Weep, Little Lion Man 2a/?
anonymous
December 16 2010, 19:13:33 UTC
------
”… England…?”
Young fingers grasped at the edge of the table. Bright, unblighted eyes looked upwards, a mouth posing half open. His expression furrowed as he gently reached forward and clung gently to the fabric of the man sat in front of him. There was a light tug.
The other male, his back a bit more rigid than usual, had his arm laid out in front of him, resting over a bowl. A bundle of cloth was pressed over part of his skin, green eyes wincing as he dabbed at it.
The tugging came again, a little more urgent. Blue eyes wavered.
“…England…!”
His arm was showing red. Why was he turned away? Why did he seem so fragile? Alfred didn’t realise he noticed these things, but all he knew was that England wasn’t right and that really quite made him uncomfortable. He knew he’d just come back and there were some different people about - what had happened?
The taller figure finally looked up sharply, a second before his expression quickly relaxed into something more soft; a façade. He managed a small smile.
“Ah, America. How are you?”
The child frowned, and pointed almost accusingly.
“.. Your arm…!”
Arthur glanced down at the accused limb. He seemed to give it the expression as though he’d only just realised it was there.
“… Ah, yes. Quite a nasty cut.”
America frowned, unimpressed.
“But.. but hoooow?...”
The arm was moved so it rest on the Briton’s knee; it had stopped bleeding by now but by looking at the cloth, he’d had to have it on for quite some time. Arthur turned around to face the other, leaning down so he was on relative level with the colony.
“Some horrible people do not like us living here. They were trying to attack you.”
As though in response, Alfred held out his arms at the same time Arthur went to pick him up, setting him on his lap. He patted him.
“But I fought them off. Its okay, they’re gone now. They got a bad cut on me, but I’m alright. See?” He ruffled the other’s hair with the same arm, but faltered when he saw that the other looked more annoyed than overjoyed to be safe.
“W-Why did you have to save me and and get hurt, England! T-That’s not fair! I should.. I should be able to look after me, after-after you!” the other suddenly exclaimed, showing his anger by promptly shoving the other in the chest, which the other winced at again. He looked down at the child, blinking.
He suddenly smiled.
Pushing the bowl back on the table, he placed the other on it, looking at him. There was a sort of soft aura about him. Safe. He held eye contact with the other, firm but understanding.
“America, you’re my brother, alright? I am going to protect you. I made that promise when you became my family.” He petted the other’s hair again, this time absentmindedly rubbing a bit of a smudge off the other’s cheek with his thumb. “I want you to promise me you’ll trust me. You are my brother.
Weep, Little Lion Man 2b/?
anonymous
December 16 2010, 19:19:31 UTC
“…A-Arthur…!?”
The room was dark. Curtains were drawn, thrown tightly shut. Clothes were scattered carelessly on the floor, highly unusual for someone as pristine as Arthur. A mug was left, the tea gone cold, on the bedside table.
In the middle of the room was a bed.
The covers were rolled up on in themselves, a mound in the middle of the mattress.
There was a body.
Alfred’s eyes widened.
“…A-Arthur!”
He rushed into the room, stumbling over his own feet. The figure lay there, curled up upon himself. His hair was mussed, as though he’d been tossing and turning, and his skin was pale. It glistened slightly, as though he was breaking out in a cold sweat.
America didn’t know what to do. As soon as his eyes had rest on the lump all sense of responsibility and maturity had left him. Something was wrong with Arthur.
An overwhelming urge to run to him and cry struck the teen.
He quickly snapped himself out of it as he heard a small gasp coming from the bed. His eyes quickly widened and he lurched towards the middle of the room, practically toppling onto the bed itself.
The bed-ridden lump’s eyes were closed tight. Lips, open just slightly, eventually seemed to twitch in just the slightest form of words.
Alfred, whose glasses were practically hanging off his face, felt his throat go dry.
Something was so wrong.
“…A-Arthur? Can.. can you hear me?”
There was a grunt.
Alfred hid at the edge of the bed a little, before tentatively reaching out and gently touching the top of his shoulder. He was trembling.
“..A-Arthur, oh g-gosh, Arthur… England!”
Desperately, he nudged the shoulder in an attempt to rouse him. Big mistake.
A scream shot out from between those lips, before choking followed it. Alfred had fallen back in surprise before he could see the other’s eyes finally flitting open, muted in his own pain.
What was happening?...
Alfred recovered a little, but took a while for him to realise that his heavy breathing was not alone. Blinking, he looked up.
The covers were shifting, slowly. A voice rasped. The American couldn’t understand it.
Slowly, slowly, the covers rose up and slowly slid off.
Arthur and Alfred stared at each other.
They both shook.
Arthur’s expression was pale. His eyes were flat, the gleam of the emerald having reduced to a dull stare. They were circled by a slight redness, smudges smeared under his eyes upon closer inspection. His shirt hung off him, drenched in sweat.
The Briton’s knuckles went white as he clutched the covers, tightly. He winced. A tear rolled against his cheek in response, indifferent.
Eyebrows furrowed, deeply. Arthur’s lips quivered. His voice hung in the silence.
“get out.”
It was barely a murmur.
Alfred looked up, his muscles barely being able to contract and swallow due to just how stunned he was. He managed out a small squeak in response.
“…W-wha-“
“get out.”
“…N-No, A-arthur, What-“
“get out.”
Arthur’s expression had gone dark. Slowly, slowly, his legs shifted to the edge of the bed, but it seemed quite an effort to keep himself upright.
Weep, Little Lion Man 2c/?
anonymous
December 16 2010, 19:20:46 UTC
“..W-what? N-No, Arthur, there’s something so wrong with you and I can’t leave-“ He was up onto his feet by now, having to take some effort from his knees shaking. There was something stopping him from moving closer to the Briton in question. “-And I need to help and-“
“move or i’ll do it myself.”
Alfred didn’t move.
Arthur’s expression grew dangerous. With a small, small whimper which he desperately held back against his throat, England staggered onto his feet. He was slow, his footsteps swinging almost in clockwork till he reached the other.
Alfred remained frozen.
“Arthur-“
“go.”
The smaller nation kept his head low, silently, successfully, pushing the other towards the door. It was meant to be forceful yet he doubted he could lift a book with that strength. However, it managed to work Alfred and nudge him back towards the door due to being simply too astounded and scared to do anything. His eyes were wide, his mouth gaped open, pupils shook, and he was unable to simply comprehend what he was seeing; He did notice, though, that Arthur was limping a little. He was also only using one arm to push him towards the door - the other hung almost loosely by his side, clenched almost in an agonising fist.
That still didn’t explain what had happened to his brother.
“A-Arthur, no-“
“go.”
England’s teeth gritted, fighting down another cry; his shoulders heavily trembled.
“don’t come back.”
With one weak push, Arthur managed to make Alfred trip back out of the door. It gently swung closed. A moment later, and a large thud was heard, a deep sob accompanying the shock that echoed across his mind.
Re: Weep, Little Lion Man 2c/?
anonymous
December 17 2010, 01:04:38 UTC
Oh, God, limping and with a bad arm? America hurt England a lot, didn't he? This is going wonderfully and I'm really interested to see how you are going to make the story unravel.
Weep, Little Lion Man 3a/?
anonymous
January 4 2011, 21:33:29 UTC
It was dusk. The sun was sinking slowly below the horizon, shadows casting longingly across the street corners. Houses were lit up in anticipation of the day, crowds gathered in each house. Laughter spilled out from the doorways, smiles and joy radiating through the buildings.
Outside, it was silent. Except for the panting of a lone individual, speeding through the streets as though he was running away from an imponderable doom. His jacket, undone in the summer night, flapped a little behind him as his steps hit the pavement. Alfred could barely see clearly through his glasses, which were sliding down his nose in his haste.
He hadn’t been aware of what he’d done after that door had closed on him. He’d felt he stood there for the longest time, staring as though he expected Arthur to open the door and appear completely fine, and start laughing in his face that he fell for it.
But he didn’t, and it wasn’t till he heard another sob did he react.
He ran.
Coward.
Shaking his head free, he blindly turned a corner, heading back to the one place he didn’t want to be. Home.
Arthur couldn’t have been in the pain that he seemed to be, could he? It made no sense whatsoever what he just saw. Why would he even be like that? On his birthday, no less?....
Was this … his fault?...
He was probably over thinking things. Alfred tended to avoid doing that, for this very reason. What was the use?
Well, seeing Arthur like that was more than enough, he supposed.
He flurried around a corner, a car driving by in silent wonder at the abruptness of this lone individual.
The house at the end of the street was lit up; light flooding out into the street. There was the hustle and soft beat of music playing from it. It was full of inhabitants, no doubt causing amazing havoc with drinking games and raiding the fridge. Alfred suddenly felt sick at the thought of confronting them all. Why did this have to happen to him on today of all days? All he wanted to do was burst into the room, hurl himself up to his bedroom and hide under his bed covers and pretend that all he had seen hadn’t ever happened and continue his life on as normal, because while Alfred could act superbly well…
When something shocked him beyond belief, it showed.
The gate was kicked open with a harsh creek, the sounds and laughter getting louder as his scuffed trainers approached the door. Every year, the nations gathered round to Alfred’s and had a party, mainly because he invited just about everyone. As much as most countries disagreed with other or ganged up against one another most of the time, the truth was that if there was a gathering and it had alcohol and music and others were going to be there, you could guarantee there’d be a party.
The door slammed loudly in the kitchen with a loud bang, and the countries gathered in there exclaimed a roar of laughter.
It shattered with the same punch.
The whole room fell silent in an echo. The rest of the room seem to shimmer in the same way, the nations crawling through to see what had caused the break in mood.
Alfred stood there, his pants heavy with the strain. While everyone stared at him in shock, it wasn't the door that had rooted everyone in place.
It was his expression. A permanent plaster of fear fed his face, his lip quivering. His glasses were slid halfway down his nose, but he made no motion to move them back into place. But the worst thing, Matthew found himself noting, was his eyes. He’d lost that dazzling confidence they usually held, something that he hadn’t seen happen in about ten years.
His hand trembled, and the door was thrust shut again. Alfred stared, towards particular nations.
“... Arthur...”
He stumbled forward, eyes still wide, and sunk into a chair. Francis, with a resigned sigh, placed his drink down and approached the nation, kneeling to his level.
Weep, Little Lion Man 3b/?
anonymous
January 4 2011, 21:44:06 UTC
He found himself staring at the Frenchman, incredulous. Surely he must know?! Surely he would know that something as bad happened to the Briton!
Pulling in a breath, he looked incredulously at the other. “...A-Arthur-H-Hotel-h-he was l-limping and and c-crying and what happened--“ His panic bubbled into fury, his fists clenching and leaning forward towards the other, fire in his eyes.
“Something happened t-to Arthur and holy shit y-you must know what’s wrong otherwise I’ll-I-I’ll---” The words disappeared in his mouth, the chair having knocked back as he’d stood up almost as soon as he’d sat down.
Francis blinked.
“Ah.”
Nervous murmurs struck up amongst some of the others. While they all knew he was young, none of them had ever really seen Alfred look so vulnerable. It was something, they were coming to realise, that he hid very well.
Francis remained calm, even as the other loomed over him. He stood up, pressed his hands to America's shoulders and led him out of the kitchen into the living room, where he gently pushed him down onto the sofa. Like a swarm, the others crowded at the door. This was really not planning to be the party they would usually expect to see.
“Now, tell me.” Francis remarked, setting himself beside the American. “You went to Arthur’s room, oui?”
“Y-Yeah a-and it was d-dark and he was in b-bed a-and he-“
“Calm down, garcon. He was in bed, and what happened?”
“H-he s-shouted but not he was in so much pain oh god Francis what the hell happened he got me out a-and I....I-c-came here---”
A finger pressed to his lips to silence him. Francis looked at him, earnestly.
“Amerique, I do not know what you think happened, but I am rather surprised. Has... it never been told to you?”
A confused, slow, shake of the head. He sighed. “Just as Angleterre to keep it to himself, then. I suppose I might as well tell you-“ He looked up to the others, studying for a moment. His sigh grew.
“Are you not aware what happens to ex-empires? I suppose not, Amerique. You were never truly an Empire. Ah, but in the words of my own philosophers, let us just say:
Un empire fondé par la guerre doit se maintenir par la guerre, even if it is with himself.”
---- - This would have been longer and I'd have added more to it, but I didn't have chance to work on it much and I just wanted to post something up. More might be added to this part/chapter itself.
- The French, at the end, translates as 'An empire founded by war has to maintain itself by war', and was said by Charles de Montesquieu, a french philosopher.
Weep, Little Lion Man 4a/?
anonymous
January 22 2011, 22:46:11 UTC
"War is like a game of Chess, Alfred.
You've never really come across it before, but it's not an obvious play of events, it's not something you charge into and win by force. No, war is so much more than that: it takes time, it takes skill and most of all it takes practice. You have to be careful. You can't attack everyone at once and expect to win just because you have the most weapons. To play war successfully, thought needs to be put into it.
It can also be done in many different forms, just like there are many different ways to play chess. As an Empire in war, you'll be most similar with this strategy.
New pieces can be gained and added to your own collection. Either they are ambushed from the enemy, or as a loose end. Sometimes, the piece to be gained is heavily defended by other pieces, and is all but impossible to gain.
Well, usually impossible.
Either way, winning is about methods and tactics. You might have all the pieces in your hands, but you could lose everything without knowing what had happened. Alternatively, you may think it's all over, that you're down to your last pieces; yet place it carefully, put enough hope into yourself, and you could win a game with just one remaining piece.
A War is made to claim territory and build pieces, Alfred, even it is at the cost of your own. It can mean a lot of things. War can mean claims of territory, much like that one had just been, or it could be to fight for something else, something more personal. Sometimes, you have to fight for your freedom. You have to fight for your rights. You have to fight to be on top.
You have to play for the rest of them.”
-----
“War was never a game, Amerique. Sacrifices have to be made in War, especially for what you may gain for what you lose. The Empire, as is said, is built on war - how else would you gain land? Except for the most barren of places, there is life to a land. It is how it is. If they succeed, they gain a colony.
But it is not how the colony is created and how the culture is elaborated and how the journey rolls into that land becoming it's own; non, it is the aftermath that is the most essential. All Forces have an equal and opposite reaction, yes? So what would occur once a nation becomes free from it's coloniser? The newly free nation claims freedom and a permanent break from pain and isolation - ah, but what happens to the former Empire itself?
Every nation's independence day is a reason to celebrate. It is more important to some than others, but the message is always the same; I am free
How does the original coloniser act? Why, claiming colonies instated greed. Greed was always a sin, mon cher, and so they must take the consequences. A day in agony to pay for the sin of greed they committed at the time. Some nations can fare some days better than others, but it depends on how well the nation in question has moved on. If he is still affected deeply, emotionally by the loss of a colony he will feel it the most. So, to conclude my explanation, mon americain, is that our dear Arthur is in pain right now because of you, and the fight you made. And that is that.”
Weep, Little Lion Man 4b/?
anonymous
January 22 2011, 22:47:47 UTC
He didn’t understand.
They all looked stunned. Some of the more sullen countries such as Japan and Spain looked down to the ground at the announcement, rather densely silent. Suddenly, frowns were pulled as the realisation started to sink in, lips curled back into a scowl, in shock. Voices struck suddenly harsher, raising in tense volume. Frequencies strongly read of guilt, of disgrace; of anger.
The trepidation snapped with one sentence.
“Hey, I suppose ya can’t say he didn’t deserve it, mate.”
Alfred lurched onto his feet.
His fists were clenched, and as he turned his head, his expression was burrowed downwards. His voice barely came out as a whisper, but it struck the others more than the silence that had just returned.
“Don’t say that.”
Everyone looked at each other, before India suddenly elbowed the others away and fought her way to the front, before Alfred. Some couldn’t quite believe that she would even try to face America when he was clearly so distressed.
“Why not, America? You can’t say he didn’t deserve it. He treated my people harshly, he even did things to people that he never colonised or never could.”
China looked away, but didn't speak.
“It was his own fault; a lot of resources wouldn’t have been ruined if it wasn’t for him and the countries that he took over by force. There was no consideration, for the people living there, for the future, and especially for any of the nations that he stole from so cruelly in the first place!” At that point, Alfred snapped his head up and gave the impression he was about to charge her, before a hand placed on his arm. He blinked, and looked down to Francis.
Francis held steady, looking at America for a few moments with a patient expression. The teen faltered.
He looked back to the group, and he sighed.
“Of course, this applies to any former Empire and whether they feel for their former colonies or not. Some are worse than others, oui…” He briefly glanced at a corner, almost longingly, for a moment. “However; the point is that Arthur still seems to take quite badly to your claim of independence all those years ago. Have you never noticed that he avoids contact with these people on these days like the plague?”
“B-But there's no way--”
“Amerique, for someone who is claimed to be close with the Englishman, you appear to underestimate or do not understand his feelings very well. Maybe you should ask him yourself--”
France never got to finish his speech, for voices violently rose again at that point, of protests of how nations should be left to suffer on their own, or how this was one large hoax the ex-empiric nations had decided to pull, or how they couldn't believe that such a thing had been hidden from them, the fear, the horror, the disgruntlement clear in a muddle of their faces, all one extravagant palette of emotions building into an abomination of anger and shock in the middle of the lounge. No one could quite let it settle.
Alfred stood amongst the chaos, his expression the single lull of turmoil in the room.
Just as slowly, his arm reached up to rub at his eyes. The rest of them were ignored until he spoke.
He couldn't stand it any more.
“Party's over. A-All of you, get out. Now...”
Canada, from a corner of the room, looked at a photo on the mantelpiece.
Weep, Little Lion Man 5a/6
anonymous
February 7 2011, 23:00:25 UTC
There he was.
The small silhouette was moving its way down the hallway, and from this distance it didn't even look like just twelve hours ago he'd been in absolute agony to the point he could barely walk.
This didn't make sense.
“---Arthur! Hey, Arthur!---”
His footsteps increased in pace down the hotel hallway, and he sought to catch up with the Briton. After sending everyone out yesterday, he had sat around all evening. He tried calling Arthur after getting over the initial shock out of everything that had been revealed to him, then somehow still managed to go find time to watch the fireworks from the hill (albeit rather miserably) and return home and leave more messages on Arthur's phone with no sleep till well past midnight.
Some birthday.
He knew Arthur had a flight later this evening. It made sense to why he returned home today rather than yesterday, though the American wasn't quite so sure he liked what he now knew.
The country in question passed through one of the fire doors, seeming completely oblivious to the call of his name.
Slamming the door back open as America passed through it, he growled.
“England!”
He turned around.
”America.”
“England.”
The room was stiff with smoke, and a bold tinge of alcohol. Arthur didn't even need to take two steps into the room before he felt his eyes sting slightly. Healing wounds became agitated in defence.
“So, I see you did it.”
“I did.”
England made his way further into the room, his jacket folded over one of his arms. He proceeded to place it over the back of a chair.
“I... have to admit. I didn't think you would go ahead with it. Even after everything.”
His blue eyes were hard to read at this point, but the scowl that formed on the other's lips was clear enough.
“Neither did I.”
As neutral as the Briton was keeping his expression, he could note how distressed America seemed. The tense, slight shaking of his hands, the strangled voice...
He sat himself down, and crossed his legs. It was probably a bad idea, as he winced. Leaning forward, he tried to get the other's gaze.
“Well, it's over.”
“Yeah.”
Arthur sighed.
“Alfred, you---”
“Shut up.”
He blinked. As arrogant as Alfred was, Arthur was not used to being plain told to 'shut up' by most people, much less him.
“...--”
“I dropped that bomb, it's over. He's surrendered. The war's over, and we can go back to peace now. I have to concentrate and make sure that Russia doesn't overtake Germany now.”
“Alfred--”
“So we don't need to talk about it any more, alright? It's gone. It's gone. I-I don't need to touch those things any more. They're gone.”
Arthur sighed, irritated.
“--What I was trying to say, is, are you alright? But I suppose you've answered me that. You know you didn't have to drop them. You still had that choice.”
“No... No I didn't.”
“...Why?”
There was silence. His lips were a thin line, and his arms folded. He seemed impatient.
“... Jesus Christ Arthur, answer me on thi--”
A heavy sigh cut him off.
“I have to do it. I don't have a choice, do I?”
“But you didn't tell me--”
“Why do I have to? I'm not the only one who has to go through this sort of pain. We all have to go through pain in general that is ours and ours alone only. That only is up to the bearer on how they handle it. Why should I have to tell you anything? I didn't tell anyone else. No doubt France or someone told you, which they would have just figured from simple logic. I never said a word to anyone.”
Weep, Little Lion Man 5b/6
anonymous
February 7 2011, 23:03:36 UTC
”I have to... look after people. I.. I have to make sure everyone's safe...”
“Who told you that?”
It earned him a glare.
“If I hadn't dropped it and killed those lives, Arthur, it would've earned me an invasion of Japan. That means at least another year of the war, maybe losing 100,000 of my men... and on his...”
He looked up at the elder men, blearily. His eyes were grazed, almost a little bloodshot. It was clear he hadn't slept much, if at all.
“You know what Japan's soldiers are like. I... I couldn't have let them do any more to themselves. I had to protect them, too. A war still going on when the majority were still trying to fix themselves and recover... would've hurt everyone more...”
He didn't look away. Rather, his gaze grew harder.
“England, why do we even have war? Why did we have to have this war? So many people got hurt. I shouldn't have bothered jumping in. My people got hurt. It was nice to win, but we got hurt. You got hurt. Even Germany got hurt...”
“America, you should know full well yourself why.”
“And why.”
“Sometimes you have to have to fight for peace. No matter the pain.”
Alfred had taken a few steps towards the other, almost as though he was advancing on him. The Englishman was clearly not happy with the other but he made no moves to step back himself.
“That doesn't mean you couldn't have told me! At least I wouldn't have spent all that time thinking that you just didn't like me and were still sore about it and that you didn't want to be around me!”
“Shut up.” Arthur hissed.
America stopped.
Alfred didn't reply for a few moments. He gently got a hold of the glass he'd been drinking from, and thoughtfully took a sip. As he placed it back down, he sighed, and ran a hand through his hair exasperatingly.
“Don'tcha thing I know that? Why do you think I decided to do it? I just.... thinking of it now, I don't like the power. I have... I.. I care for people, Arthur. I care for you. I care for everyone, even if they damned well don't like me.”
He suddenly laughed, a hoarse, rather chilling laugh. Arthur blinked.
“Which-Which is why I have to do this thing, right? Don't mean I like it, though. But I'll make pain if I have to so that people can be safe. If that's how you're going to put it... I.. I just want people to be safe and happy, Arthur...”
“Don't you bloody know anything?! What if I did tell you? Wouldn't you be spending every bloody fourth of July and thinking of how in pain I was? Would you be able to enjoy one flipping day that actually means something to you then?”
“But it's still not the truth, Art--”
“Alfred, the truth hurts. You can go on all you want about how much truth is most important, but it can hurt. I'm sure it hurt you - heck, you're here now, rambling and looking like you got no ruddy sleep. You know what, Alfred? You may not flipping believe it, but I don't /want/ you to be hurt.”
Weep, Little Lion Man 5c/6
anonymous
February 7 2011, 23:06:26 UTC
“Even though you've done nothing but hurt me, thought nothing about anything except yourself, I still give a shit about you. I couldn't let you know that I spent every single fourth of July rolling about in agony. It's mainly my fault to begin with. I couldn't and I can't stop you from doing what you want, America. Even I know that.”
”I'm meant to be the Hero, aren't I?...”
“Arthur, but you don't---”
“--- But even if it isn't my responsibility any more, you.... you're still my family, no matter what you want to call me any more. And that does mean a duty, America. A duty that I follow, even if you've denied me all those years ago. I promised.”
”You can't always be the hero, even if you think you are.”
“I take that pain, even if you don't want me to. You're still family.”
”En... Engwand, you're.. MY hero!...”
“My brother.” Alfred found himself mouthing along with him. He stood there, stunned once again into silence. After a few minutes of both of them just staring at each other, the Briton seemed to get the point. He shuffled his jacket over his shoulders, adjusting the suitcase he was carrying beside him. He ran a hand through his hair.
“Now, If you don't mind, I have a plane to catch.”
“Arthur, I....”
He turned around.
“Yes?”
America gazed at him for the longest time, his expression muddled. He opened his mouth to speak, but resorted to sighing and looking away. England raised an eyebrow, hid his own expression behind a slight frown, before eventually turning away and leaving the other as he trundled down the corridor, disappearing from view.
”… England…?”
Young fingers grasped at the edge of the table. Bright, unblighted eyes looked upwards, a mouth posing half open. His expression furrowed as he gently reached forward and clung gently to the fabric of the man sat in front of him. There was a light tug.
The other male, his back a bit more rigid than usual, had his arm laid out in front of him, resting over a bowl. A bundle of cloth was pressed over part of his skin, green eyes wincing as he dabbed at it.
The tugging came again, a little more urgent. Blue eyes wavered.
“…England…!”
His arm was showing red. Why was he turned away? Why did he seem so fragile? Alfred didn’t realise he noticed these things, but all he knew was that England wasn’t right and that really quite made him uncomfortable. He knew he’d just come back and there were some different people about - what had happened?
The taller figure finally looked up sharply, a second before his expression quickly relaxed into something more soft; a façade. He managed a small smile.
“Ah, America. How are you?”
The child frowned, and pointed almost accusingly.
“.. Your arm…!”
Arthur glanced down at the accused limb. He seemed to give it the expression as though he’d only just realised it was there.
“… Ah, yes. Quite a nasty cut.”
America frowned, unimpressed.
“But.. but hoooow?...”
The arm was moved so it rest on the Briton’s knee; it had stopped bleeding by now but by looking at the cloth, he’d had to have it on for quite some time. Arthur turned around to face the other, leaning down so he was on relative level with the colony.
“Some horrible people do not like us living here. They were trying to attack you.”
As though in response, Alfred held out his arms at the same time Arthur went to pick him up, setting him on his lap. He patted him.
“But I fought them off. Its okay, they’re gone now. They got a bad cut on me, but I’m alright. See?” He ruffled the other’s hair with the same arm, but faltered when he saw that the other looked more annoyed than overjoyed to be safe.
“W-Why did you have to save me and and get hurt, England! T-That’s not fair! I should.. I should be able to look after me, after-after you!” the other suddenly exclaimed, showing his anger by promptly shoving the other in the chest, which the other winced at again. He looked down at the child, blinking.
He suddenly smiled.
Pushing the bowl back on the table, he placed the other on it, looking at him. There was a sort of soft aura about him. Safe. He held eye contact with the other, firm but understanding.
“America, you’re my brother, alright? I am going to protect you. I made that promise when you became my family.” He petted the other’s hair again, this time absentmindedly rubbing a bit of a smudge off the other’s cheek with his thumb. “I want you to promise me you’ll trust me. You are my brother.
‘I’ll take the pain for you.’"
-----
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The room was dark. Curtains were drawn, thrown tightly shut. Clothes were scattered carelessly on the floor, highly unusual for someone as pristine as Arthur. A mug was left, the tea gone cold, on the bedside table.
In the middle of the room was a bed.
The covers were rolled up on in themselves, a mound in the middle of the mattress.
There was a body.
Alfred’s eyes widened.
“…A-Arthur!”
He rushed into the room, stumbling over his own feet. The figure lay there, curled up upon himself. His hair was mussed, as though he’d been tossing and turning, and his skin was pale. It glistened slightly, as though he was breaking out in a cold sweat.
America didn’t know what to do. As soon as his eyes had rest on the lump all sense of responsibility and maturity had left him. Something was wrong with Arthur.
An overwhelming urge to run to him and cry struck the teen.
He quickly snapped himself out of it as he heard a small gasp coming from the bed. His eyes quickly widened and he lurched towards the middle of the room, practically toppling onto the bed itself.
The bed-ridden lump’s eyes were closed tight. Lips, open just slightly, eventually seemed to twitch in just the slightest form of words.
Alfred, whose glasses were practically hanging off his face, felt his throat go dry.
Something was so wrong.
“…A-Arthur? Can.. can you hear me?”
There was a grunt.
Alfred hid at the edge of the bed a little, before tentatively reaching out and gently touching the top of his shoulder. He was trembling.
“..A-Arthur, oh g-gosh, Arthur… England!”
Desperately, he nudged the shoulder in an attempt to rouse him. Big mistake.
A scream shot out from between those lips, before choking followed it. Alfred had fallen back in surprise before he could see the other’s eyes finally flitting open, muted in his own pain.
What was happening?...
Alfred recovered a little, but took a while for him to realise that his heavy breathing was not alone. Blinking, he looked up.
The covers were shifting, slowly. A voice rasped. The American couldn’t understand it.
Slowly, slowly, the covers rose up and slowly slid off.
Arthur and Alfred stared at each other.
They both shook.
Arthur’s expression was pale. His eyes were flat, the gleam of the emerald having reduced to a dull stare. They were circled by a slight redness, smudges smeared under his eyes upon closer inspection. His shirt hung off him, drenched in sweat.
The Briton’s knuckles went white as he clutched the covers, tightly. He winced. A tear rolled against his cheek in response, indifferent.
Eyebrows furrowed, deeply. Arthur’s lips quivered. His voice hung in the silence.
“get out.”
It was barely a murmur.
Alfred looked up, his muscles barely being able to contract and swallow due to just how stunned he was. He managed out a small squeak in response.
“…W-wha-“
“get out.”
“…N-No, A-arthur, What-“
“get out.”
Arthur’s expression had gone dark. Slowly, slowly, his legs shifted to the edge of the bed, but it seemed quite an effort to keep himself upright.
“move.”
America could barely believe he was hearing this.
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“move or i’ll do it myself.”
Alfred didn’t move.
Arthur’s expression grew dangerous. With a small, small whimper which he desperately held back against his throat, England staggered onto his feet. He was slow, his footsteps swinging almost in clockwork till he reached the other.
Alfred remained frozen.
“Arthur-“
“go.”
The smaller nation kept his head low, silently, successfully, pushing the other towards the door. It was meant to be forceful yet he doubted he could lift a book with that strength. However, it managed to work Alfred and nudge him back towards the door due to being simply too astounded and scared to do anything. His eyes were wide, his mouth gaped open, pupils shook, and he was unable to simply comprehend what he was seeing; He did notice, though, that Arthur was limping a little. He was also only using one arm to push him towards the door - the other hung almost loosely by his side, clenched almost in an agonising fist.
That still didn’t explain what had happened to his brother.
“A-Arthur, no-“
“go.”
England’s teeth gritted, fighting down another cry; his shoulders heavily trembled.
“don’t come back.”
With one weak push, Arthur managed to make Alfred trip back out of the door. It gently swung closed. A moment later, and a large thud was heard, a deep sob accompanying the shock that echoed across his mind.
Alfred stood there, numb.
England…
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Great job, A!A
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Outside, it was silent. Except for the panting of a lone individual, speeding through the streets as though he was running away from an imponderable doom. His jacket, undone in the summer night, flapped a little behind him as his steps hit the pavement. Alfred could barely see clearly through his glasses, which were sliding down his nose in his haste.
He hadn’t been aware of what he’d done after that door had closed on him. He’d felt he stood there for the longest time, staring as though he expected Arthur to open the door and appear completely fine, and start laughing in his face that he fell for it.
But he didn’t, and it wasn’t till he heard another sob did he react.
He ran.
Coward.
Shaking his head free, he blindly turned a corner, heading back to the one place he didn’t want to be. Home.
Arthur couldn’t have been in the pain that he seemed to be, could he? It made no sense whatsoever what he just saw. Why would he even be like that? On his birthday, no less?....
Was this … his fault?...
He was probably over thinking things. Alfred tended to avoid doing that, for this very reason. What was the use?
Well, seeing Arthur like that was more than enough, he supposed.
He flurried around a corner, a car driving by in silent wonder at the abruptness of this lone individual.
The house at the end of the street was lit up; light flooding out into the street. There was the hustle and soft beat of music playing from it. It was full of inhabitants, no doubt causing amazing havoc with drinking games and raiding the fridge. Alfred suddenly felt sick at the thought of confronting them all. Why did this have to happen to him on today of all days? All he wanted to do was burst into the room, hurl himself up to his bedroom and hide under his bed covers and pretend that all he had seen hadn’t ever happened and continue his life on as normal, because while Alfred could act superbly well…
When something shocked him beyond belief, it showed.
The gate was kicked open with a harsh creek, the sounds and laughter getting louder as his scuffed trainers approached the door. Every year, the nations gathered round to Alfred’s and had a party, mainly because he invited just about everyone. As much as most countries disagreed with other or ganged up against one another most of the time, the truth was that if there was a gathering and it had alcohol and music and others were going to be there, you could guarantee there’d be a party.
The door slammed loudly in the kitchen with a loud bang, and the countries gathered in there exclaimed a roar of laughter.
It shattered with the same punch.
The whole room fell silent in an echo. The rest of the room seem to shimmer in the same way, the nations crawling through to see what had caused the break in mood.
Alfred stood there, his pants heavy with the strain. While everyone stared at him in shock, it wasn't the door that had rooted everyone in place.
It was his expression. A permanent plaster of fear fed his face, his lip quivering. His glasses were slid halfway down his nose, but he made no motion to move them back into place. But the worst thing, Matthew found himself noting, was his eyes. He’d lost that dazzling confidence they usually held, something that he hadn’t seen happen in about ten years.
His hand trembled, and the door was thrust shut again. Alfred stared, towards particular nations.
“... Arthur...”
He stumbled forward, eyes still wide, and sunk into a chair. Francis, with a resigned sigh, placed his drink down and approached the nation, kneeling to his level.
“America, what is it?”
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Pulling in a breath, he looked incredulously at the other. “...A-Arthur-H-Hotel-h-he was l-limping and and c-crying and what happened--“ His panic bubbled into fury, his fists clenching and leaning forward towards the other, fire in his eyes.
“Something happened t-to Arthur and holy shit y-you must know what’s wrong otherwise I’ll-I-I’ll---” The words disappeared in his mouth, the chair having knocked back as he’d stood up almost as soon as he’d sat down.
Francis blinked.
“Ah.”
Nervous murmurs struck up amongst some of the others. While they all knew he was young, none of them had ever really seen Alfred look so vulnerable. It was something, they were coming to realise, that he hid very well.
Francis remained calm, even as the other loomed over him. He stood up, pressed his hands to America's shoulders and led him out of the kitchen into the living room, where he gently pushed him down onto the sofa. Like a swarm, the others crowded at the door. This was really not planning to be the party they would usually expect to see.
“Now, tell me.” Francis remarked, setting himself beside the American. “You went to Arthur’s room, oui?”
“Y-Yeah a-and it was d-dark and he was in b-bed a-and he-“
“Calm down, garcon. He was in bed, and what happened?”
“H-he s-shouted but not he was in so much pain oh god Francis what the hell happened he got me out a-and I....I-c-came here---”
A finger pressed to his lips to silence him. Francis looked at him, earnestly.
“Amerique, I do not know what you think happened, but I am rather surprised. Has... it never been told to you?”
A confused, slow, shake of the head. He sighed. “Just as Angleterre to keep it to himself, then. I suppose I might as well tell you-“ He looked up to the others, studying for a moment. His sigh grew.
“Are you not aware what happens to ex-empires? I suppose not, Amerique. You were never truly an Empire. Ah, but in the words of my own philosophers, let us just say:
Un empire fondé par la guerre doit se maintenir par la guerre, even if it is with himself.”
----
- This would have been longer and I'd have added more to it, but I didn't have chance to work on it much and I just wanted to post something up. More might be added to this part/chapter itself.
- The French, at the end, translates as 'An empire founded by war has to maintain itself by war', and was said by Charles de Montesquieu, a french philosopher.
-Hope you had a nice holiday, etc~
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This is beautiful
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You've never really come across it before, but it's not an obvious play of events, it's not something you charge into and win by force. No, war is so much more than that: it takes time, it takes skill and most of all it takes practice. You have to be careful. You can't attack everyone at once and expect to win just because you have the most weapons. To play war successfully, thought needs to be put into it.
It can also be done in many different forms, just like there are many different ways to play chess. As an Empire in war, you'll be most similar with this strategy.
New pieces can be gained and added to your own collection. Either they are ambushed from the enemy, or as a loose end. Sometimes, the piece to be gained is heavily defended by other pieces, and is all but impossible to gain.
Well, usually impossible.
Either way, winning is about methods and tactics. You might have all the pieces in your hands, but you could lose everything without knowing what had happened. Alternatively, you may think it's all over, that you're down to your last pieces; yet place it carefully, put enough hope into yourself, and you could win a game with just one remaining piece.
A War is made to claim territory and build pieces, Alfred, even it is at the cost of your own. It can mean a lot of things. War can mean claims of territory, much like that one had just been, or it could be to fight for something else, something more personal. Sometimes, you have to fight for your freedom. You have to fight for your rights. You have to fight to be on top.
You have to play for the rest of them.”
-----
“War was never a game, Amerique. Sacrifices have to be made in War, especially for what you may gain for what you lose. The Empire, as is said, is built on war - how else would you gain land? Except for the most barren of places, there is life to a land. It is how it is. If they succeed, they gain a colony.
But it is not how the colony is created and how the culture is elaborated and how the journey rolls into that land becoming it's own; non, it is the aftermath that is the most essential. All Forces have an equal and opposite reaction, yes? So what would occur once a nation becomes free from it's coloniser? The newly free nation claims freedom and a permanent break from pain and isolation - ah, but what happens to the former Empire itself?
Every nation's independence day is a reason to celebrate. It is more important to some than others, but the message is always the same; I am free
How does the original coloniser act? Why, claiming colonies instated greed. Greed was always a sin, mon cher, and so they must take the consequences. A day in agony to pay for the sin of greed they committed at the time. Some nations can fare some days better than others, but it depends on how well the nation in question has moved on. If he is still affected deeply, emotionally by the loss of a colony he will feel it the most. So, to conclude my explanation, mon americain, is that our dear Arthur is in pain right now because of you, and the fight you made. And that is that.”
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They all looked stunned. Some of the more sullen countries such as Japan and Spain looked down to the ground at the announcement, rather densely silent. Suddenly, frowns were pulled as the realisation started to sink in, lips curled back into a scowl, in shock. Voices struck suddenly harsher, raising in tense volume. Frequencies strongly read of guilt, of disgrace; of anger.
The trepidation snapped with one sentence.
“Hey, I suppose ya can’t say he didn’t deserve it, mate.”
Alfred lurched onto his feet.
His fists were clenched, and as he turned his head, his expression was burrowed downwards. His voice barely came out as a whisper, but it struck the others more than the silence that had just returned.
“Don’t say that.”
Everyone looked at each other, before India suddenly elbowed the others away and fought her way to the front, before Alfred. Some couldn’t quite believe that she would even try to face America when he was clearly so distressed.
“Why not, America? You can’t say he didn’t deserve it. He treated my people harshly, he even did things to people that he never colonised or never could.”
China looked away, but didn't speak.
“It was his own fault; a lot of resources wouldn’t have been ruined if it wasn’t for him and the countries that he took over by force. There was no consideration, for the people living there, for the future, and especially for any of the nations that he stole from so cruelly in the first place!” At that point, Alfred snapped his head up and gave the impression he was about to charge her, before a hand placed on his arm. He blinked, and looked down to Francis.
Francis held steady, looking at America for a few moments with a patient expression. The teen faltered.
He looked back to the group, and he sighed.
“Of course, this applies to any former Empire and whether they feel for their former colonies or not. Some are worse than others, oui…” He briefly glanced at a corner, almost longingly, for a moment. “However; the point is that Arthur still seems to take quite badly to your claim of independence all those years ago. Have you never noticed that he avoids contact with these people on these days like the plague?”
“B-But there's no way--”
“Amerique, for someone who is claimed to be close with the Englishman, you appear to underestimate or do not understand his feelings very well. Maybe you should ask him yourself--”
France never got to finish his speech, for voices violently rose again at that point, of protests of how nations should be left to suffer on their own, or how this was one large hoax the ex-empiric nations had decided to pull, or how they couldn't believe that such a thing had been hidden from them, the fear, the horror, the disgruntlement clear in a muddle of their faces, all one extravagant palette of emotions building into an abomination of anger and shock in the middle of the lounge. No one could quite let it settle.
Alfred stood amongst the chaos, his expression the single lull of turmoil in the room.
Just as slowly, his arm reached up to rub at his eyes. The rest of them were ignored until he spoke.
He couldn't stand it any more.
“Party's over. A-All of you, get out. Now...”
Canada, from a corner of the room, looked at a photo on the mantelpiece.
Nothing ever quite changed with these two, eh...
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The small silhouette was moving its way down the hallway, and from this distance it didn't even look like just twelve hours ago he'd been in absolute agony to the point he could barely walk.
This didn't make sense.
“---Arthur! Hey, Arthur!---”
His footsteps increased in pace down the hotel hallway, and he sought to catch up with the Briton. After sending everyone out yesterday, he had sat around all evening. He tried calling Arthur after getting over the initial shock out of everything that had been revealed to him, then somehow still managed to go find time to watch the fireworks from the hill (albeit rather miserably) and return home and leave more messages on Arthur's phone with no sleep till well past midnight.
Some birthday.
He knew Arthur had a flight later this evening. It made sense to why he returned home today rather than yesterday, though the American wasn't quite so sure he liked what he now knew.
The country in question passed through one of the fire doors, seeming completely oblivious to the call of his name.
Slamming the door back open as America passed through it, he growled.
“England!”
He turned around.
”America.”
“England.”
The room was stiff with smoke, and a bold tinge of alcohol. Arthur didn't even need to take two steps into the room before he felt his eyes sting slightly. Healing wounds became agitated in defence.
“So, I see you did it.”
“I did.”
England made his way further into the room, his jacket folded over one of his arms. He proceeded to place it over the back of a chair.
“I... have to admit. I didn't think you would go ahead with it. Even after everything.”
His blue eyes were hard to read at this point, but the scowl that formed on the other's lips was clear enough.
“Neither did I.”
As neutral as the Briton was keeping his expression, he could note how distressed America seemed. The tense, slight shaking of his hands, the strangled voice...
He sat himself down, and crossed his legs. It was probably a bad idea, as he winced. Leaning forward, he tried to get the other's gaze.
“Well, it's over.”
“Yeah.”
Arthur sighed.
“Alfred, you---”
“Shut up.”
He blinked. As arrogant as Alfred was, Arthur was not used to being plain told to 'shut up' by most people, much less him.
“...--”
“I dropped that bomb, it's over. He's surrendered. The war's over, and we can go back to peace now. I have to concentrate and make sure that Russia doesn't overtake Germany now.”
“Alfred--”
“So we don't need to talk about it any more, alright? It's gone. It's gone. I-I don't need to touch those things any more. They're gone.”
Arthur sighed, irritated.
“--What I was trying to say, is, are you alright? But I suppose you've answered me that. You know you didn't have to drop them. You still had that choice.”
“No... No I didn't.”
“...Why?”
There was silence. His lips were a thin line, and his arms folded. He seemed impatient.
“... Jesus Christ Arthur, answer me on thi--”
A heavy sigh cut him off.
“I have to do it. I don't have a choice, do I?”
“But you didn't tell me--”
“Why do I have to? I'm not the only one who has to go through this sort of pain. We all have to go through pain in general that is ours and ours alone only. That only is up to the bearer on how they handle it. Why should I have to tell you anything? I didn't tell anyone else. No doubt France or someone told you, which they would have just figured from simple logic. I never said a word to anyone.”
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“Who told you that?”
It earned him a glare.
“If I hadn't dropped it and killed those lives, Arthur, it would've earned me an invasion of Japan. That means at least another year of the war, maybe losing 100,000 of my men... and on his...”
He looked up at the elder men, blearily. His eyes were grazed, almost a little bloodshot. It was clear he hadn't slept much, if at all.
“You know what Japan's soldiers are like. I... I couldn't have let them do any more to themselves. I had to protect them, too. A war still going on when the majority were still trying to fix themselves and recover... would've hurt everyone more...”
He didn't look away. Rather, his gaze grew harder.
“England, why do we even have war? Why did we have to have this war? So many people got hurt. I shouldn't have bothered jumping in. My people got hurt. It was nice to win, but we got hurt. You got hurt. Even Germany got hurt...”
“America, you should know full well yourself why.”
“And why.”
“Sometimes you have to have to fight for peace. No matter the pain.”
Alfred had taken a few steps towards the other, almost as though he was advancing on him. The Englishman was clearly not happy with the other but he made no moves to step back himself.
“That doesn't mean you couldn't have told me! At least I wouldn't have spent all that time thinking that you just didn't like me and were still sore about it and that you didn't want to be around me!”
“Shut up.” Arthur hissed.
America stopped.
Alfred didn't reply for a few moments. He gently got a hold of the glass he'd been drinking from, and thoughtfully took a sip. As he placed it back down, he sighed, and ran a hand through his hair exasperatingly.
“Don'tcha thing I know that? Why do you think I decided to do it? I just.... thinking of it now, I don't like the power. I have... I.. I care for people, Arthur. I care for you. I care for everyone, even if they damned well don't like me.”
He suddenly laughed, a hoarse, rather chilling laugh. Arthur blinked.
“Which-Which is why I have to do this thing, right? Don't mean I like it, though. But I'll make pain if I have to so that people can be safe. If that's how you're going to put it... I.. I just want people to be safe and happy, Arthur...”
“Don't you bloody know anything?! What if I did tell you? Wouldn't you be spending every bloody fourth of July and thinking of how in pain I was? Would you be able to enjoy one flipping day that actually means something to you then?”
“But it's still not the truth, Art--”
“Alfred, the truth hurts. You can go on all you want about how much truth is most important, but it can hurt. I'm sure it hurt you - heck, you're here now, rambling and looking like you got no ruddy sleep. You know what, Alfred? You may not flipping believe it, but I don't /want/ you to be hurt.”
He looked down, and sighed. He glared.
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”I'm meant to be the Hero, aren't I?...”
“Arthur, but you don't---”
“--- But even if it isn't my responsibility any more, you.... you're still my family, no matter what you want to call me any more. And that does mean a duty, America. A duty that I follow, even if you've denied me all those years ago. I promised.”
”You can't always be the hero, even if you think you are.”
“I take that pain, even if you don't want me to. You're still family.”
”En... Engwand, you're.. MY hero!...”
“My brother.” Alfred found himself mouthing along with him. He stood there, stunned once again into silence. After a few minutes of both of them just staring at each other, the Briton seemed to get the point. He shuffled his jacket over his shoulders, adjusting the suitcase he was carrying beside him. He ran a hand through his hair.
“Now, If you don't mind, I have a plane to catch.”
“Arthur, I....”
He turned around.
“Yes?”
America gazed at him for the longest time, his expression muddled. He opened his mouth to speak, but resorted to sighing and looking away. England raised an eyebrow, hid his own expression behind a slight frown, before eventually turning away and leaving the other as he trundled down the corridor, disappearing from view.
Alfred whispered, alone.
“... Thank you...”
Nothing had changed.
---
One more part to go!
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