Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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"S-son?" England's voice cracked as he lowered his head to the boy's chest, once strong rivulets of blood had lightened along with the rise and fall of Alfred's chest.
With his ear carefully positioned to avoid any warm red fluid, Arthur closed his eyes to concentrate on the flutter of his son's heart. It was there, soft but gloriously consistent. Coupled with the sound of blood rushing about the injured body, the noises reminded the listening man of the rolling waves which so long ago had put sent him off to sweet sleep.
Arthur would never again be able to associate the ocean with fond memories of plundering & general tomfoolery. Now open waters would remind him only of the last beats of a boy's heart, the salty scent in the misty breeze replaced with the smothering stench of innocent blood being so unjustly shed.
Alfred shifted slightly under his Father's touch, reassuring him there was still life left in his body- just not for very long.
"Favor." A slight trickle of blood now escaped from the side of Alfred's mouth, only to be joined by blooming streams from his eyes, nose, and ears.
Pupils dilating by the second, America's body was in its last throws of life, shuddering halfheartedly at intermittent moments. His pale pink lips moved softly, wordlessly, telling the world all his hopes & dreams he would now never live to carry out. Telling them so that someone knew, knew what he could have grown and aspired to be, instead of becoming one of the many casualties of war.
Needing to hear those last words, or at least feel them, Arthur moved his head up from Alfred's chest, to those trembling lips. He feels them graze the outer shell of his ear like the touch of a butterfly's wings, the soft outward breath like those of the whispering fairies Alfred never did believe in.
As if waiting for Arthur to make that connection, Alfred spoke audibly once more.
"I can see them now, you know." His voice was calm, soothing not only for himself but for his Father.
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Author's Notes:
Longest death scene ever, amirite?
Also, everyone & anyone feel free to knock me upside the head for such erratic updates. Going to be spending another night with the nephew and all that jazz. Sorry for being such so bad about consistent updates, I feel like such a floozie. Well, more like 10k+ floozies.
Thank you readers for sticking through this wait, though, <3
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As long as you eventually update, inconsistency is fine. Real life takes precedence over the Internet ;)
And I have no amusing catpcha this time :(
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Tomorrow is the day I'll finally be returning home (this week I was in between my Pop's house and Step-Sister's home) which means I'll finally have my own room and privacy back. I think it's safe to say once I get back in my room the first thing I'll do is get to typing. xD
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In a moment of clarity, Arthur pulled his son upwards slightly, so that he could remain propped up in Arthur's own lap, his head helplessly lolling to the side. Stifling an appalled gasp, England relinquished any hold he had over the wound now, and started to stroke the tangled, soppy hair of the colony fading in his arms.
"Take..." A thick flow of what looked like blood, but was much too dark to be- strangled Alfred's speech as the fluid made its own bid for freedom.
Stricken with a numbness & fear that he had never known before, Arthur could do nothing but reel inwardly at the nightmarish scene unfolding. Pulling the trigger hadn't been a sign of strength, it had been the ultimate demonstration of weakness. A strong nation wasn't one that could be goaded by the words of a rebel as England had been, only a fearful one would react with such a show of over the top violence.
It was only that Arthur's senses reminded him that America wanted him to take something, that there a favor- a last gesture which needed to be performed.
"What do you want me to take?" Arthur's tone had a sickening calm to it, almost in a detached sort of way.
"Me," Every word from Alfred's mouth sounded like it was being filtered through the deepest, darkest depths of the ocean. "H-home."
There was that word again, home. Alfred really did consider England his home still! Had he more faith in England than Arthur himself? Did he believe Arthur wouldn't be spurred on by petty words into shooting him?
Similarly agonizing realizations ravaged Arthur's consciousness as he clutched the boy tighter and tighter, promising that yes, of course he would take him home. He'd take him home and everything would be okay. Alfred could sleep every night in Arthur's own bed, never have to taste another drop of tea if he didn't see it fit.
Animalistic heaves wrenched Arthur back to the situation at hand. Alfred's eyes had grown to an impossibly huge size, like those of child facing death. Which really, was exactly the case.
"Hush now! Breathe slowly, Alfred." Arthur shakily stroked the boy, unsure if he was doing more damage than good.
The gasps came more quickly as blue eyes became increasingly cloudy. Blood had once again started to froth from all imaginable sources, and the only recognizable expression was one of an unimaginable terror.
It all became unbearable, the scene was just too much for Arthur to take in, he felt his mind splintering apart, unable to even begin to process what he was witnessing. This was how animals died, gasping helplessly in an attempt to get much needed oxygen to their brain amidst the growing dimness that settled over their vision, not how Alfred would die.
Alfred, so headstrong, so bright, but still only a child.
Only madmen kill children.
What felt like a blanket of ice suddenly collided with the back of Arthur's head. With a start of surprise, England's mind was snapped from its mourning stupor. Had the murder finally be noticed by another? Could this numbing pain along his neck be shrapnel?
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Author's Notes:
I have ascertained while writing this fic that Alfred is not unlike a cockroach. They both seem simply unable to die, or at least in a timely fashion, even in the worst of situations.
Also I apologize for anyone disturbed by Alfred gasping for air, but it just wouldn't be very Alfred-like (in my opinion, that is) if he hit the dirt and passed on. Do not go gentle into that good night, Alfred! >:o
He's too much a fighter to lay down and simply be done with it. :B
IS THIS THE END?
Psh.
No.
Written five more pages beyond this part, but I haven't proof read any of it yet.
Last but not least, sick of having abiword tell me that judgement was most assuredly spelled 'judgment', I looked it up and judgement is fine. Thusly the title has been changed to Lenient Judgement. Something about judgment looks stunningly awkward.
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I'm glad this isn't the end. Your writing is gorgeous and I can't wait for more, sad as it is.
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"What is WRONG with you!? I wanted to be amicable, so I make like a nice guest and grab some grub on my way over here, only to walk in and witness you slaughtering me!"
That voice. It couldn't be, it was impossible! The only person Arthur knew who's voice reached such a piercing tone when shouting was America. Last time England had checked, America was quite dead- or at least dying, right in front of him to top it off.
Blinking numbly, Arthur tried to figure out just what kind of situation he was in before risking a glance at the figure now behind him. To quell the nagging feeling growing in his mind, the one telling him Alfred was in fact rather alive, Arthur looked to the boy in his arms again.
Except, he wasn't there.
In place of Alfred was a glowing screen, one of a computer. A faded image of a terrible scene, the one he had just been so engrossed in, was etched across it. The faint pulse of white letters drew his eyes to the writing which was now quickly overtaking the image.
Ending 04 - Lenient Judgement
The realization of what was happening hit Arthur with the force of a bursting dam. He had noticed a game while shopping with Kiku, one which contained multiple endings pertaining to the relationship between him and his ward. It seemed like an interesting purchase, and once he got home Arthur figured he'd just play for a half hour or so to get the gist of how the game worked.
That must have been a good deal of time ago, since it had only been early afternoon when Arthur booted up his dusty old PC, reasoning that it would hardly delay his preparations for the house guest he was planning on hosting later that evening.
That house guest happened to be America.
By the time Arthur had gathered his wits about him and swiveled in his chair to at least attempt to explain what was going on to Alfred, it was already too late. The only signs telling of another's presence being a crumpled bag with distinctive yellow arches, and a wet puddle of what appeared to be pop, spotted with ice cubes. A hapless looking wax cup lay empty on the carpet to complete the scene.
Rising to his feet, England used every ounce of his awareness to the situation to remain calm. This was all just a misunderstanding, he hadn't realized specifically what kind of endings were possible for the game. While there was no doubt in the moss-eyed man's mind that the game would most certainly not consist of petit fours and purring kittens, neither had be expected it to be so bloody twisted.
Softly padding along the oak wood floors, England stared downward at his socks as he approached the guest room. Unsurprisingly, the door was shut. Voices were conversing inside, that much Arthur could tell, but from the garbled tones it would seem that Alfred had merely turned on the television.
To give at least the pretense of wanting to be polite and well meaning, Arthur softly rapped his knuckles along the door and waited for an answer. There was none, yet it could clearly be heard that the voices within the room were ever changing, a slight electronic buzz ringing through the air every time the channel was flipped.
"Alfred," Arthur tried to impart an air of warmth that was usually missing from his tone as he spoke. "I'm coming in, alright?"
Once more no answer came from inside the room, and when England turned the knob and began to lean into the door he was faced with the realization that it was locked. How rash of America, to happen upon England at one single inopportune moment and then act as if a grievous offense had been committed.
Well, maybe it wasn't completely absurd that Alfred had been upset by what he had witnessed, but he certainly didn't need to go holing himself up like this. It simply wasn't fair. Arthur felt a slight smirk flit across his lips as he decided to play dirty as well, but not without a last warning of course. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.
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Author's Notes to follow in just a moment.
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A/N: DON'T MURDER ME PLEASE. The requester specifically didn't want Alfred to die, so I had to put a twist like this in. I'm also going to write an alternate ending in which this twist doesn't happen, but I won't be posting it until I finish the first ending.
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Well done <3
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I LOVE YOU ANON. YESYESYESYESYES I LOVE YOU SOOOOO MUCH!!
I love random twists like this. It's incredibly unexpected and the sheer novelty of it fills me with so much joy; I am overflowing right now...!
MARRY ME.
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Get
MARRIEDMARRIEDMARRIED!
I'm relieved you didn't absolutely abhor the twist, I was afraid people would rage and stop reading. Thank you for your support!
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"Like Hell! For all I know you've got a loaded gun and an itchy trigger finger out there!"
A frustrated sigh slipped past Arthur's lips as he shook his head. If America was going to act like such a prat, then England was really left with no alternatives to forcing the door open. He gently leaned his forehead against the cool wooden door, closing his eyes in an attempt to concentrate. Fanning his palms against the blockade before him, England took one final breath of preparation before he started to softly mutter.
The words- no, the incantations now being said were of a language not even Arthur knew. Sometimes he wondered if it really was a language, and not just the audible manifestation of magic being channeled into use. It wasn't something that could be taught- and therefore learned, you had to be born with the knowledge of how to manipulate the essence of the world around one's self.
After a few tense moments, the door started to rattle slightly, followed by the noise of the handle on the opposing side jerking violently, as if the knob was trying to twist in two separate directions at once. If one had been listening close enough, they may have been able to hear the hinges groaning with the effort of keeping the door secured.
"Don't you dare start this hocus-pocus shit with me, England!" America's tone was somewhere in between enraged and startled, something akin to that of a cornered beast.
"If you'd stop being a pompous twit I wouldn't have to resort to this kind of thing." England ground out between clenched teeth, his focus starting to flicker like a candle in the wind.
"Way to try and pin the problem on me, Mr. I-have-an-unsettling-obsession-with-hurting-America."
England scoffed and drew back from the door, giving up on opening it though means of magic at least for tonight. America's remark was not only untrue but absolutely unnecessary. Sure, the Busby Chair ordeal had bordered on the dangerous side, but no one ended up being hurt. Well, that wasn't entirely true considering The Chair had splintered into bits whenever Russia sat upon it.
A ghastly noise, one that made England's entire being cringe and his teeth shiver in uniformity, snaked from the inside of the room. Taking no chances when it came to fortifying his defenses, America had used his over the top strength to start hauling an armoire towards the door. England could mentally picture the deep, horrible gauges being carved into his lovely russet parquet flooring, and inwardly calculated just how much it would cost to replace the floor.
Just as he was on the verge of totaling it all up, and of course informing America that it would be coming from the younger nation's wallet, the sound stopped. Slightly labored breathing could be heard almost directly parallel on the other side of the door. America had barricaded himself in with the armoire. Barred himself from any physical interaction with England.
This was going nowhere except downward, and England knew when it was time to walk away. "Fine. Just stay in there like a frightened rabbit. Yes, frightened. If you were only mad, you would have no problem saying it to my face."
Silence. Arthur really didn't expect an answer, but at the same time he was hopeful that he could provoke Alfred into opening the door. Into letting the wolf in.
Feeling an unwelcome stickiness along the nape of his neck, England began to trudge back to his office in order to clean up the mess of fast food that had been made. Considering the hour was growing late, he resolved to simply cover up the spilled drink with a towel until morning.
But what to do with the actual food? While it had been lounging about on the floor like an unwanted vagrant for some time now, it was in a bag. So really, only the outside of the bag had suffered contamination by being in contact with the ground, not to mention England's stomach was starting to twist from the lack of attention it had received over the course of the day. Nimbly plucking the paper bag up from the floor, Arthur made his way to the kitchen while absentmindedly dipping his hand inside of it in an attempt to see just what Alfred had brought him.
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Arthur didn't even like fast food. Despite everyone- everyone except America, he corrected himself with a bittersweet smile- saying he had not an inkling of taste, England drew the line before fast food when it came to things he would and would not eat. As England picked up the sandwich and eyed and dustbin thoughtfully, his eyes registered a word most familiar to his taste buds.
Fish
Hastily, Arthur turned the sandwich over to read the full title of the food that was in his hands.
Filet-o-Fish
His stomach gave a guilty lurch. America really had agreed to this visit with good intentions, he had even tried to bring Arthur a rather foolish imitation of fish and chips. It was so very like Alfred to do this sort of thing, to make friendly gestures that came off as ridiculous, stupid, sometimes even offensive. Yet it was also so endearing, a clear sign that despite his strength and stature, America still had a childish whimsy that resided in his consciousness.
Tears prickling at the back of his eyes, Arthur delicately unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. He payed no attention to the cardboard taste or the unsettling sogginess of it all, for he was too deep in thought about just why it was that Alfred always seemed to be making such gestures towards his Father-figure of a nation. When the turmoil of his mind finally cleared, long after the last mouthful of sandwich, to reveal the meaning behind these actions, Arthur wanted nothing more than to slam his own hand in an oven door for being so blind.
Alfred was trying to show Arthur how much he loved him, even after the troubles they had faced at each other's hands.
Albeit misguided attempts at displaying fondness, Alfred really hadn't been taught what was an appropriate way of signifying your love to another was. Arthur's examples to his ward were probably something along the lines of a bottle of booze being love. Francis' examples, well, Arthur didn't want to dwell on what they could have been. The boy was just trying trying to cobble together his subconscious learnings into something he hoped Arthur would understand.
Feeling the need to show some kind of affection in return towards Alfred, Arthur mutely wiped the back of his hand across his eyes as he stood and made his way towards the kitchen. He deftly flicked on the light switch as he had so many times over the decades and very nearly smiled as the overhead lights gave a few stubborn flashes before deciding to stay on.
While England had more than prepared himself for America's arrival, being sure to cram him cupboards with as much rubbish as they could fit and then some, now the treats only made him feel physically ill as they all reminded him of the fish sandwich and the unspoken words behind it.
Silently reassuring himself that he wouldn't shed anymore tears over food, England grabbed an old plate out of one of the cabinets along with a butter knife from the dining ware drawer and following it all up by grabbing two small jars and balancing them atop the plate. Maneuvering carefully as to not have the jars and silverware slipping every which way and that, Arthur doubled back to the dining room and swiped a half dozen rock-hard homemade scones, taking great care to arrange them in what he felt was just the right positions.
With a bit of a nervous spring in his step, England made his way back to his guest's room, biting his lip with anticipation. When he saw the dim flickers of light and heard the accompanying low murmurs being emitted from the underside of the door frame, he took it as a good sign that Alfred would still be awake. Leaning closer to the door, making sure to balance the plate in his left hand, Arthur ever so gently rapped the knuckles of his right hand against the door.
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"The Regulars are coming." England's voice was a low coo, disarmingly gentle.
"'Kay." The response was a near perfect monotone, but it held a tinge of curiosity.
Wishing he had some liquid courage to compliment his earlier meal, Arthur gritted his teeth momentarily before turning the knob and letting himself in. No armoire halted the door as it opened, but the dull light of a table lamp cast deep shadows within the recently made gouges, turning the floor into a miniature canyon of sorts. Biting his tongue to keep back his thoughts about the condition of the floor, England softly shut the door behind him and turned to focus on America.
Sitting on the side of the bed, facing towards Arthur- and the door, was Alfred. He looked to be so many things at once, bedraggled, weary, possibly even unsound. The dull copper dress shirt wrinkled to an unacceptable extent- Arthur would simply have to iron it in the morning- the weathered espresso colored bomber jacket ever present on Alfred's back, like a security blanket. Those gorgeous metallic eyes peering up at him from behind Texas even seemed to have lost their sheen, along with the boy's unkempt hair.
"You look exactly like a baby bird." The word's came out of England's mouth before he could put a cap on them.
"I don't even know what that means, is that some of your old-fashioned slang?" Alfred's eyes were hungrily eyeing the plate balanced upon Arthur's left palm.
"No," England silently rejoiced at not being instantly rejected. "but you look all ruffled, and more than a tad silly."
America made no audible response, choosing only to shrug with his already slouched shoulders and scuff his shoes before averting his eyes to the floor.
"Alfred," Taking a seat on the bed beside the young man, England handed the plate of scones over to America before turning to look downwards as well. Not at the floor though, but at Alfred's shoes. "I don't even want to know how bloody late it is, but why do you have your shoes on at this time of night?"
There was a pregnant silence as America took the plate but shifted his body away from England and towards the clock, the change in how he carried his weight caused the bed to sink slightly and pull his body closer to England's, their outer thighs just barely skimming each other.
Would it be too forward if I was to rest my hand on Alfred's knee? Arthur pressed his lips into a thin line as he weighed his options. Would that come off as some creepy old man move that would end up with him being the laughing stock of the next G8 mee-
"It's 11:45, you old buzzard." America turned back to England and flashed a faltering smile as he realized how close the proximity between the two of them had become. "Huh, sorry about that." Scooting a ways down the bed, Alfred inspected the jars resting upon the plate in his lap, rolling them in a fluid motion between his hands again and again. Turning one, then the other, into an almost hypnotizing glass pendulum for Arthur.
"Thanks for telling me something I specifically stated I didn't want to know, and also managing to dodge my second question at the same time." It was difficult for England to keep from grinding his teeth together, he hated playing these stupid word games.
"You're welcome!" Another smile from America, this one on the sheepish side. "What's in the jelly, rat poison? Wait," A quick shake of his head, golden locks quickly following. "that's too common for someone as stuffy as you. I'd put my money on cantarella."
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10.5 in just a second.
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"What about this one?" Alfred tapped the lid of the second jar. "Clotted cream. Clearly you got this stuff so I'll clog my arteries all lickety split!"
"You know exactly what clotted cream is, and to further insult you act like my slang phrases are old when you say things like, like-" England gestured at the air, physically trying to recreate the words on his tongue. "Lickety split."
Giving a scone he was buttering up a meaningful gaze, America gave his head a slight cock to the side as he thought of how to answer best. "I think lickety split sounds extremely heroic."
"Maybe, if you're a childish cowboy." Which makes it quite fitting, I'd venture. England sighed with frustration while pinching the bridge of his nose, as if it would stem his inner thoughts from bleeding out his mouth. "Now about those shoes."
Before Arthur had even finished his sentence, Alfred was stuffing a scone in it's entirety into his own mouth in an attempt to use the time honored 'Can't talk with my mouth full' excuse. A manner he immediately abandoned whenever it was of no immediate use to him, naturally.
Willing away the red tinge flooding his field of vision, England started the trace the miniature canyons in his floor with his eyes. On any other day, such an activity would only send him into a fury, one that could only be remedied by a Mr. Jack Daniels. Tonight would have to be different though, for the sake of his rag-tag friendship with America, so now he merely attempted to make out vague shapes within the floor, like how a day dreaming nobody would concentrate on clouds until they twisted into more engaging forms.
"Look, I'm really sorry about what I did to your floor. Honest." Having already finished the late night snack, America had set the plate aside and cautiously inched towards England. "I'll have my people call you people and get it all sorted out, promise."
"It's fine," The malice contained within the word 'fine' told a different story. "I'm sure in the morning we'll both feel much better." Arthur didn't bother to look towards Alfred, his gloomy gaze still stuck on the damaged floor, gliding along line after line until they fell upon Alfred's suitcase.
That suitcase couldn't be Alfred's, it was too neat, not even unpacked in the slightest. America was the kind of house guest who thought making one's self feel at home meant flinging his suitcase open and letting it rain clothing everywhere.
"You're leaving, aren't you?" England felt his jaw clench as he switched his gaze to Alfred.
"That's a bit on the dramatic side, don't you think?" America's tone was light & airy, holding that carefree touch that could be so irritating at times. Times like now.
"It's the truth is what it is. You've got your shoes on and your bag packed, you're rearing to go." How typical, England thought.
"Well after I saw your little passive-aggressive display earlier, which, just for future reference, was not so passive, I figured you were trying to tell me to book it in an off the wall, Arthuresque kind of way."
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HNNGH character limit. 10.7 in a sec.
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