Ignorance, My Bliss [1-4/?]
Prompt:
I want the nations to have some sort of secret (no, it has to be something other than the fact that they're nations). All of the nations know about this secret, but its never mentioned (at least not in public or in the meetings), merely mutally understood.
That is, all but one nation.
Writer-Anons, I want dark and painful; I want angst and betrayel. I want this secret to tear apart the only nation who doesn't know.
Please pardon any errors and enjoy! :)
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He didn’t know what they did.
Honestly, did he think he was the only one?
It was rather surprising, actually, that he was so ignorant, despite his rather flighty façade. His unmatched arrogance only aided this ignorance; so caught up was he in his own affairs, his ever expanding, overactive imagination, he seemed oblivious to the problem he was trying to solve.
Stupid, daft git.
Arthur rolled the liquid in his wine glass, the deep scarlet licking along the curved crystal like frothy waves upon the shore. He took a miniscule sip, massaging the beads across his tongue to best savor the taste. It was strong, heady, nearly accosting the senses with the powerful flavor. His features twisted briefly before managing to swallow, looking down into the glass as he gave it another flick of the wrist.
Too bitter; nothing like the creamy sweetness of afternoon tea, the garnet substance possessing a warmth that sent ice through his veins.
The fire cast downy shadows about the darkened room, flickering light trapped in his emerald eyes, hard and steeled as he observed his glass.
How could the other not know?
Given, it was a secret that was kept from their leaders and from their people, but all of the nations knew, because they had to know; it was simply impossible to be part of the secret and not know of its existence.
And that’s when it came to him, the realization that hastened the wheels of fate like the addition of grimy, greasy oil-
The other didn’t know about the secret because he wasn’t part of it.
The glass shattered in Arthur’s hand, shards of smooth crystal scattering to the floor and digging into his palm, liquid veining down his arm in thick trails. He heard laughter from behind him, confident, sick chuckles that bubbled from deep in the chest and poured from the mouth like saccharine venom.
“You son of a bitch,” Arthur growled, tone vibrating with rigid, furious anger, “You knew; you fucking bastard, you knew-!”
A hand slid down by his neck, cool fingers tracing dexterous shapes as the other encased his wrist, admiring the arm soiled with red.
“Language, L'Angleterre,” a lilting tone supplied, voice rich just like the fabrics that clothed his slender form, “You will get nowhere speaking that way.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, you fucking French frog?” Arthur whispered lowly, a primal sound from the back of the throat, “I-how-is it just him? Is he the only one that doesn’t know?”
“Oui,” Francis answered, and the Briton could sense the smile that was spreading across the other’s twitching lips. Arthur felt a mouth descend upon his palm and arm, licking and sucking the substance from the stained flesh; pausing briefly, breathy words were spoken.
“He is the only one who is not like us.”
Poor, poor, unlucky boy.
It was painfully silent; the only feeling registering was that of the tongue against his skin.
Fate truly is a cruel mistress, isn’t she?
And, suddenly, Arthur was smiling too; he leaned into the digits fingering his neck, letting his head loll just so. He buried his nose into the other’s hair, silky locks parting effortlessly; rosewater scent enveloped his senses.
A child only knows what he is told, still pure like faultless fields of grain.
“Are we the only ones who know about this?” Arthur mouthed into the other’s ear, tracing the curved flesh with slightly parted lips. A grin was soon pressed against the abused arm, and Francis’s eyes glittered, sky pools alit with excited anticipation.
“Oui.”
Ink across wan paper; the foreshadowing of beautiful, opaque corruption.
And irises glinted with dark fire, smirk spreading horribly wide (a conqueror’s smile), glowing with all the possibilities, all that they could gain-
Poor, poor, dammed, unlucky boy.
And the Briton laughed, the prospects of Empire awakening deeper, buried instincts.
“Brilliant.”
And the clock began to tick.
=-=-=-=-=
Alfred F. Jones wasn’t feeling very well.
He watched the old mahogany clock with a detached, glazed expression, azure irises cloudy with scattered thoughts and partially veiled by heavy lids. It was a beautifully crafted piece, ornately carved leaves and flowers crowning the inlaid pearl dial, inscribed with roman numerals of the darkest black. The second hand swept skittishly, indiscriminately, over the surface with a perfectly measured tick, tick, tick-
There, he was drifting off; no, it’s alright: no one would miss that paperwork, a missed call or two wouldn’t hurt anyone. Sleep crept upon him, a warm feeling that that slinked up the back of the neck, wrapping around the mind like blankets warmed by a summer day. He could almost feel that sun on his skin, the wind threading through his hair as the grass giggled beneath his fingertips-
And the clock struck midnight.
Alfred was startled from this reprieve, toppling from his chair as the chimes resounded throughout the room in a deep baritone. Papers scattered, their graceful descent a sharp contrast to the tangled mess of limbs now demoted to the floor. The American groaned, shielding his eyes from the muted light of the room, seriously contemplating sleeping on the ground.
It was as if his exhaustion knew no bounds; each time he thought that he had reached the limits of tiredness that could be felt, the horrible hollow feeling that seeped into his chest, he was pushed even further, redefining the word fatigue. Blearily, he managed to sit up, roughly kneading his eyes with his free hand.
How did everyone else manage this?
Somehow, he laughed; a weak, humorless chuckle.
Well, he was the world’s superpower; perhaps he just had more work than the rest of them (he certainly had plenty to be worrying about, what with the political dissent, and the economy had slipped just a tad, and-).
But, still-
No one else seemed to have trouble staying awake at the meetings (excluding Greece, but, honestly, people rarely saw him awake); problems such as rising prices, natural disasters, and international tensions took their toll on the others, but they never seemed as affected as he himself was, and for all that was free and good, Alfred couldn’t figure out why.
He shook his head; he was over-analyzing things again. He really didn’t want another earful from Arthur about overreacting about this, and being too paranoid about that, and why aren’t you-
Come now; it’s time to get up.
Pulling himself to his feet, and swaying only briefly, he dumped the now shuffled papers back onto his desk, the mass thudding against the worn wooden surface; he could finish that tomorrow, he assured himself. Grabbing his bomber jacket from the hook and tugging on a pair of pilling gloves, he pulled his office door closed with his foot, finally locking it when his hands were free.
The winter air nipped at his cheeks, a pale red now blooming on both; he huddled down into his jacket, watching pools of vapor cloud before him as he exhaled, dissipating into the inky sky.
It is not your fault you are so ignorant, that you are such a child.
The streets were deserted, the occasional dead leaf skipping across the cracked concrete and the mournful howl of the cold wind. Streetlights, their light as pale and cold as the rest of the scene, flickered down upon the sidewalk, impersonal and unfeeling as they performed their duty.
It does not make you bad; it does not make you evil-
Alfred sensed the coughing fit before it began, having just enough time to lean against a nearby wall as his body was overtaken by the wracking tremors, the feeling of near retching.
Merely unlucky.
It’s okay; he could make it through another one of these: it had to end eventually.
Pitiable.
There, it was beginning to subside, but why was he still shaking-?
Damned.
When it finally stopped, Alfred took a moment to wipe at his watery eyes, the trickles only emphasizing the negative effect of the draining display. Something told him to look into his palm, and he did, staring at the glove with an eerily blank expression.
There was blood splattered across the fabric, diluted and sticky with saliva; he roughly wiped his mouth, quickly flexing his hand in an attempt to flick the substance from his glove, smearing the excess onto his wrinkled slacks. He inclined his head, blinking languidly at the wan moon and the few softly glowing stars. Words slipped past his lips, a small bead of scarlet still clinging to one corner of his mouth.
“I’m fine.”
Poor, damned, unlucky child.
Alfred increased his pace, shoulders drawn and hunched, hurrying along the lonely walk as he focused his thoughts on home.
On a nearby bench, a couple was snuggled together against the frigidity, finding an intimate, fulfilling heat in one another.
“So it’s true,” the shorter of the two whispered against the other’s neck, voice sweet like drizzled honey.
“Hm.”
The wind danced through the little park, moaning, whipping the coats and scarves that adorned the pair. The taller felt lips curve into a smile against his throat, treating the skin to a butterfly kiss.
“It smells lovely tonight, doesn’t it?” the honey oozed. The other contemplated this, face unreadable.
“Yes; yes, it does.”
Why do I have the feeling that this is going to be a long one? XD Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. Comments are always appreciated and welcomed~ <3