(no subject)
Title: Return
Genre: Romance, AU, Hurt/Comfort (in a way)
Pairing(s): America/England
Word Count: 577
Rating/Warnings: PG/Historical AU, mentioned gore
Summary: Arthur wouldn't (couldn't) lose him.
Arthur found himself in the hands of death, but he couldn’t force himself to move away-instead, he inched closer. Closer and closer, he found himself attracted to the carnage, to the destruction. He found that he couldn’t ignore the bloodshed-it was morbid, but it was real.
On his right, a British soldier was crouching down-it seemed as though he was enjoying the pause in carnage created by the war. On his left was the source of his annoyance (which he didn’t bother to mention)-his name was Alfred F. Jones, and he was an American soldier.
Arthur flinched as he heard the American chuckle to himself-had it not been for the situation, he swore that the America would’ve been laughing boisterously. “Shut up,” he hissed, adding, ‘Bloody git’ in his head-he couldn’t say out loud, lest he wanted to hear Alfred talk about how “British” he was (and would probably end up asking if he spoke British… again-stupid American).
“But I finally get to be a true hero,” his companion (why he didn’t think of the other American soldier that way, he didn’t know) said, sounding serious for once, even if the words he spoke were one of the most ridiculous things he’s ever heard.
“Just shut up,” Arthur said to him. “We’re in a war, and we need to respect that.” His tone was sharp, but he knew that Alfred wasn’t fazed by it (to his chagrin).
‘Not to mention that the bloody frog won’t shut up-keeps insisting that there’s something more than “friendship” between us.’ He thought almost sardonically-that wine bastard didn’t know when to keep out of someone’s business, and often was wrong about the relationships between people.
“Heh,” he heard Alfred mutter suddenly. He looked to his left, and noticed the strangely bright light in his eyes-usually, soldiers’ eyes become dull as the war dragged on, but it seemed as if Alfred thrived on the destruction, thrived on the blood bath.
In a way, it terrified him; not that he’d ever admit it to this dense, oblivious, stupid boy. He was horrified by the thought of ever meeting him in battle-Arthur had only seen Alfred practice once, but it was enough to warn him of the boy’s skills.
He also wanted to learn from the boy-he was strong, he knew how to handle a gun, and… he definitely knew what he was doing in a fist fight.
Normally, he appreciated the boy’s enthusiasm-it definitely lightened the mood, and it made them hopeful, made them feel as if there was an end to this, and that it was in reach. Now, when they needed a clear head, needed to be focused on the present and not dreaming of the future, he hated the air of content that hung around the American.
He hated feeling as though there would be an end to whatever they had, but what he hated the most was that the American looked forward to being called to duty, and being called out to go to war. Arthur didn’t want to admit it, but Alfred was important to him-he wouldn’t say he was in love with the idiot, but he did care for said idiot.
It didn’t matter if Alfred was ready or not-Arthur would not (could not) let him go without a fight, and that’s what he denied to not only himself but to others too.