[FOR ASH] Another Dream -- England
The dawn light streams through the window, illuminating a pot of tea, a pile of papers, and a man. The tea clutched in his hands had gone cold a long time ago and he doesn't look at the papers spread out before him. His eyes gaze vacantly through his table, as if he doesn't realize it's there. Then his vacant tired gaze snaps back to life, moving the cup to his lips as if he hadn't spent the last half hour frozen in thought.
"Agh--gone cold already." He muttered, glaring at the cup as if it was the source of his troubles, but taking short sips anyways. Waste not, want not, that's what they always said.
When the tea is gone, the papers straightened, and his house tidied, he's run out of makework. All his proper work had been done the night before, before bed--his mind skitters around sleep, back to the morning--and none had arrived this morning. Perhaps a stroll would take his mind off things.
"Morning." He says, mock cheery in his greetings to his people, for they are not the cause of his headaches, the vague feelings of upset wistfulness. The couple on the corner does not deserve his jealousy, the family out for brunch doesn't need a hateful male gaze. Still the feelings rise and it nearly overwhelms him when he stops in front of a bakery, a lone French bakery, he can't remember having seen it before, surely he would have, if only to openly snub it.
He steps inside instead, taking in the smell of baking bread and cakes with a nostalgia he shouldn't truly feel. The baguettes, croissants, cream puffs, and napoleons should not make him happy and miserable all at once. He leaves without letting the shop owner greet him.
It's the last straw when he sees a couple--a male couple even--with two boys swinging their arms between them, delighted little gazes taking in the world. They look like twins, perhaps fraternal, but close, certainly the same age. And he sees a different pair of seven year old boys, swinging two different pairs of hands. He wonders if Alfred will ever betray Arthur so intently. He wonders if that relationship can be repaired. He wonders if Arthur knows how bloody lucky he is to have a family at all.
England presses his hands deeper in his coat, steps away from the family, feet steering him to his favorite pub. Nations don't have families. What a lucky git.
"Agh--gone cold already." He muttered, glaring at the cup as if it was the source of his troubles, but taking short sips anyways. Waste not, want not, that's what they always said.
When the tea is gone, the papers straightened, and his house tidied, he's run out of makework. All his proper work had been done the night before, before bed--his mind skitters around sleep, back to the morning--and none had arrived this morning. Perhaps a stroll would take his mind off things.
"Morning." He says, mock cheery in his greetings to his people, for they are not the cause of his headaches, the vague feelings of upset wistfulness. The couple on the corner does not deserve his jealousy, the family out for brunch doesn't need a hateful male gaze. Still the feelings rise and it nearly overwhelms him when he stops in front of a bakery, a lone French bakery, he can't remember having seen it before, surely he would have, if only to openly snub it.
He steps inside instead, taking in the smell of baking bread and cakes with a nostalgia he shouldn't truly feel. The baguettes, croissants, cream puffs, and napoleons should not make him happy and miserable all at once. He leaves without letting the shop owner greet him.
It's the last straw when he sees a couple--a male couple even--with two boys swinging their arms between them, delighted little gazes taking in the world. They look like twins, perhaps fraternal, but close, certainly the same age. And he sees a different pair of seven year old boys, swinging two different pairs of hands. He wonders if Alfred will ever betray Arthur so intently. He wonders if that relationship can be repaired. He wonders if Arthur knows how bloody lucky he is to have a family at all.
England presses his hands deeper in his coat, steps away from the family, feet steering him to his favorite pub. Nations don't have families. What a lucky git.