011
Title: The Vanishing [part i of ii]
Rating: T
Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers
Pairings: USUK [Alfred/Arthur]
Word Count: ~5434
Warnings: cursing, mentions of sexual situations
Notes: I take far too much inspiration from Stars songs. Might make a small FST of sorts with the song that inspired this, as well as other songs that I listened to while writing to pair along with the full piece.
Summary: 11 conferences, 22 flights, and the 4 years that settle between them.
The Vanishing
part i
----
August 15, Newark Liberty International to Detroit Metro
It's 2:47 in the morning when the plane touches down, and his arm has fallen numb, so much so that he doesn't realize the fingers interlaced with his own are only a lingering memory of his dream until he lifts his eyes from the orange-lit landing strip. The window fogs with each heavy breath he takes, his reflection in the darkened plexiglass reveals mussed hair and sleep-crusted eyes behind crooked glasses. He licks dry lips, picks himself up from the seat, and falls in line behind the other passengers. He tries to ignore the fact that his fingers are still idly clenching and unclenching, as if they are still looking for the hand he knows was never there.
It's 2:48 in Detroit Metro Airport.
----
November 16th, Tokyo Narita International to BAA Heathrow
His shoes feel too cramped, though it may just be the claustrophobia setting in. With an experimental wriggle of his toes, Arthur convinces himself that there is in fact room for all ten. Still, the cloying sense of claustrophobia lingers in his joints. He toes the right shoe off first, then the left, hopes that his shoes don't smell too terrible after a full day's worth of travel, then turns his attention back to the window.
The man in 14B catches his attention with a muted, choked sob. His arms are crossed over his chest, clasping the lapels of his blazer in a white-knuckled grip. Head bowed and glasses slipping down his nose, he looks like any other passenger.
It's 11:29 Tokyo time. He still hasn't reset his watch.
The man starts again, and this time there's a spot of wetness at the corners of his clenched eyes. His thick, black eyebrows are furrowed as if in anger, but the gentle flush in his cheeks and the now wet trails of tears that trace the frame of his face tell otherwise. There's a tan line on his left hand where a ring should be, but isn't.
The man in 14B cries silently in his sleep
Arthur looks away before he can feel himself do the same.
The window feels cool against his forehead. He stretches his feet out as far as he dares and closes his eyes.
----
August 14th, Newark Liberty International to Athens International
The inflight movie turns off suddenly, and Alfred can't stop the childish whine of protest that escapes his lips. Blue flickers across the tiny monitor in front of him, then static, blue again, and then a map of the Mediterranean springs to life. The plane hovers just beyond Sicily and at the edge of the screen, a star indicating Athens. The timer says half an hour more, though experience tells him 45.
Fingers splay across the tray in front of him, quivering slightly as they stretch. His remote won't come free from the arm rest, so he awkwardly attempts to punch the buttons to change the channel, but each channel is the same pixilated map.
With a sigh, he wrangles out his backpack from underneath the seat in front of him and spills its contents across the tray. It takes a short while of digging through the comic books and sports magazines before he finds the files he's looking for. He's never been so thankful for the empty space beside him as he dumps the extra items haphazardly into the empty seat before opening the manilla folder and flipping through the loose leaf pages. The file reads Solving the European Crisis of the Euro. Greece is hosting this year.
He cards a hand through his hair and, with a long, haggard sigh, delves into the file. As he flips the folder open, he catches the face of his watch out of the corner of his eye: 12:52 pm. He set it before he left, was so proud of himself that he remembered.
The intercom breathes static as he plugs his mp3 player in.
----
August 9th, BAA Heathrow to Oslo Airport Gardermoen
He enjoys taking the economy class flights every so often instead of the private jets like all of the others. There's something calming about being away from the other nations where he can spend his time like the 23 year old that he appears to be.
Usually.
For you see, usually he sits comfortably in his respective aisle--with the window seat, of course--and plugs headphones into his ears and pretends to listen to music. There's never anything playing, he never really plugs the jack in, because he prefers to listen to the idle conversations of the other passengers instead. Piecing together stories from the small details they let slip. The crying children don't even bother him that much any more. The whole experience is, to him, a way to unwind and relax.
Well, usually.
Because this time, as he makes his way to Oslo, seats 11B and 11C are occupied by Richard and his girlfriend Hannah. They do not talk, don't even seem to notice him, because they are too engrossed in each other to care about the English chap beside them. He only assumes these names because of the tags on the carry-ons he helped stow away in the overhead compartment earlier.
Hannah lets out a pleased murmur and nuzzles her face further into Richard's shoulder. Richard pulls the blanket higher up over their closely pressed together bodies. The armrest between them has been put up so there is nothing separating one from the other.
She has one headphone in her left ear. He has one in his right. She curls fingers in his striped oxford. He kisses the top of her head and whispers something into her hair. She smiles. So does he.
Arthur scoffs silently to himself and turns back to the window. He plugs his headphones into the armrest and smooth jazz begins to play. Though his face reflects nonchalance in the plexiglass, he swallows the growing lump of jealousy in his throat and tries to pretend he doesn't feel his eyes begin to prickle.
----
April 20th, Amsterdam Airport Schiphol to JFK International
The plane departs from Amsterdam Airport Schiphol at 11:40 pm.
Though the conference was only a few days, Alfred can feel that he has already grown accustom to Netherlands' time zone, so at 12:38 am, he surrenders to his sagging eyelids and lets sleep overtake him.
At 2:40 am, he wakes up with a sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead, ragged, shallow breathing, and a nauseating sense of dread burbling in his stomach.
By 2:46 am, he's got one hand clenched between his teeth and the other wrapped tightly around his half-hard cock. He beats himself off at an almost painful rhythm in the cramped airplane bathroom and hopes he has a band-aid in his carry-on, because he can feel the skin on the back of his hand breaking under the force of his teeth.
And at 3:01 am, he's shuffled his way back into his seat, eternally grateful for the aisle seat and the sleeping passengers surrounding him. The red-headed flight attendant who served him his coke earlier gives him a knowing smile. He ducks his head into his complimentary pillow and glares at the headrest in front of him, willing his blush to subside. After a few minutes of that, he sighs and slaps a Batman band-aid on the now clean bite mark.
At 3:12 am, he tries to ignore the still lingering, hazy dream-conjured sensation of slightly cracked lips smirking around his cock, sea-glass green eyes boring holes into his own, and the abhorred aching sensation that swallows up his chest.
----
November 15th, Gaurulhos International to JFK International
They had flown together once.
Arthur's direct flight had been canceled. From behind a thin-lipped pout, with his shoulders hunched up to his ears Alfred had offered to pull some strings.
As to be expected, the two had argued over the window seat, 20A. Arthur had relented.
Alfred had brought a travel case with Yatzee. Arthur had done a sudoku.
Alfred had put the travel case away.
At 10:22 pm, Arthur's head had lolled to the side and landed on Alfred's shoulder. Alfred had laughed and called him an old man ("What kind of guy falls asleep this early anyway?"). Arthur had slept on. Alfred had quieted. Alfred had put down the tray for seat 20B. Alfred had gently leaned Arthur over to lay down on the pillow he put on top of it. Arthur had slept on.
Alfred hadn't slept.
They'd landed at JFK International at 12:13 am. Arthur's flight would be in the morning. Alfred would drive home from there. They had said their awkward goodbyes at baggage claim, then turned on their heels and exited in different directions. Alfred had taken his car home. Arthur had gone to a hotel.
That night, Alfred hadn't slept. Neither had Arthur.
----
April 18th, Montréal-Trudeau International to Vancouver International
Still, Alfred flies with other nations all the time.
On one occasion, Canada furrows his brows and asks if he's getting enough sleep, because the dark purple bags underneath his brother's eyes contrast so heavily against those bright sky-blue eyes. And while those eyes continue to sparkle, everything else about him is off.
Alfred shrugs and stuffs the last few pretzels into his mouth. Matthew frowns, but doesn't press the subject.
The in-flight movie begins. Matthew checks his watch, 6:15 pm, and steels himself for the rest of the ride back to Montreal.
----
April 9th, Berlin Tegel
There's an awkward moment where Alfred's fingers just can't seem to find their way into Arthur's back pocket, and the way Arthur keeps keening and arching up against him and pressing his butt back against the door isn't making matters any easier. He struggles to find the keycard, and once he frees it and jams it haphazardly into the slot, the red light winks back at him, mockingly. At this point, laughter begins to bubble from Arthur's heavily panting lips until he's wheezing, and instead of arching off of the door, he's soon doubling over in laughter. Alfred can feel his lips quirk up against his will, "Okay, you old geezer, if this is so funny you get the damn thing to work."
But Arthur is too far gone in his laughter, his face pressed deep into the collar of Alfred's ever-present bomber jacket. Alfred thinks he hears someone shuffling around at the other end of the hall, but he's too jaded by the scent of Arthur's hair to pay it much attention. He nuzzles his face in the other's wheaten locks and inhales deeply. He feels himself laugh along with the Briton until they're both collapsed on the floor, attempting to disentangle their legs. When they finally break apart, they roll off of each other to sit side by side against the door frame. Arthur's head finds purchase in Alfred's shoulder and they sit there in their hysterics for a moment before their breathing returns to normal and the hallway is once again filled with silence. Arthur hums out a single, contented note.
"Your card doesn't work."
Arthur glances up into sky-blue eyes that are twinkling with mirth and his lips are spread in a cheeky grin. "You just didn't do it right, that's all," he snorts.
But Alfred, ever puffed up by the challenge, takes the card again and reaches up to push it in, then slowly extracts it once more. The light flashes red. He tries this several times before tossing it across the hall. It frisbee's into the door of room 503 and careens to the ground. There's silence again before they both begin to chuckle, and soon they're full-on laughing all over again. They haven't even had one drink and already they're both acting like right fools.
Alfred gives him a lazy punch to the side, "Told ya it didn't work."
Arthur returns the favor, "Oh belt up. You probably scratched it or something earlier."
Alfred leans back on his tailbone and swivels himself to face Arthur's profile, eyebrow cocked in challenge, "Yeah well, you probably stuck it near your cellphone or something."
Arthur doesn't turn, but he glances at the american from the corners of his eyes as he laces his fingers around his knees, "Did that come off of one of your silly Snapple caps?"
At this Alfred huffs indignantly and crosses his arms over his chest in mock anger, "It's totally true! And no, it didn't. I learned it--"
Arthur cuts him off, "From experience no doubt." The silence that follows answers his question, and he chortles under his breath. Neither says anything for a moment, simply listening to the other couples and families that mill about the hallway, speaking in quick, sharp german to each other as they enter and exit their rooms.
Alfred suddenly plops his head into Arthur's lap and grins devilishly up at him, and the briton feels a chill run down his spine, "So if we can't get into your room, I guess we just have to finish this all up in mine, huh?" He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at England, who swats Nantucket out of his face and flicks America on the nose. He howls in over-exaggerated pain and clutches his nose before Arthur suddenly stands up, subsequently dumping Alfred to the floor. The boy pouts up at him expectantly, still gingerly covering his nose. They stay like that for a moment, waiting for the other to break first, before Arthur finally gives in. He smiles softly at the younger nation before crouching down and extending his hand out. Alfred takes it, interlaces their fingers together, and just as Arthur is starting to think of how nice this all feels, Alfred tugs him downwards. England jerks and loses his balance, bracing his hands and knees on either side of Alfred as he falls, but Alfred's arms snake around him and pull him down the rest of the way. Arthur presses his cheek to Alfred's and whispers, "Alright, you right smarmy arse, but this time I open the door. And no funny business in the elevator."
Alfred nods enthusiastically, and in one swift move, he rolls them over, stands up, and pulls England up along with him until they're stumbling once again for the elevator doors. Arthur shakes his head, amused, as Alfred shoves him in. Just before the doors close, he catches sight of the clock across the hall; it reads 11:03. They'll explore Berlin another night, he supposes, as the doors slide shut and he feels Alfred snake an arm around his waist. "I said no funny business, you dolt!"
----
August 11th, Charles de Gaulle to Arlanda Airport
The glare he aims at the Starbucks cup is half-hearted at best, but he convinces himself that just the act of glaring makes him feel a little better. The thick air that lingers in the air even after he's exited the small cafe smells overly-processed and so unlike real coffee that it makes his cheeks flush with disproportionate anger. All out of tea, the barista had told him--and really, what did he expect at one in the morning anyway?--but he needed the caffeine; the meeting in Stockholm would be later that afternoon. In retrospect, he should have caught an earlier flight, he thinks sourly, but he relents and orders one tall--and what an arbitrary label for a small size, he also thinks, then remembers it's American--coffee. Just coffee, he had stated firmly, between clenched teeth, just black blooming coffee.
He furrows his thick eyebrows deeper. The cup does not glare back. Doesn't yell back at him for glaring either, and that, in the least, is comforting.
The heat has seeped from the cardboard sleeve by the time the intercom announces that boarding will begin, and he still hasn't taken a single sip from the cup. He adamantly refuses to take a sip. Then why did you buy it? he asks himself, and he doesn't know how to respond.
The drink seems to want to answer for him as it lets loose a slow trickle of steam that bombards his senses. It's warm and earthy and for a moment he loses himself in the smell. Imagines his nose pressed into the warm leathery fabric, imagines fingers twined together with stems of wheat caught between them and his back pressed deep into the dirt with nothing but clouds reflecting in his irises. Imagines flat-bed trucks on a winter evening with Bruce Springsteen blaring from the front seat. Imagines hands toying with the edges of towels and the chilly New Hampshire ocean breeze that tousles the hair out of his face as he leans down to steal another kiss from that bright-eyed, impudent, wonderful young--
Remembers reality. Remembers that he has to lift his feet from where they seem to have rooted themselves to the spot.
Realizes the man behind him is attempting to chivvy him along by cursing low under his breath, just loud enough for him to hear. Realizes he has to step onto the plane.
He leaves from Charles de Gaulle at 1:20 am and stares out of the window the entire time, gazing down at the clouds that hang beneath them and glow palely in the moonlight. The coffee grows cold, but he doesn't notice.
----
November 11th, Philadelphia International
"I'm trying to count the stars."
Arthur paused, lips hovering around the lip of his thermos. What are you doing? To be honest, he hadn't expected that answer. His head tilted to the left and he took in Alfred's figure, sprawled out across the bed of his fire-engine red, Chevrolet pick-up. "Won't that be difficult. There's an awful lot of them up there to count."
The short bubble of laughter that trickled from Alfred's lips seemed to echo out across the empty field surrounding them. Arthur made to turn back to his thermos to conceal the warmth that had spread across the bridge of his nose, but a warm hand snaked up the side of his cheek and drew his face to the side.
It was almost funny how Alfred still attempted a semblance of craft in these stolen moments; still, Arthur's lips, well versed in these such occasions, were already parted and waiting by the time their lips met half way. Chilled winds that had swept through the hills of Valley Forge had already chapped their lips beyond repair, but no less the kiss was sweet and perfect, and so simple it was almost ridiculous how it still managed to make Arthur's chest ache just so. When Alfred pulled away, his lips coated in a thin sheen of saliva and quirked up in a jaunty smile, Arthur couldn't help the way he leaned forward to capture that mouth once more, but his lips met nothing but the palm of Alfred's hand.
Pulling back with an indignant whine, Arthur set the American with a bemused look.
Alfred laughed--the gall of him--and used the hand still snaked along his jaw to pull the Briton down beside him so they were laid out next to each other in the truck's bed. "You go too fast, old man. Can't you just take in the scenery?"
Eyebrows raised in an incredulous stare, Arthur turned his face until his cheek was pressed against the floor, looking the American right in the eye, "Of all people, I'm receiving this lecture from you?"
Glasses askew and eyes crinkled at the corners, Alfred laughed again, "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Romantic poetry was birthed from my soil and you're chiding me on my inability to enjoy scenery?" Arthur snorted and rolled his eyes, "I doubt you've read a single work of Keats in your life, so don't berate me when I bet you wouldn't even recognize Endymion if it stared you right in that sorry mug of yo-"
Before he could continue, Alfred pushed himself violently forward, so his glasses fell aside and his lips crashed into Arthur's and swallowed up the insults he had been ready to let pour from him just a second earlier. The boy's tongue swept briefly across the backs of his teeth before withdrawing seemingly just as soon as he'd started. From there, he peppered feather light kisses along the Briton's jaw, before finally alighting his lips once more at the corner of his mouth where he stayed, simpering against his elder's flushed cheeks.
"Sure you've read about scenery," he murmured in a soft baritone, his eyelashes tickling Arthur's cheekbones as they fluttered, unsure of whether to stay opened or closed, "but when was the last time you've really seen it."
And Arthur couldn't really say, because he'd definitely been surrounded by nature for most of his existence. But since the modern era had snuck up upon them and everything had been so focused on urban construction, since his day-to-day travel consisted of nothing more than city slicking...
He felt his tense form, previously puffed up and ready to counter any remark Alfred tossed his way, begin to melt as he fell into pensive thought. It had been quite a while, and really, hadn't this whole day trip's purpose been to take them out Philadelphia, with its neon-lit night life and its raucous center-city crowds?
When he woke himself from that thought, he took in Alfred's profile, barely illuminated by the automatic light coming from the back window of the car, but his eyes shining in the glow of the pregnant full moon. Alfred's lips worked around silent words, and Arthur could barely hear the whispers.
"What number are you up to?"
"79."
"You've still got a long way to go."
"Yeah," Alfred breathed, "so you'd better stay here with me until I get each one."
Arthur smiled fondly, turning his own gaze to the stars, I will.
----
November 12th, Charles de Gaulle to Sheremetyevo International
Another time, it is Francis who sits at his side as they fly together to Moscow and, behind the cards he holds up in front of his saccharine grin, he asks the question Alfred has learned will always come from the licentious french nation.
So Alfred shrugs and lays the ten of diamonds into the discard pile.
"No one?" Francis' face is still partially obscured by his fanned out hand, but Alfred can feel the oozing smile that goes along with those raised eyebrows. Francis takes the ten and lays down the 2 of clubs.
Alfred tries to laugh, but it gets caught in his throat, so he passes it off as a cough. He's not surprised when Francis takes that to mean something else entirely. "Somehow I do not believe you, my friend."
"I'm serious," Alfred says, ignoring both the two and Francis' skeptical look, "I'm not seeing anyone." He mulls over his hand for a moment before setting down the 10 of hearts.
He is avoiding Francis' eyes, which allows the frenchman to study him in full without the other noticing. He knows young Alfred is not lying, but he is eager to draw other secrets from the boy. "No one." Francis repeats, though this time it is more of an incredulous statement than a question. "You have a country full of beautiful women and dashing young men from all across the globe, and you have eyes for not a single one? You are too picky, mon cher."
Alfred rolls his eyes and continues to study his hand. Francis watches him like a cat sipping at a saucer of milk, drinking in everything the nation is unwittingly let slip. The boy does not start, does not falter, does not even blink the wrong way. Francis lays down the king of diamonds and tries again.
"Or maybe it is that you are not yet ready to move on?"
Again, no answer, but there is something wrong with the way Alfred moves. His fingers are too stiff as he draws his card, and his Adam's apple bobs slowly as the boy swallows his secret. Francis decides to press harder, work with his own suspicions, and so he draws a hand up to rub absently at his forehead. He makes sure that his fingers trace his own eyebrows slowly, and while it looks like nothing, Alfred finally looks him in the eye.
There's something panicked in the look he gives him, like a deer caught in the headlights, but it withers into something much deeper; something angry, something bitter, and something so melancholy he instantly regrets his actions.
The boy lays down the ace of hearts with a trembling hand.
France picks another card to fill the silence. He swaps it with a card from his hand which he lays face-down on the discard pile. He spreads his cards out across his tray. "Gin Rummy."
Alfred says nothing, simply tosses his hand down on the center tray and slowly excuses himself from their row.
After he has left, Francis brings a hand up to cradle his face and leans back against the window. He looks down at the tray and out of curiosity picks up Alfred's losing hand. In it are a full meld of three 3's, the Jack, Queen, and King of spades, and three of the four aces. The only one missing is the ace of hearts, which lays dejected in the discard pile.
He lets out a ragged sigh, lets a small smile flicker across his lips, and wonders how much longer the two of them will let this silly farce continue. It's been at least three months by now, Francis thinks. He looks down at his watch and realizes the battery has died.
----
{INTERLUDE}
"F-Flying fuck, we're not digging for treasure in fucking Ilfracombe here you bloody f-fucking tosser!"
Alfred's knuckles begin to whiten where they grip the tweezers as he plucks another shard of shrapnel with a bit more force than necessary. Arthur responds with a raspy howl, scraping blunt fingernails across the railing and throwing his head back. He just narrowly misses the sharp edge of the window. "If you'd stop fidgeting so much...," the American trails off as he spots another blackened shard lodged right up against Arthur's bottom-most rib. He lines up the tweezers again, eyes squinting shut and tongue barely peeking from between his lips.
Arthur kicks his shin with the tip of his steel-toed boot which sends Alfred off his haunches and back onto his rear. "Hey," he whines and clutches his wounded leg, "what the hell's'at for?"
Arthur's lips are drawn up in a tight sneer, though there's wetness at the edges of his shimmering green eyes. "Stop pissing around or the next one's going to be aimed right at your puss."
Alfred shrugs and hauls himself up to his feet, stuffing his hands into the crisp pockets of his new bomber-jacket. "Fine," he tosses the tweezers into the Briton's lap, "let's see you do it yourself."
"Fine," Arthur barks back, "Fine, yeah... yeah I will."
There's a moment where they just stare at each other. Arthur notices Alfred's slight stubble and the way every expression on the young lad's face has turned lopsided--tired--since he last saw him all those years ago, figured framed in the flames of his burning capitol. Alfred notices Arthur's sweat-soaked, bunched up A-shirt and the faint freckles that seem to play connect-the-dots with the scars that mar the expanse of his exposed, blood-stained stomach. They both choke slightly on the stifling air between them.
Arthur scoffs and reaches for the tweezers with trembling fingers. His other hand roams across the multiple cuts that explode across his left side, fingers gingerly probing them for any loose, easy to reach shards. At the largest gash, his fingers stop, dancing lightly across the mouth of the opening. Alfred licks his lips nervously as he watches the Briton slowly pull the wound apart before he carefully begins to lead the tweezers into himself.
The C-47 Skytrain gives a lurch and the tweezers twist mercilessly into the raw skin, sending Arthur into another agonizing howl. His eyes twist shut and he hisses, low and choked, in pain as the tweezers clatter to their feet.
Alfred's up at his side before he even knows what he's doing. As Arthur's one hand convulses across his thigh, Alfred takes it in one of his own and holds it tight. His other hand presses flush against Arthur's and together they apply steady pressure to the bleeding gash.
Finally, he leans his face in and presses his forehead up against the Briton's own. The skin is flushed and sweaty, but he doesn't even notice. All he notices are those green, green eyes widened and dilated and swimming in hot tears, but he continues to stare. He mumbles a soft tune, unsure of what he's really humming. He keeps this up until he feels the labored breathing against his face begin to even out and subside, and sees Arthur's eyelids begin to sag. He's about to let his own eyes close himself when Arthur speaks.
"What are you doing?"
Alfred stares at him for a moment before hastily whipping his head away and tottering back on his heels, mindful to keep his one hand still on the gash. He bites his tongue and turns to the side, rubbing absently at the back of his neck with his free hand. "Wasn't doin' anything, old man," he mumbles.
Arthur's eyebrows furrow and his eyes, still hazy, bore into Alfred's own, questioning, "Suo Gân?" He breathes out, swatting Alfred's hand away from his stomach so he can shakily pick up his discarded jacket, which he bunches haphazardly and presses to the still seeping wound. His posture relaxes, if only slightly, and he melts into his seat. His neck cranes back into the divot of the window so Alfred can no longer see his expression. "No, that was Suo Gân. I'm sure of it."
Alfred averts his gaze from Arthur's wilted figure. His tongue works around the words he wants to say for a minute or so.
"You used to sing it to me whenever I hurt myself so--," he swallows dryly, "So I thought it would work here. Or something." As he finishes, he feels his jaw clench nervously at his own words, since those days are still a touchy subject between them. The silence nips at his heels, urging him to say something more, but his throat feels as if it is coated in sand, and his tongue feels like a lead weight in his mouth, so he continues to stare out of the opposite window at the passing clouds.
Suddenly, he hears a choked sound come from Arthur's direction. He braces himself for the nasty comment, or worse, the gnawing silence they so often find themselves falling into ever since situations forced them to turn to each other for this Godforsaken war.
Arthur makes that noise again, and when Alfred tilts his head sideways to chance a glance, he catches the upturned corner of Arthur's chapped, dirty lips and the sound suddenly evolves into ragged, weary, but air-light puffs of laughter. Arthur is laughing, with his free arm draped languidly across his eyes, but his cheeks are flushed and his teeth flash every so often in the midday sun that peeks through the window opposite him, and Alfred hasn't heard anything so wonderful in years, he thinks.
But then Arthur quiets and tilts his chin back down, his eyebrows slanted upwards and a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips, "Yes, well, if only Rhys had heard your awful pronunciation. Or your tuning for that matter. Can you hear yourself?"
And Alfred can only laugh, because it's all so silly, he thinks. Because it's been far too long since they'd laughed together and far too long since they've seen the other smile, even if it is a smile stained with blood and gunpowder.
Alfred rolls up his sleeves and picks the tweezers up off of the floor. He wipes the tips off on his ripped trousers before kneeling down once again. He quirks his lip up and nervously pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Has it stopped bleeding yet?"
With a curious look, Arthur gently peels the shirt away from his stomach. It's stopped bleeding, and to be honest there's not as much blood as he had originally thought, so he tosses it back down in the seat next to him. "Oh stop pussy-footing around it and just go ahead." He pauses for a second, then ads as an after thought, "You insufferable git."
Though his face is drawn up in indifference, Alfred sees the pain that lingers in Arthur's still glassy green eyes, but he shrugs his shoulders and sets himself back to his original task.
This rare peace between them can only last for so long, but maybe they'll have a drink after this whole ordeal is done and over with, Alfred thinks. They won't talk about the Revolution, or 1812, or the first World War, or anything of the messes in between. He knows they're not ready for that just yet. To be honest, they'll probably spend the whole night cursing off at each other, but Alfred's willing to try it. Willing to try them again, because at some point he had forgotten how much he loved the sound of Arthur's laugh, and he doesn't want to forget it again.
----
TRI-ANUAL CONFERENCE SCHEDULE 20XX-20XX
Athens - August 14-17
São Paulo - November 12-15
Vancouver - April 18-21
Oslo - August 9-11
Philadelphia - November 10-13
Berlin - April 9-11
Stockholm - 11-14
Tokyo - November 13-16
Amsterdam - April 17-20
Detroit - August
Moscow - November 12-15
Venice - April 10-13
Life moved on.
end part i.
a/n:
⇒ vignettes are out of order, but if you would like to try to read them again in order, follow the list at the end based on the city/airport's mentioning in the vignette. also, Venice is still to come, so that is why only 11 out of the 12 are mentioned
⇒ The Euro Crisis refers to the current interest rate problems caused by the Euro in several european countries:
"The introduction of the euro has decreased the interest rates of most members countries, in particular those with a weak currency. As a consequence the market value of firms from countries which previously had a weak currency has very significantly increased. The countries who benefited the most from a decrease in interest rates are Greece, Ireland, Portugal, Spain, and Italy." [Wikipedia]
⇒ '68 Chevy Pickup aka the only kind of car I can see Alfred driving, because he's old-school like that.
⇒Suo Gân; Rhys Kirkland - Wales OC name
Rating: T
Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers
Pairings: USUK [Alfred/Arthur]
Word Count: ~5434
Warnings: cursing, mentions of sexual situations
Notes: I take far too much inspiration from Stars songs. Might make a small FST of sorts with the song that inspired this, as well as other songs that I listened to while writing to pair along with the full piece.
Summary: 11 conferences, 22 flights, and the 4 years that settle between them.
The Vanishing
part i
----
August 15, Newark Liberty International to Detroit Metro
It's 2:47 in the morning when the plane touches down, and his arm has fallen numb, so much so that he doesn't realize the fingers interlaced with his own are only a lingering memory of his dream until he lifts his eyes from the orange-lit landing strip. The window fogs with each heavy breath he takes, his reflection in the darkened plexiglass reveals mussed hair and sleep-crusted eyes behind crooked glasses. He licks dry lips, picks himself up from the seat, and falls in line behind the other passengers. He tries to ignore the fact that his fingers are still idly clenching and unclenching, as if they are still looking for the hand he knows was never there.
It's 2:48 in Detroit Metro Airport.
----
November 16th, Tokyo Narita International to BAA Heathrow
His shoes feel too cramped, though it may just be the claustrophobia setting in. With an experimental wriggle of his toes, Arthur convinces himself that there is in fact room for all ten. Still, the cloying sense of claustrophobia lingers in his joints. He toes the right shoe off first, then the left, hopes that his shoes don't smell too terrible after a full day's worth of travel, then turns his attention back to the window.
The man in 14B catches his attention with a muted, choked sob. His arms are crossed over his chest, clasping the lapels of his blazer in a white-knuckled grip. Head bowed and glasses slipping down his nose, he looks like any other passenger.
It's 11:29 Tokyo time. He still hasn't reset his watch.
The man starts again, and this time there's a spot of wetness at the corners of his clenched eyes. His thick, black eyebrows are furrowed as if in anger, but the gentle flush in his cheeks and the now wet trails of tears that trace the frame of his face tell otherwise. There's a tan line on his left hand where a ring should be, but isn't.
The man in 14B cries silently in his sleep
Arthur looks away before he can feel himself do the same.
The window feels cool against his forehead. He stretches his feet out as far as he dares and closes his eyes.
----
August 14th, Newark Liberty International to Athens International
The inflight movie turns off suddenly, and Alfred can't stop the childish whine of protest that escapes his lips. Blue flickers across the tiny monitor in front of him, then static, blue again, and then a map of the Mediterranean springs to life. The plane hovers just beyond Sicily and at the edge of the screen, a star indicating Athens. The timer says half an hour more, though experience tells him 45.
Fingers splay across the tray in front of him, quivering slightly as they stretch. His remote won't come free from the arm rest, so he awkwardly attempts to punch the buttons to change the channel, but each channel is the same pixilated map.
With a sigh, he wrangles out his backpack from underneath the seat in front of him and spills its contents across the tray. It takes a short while of digging through the comic books and sports magazines before he finds the files he's looking for. He's never been so thankful for the empty space beside him as he dumps the extra items haphazardly into the empty seat before opening the manilla folder and flipping through the loose leaf pages. The file reads Solving the European Crisis of the Euro. Greece is hosting this year.
He cards a hand through his hair and, with a long, haggard sigh, delves into the file. As he flips the folder open, he catches the face of his watch out of the corner of his eye: 12:52 pm. He set it before he left, was so proud of himself that he remembered.
The intercom breathes static as he plugs his mp3 player in.
----
August 9th, BAA Heathrow to Oslo Airport Gardermoen
He enjoys taking the economy class flights every so often instead of the private jets like all of the others. There's something calming about being away from the other nations where he can spend his time like the 23 year old that he appears to be.
Usually.
For you see, usually he sits comfortably in his respective aisle--with the window seat, of course--and plugs headphones into his ears and pretends to listen to music. There's never anything playing, he never really plugs the jack in, because he prefers to listen to the idle conversations of the other passengers instead. Piecing together stories from the small details they let slip. The crying children don't even bother him that much any more. The whole experience is, to him, a way to unwind and relax.
Well, usually.
Because this time, as he makes his way to Oslo, seats 11B and 11C are occupied by Richard and his girlfriend Hannah. They do not talk, don't even seem to notice him, because they are too engrossed in each other to care about the English chap beside them. He only assumes these names because of the tags on the carry-ons he helped stow away in the overhead compartment earlier.
Hannah lets out a pleased murmur and nuzzles her face further into Richard's shoulder. Richard pulls the blanket higher up over their closely pressed together bodies. The armrest between them has been put up so there is nothing separating one from the other.
She has one headphone in her left ear. He has one in his right. She curls fingers in his striped oxford. He kisses the top of her head and whispers something into her hair. She smiles. So does he.
Arthur scoffs silently to himself and turns back to the window. He plugs his headphones into the armrest and smooth jazz begins to play. Though his face reflects nonchalance in the plexiglass, he swallows the growing lump of jealousy in his throat and tries to pretend he doesn't feel his eyes begin to prickle.
----
April 20th, Amsterdam Airport Schiphol to JFK International
The plane departs from Amsterdam Airport Schiphol at 11:40 pm.
Though the conference was only a few days, Alfred can feel that he has already grown accustom to Netherlands' time zone, so at 12:38 am, he surrenders to his sagging eyelids and lets sleep overtake him.
At 2:40 am, he wakes up with a sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead, ragged, shallow breathing, and a nauseating sense of dread burbling in his stomach.
By 2:46 am, he's got one hand clenched between his teeth and the other wrapped tightly around his half-hard cock. He beats himself off at an almost painful rhythm in the cramped airplane bathroom and hopes he has a band-aid in his carry-on, because he can feel the skin on the back of his hand breaking under the force of his teeth.
And at 3:01 am, he's shuffled his way back into his seat, eternally grateful for the aisle seat and the sleeping passengers surrounding him. The red-headed flight attendant who served him his coke earlier gives him a knowing smile. He ducks his head into his complimentary pillow and glares at the headrest in front of him, willing his blush to subside. After a few minutes of that, he sighs and slaps a Batman band-aid on the now clean bite mark.
At 3:12 am, he tries to ignore the still lingering, hazy dream-conjured sensation of slightly cracked lips smirking around his cock, sea-glass green eyes boring holes into his own, and the abhorred aching sensation that swallows up his chest.
----
November 15th, Gaurulhos International to JFK International
They had flown together once.
Arthur's direct flight had been canceled. From behind a thin-lipped pout, with his shoulders hunched up to his ears Alfred had offered to pull some strings.
As to be expected, the two had argued over the window seat, 20A. Arthur had relented.
Alfred had brought a travel case with Yatzee. Arthur had done a sudoku.
Alfred had put the travel case away.
At 10:22 pm, Arthur's head had lolled to the side and landed on Alfred's shoulder. Alfred had laughed and called him an old man ("What kind of guy falls asleep this early anyway?"). Arthur had slept on. Alfred had quieted. Alfred had put down the tray for seat 20B. Alfred had gently leaned Arthur over to lay down on the pillow he put on top of it. Arthur had slept on.
Alfred hadn't slept.
They'd landed at JFK International at 12:13 am. Arthur's flight would be in the morning. Alfred would drive home from there. They had said their awkward goodbyes at baggage claim, then turned on their heels and exited in different directions. Alfred had taken his car home. Arthur had gone to a hotel.
That night, Alfred hadn't slept. Neither had Arthur.
----
April 18th, Montréal-Trudeau International to Vancouver International
Still, Alfred flies with other nations all the time.
On one occasion, Canada furrows his brows and asks if he's getting enough sleep, because the dark purple bags underneath his brother's eyes contrast so heavily against those bright sky-blue eyes. And while those eyes continue to sparkle, everything else about him is off.
Alfred shrugs and stuffs the last few pretzels into his mouth. Matthew frowns, but doesn't press the subject.
The in-flight movie begins. Matthew checks his watch, 6:15 pm, and steels himself for the rest of the ride back to Montreal.
----
April 9th, Berlin Tegel
There's an awkward moment where Alfred's fingers just can't seem to find their way into Arthur's back pocket, and the way Arthur keeps keening and arching up against him and pressing his butt back against the door isn't making matters any easier. He struggles to find the keycard, and once he frees it and jams it haphazardly into the slot, the red light winks back at him, mockingly. At this point, laughter begins to bubble from Arthur's heavily panting lips until he's wheezing, and instead of arching off of the door, he's soon doubling over in laughter. Alfred can feel his lips quirk up against his will, "Okay, you old geezer, if this is so funny you get the damn thing to work."
But Arthur is too far gone in his laughter, his face pressed deep into the collar of Alfred's ever-present bomber jacket. Alfred thinks he hears someone shuffling around at the other end of the hall, but he's too jaded by the scent of Arthur's hair to pay it much attention. He nuzzles his face in the other's wheaten locks and inhales deeply. He feels himself laugh along with the Briton until they're both collapsed on the floor, attempting to disentangle their legs. When they finally break apart, they roll off of each other to sit side by side against the door frame. Arthur's head finds purchase in Alfred's shoulder and they sit there in their hysterics for a moment before their breathing returns to normal and the hallway is once again filled with silence. Arthur hums out a single, contented note.
"Your card doesn't work."
Arthur glances up into sky-blue eyes that are twinkling with mirth and his lips are spread in a cheeky grin. "You just didn't do it right, that's all," he snorts.
But Alfred, ever puffed up by the challenge, takes the card again and reaches up to push it in, then slowly extracts it once more. The light flashes red. He tries this several times before tossing it across the hall. It frisbee's into the door of room 503 and careens to the ground. There's silence again before they both begin to chuckle, and soon they're full-on laughing all over again. They haven't even had one drink and already they're both acting like right fools.
Alfred gives him a lazy punch to the side, "Told ya it didn't work."
Arthur returns the favor, "Oh belt up. You probably scratched it or something earlier."
Alfred leans back on his tailbone and swivels himself to face Arthur's profile, eyebrow cocked in challenge, "Yeah well, you probably stuck it near your cellphone or something."
Arthur doesn't turn, but he glances at the american from the corners of his eyes as he laces his fingers around his knees, "Did that come off of one of your silly Snapple caps?"
At this Alfred huffs indignantly and crosses his arms over his chest in mock anger, "It's totally true! And no, it didn't. I learned it--"
Arthur cuts him off, "From experience no doubt." The silence that follows answers his question, and he chortles under his breath. Neither says anything for a moment, simply listening to the other couples and families that mill about the hallway, speaking in quick, sharp german to each other as they enter and exit their rooms.
Alfred suddenly plops his head into Arthur's lap and grins devilishly up at him, and the briton feels a chill run down his spine, "So if we can't get into your room, I guess we just have to finish this all up in mine, huh?" He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at England, who swats Nantucket out of his face and flicks America on the nose. He howls in over-exaggerated pain and clutches his nose before Arthur suddenly stands up, subsequently dumping Alfred to the floor. The boy pouts up at him expectantly, still gingerly covering his nose. They stay like that for a moment, waiting for the other to break first, before Arthur finally gives in. He smiles softly at the younger nation before crouching down and extending his hand out. Alfred takes it, interlaces their fingers together, and just as Arthur is starting to think of how nice this all feels, Alfred tugs him downwards. England jerks and loses his balance, bracing his hands and knees on either side of Alfred as he falls, but Alfred's arms snake around him and pull him down the rest of the way. Arthur presses his cheek to Alfred's and whispers, "Alright, you right smarmy arse, but this time I open the door. And no funny business in the elevator."
Alfred nods enthusiastically, and in one swift move, he rolls them over, stands up, and pulls England up along with him until they're stumbling once again for the elevator doors. Arthur shakes his head, amused, as Alfred shoves him in. Just before the doors close, he catches sight of the clock across the hall; it reads 11:03. They'll explore Berlin another night, he supposes, as the doors slide shut and he feels Alfred snake an arm around his waist. "I said no funny business, you dolt!"
----
August 11th, Charles de Gaulle to Arlanda Airport
The glare he aims at the Starbucks cup is half-hearted at best, but he convinces himself that just the act of glaring makes him feel a little better. The thick air that lingers in the air even after he's exited the small cafe smells overly-processed and so unlike real coffee that it makes his cheeks flush with disproportionate anger. All out of tea, the barista had told him--and really, what did he expect at one in the morning anyway?--but he needed the caffeine; the meeting in Stockholm would be later that afternoon. In retrospect, he should have caught an earlier flight, he thinks sourly, but he relents and orders one tall--and what an arbitrary label for a small size, he also thinks, then remembers it's American--coffee. Just coffee, he had stated firmly, between clenched teeth, just black blooming coffee.
He furrows his thick eyebrows deeper. The cup does not glare back. Doesn't yell back at him for glaring either, and that, in the least, is comforting.
The heat has seeped from the cardboard sleeve by the time the intercom announces that boarding will begin, and he still hasn't taken a single sip from the cup. He adamantly refuses to take a sip. Then why did you buy it? he asks himself, and he doesn't know how to respond.
The drink seems to want to answer for him as it lets loose a slow trickle of steam that bombards his senses. It's warm and earthy and for a moment he loses himself in the smell. Imagines his nose pressed into the warm leathery fabric, imagines fingers twined together with stems of wheat caught between them and his back pressed deep into the dirt with nothing but clouds reflecting in his irises. Imagines flat-bed trucks on a winter evening with Bruce Springsteen blaring from the front seat. Imagines hands toying with the edges of towels and the chilly New Hampshire ocean breeze that tousles the hair out of his face as he leans down to steal another kiss from that bright-eyed, impudent, wonderful young--
Remembers reality. Remembers that he has to lift his feet from where they seem to have rooted themselves to the spot.
Realizes the man behind him is attempting to chivvy him along by cursing low under his breath, just loud enough for him to hear. Realizes he has to step onto the plane.
He leaves from Charles de Gaulle at 1:20 am and stares out of the window the entire time, gazing down at the clouds that hang beneath them and glow palely in the moonlight. The coffee grows cold, but he doesn't notice.
----
November 11th, Philadelphia International
"I'm trying to count the stars."
Arthur paused, lips hovering around the lip of his thermos. What are you doing? To be honest, he hadn't expected that answer. His head tilted to the left and he took in Alfred's figure, sprawled out across the bed of his fire-engine red, Chevrolet pick-up. "Won't that be difficult. There's an awful lot of them up there to count."
The short bubble of laughter that trickled from Alfred's lips seemed to echo out across the empty field surrounding them. Arthur made to turn back to his thermos to conceal the warmth that had spread across the bridge of his nose, but a warm hand snaked up the side of his cheek and drew his face to the side.
It was almost funny how Alfred still attempted a semblance of craft in these stolen moments; still, Arthur's lips, well versed in these such occasions, were already parted and waiting by the time their lips met half way. Chilled winds that had swept through the hills of Valley Forge had already chapped their lips beyond repair, but no less the kiss was sweet and perfect, and so simple it was almost ridiculous how it still managed to make Arthur's chest ache just so. When Alfred pulled away, his lips coated in a thin sheen of saliva and quirked up in a jaunty smile, Arthur couldn't help the way he leaned forward to capture that mouth once more, but his lips met nothing but the palm of Alfred's hand.
Pulling back with an indignant whine, Arthur set the American with a bemused look.
Alfred laughed--the gall of him--and used the hand still snaked along his jaw to pull the Briton down beside him so they were laid out next to each other in the truck's bed. "You go too fast, old man. Can't you just take in the scenery?"
Eyebrows raised in an incredulous stare, Arthur turned his face until his cheek was pressed against the floor, looking the American right in the eye, "Of all people, I'm receiving this lecture from you?"
Glasses askew and eyes crinkled at the corners, Alfred laughed again, "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Romantic poetry was birthed from my soil and you're chiding me on my inability to enjoy scenery?" Arthur snorted and rolled his eyes, "I doubt you've read a single work of Keats in your life, so don't berate me when I bet you wouldn't even recognize Endymion if it stared you right in that sorry mug of yo-"
Before he could continue, Alfred pushed himself violently forward, so his glasses fell aside and his lips crashed into Arthur's and swallowed up the insults he had been ready to let pour from him just a second earlier. The boy's tongue swept briefly across the backs of his teeth before withdrawing seemingly just as soon as he'd started. From there, he peppered feather light kisses along the Briton's jaw, before finally alighting his lips once more at the corner of his mouth where he stayed, simpering against his elder's flushed cheeks.
"Sure you've read about scenery," he murmured in a soft baritone, his eyelashes tickling Arthur's cheekbones as they fluttered, unsure of whether to stay opened or closed, "but when was the last time you've really seen it."
And Arthur couldn't really say, because he'd definitely been surrounded by nature for most of his existence. But since the modern era had snuck up upon them and everything had been so focused on urban construction, since his day-to-day travel consisted of nothing more than city slicking...
He felt his tense form, previously puffed up and ready to counter any remark Alfred tossed his way, begin to melt as he fell into pensive thought. It had been quite a while, and really, hadn't this whole day trip's purpose been to take them out Philadelphia, with its neon-lit night life and its raucous center-city crowds?
When he woke himself from that thought, he took in Alfred's profile, barely illuminated by the automatic light coming from the back window of the car, but his eyes shining in the glow of the pregnant full moon. Alfred's lips worked around silent words, and Arthur could barely hear the whispers.
"What number are you up to?"
"79."
"You've still got a long way to go."
"Yeah," Alfred breathed, "so you'd better stay here with me until I get each one."
Arthur smiled fondly, turning his own gaze to the stars, I will.
----
November 12th, Charles de Gaulle to Sheremetyevo International
Another time, it is Francis who sits at his side as they fly together to Moscow and, behind the cards he holds up in front of his saccharine grin, he asks the question Alfred has learned will always come from the licentious french nation.
So Alfred shrugs and lays the ten of diamonds into the discard pile.
"No one?" Francis' face is still partially obscured by his fanned out hand, but Alfred can feel the oozing smile that goes along with those raised eyebrows. Francis takes the ten and lays down the 2 of clubs.
Alfred tries to laugh, but it gets caught in his throat, so he passes it off as a cough. He's not surprised when Francis takes that to mean something else entirely. "Somehow I do not believe you, my friend."
"I'm serious," Alfred says, ignoring both the two and Francis' skeptical look, "I'm not seeing anyone." He mulls over his hand for a moment before setting down the 10 of hearts.
He is avoiding Francis' eyes, which allows the frenchman to study him in full without the other noticing. He knows young Alfred is not lying, but he is eager to draw other secrets from the boy. "No one." Francis repeats, though this time it is more of an incredulous statement than a question. "You have a country full of beautiful women and dashing young men from all across the globe, and you have eyes for not a single one? You are too picky, mon cher."
Alfred rolls his eyes and continues to study his hand. Francis watches him like a cat sipping at a saucer of milk, drinking in everything the nation is unwittingly let slip. The boy does not start, does not falter, does not even blink the wrong way. Francis lays down the king of diamonds and tries again.
"Or maybe it is that you are not yet ready to move on?"
Again, no answer, but there is something wrong with the way Alfred moves. His fingers are too stiff as he draws his card, and his Adam's apple bobs slowly as the boy swallows his secret. Francis decides to press harder, work with his own suspicions, and so he draws a hand up to rub absently at his forehead. He makes sure that his fingers trace his own eyebrows slowly, and while it looks like nothing, Alfred finally looks him in the eye.
There's something panicked in the look he gives him, like a deer caught in the headlights, but it withers into something much deeper; something angry, something bitter, and something so melancholy he instantly regrets his actions.
The boy lays down the ace of hearts with a trembling hand.
France picks another card to fill the silence. He swaps it with a card from his hand which he lays face-down on the discard pile. He spreads his cards out across his tray. "Gin Rummy."
Alfred says nothing, simply tosses his hand down on the center tray and slowly excuses himself from their row.
After he has left, Francis brings a hand up to cradle his face and leans back against the window. He looks down at the tray and out of curiosity picks up Alfred's losing hand. In it are a full meld of three 3's, the Jack, Queen, and King of spades, and three of the four aces. The only one missing is the ace of hearts, which lays dejected in the discard pile.
He lets out a ragged sigh, lets a small smile flicker across his lips, and wonders how much longer the two of them will let this silly farce continue. It's been at least three months by now, Francis thinks. He looks down at his watch and realizes the battery has died.
----
{INTERLUDE}
"F-Flying fuck, we're not digging for treasure in fucking Ilfracombe here you bloody f-fucking tosser!"
Alfred's knuckles begin to whiten where they grip the tweezers as he plucks another shard of shrapnel with a bit more force than necessary. Arthur responds with a raspy howl, scraping blunt fingernails across the railing and throwing his head back. He just narrowly misses the sharp edge of the window. "If you'd stop fidgeting so much...," the American trails off as he spots another blackened shard lodged right up against Arthur's bottom-most rib. He lines up the tweezers again, eyes squinting shut and tongue barely peeking from between his lips.
Arthur kicks his shin with the tip of his steel-toed boot which sends Alfred off his haunches and back onto his rear. "Hey," he whines and clutches his wounded leg, "what the hell's'at for?"
Arthur's lips are drawn up in a tight sneer, though there's wetness at the edges of his shimmering green eyes. "Stop pissing around or the next one's going to be aimed right at your puss."
Alfred shrugs and hauls himself up to his feet, stuffing his hands into the crisp pockets of his new bomber-jacket. "Fine," he tosses the tweezers into the Briton's lap, "let's see you do it yourself."
"Fine," Arthur barks back, "Fine, yeah... yeah I will."
There's a moment where they just stare at each other. Arthur notices Alfred's slight stubble and the way every expression on the young lad's face has turned lopsided--tired--since he last saw him all those years ago, figured framed in the flames of his burning capitol. Alfred notices Arthur's sweat-soaked, bunched up A-shirt and the faint freckles that seem to play connect-the-dots with the scars that mar the expanse of his exposed, blood-stained stomach. They both choke slightly on the stifling air between them.
Arthur scoffs and reaches for the tweezers with trembling fingers. His other hand roams across the multiple cuts that explode across his left side, fingers gingerly probing them for any loose, easy to reach shards. At the largest gash, his fingers stop, dancing lightly across the mouth of the opening. Alfred licks his lips nervously as he watches the Briton slowly pull the wound apart before he carefully begins to lead the tweezers into himself.
The C-47 Skytrain gives a lurch and the tweezers twist mercilessly into the raw skin, sending Arthur into another agonizing howl. His eyes twist shut and he hisses, low and choked, in pain as the tweezers clatter to their feet.
Alfred's up at his side before he even knows what he's doing. As Arthur's one hand convulses across his thigh, Alfred takes it in one of his own and holds it tight. His other hand presses flush against Arthur's and together they apply steady pressure to the bleeding gash.
Finally, he leans his face in and presses his forehead up against the Briton's own. The skin is flushed and sweaty, but he doesn't even notice. All he notices are those green, green eyes widened and dilated and swimming in hot tears, but he continues to stare. He mumbles a soft tune, unsure of what he's really humming. He keeps this up until he feels the labored breathing against his face begin to even out and subside, and sees Arthur's eyelids begin to sag. He's about to let his own eyes close himself when Arthur speaks.
"What are you doing?"
Alfred stares at him for a moment before hastily whipping his head away and tottering back on his heels, mindful to keep his one hand still on the gash. He bites his tongue and turns to the side, rubbing absently at the back of his neck with his free hand. "Wasn't doin' anything, old man," he mumbles.
Arthur's eyebrows furrow and his eyes, still hazy, bore into Alfred's own, questioning, "Suo Gân?" He breathes out, swatting Alfred's hand away from his stomach so he can shakily pick up his discarded jacket, which he bunches haphazardly and presses to the still seeping wound. His posture relaxes, if only slightly, and he melts into his seat. His neck cranes back into the divot of the window so Alfred can no longer see his expression. "No, that was Suo Gân. I'm sure of it."
Alfred averts his gaze from Arthur's wilted figure. His tongue works around the words he wants to say for a minute or so.
"You used to sing it to me whenever I hurt myself so--," he swallows dryly, "So I thought it would work here. Or something." As he finishes, he feels his jaw clench nervously at his own words, since those days are still a touchy subject between them. The silence nips at his heels, urging him to say something more, but his throat feels as if it is coated in sand, and his tongue feels like a lead weight in his mouth, so he continues to stare out of the opposite window at the passing clouds.
Suddenly, he hears a choked sound come from Arthur's direction. He braces himself for the nasty comment, or worse, the gnawing silence they so often find themselves falling into ever since situations forced them to turn to each other for this Godforsaken war.
Arthur makes that noise again, and when Alfred tilts his head sideways to chance a glance, he catches the upturned corner of Arthur's chapped, dirty lips and the sound suddenly evolves into ragged, weary, but air-light puffs of laughter. Arthur is laughing, with his free arm draped languidly across his eyes, but his cheeks are flushed and his teeth flash every so often in the midday sun that peeks through the window opposite him, and Alfred hasn't heard anything so wonderful in years, he thinks.
But then Arthur quiets and tilts his chin back down, his eyebrows slanted upwards and a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips, "Yes, well, if only Rhys had heard your awful pronunciation. Or your tuning for that matter. Can you hear yourself?"
And Alfred can only laugh, because it's all so silly, he thinks. Because it's been far too long since they'd laughed together and far too long since they've seen the other smile, even if it is a smile stained with blood and gunpowder.
Alfred rolls up his sleeves and picks the tweezers up off of the floor. He wipes the tips off on his ripped trousers before kneeling down once again. He quirks his lip up and nervously pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Has it stopped bleeding yet?"
With a curious look, Arthur gently peels the shirt away from his stomach. It's stopped bleeding, and to be honest there's not as much blood as he had originally thought, so he tosses it back down in the seat next to him. "Oh stop pussy-footing around it and just go ahead." He pauses for a second, then ads as an after thought, "You insufferable git."
Though his face is drawn up in indifference, Alfred sees the pain that lingers in Arthur's still glassy green eyes, but he shrugs his shoulders and sets himself back to his original task.
This rare peace between them can only last for so long, but maybe they'll have a drink after this whole ordeal is done and over with, Alfred thinks. They won't talk about the Revolution, or 1812, or the first World War, or anything of the messes in between. He knows they're not ready for that just yet. To be honest, they'll probably spend the whole night cursing off at each other, but Alfred's willing to try it. Willing to try them again, because at some point he had forgotten how much he loved the sound of Arthur's laugh, and he doesn't want to forget it again.
----
TRI-ANUAL CONFERENCE SCHEDULE 20XX-20XX
Athens - August 14-17
São Paulo - November 12-15
Vancouver - April 18-21
Oslo - August 9-11
Philadelphia - November 10-13
Berlin - April 9-11
Stockholm - 11-14
Tokyo - November 13-16
Amsterdam - April 17-20
Detroit - August
Moscow - November 12-15
Venice - April 10-13
Life moved on.
end part i.
a/n:
⇒ vignettes are out of order, but if you would like to try to read them again in order, follow the list at the end based on the city/airport's mentioning in the vignette. also, Venice is still to come, so that is why only 11 out of the 12 are mentioned
⇒ The Euro Crisis refers to the current interest rate problems caused by the Euro in several european countries:
"The introduction of the euro has decreased the interest rates of most members countries, in particular those with a weak currency. As a consequence the market value of firms from countries which previously had a weak currency has very significantly increased. The countries who benefited the most from a decrease in interest rates are Greece, Ireland, Portugal, Spain, and Italy." [Wikipedia]
⇒ '68 Chevy Pickup aka the only kind of car I can see Alfred driving, because he's old-school like that.
⇒Suo Gân; Rhys Kirkland - Wales OC name