Ignorance, My Bliss [39-47/47] Now complete!
Please pardon any errors and enjoy the conclusion! :) A bit of tease, and the rest is behind the cut.
Already
over
Alfred struggled to keep his head remotely level, mind seeming to slosh violently as he shifted slightly, lip quivering as pain prickled down his spine. Thoughts seemed leak from his ears before he could grasp them, the flames beneath his skin burning white hot; for a moment, air seemed to escape him, forgetting to breathe.
Unemployment foreclosure pain pain go away hate this hate this economy blame guilt blame prices go up down all around failing falling hot hot it’s so hot
Arthur had yet to respond, eyes still glowing incandescent green and a smirk placed neatly upon his features. Suddenly, he stood, straightening his cuffs (still smiling, always smiling) and brushing invisible dust from his vest. He circled Alfred’s chair, the latter taking uneven, shuddering breaths as he tried to fumble through the haze, gaze disoriented and glassy. The elder trailed a finger along the blonde’s back, moving agonizingly slow, a soft, happy hum wafting through the silence.
“Poppet, my poppet, dressed in red and black/
Poppet, pretty poppet, never going back.”
Semi-spoken words that haunted the room, slowing the heartbeat like winter’s cold; those hands were on his neck, hair, shoulders, Arthur, sing me another-
“Doll, my pretty doll, hear ye toll the bell? /
Doll, my precious doll, none will hear ye yell.”
Alfred retched.
He had tried to lean to the side, painfully vomiting what little he had left in his stomach onto the floor; diluted, pinkish bile drooled down his chin, messing his already soiled, dirty shirt. Coughing, throat burning with acid, he tried to focus blurry eyes, vaguely realizing his arms were bound to the chair he was slumped in. He weakly tested the restraints.
Feet too.
Arthur tutted, clicking his tongue.
“Poor baby,” he cooed, wiping remnants of vomit from the younger’s mouth with the now sickly saturated shirt, fingers lingering along lips one moment too long. Alfred merely moaned in response, turning away from the touches as he tried to work tongue, words not coming as easily as the bile.
“M-mattie-” he somehow rasped out, the world slowly coming into focus, “Where’s Mattie?”
“Who?”
More than one laughed in response, sounds too loud in Alfred’s ears, echoing deep into his mind. A snarled sort of growl vibrated through his teeth, murky azure eyes narrowing as he flexed and clenched his fingers. He started when a hand painfully yanked his head back, rewarding him with a smirking countenance.
“Frère Matthieu, Frère Matthieu,” Francis began to purr in his sensual drawl, murmuring kisses along Alfred’s jaw, smiling lips taunting, teasing, “dormez vous? Dormez vous?”
“Morning Bells are ringing!” Arthur chimed in, laughter permeating his tone, weaving in and out of view as he continued to languidly circle the chair, “Morning Bells are ringing!” He stopped where Alfred could see him, extending his pointer fingers, wagging them side-to side in perfect time with his words; his expression was bordering cruel.
“Ding.”
Tick.
“Ding.”
Tock.
“Dong.”
Tick.
Alfred could almost hear the clock carefully reminding him of his position, seconds, minutes evaporating before his eyes, time deliberately wasting away-
The Briton was pulling up another chair now, spinning it around effortlessly and sitting, resting his arms along the back, legs straddling the wooden seat. The smile quirking his lips was genuine, despite being twisted with arrogance (though those eyes-they were wrong, wrong wrong); he looked disturbingly causal, as if he and the younger were having a friendly chat, a heart-to-heart.
(So much blood in that heart-)
“Well, let’s just forget about nursery rhymes and other such silly nonsense, hm?” Arthur queried, tilting his head slightly, Alfred mentally screaming all the while (where’s Mattie? why won’t you tell me? what have you done-), “I want to talk about you.”
“No, no, M-Mattie-”
“You see, poppet, I and few others have come to a decision,” emerald irises twinkled, ignoring the American’s whispered pleas as he gestured to the other countries around him, “We think that-hey now, eyes forward, this is important: there we go, that’s the ticket, much better-”
“We’ve come to collect, aru.”
Alfred wearily swiveled his gaze in the direction of the voice, taking in the stoic Asian. Brushing raven hair over his shoulder, the latter carefully approached, taking the other’s chin into slim, cold fingers; brown eyes were blank, empty, dark in their expansiveness.
“You will pay me what you owe, aru,” Yao continued, his tone not questioning, not asking, but commanding, “Because part of you belongs to me.”
And Alfred knew because he had always known, the Chinese characters that burned into his skin as more of the debt was sent overseas, the taste of spices and Mandarin on his tongue, the feeling of being bought and traded, those cool hands all over his body-
And they’ll tear you down, build you up, and throw you away, because you are nothing to them-
“I was getting there, China,” Arthur partially growled, lip curling in anger, “Have a little tact.” The addressed man visibly bristled, gripping Alfred’s chin even tighter, almost roughly.
“You are in no position to lecture me, England,” Yao responded quietly, venom bubbling beneath his silken tone, “I grow tired of waiting, aru. I want my share.”
“Is that was this is about?”
The other countries looked to Alfred, down to him, down at him with lofty stares.
“The debt? The war? What is it now?” the bespectacled blond questioned, a waning strength present in his voice, a last chance effort at anger, rebellion, “I’m never good enough for you, am I? I’m never goddamn good enough!” No one moved from him, China’s fingers still claiming his chin, Arthur’s smile never waning-Alfred continued. “I gave you my all, my everything, every single thing, but still-always, always-you wanted more!” He was furious now, the heat of his anger matching that of the fever devouring his skin, “I have nothing left to give!”
“Wrong.”
He looked over Yao’s shoulder, catching Japan’s similarly dark gaze; the soft-spoken country stepped forward, arms limp at his sides, eyes faraway. He ran a hand through Alfred’s hair, pale white through spun-gold; he didn’t smile.
“You still have one thing left to give,” he said in a muted murmur, fanning the blond strands between his fingers, pausing as he watched them fall back into place. The American swallowed hard; he was trembling again, hands already shaking despite the lack of blood flow.
“Kiku,” Alfred nearly whispered, barely breathing, “please.”
The other almost seemed to consider the words, but he soon looked away, hand now clenched into the sun-colored locks.
“I’m sorry, America-san,” he finally said, eyes averted, “but I won’t let the chance pass me by again.” He pressed a chaste kiss to the younger’s temple, a twisted apology.
“Banzai.”
It was then that Alfred really started to struggle.
“You can’t do this!” he nearly shrieked, thrashing as violently as he could, pulling desperately at the ropes that bound him, “Please, for god’s sake, don’t do this to m-me!” Arthur’s smile widened as he stood, looking down at the other; he moved his mouth just inches away from Alfred’s, so close that the latter could feel the warm breath against his lips.
“A-Arthur,” Alfred said, his voice choked and wrenched with sorrow, “please, please-we can work this out. I-I’ll give you anything, each of you, just-just, for the love of god, please-don’t do this…”
He trailed off, the Briton’s lips so close they could touch; his eyes instinctively hooded, still delirious with terror, and his entire frame was quivering with anticipation, pain, fear-
“Do you want to kiss me, Alfred?” Arthur whispered gently, the other countries silent as they watched in amusement.
“I-I…”
Arthur laughed, sending shivers skittering down the other’s spine, tremors multiplying.
“You are such a child.”
Alfred felt the beginnings of tears in his eyes, warmth quickly gathering.
“I thought you l-loved me.”
why why why
“нет,” a familiar voice purred in Russian, holding one of his hands that he didn’t realized had been freed, “he loves Empire.”
And the blade pressed into his wrist.
=~=~=~=
Ukraine had been crying for a while now.
She had buried her head into her knees, still-bound hands and feet aching from the ropes, and sobbed, tears soaking into her now grimy pants.
It was her fault.
It was all her fault.
She had considered that Ivan might come to look for her (since she had left the Conference early to do other necessary things at home), but when she had seen the two American twins on her doorstep, snow swirling in the background, she couldn’t have turned them away.
Then why didn’t she send them somewhere safer afterwards, one might question; why didn’t she tell them about her fear of discovery?
That answer was what made her cry the most.
It was because she had wanted to spend more time with Matthew; dear, gentle Мэтью, with his shy violet eyes and calm smiles. In a way, he reminded her of her brother before he started to go mad, the quiet happiness that used to radiate from Ivan in waves.
Браt…
It was all her fault.
“-ve, and then Germany told me that I couldn’t run through Switzerland’s yard without pants on anymore, and then he got all flustered when he realized I still wasn’t wearing any. Germany is so funny~!” Italy had been prattling nonsense for a while now, trying to fill the silence that weighed heavily upon the room. She wasn’t sure whether he was doing it for them or himself-it was pointless, regardless.
Matthew had yet to say anything at all. When he had woken, still groggy and disoriented, he had looked around, catching Feliciano’s eye (who had waved happily in response). At first he jolted upon realization of the situation, furiously struggling at the bonds. Then, suddenly, as if an epiphany had graced him, he had just-
Stopped.
He was still leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, seemingly ignoring everything around him. She wanted to talk to him, to reassure him that everything would be okay, but every time she tried the words would get stuck in her throat, clinging like paste. She returned her head to her lap, renewed tears in her eyes-she was such a weakling.
The echo of a shriek resounded through the tiny room.
Ukraine bolted upright, warmth now streaking down her face; it-it couldn’t have been-?
“It sounds like everyone’s getting along,” Feliciano nearly giggled, running his fingertips up and down up and down the barrel of his gun, “I’m kinda sad I’m not there too…But I wouldn’t want to leave you guys alone! That would’ve been so rude, si?”
“Italy,” Ukraine finally ventured sobbing, tears quickly leaking from her eyes, “you can’t do this; you have to let us out-please, please, he’s just a child-” The other merely smiled brightly, hand pausing in its routine.
“Ve, sorry Big Sis,” why did the endearment sound so sweet coming from those lying lips? “but I can’t let you out. Alfred was a naughty boy for running away-he needs a time out.” He giggled again. “He’s been a bad boy for lying.”
Ukraine looked upon Feliciano in horror, throat choked with emotion-what could they do now? Oh, Alfred-
“You’ll let us out.”
Both she and Italy looked over at Matthew in shock, though his was better concealed then hers. The Canadian’s eyes were still closed, as if he were in deep thought, contemplating the world. Feliciano tapped his gun against the wall, the tink tink loudly echoing in the air.
“What a silly thing to say!” he playfully chided, amber eyes rich with laughter, though something lurked beneath the surface, “Now why would I ever do something like that?”
Matthew opened his eyes, gaze leveled straight at Italy.
His eyes were like stone.
=~=~=~=
H-help me-
It hurts-it hurts so much-
the blood was slipping away, draining, veining down his hand and fingers
Mattie-
Someone
Anyone-
=~=~=~=
“Oh, really?”
Laughter.
Ukraine couldn’t breathe.
=~=~=~=
Drip.
“What the bloody fuck are you doing?” Arthur roared, pushing Ivan back and knocking the knife away, eyes smoldering, “His blood does us no good if he dead! Cutting at his wrists-Jesus Christ!” Ah, so that’s why, Alfred thought detachedly, blankly watching his blood fall to the ground in morbid little drops, I have to be alive-
But was it worth living like that?
Ivan licked at some of the red staining Alfred’s arm, tending to it gently with his tongue. “So uptight,” the Russian hummed in-between tastes, smiling darkly, “This will not kill him- Да, you will be just fine, America.”
Alfred didn’t say anything.
“You are being foolish, Russia,” China nearly hissed, gripping the side of the chair with white-knuckles, “That is why we bind-to keep the host from dying!” He took a moment to sneer down at the blonde, lip curling across smooth features, “Though Death would be too easy for him.”
I don’t deserve even that-?
Russia grinned; his teeth were slick with blood. “No, Yao-the world just looks beautiful in red.”
“Alright,” Arthur interjected, trying to intervene before a fight broke out, seeing the way China’s shoulders seized with tension, “enough-we need to finish this.” He turned back to Francis, whose eyes were half-veiled with a sick bemusement, watching the scene play out before him. “Francis-now.” France nodded in assent, pushing himself off the wall, drawing a vial from his pocket.
“Now listen to me, poppet,” Arthur said to Alfred, tilting the other’s head up so their eyes would meet, “there are two ways we can do this: the easy way, or the not easy way. Now, how’s it going to be, hmm?”
Alfred regarded the other with a cloudy gaze, filmed with tears and fever; he opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come, flickering into muted, whimpering sounds.
“Poppet,” the Briton stressed, tone inflected with annoyance-his hold tightened, “I’m waiting.” Alfred’s lip quivered, eyes slipping closed in exhaustion.
“M-Mattie-”
He barely felt the slap.
“For fuck’s sake, I’m sick of hearing your blubbering!” Arthur ground out, watching a red lash blossom on the younger’s cheek, his own hand tingling with adrenaline and rage, “Ever since you woke up, it’s been all about-”
He faltered.
All about-
“Kirkland-san?” Kiku questioned, obviously confused, “Is there something the matter?”
Arthur didn’t answer, his jaw falling slack, eyes widening slowly, in realization-suddenly, he wrenched Alfred’s head upward roughly, trying to pry his eyes open.
“Look at me,” Arthur blurted out, ignoring the other’s weak struggles and shakings, “I said look at me, you stupid whore!” Finally managing to pull the lids back, he stared deep into Alfred’s eye, gaze viciously intense.
All about-
He found what he was looking for.
“No…” he whispered, disbelieving.
“I think that’s quite enough.”
Heads swiveled to the door in surprise, brows jumping upwards when they found Canada of all people leaning against the doorframe, expression blank, posture relaxed.
Russia’s knife was held loosely in his pale grip.
“Matthieu?” Francis exhaled almost mutely, incredulous, “How-how did you-?” As if to answer this, Feliciano popped from behind the other, smiling and waving the gun in his hand cheerfully, like it was some sort of new toy.
“Italy,” Arthur said quietly, voice flat with a deceptive calm, eyes glinting sickeningly green, “What is the meaning of this?” Feliciano smiled, gentle, sweet, amber irises incandescent like melted honey.
“Ve, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
Matthew was in front of Alfred now, the other countries having slowly backed away from the Canadian, made wary by the look in his eyes, the strength burning there. He looked down at the other, face wiped clean of emotion, as if seeing really seeing his brother for the first time.
“Alfred.”
Alfred wearily looked upwards, a hesitant, fracturing smile trembling on his lips-glassy eyes shone with hope, forehead matted with sweat and heat. “Mattie-you-you came for me.” Words spoken with exhaustion, near delusion, because he had nothing left to give-
But he did, really-
Matthew shyly smiled back (oh Mattie, I can always trust your smiles-). “Of course, Alfred.”
He just wasn’t trying hard enough.
That’s why when Matthew took the knife (still smiling), took it and ran the edge along the inside of his hand-blood bubbling from the cut like a spring, life bursting from it’s bonds-Alfred didn’t understand.
That was, until his stomach wrenched with pain.
He screamed in agony, the sound ripping itself from his mouth, immediately filling the silent room-it felt like his insides were being torn out, like acid had been poured down his throat, settling and burning through his body. His thrashing was reminiscent of a seizure, wracking, violent movements that accompanied pained moans and cries. Tears ran in rivulets down his cheeks and he screamed again, another wave of fire slashing through his insides, the heat so intense all he could see was the darkness, and he begged for the light to call him, for this to end.
“Alfred,” he heard from behind the haze, “Alfred.”
He opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and looking at his brother, panting, limbs twitching from pinpricks of poison that pushed past his flesh, digging deep inside.
Matthew was still smiling.
He pressed his hand to Alfred’s mouth, tilting it just so the blood trickled through those partially parted lips, dyeing them scarlet, because the other couldn’t refuse (and never would again, never, never-).
And so Alfred drank.
It was a warmth that cooled; it was more than water, quenching a thirst he didn’t even know he had, spreading through his body rapidly, drenching the flames, leaving him merely burned, charred. The pulsing was slowly fading, the heat of the fever dissipating, leaving him with the sickly sweat upon his brow, the small bead of garnet clinging to one corner of his mouth, the tears that continued unheeded, eyes wide and incredulous, hope shattered.
“Ma-Mattie-” he choked out, a sob catching in his throat, “I-why-” The other leaned close, nearly kneeling in his lap as he traced Alfred’s ear with warm vibrations, breathy words.
“Did you like the soup, Alfred?”
why why why
And then there were lips pressed against his, hot, full, and he found himself kissing back, exhaustion tugging at his consciousness, the salty streaks marring his skin. Matthew licked away the tiny drop of blood clinging to Alfred’s lip, pressing their cheeks together.
“Now you know how it feels, dearest Alfred,” he whispered, running his hands through the other’s hair, clenching, pulling at the liquid-sun strands, “to be betrayed.”
It was already over.
=~=~=~=
It was a particularly cold day, she noted with a not-interest, a blank, accepting sort of acknowledgment-she supposed that’s why there were so many people today. She stirred the large pot with the wooden spoon she had been provided, turning the potatoes, meat and broth several times before ladling it into a few of countless bowls, which she set on a cold metal tray.
“Ms. Fran,” she called over her shoulder, setting the spoon aside, “can you keep filling bowls? I’m going to take these out-they look particularly bad today, and I don’t want to make them wait.” The old woman came up to her (slowly of course, her knees got really bad in the winter), giving her a gentle touch on the shoulder.
“Of course, Eli, dear,” she said, taking up the ladle herself, “you go on now. Those people are right hungry.” Eli gave a quick nod (such a good, obedient girl, Ms. Fran couldn’t help but think), balancing the tray on a semi-steady hand as she backed out of the kitchen, casting a look around the large cafeteria.
The shelter was full today, packed with the poor and homeless trying to escape the winter’s cold (honestly, she swore, the temperature dipped lower every year: was it the air from the North?)-there were even more than years previous, and she attributed this to the unification which had been a few months back. It had hit a lot of people really hard for some reason, and the loss of their identity (‘we’re not United Americans, we’re just Americans!’) had some people just-giving up.
But she didn’t have time for that right now, she mentally stressed, placing a bowl of the soup in front of a particularly hungry looking child, she had work to do. Giving out all but one bowl, she moved to return to the kitchen when a man in the corner caught her eye.
His hood was pulled up, but several gold strands tumbled across his forehead anyway, the locks a little messy, a little too long for his face. His glasses were cracked over glazed azure eyes, the one lens giving the man a strange, almost crazed air. He was wearing a horribly ratty leather jacket that was much too big for him, pilling gloves looking like they were about to disintegrate on his fingers. He looked no different from the rest- perhaps a little worse-but otherwise the same: down-trodden, sad, broken. She found herself drawn to him, however, and soon she was placing her last bowl of soup in front of him, saying with a quiet murmur, “Here, sir-please eat.”
He looked at her, and for a moment, she thought she might have (at one time) been able to drown in those blue eyes (like two oceans that touched a continent, like lakes in the north, like the blue on the old flag-), but not anymore. There were shallow now, empty, riddled with red cracks, bloodshot. He tried to smile at her.
Ah, she thought a little sadly, an addict.
“A-ah, thank you kindly, darlin,’” he said, voice raspy and muted (and he was so thin-could she bring him another bowl, she wondered?). Suddenly, his eyes widened a little, and he reached out a hand, weakly, limp. “Now, there’s no need for tears, sweetheart.”
That’s when she realized she was crying.
“O-oh, m-my, e-excuse me, I-I don’t know-” they kept coming, and she couldn’t understand why, why she was crying over this man when he was supposed to be like all the others, “I’m sorry-sorry-” He gently pulled her down onto the bench, pulling off one of the gloves and wiping away a few of her tears with a calloused thumb.
“Wouldn’t want to get any dirt on that pretty face of yours,” he added with a tiny grin. She hiccupped, for some reason not bothered at all by his intimacy.
“I feel like-I know you,” she choked out, “You-shouldn’t be like t-this, this-this is wrong.” She wiped the new tears on her shirtsleeve, drinking in the comfort the man seemed to offer her, “I’m sorry-I’m sorry-I l-love you-” She was a little shocked at her words, pressing several fingers to her lips in surprise; but she didn’t regret them, they weren’t wrong like his thinness, like his sad, empty eyes. He ruffled her chocolate hair, managing the broken smile for her again.
“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he offered softly, “But please don’t cry Eli, okay?” She looked at him (really looked at him) and her green eyes widened, face blotched red from crying.
“How-how do you know my name?”
He merely smiled again.
“Lucky guess,” he said, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek, and then, he was gone; the hot soup on the table was untouched, vapors curling into the air like breathy smoke.
And when those men came from the government came into the shelter, searching, asking if she’d seen a young blonde man (who probably looked sickly, a ratty coat, y’know, that type of person), she made sure to tell them ‘no.’
“Are you sure, cher?” the taller of the two said, tone of lilting sugar purring across his lips as he winked at her, “He would certainly be hard to miss-very memorable eyes, you know.”
“I already said no,” she replied tartly, and she didn’t really give a flying damn if they were from the government, “Why are you looking for him anyway?”
“He’s a high-ranking official for the executive branch,” the one with the emerald eyes and heavy brows ground out, obviously angry, but at what she wasn’t sure, “he’s being charged with treason and abandonment of duty.” She nodded, trying to show only a vague interest.
“I see-if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have people to feed.” As she spun on her heel, a tight grip caught her wrist; she froze, refusing to look back.
“Let go of me.”
“You’re lying,” eyebrows said, hold so hard she almost felt the bones shifting, “You practically reek of him, you stupid girl.” She felt gloved fingers splay across her cheek, the man moving closer, “Do you think you’re special because he kissed you?”
She felt something inside her crack.
“I said don’t fucking touch me!” she screamed, wrenching her hand away, cheeks flushed with anger, the urge to rebel pulsing through her veins, fingers trembling, breathing labored.
The two men grinned sickly at each other, as if they’d won some sort of game.
‘Obstruction of Justice,’ they’d called it, ‘treason:’ that was why she was sitting in the little white room staring at the metal table, wrists still sore from the handcuffs. Strangely, however, she wasn’t sorry, wasn’t ashamed of her situation-it felt like she had done something real, something truly important.
“Ms. Fian,” she heard a voice say, and when she looked up, she realized there was a person sitting across from her, flanked by two guards, “I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
She didn’t say anything-one of the guards (an auburn, handsome man with glinting amber eyes) giggled softly.
“Now, Eli-may I call you Eli?-finding this man is very important to security of the country, for the safety of all United Americans; he’s a traitor, a betrayer-he abandoned his brother, his obligations, his duties to the people. Debts must be repaid, after all.”
She looked a the man seated across from her-shy violet eyes behind neatly shined glasses, shoulder-length golden locks, a single fly-away strand of hair-she didn’t like him.
“He owes you nothing.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, he doesn’t owe you a goddamn thing,” she repeated quietly, a smile fighting its way across her lips, winning, though she couldn’t figure out why. She started to laugh.
“I hope you never find him-” she said to the man she had no reason to hate, “I hope you rot in hell.”
And when the other muscular, blond guard restrained her, pressing a chemical soaked cloth over her mouth, she smiled, still laughing:
She had never felt freer.
=~=~=~=
“Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light/
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?”
The swing swung back and forth; he could get in trouble for singing that, he considered, but he really didn’t care.
Eli Fian.
Nineteen. Brown hair. Green eyes. Shy with strangers. Aspirations of illustrating children’s books. Does community service on the weekends.
He could feel her dying.
“O’er the ramparts we watched-”
For him.
“-were so gallantly streaming.”
With him.
He felt his stomach contract sharply in pain and curled into himself, breath coming in short pants; they’d find him soon, he thought detachedly, willing the horrible sensations away, fingers clenched into his skin.
And he was so hungry.
He stood on shaky feet, stumbling away from the swing, arms cradled around his waist; he wanted to cry, but he’d run out of tears a long time ago (year seven? year eight?), so it really didn’t matter.
But could he cry for her, a child like him (of him)?
“And the rocket's red glare,” he whispered to no one, pressing his back against a brick wall, sliding down, “the bombs bursting in air-”
He could barely feel her anymore, life flickering like a meek flame.
“Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.”
He had enough power that it would take them countless years to drain it all, to rid him of every last drop of America-Alfred felt like vomiting.
But perhaps there was hope, yet?
“Right, Eli?”
Only the wind answered.
/End
Pages: 72
Characters: 138,289
And that, dearest readers, is the end. :) I know, I know, I have some explaining to do.
Firstly, I’m sorry this is as late as it is (nearly a month? Time really flies~), but I wanted to make sure that you, the reader-anons, got the powerful ending you deserved, and, therefore, I took the extra time to craft it (nearly 20 pages on a Word Doc-oh my!).
Secondly, I’m surprised that only a couple of you singled out Matthew; perhaps it was only so obvious to me? XD However, to make Alfred his own was the intent from the beginning-just look at his shifty, avoiding-the-real-question dialogue throughout the story: Such a sneaky villain! And remember, some of you asked for it (careful what you wish for~)! X3
Also, the end: as someone who is true to the very last letter, I took the prompt very literally. It called for angst and betrayal, so that’s what I did-however, I couldn’t help but sneak a little extra hope in there; not from the countries that seem to have abandoned him, but from his people who still love and cherish him-because they don’t hate him for being who he is, for being America. And regarding the time-skip-I honestly felt I could go on FOREVER about Canada and America’s interaction, and the aftermath (and maybe one day I’ll go back and write a companion piece?) but it needed an ending. However, I’m still very interested in what happens after this point-I can’t help but wonder if you are to. :)
Lastly, thank you, so, SO much for all of your comments-this year has been rougher on me than one has in quite awhile, and having your positive feedback was lovely and encouraging. This only being my third FanFic, I’m still really shy and self-conscious about my writing, but you all made me feel absolutely wonderful about my work-this story is great because of you~ <3
If anyone has any questions, feel free to post them below (or if you’d just like to comment, that’s okay too!), and I hope you’ve enjoyed our little journey. :3
Till’ next time~ :D