[Axis Powers Hetalia] A Gathering of Dust (America-centric)
Title: A Gathering of Dust
Author/Artist: halflight007/lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): US/UK
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, trauma, heroic BSOD, YMMV characterization, dealings with the 9/11 attacks
Summary: Alfred tries to hide himself away; Arthur will not let him. Done for mithrigil’s Whatever Happened to Alfred Jones? for hetalia_remix.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back. The original fanfic was written by mithrigil.
Author’s Notes: I encourage everyone to go and read the original, because it’s….really something else, and quite good. This is written from Alfred’s PoV, with special emphasis on the last scene of the story. Also puella_nerdii, thank you so much for your beta work.
___
31 December, 2001
7:30 AM
The alarm explodes into staccato harsh blares somewhere upstairs. The dim morning light begins to wash the wall with gray. The air stinks with the stench of rotting burger, a parody of morning bacon.
Alfred doesn’t move. Hasn’t. Not for a while. America doesn’t need to eat or sleep or drink.
So he sits there, feeling the wounds festering under his shirt, and doesn’t move. Just sits, watches the specks of dust float about in the growing light.
The alarm turns itself off after an hour; the scent of rot remains, waltzing in the air with the specks of dust.
8:46 AM
When the sunlight grows strong enough to cast shadows on the mountains of mail and packages outside his house, Alfred remembers.
hamburgers for lunch that day whistling smiling listening to music on the radio and feeling pretty damn good about the world until his gut contracted and he coughed and why was there blood on his hand why why why why
Alfred shivers, curls in on himself, so that no part of his body will touch the edges of the shadow. Because if he acknowledges even that little piece, that small bit, he thinks the strength in his muscles will wither and they’ll drain themselves dry.
9:03 AM
not again not again not again no no no and alfred has collapsed and is bleeding on the floor, and even though it’s tile it’ll be a bitch to clean up
Alfred hasn’t touched those stains since that day. Hasn’t gone anywhere near the kitchen. Tells the ache in his stomach to shut the fuck up, that eating isn’t necessary, but a luxury.
He stays statue-still, so that the shadows won’t grab him.
But the rust-colored shadows crusted on the kitchen tiles haven’t let him go.
9:37 AM
He does not remember anything that followed after he fell.
But his body does; the wounds throb beneath his shirt. It takes him a moment to realize he’s been clawing at the scabs. It takes another moment for him to be thankful that his shirt is dark. Blood stains are a bitch to get out, one way or another.
11:30 AM
Right on time, Alfred hears a car pull up, an engine coughing to a stop. Alfred is not small, but he tries to be tiny, invisible, when footsteps pound up onto his porch.
Ding-dong. Rise and fall.
I’m here.
Alfred pretends he’s anywhere but here as the silhouette of his brother goes about tending the columns of cards and packages - artifacts of pity, the evidence of his weakness.
(laughing they should be laughing why aren’t they laughing)
12:57 PM
Josefina should be coming right…about…now.
“Hola, brother!”
“A-ah…hi, Mexico.”
“Any movement?”
Pause.
“I’m starting to think he’s not here.”
Silence.
“Well, his grass will not take care of itself.”
The sound of the lawnmower grates on Alfred’s ears. But if he moves to tell Josefina to knock it off, he’ll have to expose himself to a world that will laugh at his fall.
2:23 PM
Ding-dong.
I’m here, Alfred. I’m here.
I know, Alfred thinks. And I’m waiting until you aren’t.
4:06 PM
Ring. Ring. Ri -
“Hey, what’s up, this is America! Guess I can say you’ve reached me! Can’t get to the phone right now, though, but if you leave a message you can bet I’ll get back to you soon as I can. Unless you’re Russia. In which case you should stop calling. Here’s the tone, go ahead, leave a message.”
Beep.
“Al...it’s me again. I’m…haha, I guess you’re getting pretty sick of me calling, aren’t you?
“Anyway…Sorry about the scratches on the side of your house. Kumajirou was getting jealous, I think. I took him to a pet store on my way home yesterday and threatened to sell them to the lady if he didn’t behave…he ended up getting kicked out ‘cause he tried to catch some of the beta fish in the pet tanks. …She didn’t see me, though. Thank God for small favors, eh?
“…Listen…come home soon, okay? Just - even - give me a call when you decide to come back. Then I’ll be able to arrange everything so you can see how much everyone misses you.
“…Alfred. Alfred, I -”
Beep.
7:13 PM
The sound of a door slamming jolts Alfred back to himself. Was he daydreaming? He can’t afford to daydream. If he daydreams -
An engine purrs to life; tires roll over stray bits of asphalt as a car drives away into the night.
Alfred trembles as the tentative echoes of don’t go don’t go plead through his chest for the first time since they collided with me and tore me apart and why I’m the hero why why why
Hecurls into himself. The house is hot. Sweat trickles in rivulets down his cheeks.
10:30 PM
Alfred’s made it this far in the day without piercing the safe, delicate little bubble, and his muscles relax just a little. He’ll be all right. He’ll -
“Happy New Year, Alfred!”
That bubble pops; the door snaps open, thuds against the opposite wall in a way that pierces Alfred’s eardrums, makes his hands fly up to his ears, no, his head, as the world floods into his house in a little square of light with a shadow of someone standing there no. No no no no -
Alfred shrinks away from it with a whimper. But when he tries to scramble away from shaggy hair and green eyes, he no longer has the strength. Weak. Too weak to do anything, let alone show himself to the world.
Arthur crouches down, lifts a hand; Alfred tries to flinch away with a hitching breath.
“…You certainly look a mess,” is all Arthur says. He lifts a finger, traces it down Alfred’s cheek. Alfred realizes that it’s the path of his tears.
Arthur’s pointer finger comes away blackened with grime - and dust. He looks at the dust on Arthur’s finger - the dust that he thinks got stuck in his eyes in times he did not blink. And he senses, now, the rotting meat poisoning his air; his couch, his armchair, the television and Gamecube coated with enough dust to fill an entire hand.
With a sick jerk in his stomach, Alfred realizes his own loneliness. Realizes that dust does not count as a companion.
And this knowledge is the stray thread, pulled away with a steady, unraveling tug.
It is what sends him sobbing into Arthur’s arms, into that little square of light that. And that square frames the photograph exposing Alfred to the world once more.
___
Endnotes: Sorry I haven’t been around much, lately - life has been…odd. But I wanted to get this up for the Remix Challenge before I forget and deadline passes, or something equally embarrassing. Thank you so much to Mithrigil for letting me remix her awesome work, and to miaoujones for hosting the challenge!
Author/Artist: halflight007/lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): US/UK
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, trauma, heroic BSOD, YMMV characterization, dealings with the 9/11 attacks
Summary: Alfred tries to hide himself away; Arthur will not let him. Done for mithrigil’s Whatever Happened to Alfred Jones? for hetalia_remix.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back. The original fanfic was written by mithrigil.
Author’s Notes: I encourage everyone to go and read the original, because it’s….really something else, and quite good. This is written from Alfred’s PoV, with special emphasis on the last scene of the story. Also puella_nerdii, thank you so much for your beta work.
___
31 December, 2001
7:30 AM
The alarm explodes into staccato harsh blares somewhere upstairs. The dim morning light begins to wash the wall with gray. The air stinks with the stench of rotting burger, a parody of morning bacon.
Alfred doesn’t move. Hasn’t. Not for a while. America doesn’t need to eat or sleep or drink.
So he sits there, feeling the wounds festering under his shirt, and doesn’t move. Just sits, watches the specks of dust float about in the growing light.
The alarm turns itself off after an hour; the scent of rot remains, waltzing in the air with the specks of dust.
8:46 AM
When the sunlight grows strong enough to cast shadows on the mountains of mail and packages outside his house, Alfred remembers.
hamburgers for lunch that day whistling smiling listening to music on the radio and feeling pretty damn good about the world until his gut contracted and he coughed and why was there blood on his hand why why why why
Alfred shivers, curls in on himself, so that no part of his body will touch the edges of the shadow. Because if he acknowledges even that little piece, that small bit, he thinks the strength in his muscles will wither and they’ll drain themselves dry.
9:03 AM
not again not again not again no no no and alfred has collapsed and is bleeding on the floor, and even though it’s tile it’ll be a bitch to clean up
Alfred hasn’t touched those stains since that day. Hasn’t gone anywhere near the kitchen. Tells the ache in his stomach to shut the fuck up, that eating isn’t necessary, but a luxury.
He stays statue-still, so that the shadows won’t grab him.
But the rust-colored shadows crusted on the kitchen tiles haven’t let him go.
9:37 AM
He does not remember anything that followed after he fell.
But his body does; the wounds throb beneath his shirt. It takes him a moment to realize he’s been clawing at the scabs. It takes another moment for him to be thankful that his shirt is dark. Blood stains are a bitch to get out, one way or another.
11:30 AM
Right on time, Alfred hears a car pull up, an engine coughing to a stop. Alfred is not small, but he tries to be tiny, invisible, when footsteps pound up onto his porch.
Ding-dong. Rise and fall.
I’m here.
Alfred pretends he’s anywhere but here as the silhouette of his brother goes about tending the columns of cards and packages - artifacts of pity, the evidence of his weakness.
(laughing they should be laughing why aren’t they laughing)
12:57 PM
Josefina should be coming right…about…now.
“Hola, brother!”
“A-ah…hi, Mexico.”
“Any movement?”
Pause.
“I’m starting to think he’s not here.”
Silence.
“Well, his grass will not take care of itself.”
The sound of the lawnmower grates on Alfred’s ears. But if he moves to tell Josefina to knock it off, he’ll have to expose himself to a world that will laugh at his fall.
2:23 PM
Ding-dong.
I’m here, Alfred. I’m here.
I know, Alfred thinks. And I’m waiting until you aren’t.
4:06 PM
Ring. Ring. Ri -
“Hey, what’s up, this is America! Guess I can say you’ve reached me! Can’t get to the phone right now, though, but if you leave a message you can bet I’ll get back to you soon as I can. Unless you’re Russia. In which case you should stop calling. Here’s the tone, go ahead, leave a message.”
Beep.
“Al...it’s me again. I’m…haha, I guess you’re getting pretty sick of me calling, aren’t you?
“Anyway…Sorry about the scratches on the side of your house. Kumajirou was getting jealous, I think. I took him to a pet store on my way home yesterday and threatened to sell them to the lady if he didn’t behave…he ended up getting kicked out ‘cause he tried to catch some of the beta fish in the pet tanks. …She didn’t see me, though. Thank God for small favors, eh?
“…Listen…come home soon, okay? Just - even - give me a call when you decide to come back. Then I’ll be able to arrange everything so you can see how much everyone misses you.
“…Alfred. Alfred, I -”
Beep.
7:13 PM
The sound of a door slamming jolts Alfred back to himself. Was he daydreaming? He can’t afford to daydream. If he daydreams -
An engine purrs to life; tires roll over stray bits of asphalt as a car drives away into the night.
Alfred trembles as the tentative echoes of don’t go don’t go plead through his chest for the first time since they collided with me and tore me apart and why I’m the hero why why why
Hecurls into himself. The house is hot. Sweat trickles in rivulets down his cheeks.
10:30 PM
Alfred’s made it this far in the day without piercing the safe, delicate little bubble, and his muscles relax just a little. He’ll be all right. He’ll -
“Happy New Year, Alfred!”
That bubble pops; the door snaps open, thuds against the opposite wall in a way that pierces Alfred’s eardrums, makes his hands fly up to his ears, no, his head, as the world floods into his house in a little square of light with a shadow of someone standing there no. No no no no -
Alfred shrinks away from it with a whimper. But when he tries to scramble away from shaggy hair and green eyes, he no longer has the strength. Weak. Too weak to do anything, let alone show himself to the world.
Arthur crouches down, lifts a hand; Alfred tries to flinch away with a hitching breath.
“…You certainly look a mess,” is all Arthur says. He lifts a finger, traces it down Alfred’s cheek. Alfred realizes that it’s the path of his tears.
Arthur’s pointer finger comes away blackened with grime - and dust. He looks at the dust on Arthur’s finger - the dust that he thinks got stuck in his eyes in times he did not blink. And he senses, now, the rotting meat poisoning his air; his couch, his armchair, the television and Gamecube coated with enough dust to fill an entire hand.
With a sick jerk in his stomach, Alfred realizes his own loneliness. Realizes that dust does not count as a companion.
And this knowledge is the stray thread, pulled away with a steady, unraveling tug.
It is what sends him sobbing into Arthur’s arms, into that little square of light that. And that square frames the photograph exposing Alfred to the world once more.
___
Endnotes: Sorry I haven’t been around much, lately - life has been…odd. But I wanted to get this up for the Remix Challenge before I forget and deadline passes, or something equally embarrassing. Thank you so much to Mithrigil for letting me remix her awesome work, and to miaoujones for hosting the challenge!