Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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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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"I bought a game today." England paused to take a deep breath, buying himself time to think.
"Was it Cooking Mama? I bet it was Cooking Mama! Mattie told me to buy it for you but I was all 'Psh, no.'," Alfred arched his neck backwards while tucking his chin in at an angle, feigning an expression of shocked disapproval. "because I tried that game and it didn't-"
"It was not this Cooking Mama game you're going on about like a blooming nutter!" It was a knee-jerk reaction for Arthur to cut Alfred off when the rambling started. He really hadn't meant to this time, it had been an opportunity to avoid explaining himself.
"Should I keep guessing?" America swung his gaze back to the clock in an almost mechanical fashion before looking to Arthur again. "Because I think the taxi will be here any minute."
"I can't believe you're leaving so soon, I haven't even gotten a good look at you!"
"What's there to look at? I'm the same handsome young man as always." America's tone was brimming with cheerful conviction regarding his own looks.
"Not really, like I said earlier, you look like some kind of ruffian." Without fully realizing his own actions, Arthur slid his middle & forefinger under the young man's chin before resting his own thumb against the still slightly-boyish jaw line. That faint, almost undetectable flinch Alfred let off when Arthur touched him made the fingers involuntarily grip more firmly for a moment before quickly relaxing.
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Author's Notes: UH OH THE FLUFF IS SEEPING IN.
"The Regulars are coming": A lot of people think Paul Revere said "The British are coming!" but he actually said "The Regulars are coming out!". Also Paul Revere gets a lot of cred he doesn't so much deserve. REPRESENT, WILLIAM DAWES. Don't forget Samuel Prescott as well. Helen F. Moore wrote a parody poem regarding William Dawes/Paul Revere, actually.
'Tis all very well for the children to hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere;
But why should my name be quite forgot,
Who rode as boldly and well, God wot?
Why should I ask? The reason is clear-
My name was Dawes and his Revere.
Cantarella: Thought to be an offshoot of arsenic, was known as 'the liquor of succession'. The wiki article also states "Cantarella was used to make whoever took it fall asleep for 4 hours. It was as if the person was dead, since they had no detectable pulse." but I've not heard that before so I wouldn't be sure about it.
Prodigious talent for apologies: I imagine Arthur has a whole lot of self deception going down in his head like this.
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"Did you sleep on the plane at all?" Keeping his tone completely even, Arthur watched the faint tendons running along Alfred's neck, a not so well hidden sign of discomfort.
"I figured I would, but I ended up being too-" A yawn punctuated Alfred's words as he made a subtle attempt to move his head back and escape the incessant grip that was causing his skin to prickle. "excited."
"To be completely honest, I was chuffed to pieces when I found out you'd be paying me a visit." Arthur let go of his hold on Alfred's chin and smiled a kind, unusually genuine smile.
"Chuffed to pieces?" America echoed.
"Happy."
"Then why were you... y'know-"
"Like I was saying earlier," England cut in. "I purchased a game. That was what you saw."
"Someone made a game where you kill me?"
"Apparently so! I wasn't aware of that when I bought the game, though."
"So you made a mistake?" Alfred stifled a soft chuckle.
For Arthur, mistakes fell into the same category as apologies. He didn't make them, ever. It simply wasn't possible, and he had no plans to change that anytime soon.
"No! I was caught off guard, that's all." Smooth, England smiled inwardly, he really had a knack for twisting words when it was necessary. Or at least he felt that way.
The blaring of a car horn made the both of them startle, Alfred more so than Arthur.
"Right. That's probably your ride." Arthur promptly stood and glanced down at the self-proclaimed hero. "Thanks for paying me a visit, feel free to come back anytime." He leaned down and pressed his lips against Alfred's temple, in a soft, almost kiss. If Arthur hadn't known better, he could have sworn he heard Alfred let out a contented sigh, but England had already made a swift escape down the corridor towards his own room by the time the noise registered with him.
Beads of sweat had started to form on the back of England's neck during his time with America, and now he was uncomfortably aware of the sticky soda clinging to his skin. There was no way he'd be able to sleep without washing it off, and maybe a steaming shower would help him sort out how in the Hell he was going to play off such an unsettling encounter the next time he saw America.
As Arthur twisted the knob of the door that led to his own room, he could hear the noise of a second door opening. The front door, it sounded like. He paused, listening closely for any sign of conversation, hoping against hope that it wasn't Alfred getting into the cab, despite knowing. The handle in his hand made a metallic ringing noise as it was jerked right and left on account of Arthur's own irritated hand movements. What reason would America have to stay the night? Of course he was going to get in that cab, he was too kind to wave the driver off after he'd come all this way in the dark. Too kind to everyone but Arthur, it seemed.
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Entering the adjoining bathroom to his room, Arthur numbly pulled the frosted glass door to the shower aside before giving the hot tap two twists and the cold tap one and a half, drawing back to avoid the jet of frigid water that was always waiting to greet him in the beginning. It was how Arthur always had his showers, his perfect formula for a cleansing wash.
Loosening the too-tight tie from around his neck, the man set to work on iridescent, mother of pearl buttons that lined his aubergine colored pinstripe shirt. Several times his fingers slipped in the process, shaking from the flood of emotions Arthur had bottled up inside. A tempting idea filtered through England's head. Prim, studious clothes were not something he was short on. What an outlet it would be if he could just let out a ferocious roar and tear at his shirt, the buttons shedding to the floor like rain drops as he imagined himself a descendant of The Hulk. But that was something America would probably do, the fool he was. The last thing England wanted to do was act anything like that ingrate.
After finishing the tedious process of getting through various stages of undress, the mirror above the sink was already swallowed in a fog that made it impossible for Arthur to give himself a good look over and decide just how many things were wrong with his physical appearance today. Of course it wasn't healthy to gaze into a reflective surface with the sole intention of ragging on one's own superficial flaws, but England knew it was one of the ways he could settle his anger. The self defeat he always felt after a session with the mirror tended to swallow up his more violent feelings, it drowned them in despair instead, which was the safer of the two moods in his mind.
Stepping into the warm spray of water, England shut his eyes and concentrated on the torrents running along his fair skin. Imagining each drop that trickled into the drain was taking a fraction of his anger with it, down into the rank sewers where it could fester along with all the other rotten things that resided down there.
That sigh he had heard America make, it was downright stupid to think it was anything but disgusted. When Alfred was little, when he had been content to have England make all his decisions, that was when he would make those happy little sighs. Especially on nights when he was frightened and needed his then-hero to protect him from the bogey men that resided within the darkness, waiting until everyone had closed their eyes before bubbling up from between the planks of wood that made up his floor.
Such fond memories they were, almost tangible in their vividness. Arthur could still remember the downy smell of Alfred's freshly laundered ivory sleeping gown. How the venetian red bow could tickle his skin with its silk. Even the starchy touch of the lace that dotted its way along the hem of the outfit.
The strongest feeling though, was the warm breath that tickled his cheek as the boy would instinctively crawl closer to Arthur. Fingertips that felt like goose feathers would grasp at England's own clothes, the way Alfred would fist the fabric wrapped around Arthur as he would sleepily struggle to be taken into the safety of his hero's arms.
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Sometimes, Arthur couldn't resist. His fingers would act of their own accord and swiftly attack the dainty feet with unbearably light taps. Alfred's reaction was always the same, he would squeal in surprised delight and attempt to draw his feet under him, imitating the meticulously drawn diagrams of turtles he had seen in one of the few illustrated books England had. Squeals would give way to trills of silver laughter, seamlessly harmonizing with the throaty barking crows of Arthur. Those moments had made frissons of pure delight course through not only his body, but his very being. It had made him so very happy to have someone that thought so highly of him, that wanted nothing more than to be at his side every waking moment.
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Author's Notes: When I refer to Arthur as Alfred's hero, should that be with a capital H or no? I'm blanking out. :(
Sorry if Arthur seems kind of creepy when it comes to him and itty bitty!Alfred. That wasn't my intention at all, promise! After writing this part I want to go grab a kid and snuggle with them. Maternal instinct GO.
P.S. Arthur get some therapy.
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Speaking of maternal instincts...and cuddlies...and stuff...I'm going to go and attack my little brother now. :3
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