No, no, it isn't all right. [1c/?]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 08:28:14 UTC
He doesn't know how long it's been since he left, has the meeting started, are they looking for him - then again, that's the furthest from England's mind right now.
England is in an empty, abandoned hallway; hotel-styled, but there is no chatter. It's quiet. He's sitting against the wall, knees curled up against his chest.
The only thing on his mind is the greasy texture of the burger, the patty inside, slick with oil and other fats, mixed with the taste of vegetables and ketchup, the salt of his tears lightly strengthening the taste. It's disgusting against his senses, but he eats it anyway, he eats that and the fries too.
It reminds him of America and how he always ate this food.
How he always enjoyed it, always smiled when he ate it. It made him happy.
Odd, it doesn't really seem to work for England.
Then again, it doesn't seem to work for America anymore either. Maybe the magic wore off.
Maybe that's why he's still crying even though this food always made America happy. It doesn't make him happy - yes, perhaps it was some spell, and he's gotten the food too late so now it doesn't make him or England happy anymore.
Or he's just too sad to be happy.
He's been so sad like this for a while. It wasn't that long ago that they found America.
Found him in his house, buried in papers and an uncounted amount of coffee cups.
Or rather, they found the body of what America was.
[A/N: And...~! End Part 1! LOL THIS IS ACTUALLY THE OP OF THE ORIGINAL PROMPT. But this idea was too good to pass up! I love writing about broken (emotionally or mentally) characters, so I couldn't resist. Plus, technically, this isn't my prompt, so. :DD
I hope this is what the OP of this prompt was looking for;;;;. I kinda read over the prompt again and I think I went off tangent in this one, but do not fret! The next part kinda goes back into the time, nearly directly after the incident. Until then, I hope you enjoy. orz.
fjdsgjksj why did I write this. I have too many fills to finish. -LOL GOES TO CONTINUE OTHER FILLS- ]
Re: No, no, it isn't all right. [1c/?]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 08:48:10 UTC
This is the artist!anon and the OP of this prompt (so complicated XD)
OH MY LORD. THIS IS... THIS... WHY AM I FEELING SO SORRY FOR YOU DESPITE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE, ARTHUR?
Dear OP/writer!anon, this is BEAUTIFUL. The way you described the scenes and emotions, I can just SEE them in my mind's eyes. When I realized that Arthur was crying and eating the burger, I have TEARS in my eyes. REAL TEARS. I am not just saying it. Your writing is absolutely amazing; thank you VERY much for writing this and I can't wait for more.
And no, you did not go off tangent. THIS IS PERFECT. BETTER THAN PERFECT.
Excuse the abusive use of cap, I cannot THINK right now.
P.S. No one saw that de-anon! (Why do I keep doing that damnit) P.P.S. recaptcha: THE past (yes with the cap)
No, no, it isn't all right. [2a/?]
anonymous
July 15 2009, 00:56:28 UTC
England still remembers when they went. It was him, France, and Canada. “You guys have been around him almost all his life.” was their reason to look for America, who missed two meetings in a row. It was unusual for him, who so rarely grew ill. That and, when you can't attend a meeting, you're obliged to call someone who is attending to notify everyone. America didn't call anyone.
He can recall with burning and miserable clarity when they knocked, but no one answered no matter how many times they would call out for him.
The Briton can relive the day, relive the day they found America dead. It wasn't so long ago.
How could he forget?
France knocked against the door; “Amerique, open the door! Surely you're there!” He said. Canada and England waited quietly, before Canada nervously grabbed hold of France's arm.
“I... um, I think I know where he hides his keys. I don't know if he changed it.” The younger curly blond stated, and France nodded, and Canada motioned for him to step out of the way. France moved a few steps back on cobblestone floor with England and Canada bent down, pulling some of the rocks with his fingers to see if they move. After a few tries, a rock is lifted and under, a silver pair of house keys.
“That's surprisingly clever for someone like America.” England noted, and Canada nodded in reply. He gingerly placed the rock back down in it's place and unlocked the doorway to America's household.
They walked in; it was dark, as if it were night, but it was only noon or so. With the blinds closed, the only penetrating light was the buzz of a television, displaying the news. Their attention caught in that direction immediately, they strode over.
England sometimes wishes he didn't.
In fact, he wishes he hadn't agreed to come see if America was okay.
Obviously, he was not. Figures he wouldn't be; it wasn't so long ago that they hurt him like that. England finds it strange that he would think this way, pained that he actually believed America would get back on his feet, healed, perfect and always be the crisp youth they saw him as.
Newspapers splayed around him, paperwork scattered about in a white mess - how ironic and terribly nostalgic - the cans of beer, shot glasses, bottles of empty wine and champagne and a mess of coffee mugs, broken and not, and in the middle, America.
Texas was crooked on the bridge of his nose, half covered by the newspapers, acting as if they were some sort of blanket.
“A... America!” England was the first to speak, rushed to his former colony's side instantly, ignoring the shattered glass and stench which, if England's mind was not occupied with concern over America, would have cringed visibly at.
No, no, it isn't all right. [2b/?]
anonymous
July 15 2009, 00:57:29 UTC
“Alfred!” Canada followed suit, and both he and France bent down, kneeling across from England, who had his hand buried under America's head, in his once-golden hair. He's pale, reflecting blue from the color of the TV. France got up and switched the lights on, and they came to realize how he looks.
The lack of sunlight, it seemed, had left him dull with a sickly complexion. It was like it had stolen his youth; his hair began growing closer to white then vibrant gold. His skin was clearly thinner, and all he clutched in his hand was a pen, which England presumed he was desperately trying to do his paper work.
They dragged him to his bed upstairs, placed on the middle with the blankets snug around him. “I'll go make some soup.” France said, and Canada nervously followed, afraid of the tension in the room.
England sat there on America's bed, beside him, looked at America's face closely. He seemed to be sagging, his skin; lack of water, England figured. He runs his fingers across America's cheek and notices how much colder its become. England's lips curled into a deep frown, and he knew his voice would crack when he spoke and it would be humiliating, but he spoke anyway.
“... America?” No excited reply, “Hey... A-America?” He stuttered, touches the cheek again, but there is nothing to look back in his eyes.
He grabbed hold of that hand, a hand an elderly man would have. “Hey, America... You git, you should wake up soon. How long have you been asleep?” It's not hard for England to remember how much it seemed like he was speaking with a man who'd already passed away.
“Why haven't you been coming to the meetings? We were looking for you.” England remembers when he sat beside America, remembers when he thought so hard, prayed so hard; America, please answer. America. pleaded in his mind, prayed to whoever is out there watching over him, a deity, a spirit, anyone; “You should be more... responsible, you wanker...” His voice cracked by then.
Instead of stopping, England rambled on, “I'm sure no one would mind just notifying us you won't come. W-We got worried.” He hated that he had begun crying by then, “I was worried too. I-I thought you were ill. Why didn't you call me, at least?”
Even then, England knew the answer to that question. Of course he wouldn't call England, he hadn't called anyone since the time they punished him. In fact, England isn't surprised he refused to call everyone and anyone.
Still, England wished, and still does, that America would have called him; would have trusted him and called just to say he can't attend the World Meeting.
Just to show England there was still a bond, still something linking them together - something that England could have called a relationship.
There's nothing though; not then, not now.
“America, are you listening?” He wiped away the hot tears pricking his green eyes, “I'm s-scolding you... Git... Wake up and listen...” England hoped, hoped America would wake up; they say people who sleep can still hear you, so he pulled America's head off the pillow and onto his lap, sifting his gloved fingers through that hair, hair which was once gold and had become pale corn-colored; it still is.
No, no, it isn't all right. [2c/?]
anonymous
July 15 2009, 01:00:48 UTC
“Do you hate me, America?” Of course he does.
“I'm sorry, America.” He wouldn't care.
“Are you okay, America?” He's obviously not. “I'll help you, okay?”
England found his other hand gripping the bedsheets, tears now so clearly falling, spilling onto America's cheeks. “I'll help you, I swear.”
He swore on his pride as a nation he will, swore that he will because this is his fault, this is what he did to America, he's the one that robbed his smile, robbed his youth, took everything that could have made him happy and stepped on it like it was the dirt under his shoes.
There's a moment passing, England constantly muttering how he will fix that, how he's sorry, how he'll help America because he loves him.
England bent down and pressed his lips to America, slowly and softly, took his ghostly thin and cold hand in his.
“There, now it's a promise.”
He gulped, continued talking, continued the sweet nothings that he prayed America could hear; “A-And when you're all better, we'll go out somewhere, okay? I'll show you English amusement parks. I think you'll like that. We can go watch your movies too. Maybe I'll try coffee because you like it. And then I'll learn to make hamburgers for you, okay?”
His voice is cracking.
It sounded so weak, so vulnerable.
England held that hand against his cheek, against the warmth of his skin and the tears that stained his face; pressed it there, America's cold hand against his face and said, “And I'm sure after that, you'll be better... Then you won't be like this. You'll be warm, again. You'll be full of life and liberty and freedom; the part of you I always loved the most.”
Even now, even as he looks back on that, he doesn't know whatever America wants that love now.
He probably doesn't.
England likes to think that he can repair what went wrong though, that they can fall in love again.
So he chooses to delude himself, live in the fantasy that has a happy ending.
[A/N: ;AAA;''' I don't really like this one that much. I think it's cause I'm not very good at writing in past tense, but I hope this is okay, orz. It was kinda hard to write and incorporate the feelings because I'm so used to present tense. P-Please enjoy anyway.]
Re: No, no, it isn't all right. [2c/?]
anonymous
July 15 2009, 02:23:16 UTC
I'm choking up but i'm trying not to tear up. I'm so glad this chapter came! I was waiting for it and for making me come close to tears, it was worth the wait. Please Continue soon, i really can't wait for the next chapter.
OP of this prompt
anonymous
July 15 2009, 10:11:16 UTC
MY HEART.
Anon, I felt like my heart has just been ripped out.
On one hand I wanted to sneer at England because, well, "so sorry for raping you" is just... COME ON. I LOVE how they acted like they had no idea what was wrong when they visited America *roll eyes*
On the other hand, I could not help but feel sorry for England, because the way you wrote him... I can READ his sincerity and his pain.
Re: No, no, it isn't all right. [2c/?]
anonymous
July 15 2009, 14:21:21 UTC
God, this chapter made me tear up more than the first one! I love your writing... you're very good at showing raw emotion in your writing (I personally, am jealous of you). I hope the next part comes soon, I really want to read it.
Re: No, no, it isn't all right. [2c/?]
anonymous
July 16 2009, 21:26:49 UTC
One thing I really, really love about this fill (aside from the amazing, cathartic way it's written, of course) is your take on the prompt. While most people interpret 'punishment' as some sort of physical punishment and/or torture of some sort, I love how you turned the idea on its head and turned America's hollow, 'dead' state after the incident into a sort of 'punishment' for the other nations, especially England. So kudos for thinking outside the box and for this fantastic piece of work. I'm eagerly anticipating more!
Re: No, no, it isn't all right. [1c/?]
anonymous
July 16 2009, 02:12:03 UTC
I guess I'm in the minority on this, but I kind of think Arthur is an asshole for thinking that a bag of fast food will make up for conspiring as well as participating in the rape of someone. It's really well-written and I love that Arthur feels badly, but I cant' help hoping he'll really reflect on what he did at some point instead of just crying over how America doesn't smile like he used to...
Well, it's not really he thinks that McDonalds will heal Alfred. At that point, they just know Alfred has changed. Arthur is just upset he hasn't Alfred smile once while doing normal things they did. So he's trying to give things Alfred would have liked to see if it makes a difference is all.
England is in an empty, abandoned hallway; hotel-styled, but there is no chatter. It's quiet. He's sitting against the wall, knees curled up against his chest.
The only thing on his mind is the greasy texture of the burger, the patty inside, slick with oil and other fats, mixed with the taste of vegetables and ketchup, the salt of his tears lightly strengthening the taste. It's disgusting against his senses, but he eats it anyway, he eats that and the fries too.
It reminds him of America and how he always ate this food.
How he always enjoyed it, always smiled when he ate it. It made him happy.
Odd, it doesn't really seem to work for England.
Then again, it doesn't seem to work for America anymore either. Maybe the magic wore off.
Maybe that's why he's still crying even though this food always made America happy. It doesn't make him happy - yes, perhaps it was some spell, and he's gotten the food too late so now it doesn't make him or England happy anymore.
Or he's just too sad to be happy.
He's been so sad like this for a while. It wasn't that long ago that they found America.
Found him in his house, buried in papers and an uncounted amount of coffee cups.
Or rather, they found the body of what America was.
[A/N: And...~! End Part 1! LOL THIS IS ACTUALLY THE OP OF THE ORIGINAL PROMPT. But this idea was too good to pass up! I love writing about broken (emotionally or mentally) characters, so I couldn't resist. Plus, technically, this isn't my prompt, so. :DD
I hope this is what the OP of this prompt was looking for;;;;. I kinda read over the prompt again and I think I went off tangent in this one, but do not fret! The next part kinda goes back into the time, nearly directly after the incident. Until then, I hope you enjoy. orz.
fjdsgjksj why did I write this.
I have too many fills to finish. -LOL GOES TO CONTINUE OTHER FILLS- ]
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OH MY LORD. THIS IS... THIS... WHY AM I FEELING SO SORRY FOR YOU DESPITE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE, ARTHUR?
Dear OP/writer!anon, this is BEAUTIFUL. The way you described the scenes and emotions, I can just SEE them in my mind's eyes. When I realized that Arthur was crying and eating the burger, I have TEARS in my eyes. REAL TEARS. I am not just saying it. Your writing is absolutely amazing; thank you VERY much for writing this and I can't wait for more.
And no, you did not go off tangent. THIS IS PERFECT. BETTER THAN PERFECT.
Excuse the abusive use of cap, I cannot THINK right now.
P.S. No one saw that de-anon! (Why do I keep doing that damnit)
P.P.S. recaptcha: THE past (yes with the cap)
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recaptcha: FRANCE thighs, ohohoho
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Although it is kind of his fault, I feel so bad for him...
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I'm looking forward to seeing where you're going with this.
::bookmarks::
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He can recall with burning and miserable clarity when they knocked, but no one answered no matter how many times they would call out for him.
The Briton can relive the day, relive the day they found America dead. It wasn't so long ago.
How could he forget?
France knocked against the door; “Amerique, open the door! Surely you're there!” He said. Canada and England waited quietly, before Canada nervously grabbed hold of France's arm.
“I... um, I think I know where he hides his keys. I don't know if he changed it.” The younger curly blond stated, and France nodded, and Canada motioned for him to step out of the way. France moved a few steps back on cobblestone floor with England and Canada bent down, pulling some of the rocks with his fingers to see if they move. After a few tries, a rock is lifted and under, a silver pair of house keys.
“That's surprisingly clever for someone like America.” England noted, and Canada nodded in reply. He gingerly placed the rock back down in it's place and unlocked the doorway to America's household.
They walked in; it was dark, as if it were night, but it was only noon or so. With the blinds closed, the only penetrating light was the buzz of a television, displaying the news. Their attention caught in that direction immediately, they strode over.
England sometimes wishes he didn't.
In fact, he wishes he hadn't agreed to come see if America was okay.
Obviously, he was not. Figures he wouldn't be; it wasn't so long ago that they hurt him like that. England finds it strange that he would think this way, pained that he actually believed America would get back on his feet, healed, perfect and always be the crisp youth they saw him as.
Newspapers splayed around him, paperwork scattered about in a white mess - how ironic and terribly nostalgic - the cans of beer, shot glasses, bottles of empty wine and champagne and a mess of coffee mugs, broken and not, and in the middle, America.
Texas was crooked on the bridge of his nose, half covered by the newspapers, acting as if they were some sort of blanket.
“A... America!” England was the first to speak, rushed to his former colony's side instantly, ignoring the shattered glass and stench which, if England's mind was not occupied with concern over America, would have cringed visibly at.
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The lack of sunlight, it seemed, had left him dull with a sickly complexion. It was like it had stolen his youth; his hair began growing closer to white then vibrant gold. His skin was clearly thinner, and all he clutched in his hand was a pen, which England presumed he was desperately trying to do his paper work.
They dragged him to his bed upstairs, placed on the middle with the blankets snug around him. “I'll go make some soup.” France said, and Canada nervously followed, afraid of the tension in the room.
England sat there on America's bed, beside him, looked at America's face closely. He seemed to be sagging, his skin; lack of water, England figured. He runs his fingers across America's cheek and notices how much colder its become. England's lips curled into a deep frown, and he knew his voice would crack when he spoke and it would be humiliating, but he spoke anyway.
“... America?” No excited reply, “Hey... A-America?” He stuttered, touches the cheek again, but there is nothing to look back in his eyes.
He grabbed hold of that hand, a hand an elderly man would have. “Hey, America... You git, you should wake up soon. How long have you been asleep?” It's not hard for England to remember how much it seemed like he was speaking with a man who'd already passed away.
“Why haven't you been coming to the meetings? We were looking for you.” England remembers when he sat beside America, remembers when he thought so hard, prayed so hard; America, please answer. America. pleaded in his mind, prayed to whoever is out there watching over him, a deity, a spirit, anyone; “You should be more... responsible, you wanker...” His voice cracked by then.
Instead of stopping, England rambled on, “I'm sure no one would mind just notifying us you won't come. W-We got worried.” He hated that he had begun crying by then, “I was worried too. I-I thought you were ill. Why didn't you call me, at least?”
Even then, England knew the answer to that question. Of course he wouldn't call England, he hadn't called anyone since the time they punished him. In fact, England isn't surprised he refused to call everyone and anyone.
Still, England wished, and still does, that America would have called him; would have trusted him and called just to say he can't attend the World Meeting.
Just to show England there was still a bond, still something linking them together - something that England could have called a relationship.
There's nothing though; not then, not now.
“America, are you listening?” He wiped away the hot tears pricking his green eyes, “I'm s-scolding you... Git... Wake up and listen...” England hoped, hoped America would wake up; they say people who sleep can still hear you, so he pulled America's head off the pillow and onto his lap, sifting his gloved fingers through that hair, hair which was once gold and had become pale corn-colored; it still is.
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“I'm sorry, America.” He wouldn't care.
“Are you okay, America?” He's obviously not. “I'll help you, okay?”
England found his other hand gripping the bedsheets, tears now so clearly falling, spilling onto America's cheeks. “I'll help you, I swear.”
He swore on his pride as a nation he will, swore that he will because this is his fault, this is what he did to America, he's the one that robbed his smile, robbed his youth, took everything that could have made him happy and stepped on it like it was the dirt under his shoes.
There's a moment passing, England constantly muttering how he will fix that, how he's sorry, how he'll help America because he loves him.
England bent down and pressed his lips to America, slowly and softly, took his ghostly thin and cold hand in his.
“There, now it's a promise.”
He gulped, continued talking, continued the sweet nothings that he prayed America could hear; “A-And when you're all better, we'll go out somewhere, okay? I'll show you English amusement parks. I think you'll like that. We can go watch your movies too. Maybe I'll try coffee because you like it. And then I'll learn to make hamburgers for you, okay?”
His voice is cracking.
It sounded so weak, so vulnerable.
England held that hand against his cheek, against the warmth of his skin and the tears that stained his face; pressed it there, America's cold hand against his face and said, “And I'm sure after that, you'll be better... Then you won't be like this. You'll be warm, again. You'll be full of life and liberty and freedom; the part of you I always loved the most.”
Even now, even as he looks back on that, he doesn't know whatever America wants that love now.
He probably doesn't.
England likes to think that he can repair what went wrong though, that they can fall in love again.
So he chooses to delude himself, live in the fantasy that has a happy ending.
[A/N: ;AAA;''' I don't really like this one that much. I think it's cause I'm not very good at writing in past tense, but I hope this is okay, orz. It was kinda hard to write and incorporate the feelings because I'm so used to present tense. P-Please enjoy anyway.]
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Poor Alfred ;_;
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Anon, I felt like my heart has just been ripped out.
On one hand I wanted to sneer at England because, well, "so sorry for raping you" is just... COME ON. I LOVE how they acted like they had no idea what was wrong when they visited America *roll eyes*
On the other hand, I could not help but feel sorry for England, because the way you wrote him... I can READ his sincerity and his pain.
Now I am torn.
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And I think we all agree that writer!anon is wonderful... this far far far exceeded my expectation!!! Can't wait for the next chapter!
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