In order to celebrate HETALIA'S anime adaptation. AXIS POWERS HETALIA KINK MEME
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Okay, let's make history and be more epic than these people, shall we?
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"Don't involve yourself in his troubles," Francis agrees, although Arthur has seen him hanging on Alfred's arm more than once when the American is wearing grey. He has seen them with their heads close together, whispering something inaudible about (him) cotton or (him) grain or (him) some such matter.
Francis, Arthur thinks, has troubles enough of his own without meddling further in Alfred's.
"I want to be called Aaron," says Alfred once, on a sunset-drenched veranda, when he is wearing his grey uniform. Arthur's lips draw back in a grimace when he sees blood crusted on that grey sleeve. "I shan't recognize you as Aaron," Arthur answers crisply; "You'll always be Alfred to me."
"Your Alfred," says his stranger-lover-son, in that placid accent that betrays not the least touch of sarcasm. He has brought a dried stem of cotton with him, the boll broken open to spill out soft fibers like a flower's petals; he offers Arthur that stem, and they both know what he is truly offering.
Arthur bids him goodnight, then, and tosses the cotton stem by the side of the shell drive. It makes his fingers itch, and whether it is an acquisitive itch or a disgusted one, he can't say.
In Washington, Alfred is tense and grim. He snaps at Arthur when he enters without knocking--"You ran my damn blockade!" he shouts, pounding his fist on the desk (so that he won't be tempted to smash it against Arthur's face; the Briton knows this with a strange, primal clarity). "And your damn ship had two of his agents on it. What am I supposed to do?"
"You've captured my ship, then."
"What the hell was I supposed to do with your ship!" Alfred steps closer. His eyes are blazing, although his posture is ever-so-erect.
"This is unacceptable," hisses Arthur. "You have no authority over how I choose to conduct diplomacy." He turns on his heel and stalks right back out again, and he thinks to himself that he is damned well going to join up with Matthew and take fucking New York City by force of arms--
He doesn't realize it until he's ensconced in his coach, and then it is too late to take anything back.
He had treated Alfred and Aaron as two separate entities.
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He tells himself that he is only manufacturing warships for Aar--for Alfred because it is profitable. "And it distracts you, hmm?" Francis says softly, reaching out to cup Arthur's cheek with an expression of great sympathy. "Go to hell," Arthur tells him with precisely the same expression.
In 1863, his diplomats return to him to say that Aaron has thrown them out. They are followed by a colonel who explains that victory for the Confederacy will necessarily be assured, due to a restive Northern labour force and superior Southern military prowess. Arthur can't quite explain why the idea makes his chest tighten and his face grow hot; after all, he is building warships for the Confederacy, isn't he? What investment could he possibly have in Alfred's petty 'internal difficulties,' beyond profiting from them?
"This wouldn't be happening if he were still with me," Arthur tells himself--and when the next warship is to be delivered, he is on it. (There is something in the sea which soothes him still, although the sounds are different and the feel is different and the smells are different.)
Alfred greets him coolly, without offering his hand; his arms are crossed over his grey coat. He has let a beard grow on his cheeks, and his eyes have a gaunt and hunted look to them, but his voice is still perfectly polite and composed when he says, "I thought I'd seen the last of you and your folk."
"You needn't talk around the matter--you threw them out," Arthur snaps.
"I wouldn't say that," answers Alfred in that infuriatingly placid accent, but he doesn't explain what he would say instead. He takes Arthur into his home and offers him him lemonade and marmalade and fine music played by a black quartet; the music is only faintly punctuated by distant bursts of cannon fire. They retire on fine, smooth cotton sheets.
Alfred's beard is rough at Arthur's neck, and Arthur gasps Aaron into the downy pillows.
In the morning, they share tea in silence, and then Aaron excuses himself to return to the battlefield. Arthur shows himself out, and tries to ignore the irregular patter of gunfire in the trees as his coach rolls northward.
The last time he had spent this long in the Colonies, the sounds were much the same, and he cannot suppress a visceral terror to hear them anew.
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"You shaved," Arthur says, in lieu of a greeting. "I shave every morning," answers Alfred. Five years ago, that might have been a joke boldly stated; today, it is only a blank statement, empty of expression.
Arthur resists the urge to cup his cheek; after all, there are soldiers watching. "You had a beard this morning," he says, but Alfred shakes his head slowly.
They sit in silence by the cookfire, its red glow sharp on the planes of Alfred's cheeks. He idly stirs the stew in his cookpot, with his shoulders hunched up and his lips drawn into a thin line. It reminds Arthur of when Alfred was young, and so often despairing of finding a place in the world.
At length, Alfred says, "They're thinking of promoting Sherman."
"Sherman?"
"The crazy one." It's an oversimplification, but they both know it, and they move on. "Everyone says he's going to be the one to destroy Aaron once and for all ... but he'll have to destroy everything else to get to him."
"That's barbaric," says Arthur, and Alfred can't help smiling just a little through his melancholy. "Everything's barbaric to you when you don't have tea," he says, and takes the stew off of the fire to put water on instead.
They share tea without sugar and bowls of rancid stew, while the men play cards and curse and write home and shiver with fever and die all around them. They are all waiting for orders that never come.
At night, Arthur and Alfred lie close together, touching at their hands and their hips and their shoulders. "Will I make it through this?" Alfred asks in the darkness. It's the first time Arthur has ever heard doubt from him, and that alone is half-terrifying.
"I don't think you will, old boy," says Arthur softly.
Alfred sighs. "That's too bad. I would've made a great hero."
They fall silent, listening to the fire dying outside the tent.
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He has seen Alfred and Aaron doing battle, now, wrestling like Castor and Pollux on the fields of Virginia (Georgia, the Carolinas, Mississippi, Alabama). They fight as fiercely as brothers, hating in each other what they cannot reconcile in themselves, teeth bared and hands grappling for throats. It makes him fear for both of them.
It makes him hard.
Arthur never wears blue or grey when he is in the States. He only ever wears somber black suits; although the ash stains them, the blood hardly shows at all. Both of his American boys take him into their beds, although they shout at him and demand ships of him and cry for him in the hard daylight.
There is a dream that persists, shameful and strange when he lies sleeping in a makeshift camp bed or in the ruined husk of a plantation house (and he has slept in both, in both with both of them).
Image: Aaron and Alfred grappling on soft cotton sheets, nude in the candlelight. Aaron's hand finds Alfred's throat; Alfred's fingers twist in Aaron's hair; their mouths are locked together, and their tongues entwined. They are whimpering as though the pressure of want is killing them.
Image: Arthur putting his hand on Alfred's smooth back; the northerner breaks his fierce kiss to draw Arthur into that fierceness. His teeth close on Arthur's lip, drawing blood casually--when Arthur leans down to kiss Aaron in turn, there is still the taste of blood between them. The two men part, letting Arthur slip seamlessly between them.
Image: Alfred's fingers in his arse, Alfred rutting hard and fast against his hip--Aaron leaning up, desperate for contact, taking the soft nub of Arthur's nipple between his teeth and biting harsh and needy. He cries out as much from arousal as from shock, and then all at once Alfred is guiding Aaron inside of him and his fingers are still inside and this is the most wonderfully, impossibly full that Arthur has ever been--
Image: Alfred pushing in as well, his cock aligned with Aaron's, the both of them mad with lust for how tight this is, how good this is, and something's sure to tear but Arthur can't remember why he should care, because the two of them are beginning to thrust, their hands clenching each other's, their skin hot and flushed, meaningless words falling from their lips as Arthur reaches down to take himself in hand--
Image: "I want to be a part of you," Alfred babbles, voice lost at the nape of Arthur's neck. "I want to be joined to you, I don't ever want to be apart from you, I want us all to be one--we're so close--"
Arthur always wakes shaking, heart pounding, skin sticky. At his side, Alfred shifts restlessly, or else Aaron turns over in his sleep.
Only one is ever there.
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It has been many months since Arthur saw Aaron--not since the treaty, if he is honest with himself. Things are settling down in America, despite the unpleasantness of the April assassination (and despite the unstable administration that followed). In the aftermath, Arthur has been spending time in Canada, spending time at home, returning to his industry and his newspapers and his trains and his penny dreadfuls. When he hears about the Shenandoah's arrival, at first he hasn't any idea why it concerns him.
When at last he realizes, he hurries to Liverpool at once.
"Hello," says Aaron quietly, his accent more muted now. He looks very pale--almost insubstantial, his beard straggling and his eyes sunken deep in his head. "I've come to offer you my surrender."
Arthur slowly, carefully draws this wisp of a man into his arms. "Where have you been, dear boy?" he whispers against Aaron's hair.
Aaron laughs, like a cough. "In the Pacific," he says. "I'm sorry it took so long--but I was so far away ..."
"Quite all right," says Arthur briskly. "We must get you settled, and bring you a bit of tea--"
"No." This time, the sound truly is a cough. "No ... I'm a part of him, now. I've given myself up properly ... and now we're going to be one again. But I had to show you, before I went ..."
His eyes slide closed, and all at once he goes limp in Arthur's arms. Arthur holds him in stern silence until the skin begins to cool.
He can't tell what he's been shown, or why.
-- end --
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Oh my god this was just. It was wonderful. I loved how you handled the dual personalities and the conflict itself was done so so well. I was worried that whoever took this would let it dissolve into stereotypes or just, not do it well. You did this so, so well. I cried at the end. Wonderful wonderful work anon. Beautiful.
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Oh that's sad. I want to hug them all.
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I've wanted to see these two sides of Alfred for so long!
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That was amazing anon! I'm so glad someone picked this up, as it's such an interesting prompt, and you truly captured it! Made me cry in public even. ILU anon~<3
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I can't believe how awesome that was. The split personality thing and... Oh man. Thumbs way up.
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