written, so please be patient with me.
“So… Matt.”
Alfred thinks of mirrors when his brother looks up at him with the same apprehensive expression he’s certain is on his own face, dark blond brows drawn together above his glasses, the slight curve of his mouth hinting at a frown.
He never uses Matt. Not unless it’s something serious, and the both of them know it.
Matthew says nothing; he only waits, drink in his hand paused halfway to his mouth, and Alfred instantly knows that he’s not going to be able to do this.
“… D-did you decide if you’re going back to Montreal next summer?” he asks instead, and seeing as he already knows what Matthew’s reply will be, since he’s already had this conversation once before, he spends the rest of it only vaguely listening, wondering if he’ll ever manage to tell his twin.
Or if he even should…
The club is loud and obnoxious as ever it was. There are plenty of familiar people, who are a bit more familiar now just because he’s spent most of his evenings the last week sitting in this same spot at the bar, scanning each of their faces and hoping that the next one through the door will be Arthur’s.
He knows his science fiction, so he’s already come to terms with the fact that things will not be the same this time around. It may have been brief, but the slightly extended encounter between them that first night was enough to alter this new reality or whatever it is, and after the devastating no-show, Alfred had spent Sunday night beating himself up for his ridiculous inability to keep his eyes in his head screwing this up for him.
(Of course, he’s certain that there’s no way in hell he could have responded in any other way than to gawk, so acceptance was the only logical reaction.)
He also knows his eighties movies, and a rather Marty McFly sort of thought had him rushing home after he was certain Arthur wouldn’t turn up that night, digging through the diary to check if the ‘future’ entries had been changed in any way. But the 25th of September’s recount remained the same, still detailing their first meeting the way it had happened the first time, still mentioning how they had run into each other the night after. He’d been a little disappointed, A) because it could have contained useful information for him, B) because the idea of seeing more of Arthur’s inner thought process made him giddy, and C) because he loves those movies, and-seriously-how cool would that have been?
But it’s been a week of unexpectedly early alarms, classes that he’d already doodled on his notebook through once before, vaguely remembered pickup games down at the park with his old baseball buddies, no Arthur damnit, and agonizing over whether or not he should even attempt to explain the situation to Matthew. Alfred likes to think that he’s matured a bit in the last four years, and he really has, but he’s never been that great at keeping secrets. His brother has already noticed the difference in him, giving him these slightly confused, appraising looks when he slips up and says something a little more rational than his 21-year-old self would have, and just laughing it off (Geez, Mattie-have a little faith in me, bro!) hasn’t seemed to alleviate his suspicion.
God-but it would be such a relief to sit his twin down and say, “By the way, I’m actually Future Me that died in a plane crash in 2015 and randomly wound up back here a week ago. Incidentally, I would recommend not dating that Natalia chick you’ve got the hots for.” He’d brought Matthew with him to the club yesterday to try and tell him (he still had to watch for Arthur, Life-Changing Conversation to be had or not), but once Matthew had started talking about Oh Canada, his home and native land or whatever, he’d temporarily given it up as a lost cause. He still thinks that, someday, he’s just going to blurt it out, or slip up so badly that Matthew can’t help but notice that he’s not the same person anymore, and then he’ll just have to wait and see if his brother thinks he’s completely lost his mind, or if he believes him.
“G and T, please.”
Alfred’s heart stops when the space between his stool and the next is suddenly occupied, then starts back up a million times faster when he follows the bartender’s confused look to the man next to him, who rolls his (OhMaryMotherofGod gorgeous) green eyes and mutters Americans under his breath.
“Gin and tonic?” he tries again, and this time, the bartender rolls his own eyes and starts on the drink.
It takes longer than it should for Alfred to remember that staring is not the proper course of action, but thankfully not long enough for Arthur to notice that he’s doing it again. He looks back down into his glass of scotch, gives himself a quick mental pep talk (he probably already likes you, you can be charming, don’t overdo it, don’t tell him he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, don’t tell him his accent is sexy, don’t fuck this up!), takes a deep breath, and turns back-
Aaaand he’s gone.
“Shit!”
Alfred snatches his glass off the bar and slides off his stool with as much grace as a ten-ton truck, trying to hurry after the head of scruffy blond hair easily slipping-and now disappearing-through the crowd. But the wall of bodies closes behind him, and Alfred pauses, realizing that he had no idea what he would have said if he’d caught the man anyway. He leans back on the stool, steadying himself, and tries to calm his breathing. Arthur’s a drinker, right? He’ll be back to the bar. Right?
Right.
Somewhere between recounting the next four World Series to the exasperated bartender and telling his neighbor that he always knew those stupid Mayans would be laughing their asses off somewhere in Mexico on December 22, 2012, when the world poked its head out of bunkers and bars and churches and muttered a collective, We’ve got to clean this mess up now, don’t we, Alfred realizes that, despite the fact that his alcohol tolerance is impressive in 2015, it’s now 2010, and his younger body has only been beer-ponging and sipping umbrella-bearing drinks with more fruit juice than rum in them for a few months now. That, and there’s a nearly empty bottle of scotch in his hand that he’s using to gesture at his less than captive audience, and why hasn’t Arthur come back already?!
“Thah guy,” he says, pointing when he sees Arthur and the infamous trio making their own clumsy way out the door. “Killed ‘im once… Stupid. But I love ‘im, yaknow? Izzokay now. I can fixit.”
The bartender gives him a look, but it’s really two looks, because there’s two of him, and Alfred sets the bottle down sideways on the bar with a splash.
“I’m drunk,” he says solemnly, then, “I’ma call my brother now,” and falls off his stool.
“So… Al.”
Alfred grunts into the vinyl tabletop, turns his head sideways, and blearily looks up at Matthew, who might be smirking at him, but he can’t tell with the sunlight coming in through the window painfully bright behind him.
“Who’s Arthur?”
“Ugh,” Alfred says, then lets his forehead hit the table again with a thunk.