Role Reversal [5/5]
anonymous
June 21 2009, 22:47:35 UTC
America dropped heavily into the chair Arthur had recently vacated. His head fell forwards, but not before Arthur saw the scrapes across it and took in how carefully he moved. It was as if his limbs would fall apart if he treated them too harshly. Even more shocking was that he didn't say a word, just raised quivering hands and rested his forehead on them. Arthur paused, then said,
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
With a sniff, America tried to raise his head and deliver his usual bright grin. Instead he grimaced at the stab of pain and let his head fall again. Arthur raised an eyebrow. No one could do this quite so impressively, but, without America watching, the effect was lost.
"Nothing? I suppose you just walked into a door, then."
"Don't be sarcastic at me. Oh, God..."
"I'll get some help."
"That's not what I'm complaining about. I'm complaining about the fact that someone had to see me like this."
Arthur paused, and then, slowly, eased himself onto the arm of the chair. Even sat down with his head bowed, America was still as tall as him. When had that happened? Where had the years gone? It didn't seem so long ago that he was a rising star and rearing America to follow in his footsteps, just as determined - or bloodyminded, take your pick - but always, very decidedly, behind him. These days, though, he so often found himself in America's shadow...
He suppressed the thought and took America's arm, tending to the gash which tore down it. All the while he tried to come up with something to ease the tense silence. Expressing himself wasn't his strong point at the best of times and, at that moment, there was a lot of unspoken emotional baggage waiting in the wings which had to be skirted around very carefully.
It was the unexpected memory of a young America, peering shyly from the grass at the visitors to his homeland, which presented Arthur with some clue. It was time, just this once, to place the patriotic prejudices aside. He thought of the days when he would turn up on the seashore and find a child running, overjoyed, towards him, the days when he and his small companion would be intrepid explorers in a relatively unknown land, as close as father and son or two brothers. As they both grew older the roles might have changed, and they might have grown apart, but they both shared those memories. Somewhere, they were still, in their own way, family.
The only verbal equivalent to this internal monologue which Arthur could compose was,
"It's all right. I've seen you through a lot."
America snorted, then flinched.
"Ow. No. I've seen you through a lot."
"Shut up when I'm trying to be comforting, you ungrateful bastard."
"I can take care of myself."
"Then why did you call me over? You can't even make a cup of tea."
"Why would I want to?"
The argument went on, all of it irrelevant. It was easier than trying to find an area of conversation which didn't provoke either argument or painful memories. Alfred watched as Arthur wound a bandage around his arm and found, to his surprise, that he welcomed the excuse the argument gave for spending time together. He had forgotten the last time he'd felt smaller than anyone, and didn't intend for it to happen again any time soon, but as they said, it was lonely at the top. Sometimes, in his darker moments, he missed the days when he could rely on England for help, rather than providing it. It had been so long since he was able to sit, peaceful and undisturbed, with Arthur. Far too long.
Re: Role Reversal [5/5]
anonymous
June 21 2009, 23:32:23 UTC
Above author!anon doesn't mind and quite enjoyed reading this :) I really enjoyed that you showed two different moments with the same characters &hearts'
This was adorable, thank you so much. I loved how Arthur is still a bit of a dork in this situation.
Tea wasn't a drink, it was an art form. The Warming of the Teapot, the Pouring of the Milk, the Presentation of the Biscuits. Every step was integral to the production of a good cup of tea.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
With a sniff, America tried to raise his head and deliver his usual bright grin. Instead he grimaced at the stab of pain and let his head fall again. Arthur raised an eyebrow. No one could do this quite so impressively, but, without America watching, the effect was lost.
"Nothing? I suppose you just walked into a door, then."
"Don't be sarcastic at me. Oh, God..."
"I'll get some help."
"That's not what I'm complaining about. I'm complaining about the fact that someone had to see me like this."
Arthur paused, and then, slowly, eased himself onto the arm of the chair. Even sat down with his head bowed, America was still as tall as him. When had that happened? Where had the years gone? It didn't seem so long ago that he was a rising star and rearing America to follow in his footsteps, just as determined - or bloodyminded, take your pick - but always, very decidedly, behind him. These days, though, he so often found himself in America's shadow...
He suppressed the thought and took America's arm, tending to the gash which tore down it. All the while he tried to come up with something to ease the tense silence. Expressing himself wasn't his strong point at the best of times and, at that moment, there was a lot of unspoken emotional baggage waiting in the wings which had to be skirted around very carefully.
It was the unexpected memory of a young America, peering shyly from the grass at the visitors to his homeland, which presented Arthur with some clue. It was time, just this once, to place the patriotic prejudices aside. He thought of the days when he would turn up on the seashore and find a child running, overjoyed, towards him, the days when he and his small companion would be intrepid explorers in a relatively unknown land, as close as father and son or two brothers. As they both grew older the roles might have changed, and they might have grown apart, but they both shared those memories. Somewhere, they were still, in their own way, family.
The only verbal equivalent to this internal monologue which Arthur could compose was,
"It's all right. I've seen you through a lot."
America snorted, then flinched.
"Ow. No. I've seen you through a lot."
"Shut up when I'm trying to be comforting, you ungrateful bastard."
"I can take care of myself."
"Then why did you call me over? You can't even make a cup of tea."
"Why would I want to?"
The argument went on, all of it irrelevant. It was easier than trying to find an area of conversation which didn't provoke either argument or painful memories. Alfred watched as Arthur wound a bandage around his arm and found, to his surprise, that he welcomed the excuse the argument gave for spending time together. He had forgotten the last time he'd felt smaller than anyone, and didn't intend for it to happen again any time soon, but as they said, it was lonely at the top. Sometimes, in his darker moments, he missed the days when he could rely on England for help, rather than providing it. It had been so long since he was able to sit, peaceful and undisturbed, with Arthur. Far too long.
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This was adorable, thank you so much. I loved how Arthur is still a bit of a dork in this situation.
Tea wasn't a drink, it was an art form. The Warming of the Teapot, the Pouring of the Milk, the Presentation of the Biscuits. Every step was integral to the production of a good cup of tea.
♥ ♥ ♥
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