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usxuk Aug. 14th, 2010 02:05 pm)
flyingfortress.livejournal.com posting in usxuk Aug. 14th, 2010 02:05 pm)Title: Balcony Beginnings
Genre: Fluff; humor; angst
Pairing(s): US/UK
Rating: PG-PG13
Warnings: Human names, cursing, spoilers for Romeo and Juliet? ( ;; )
Summary: With a potion gone horribly awry, Alfred and Arthur find themselves far back in time - as the handsome Romeo Montague and the beautiful Juliet Capulet! Can they make it home before the inevitable and tragic end?
Author's Note: Fingers crossed that I finish this before I start college! orz Only two more chapters to do, and possibly an epilogue if I feel I can stand it. I have another fic already underway, along with a soundtrack I really ought to post here. And, remind me to never write an ending to a chapter at two in the morning ever again.
The previous chapters can be viewed at my journal;![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
flyingfortress
Enjoy.
--
Silence settled between the two nations as another breeze rustled the trees behind Arthur’s house. They stood, the shorter staring at the taller, a mutual disbelief lying between the two. The last time they were face-to-face - with both of them alive - Arthur was being left behind as Alfred ran away to avoid certain death. America’s last sight of England was him lying on a tomb’s stone bed; and England had found Alfred dead on said tomb’s cold floor. There was an almost awkward air around them. They had gone from being two allied nations in a war, to star-crossed lovers, to dead, and all in a little under a week. Neither knew what to do now.
As he stared up into Alfred’s eyes, England relived the image of the boy laying crumpled on the tomb floor. He frowned and tried to get the memory out of his mind. He was alive, wasn’t he? Else, he wouldn’t be right in front of him. Quiet doubt numbed his mind as his eyes narrowed slightly. Was all of this happening at all, or was it some kind of dream?
America’s brows were arched as stared, completely dumbfounded, at the sight before him. England was actually alive. His eyes were open, he was breathing. America wanted to check for a heartbeat, but he was certain that the empire had one. In any other situation, he would have cracked a joke to ease the atmosphere, but the knowledge that he had risen from the dead, and he presumed that England had as well, kept him from being comfortable with a jest.
The uncertain and almost dark atmosphere wasn’t enough to keep him from finally cracking the widest smile he swore he had ever put on. Arthur looked slightly taken back, but Alfred could hardly care what his reaction was. He was alive, that was all that seemed to matter. America’s heart seemed to leap from his chest as his arms quickly scooped the shorter nation up. “England!!”
He held him in a tight embrace as he lifted England’s feet off the ground. He grinned in joy and ignored the squirming and stuttered outcries England replied with. “I was so worried about you!” America said with a relieved tone. He noticed that Arthur stopped squirming when he spoke; it must have captured his attention. He closed his eyes with a smile and held the smaller nation close as he continued. “You were in my dream but then you disappeared and I woke up then I called Churchill and he said he hadn’t seen you in a few days and I remembered everything and … you’re alive!”
England wanted to stop listening to the breathless rant, but had the manners not to. He was almost thankful for it, or else he wouldn‘t have caught the concern in America‘s tone. As he was put back on the ground (and was quite relieved to be), America kept his hands on his shoulders, and England looked up at him with a slightly baffled expression. His cheeks warmed when America laughed quietly and smiled down at him. His tone was soft as he spoke. “You’re … you’re here, you’re okay, and you’re not Juliet!”
He tugged England into an embrace once again, but the empire didn’t fidget this time. Instead, Arthur ignored his hot face and, hesitating slightly, slid his arms around Alfred’s broad back, lightly hiding his face in the boy’s chest. “I … was worried about you too,” he meekly confessed. “Or something.” He was quiet after and closed his eyes, allowing the somewhat familiar comfort of being in Alfred’s arms to wash over him again. It was royally embarrassing and if anyone was watching he would surely beat them, but he wouldn’t concern himself with looking. Not now, not after seeing America alive and well again.
America’s smile became warm as he felt England adjusting to his embrace. Contently, he rested his forehead against the smaller man’s shoulders and took in his scent; a mix of tea, fresh rain, a cold ocean breeze, and a vague scent of smoke. Alfred immediately stopped what he was doing and felt his face grow hot. He cleared his throat and abruptly ended the embrace by dropping his arms and very gently nudging England away from him. He rubbed his neck and focused on the house next to Arthur’s, mentally wishing his blush away. He could feel Arthur’s confused eyes quixotically locked on him, and he composed himself as best he could. Glancing back over, he tilted his head and rose a brow. “When didja get up? Did you have that weird dream, too?”
England squinted slightly. Dream? “What dream are you talking about?” he asked in a mutter. He shook his head not too soon after, not particularly caring what Alfred had meant. He had another question to answer, anyway. “I woke up around three o’clock this afternoon,” he explained. Folding his arms, a small frown crossed his face as he replayed what had happened in his mind. “I went about my day as normal, although I was wondering why I had slept so late. But when I got to work, Winston nearly burst a blood vessel.” He glanced momentarily at his feet. “As he explained that I had been missing, I began to remember … Well, everything that happened.” He looked up again and saw the American nodding in understanding. “He also told me that you were on your way, but I must have forgotten that.”
Alfred, briefly, was offended that Arthur would dare to forget a hero coming to save him - the damsel - but decided to bring it up later on. He shifted in anxiety and sputtered, “But, did you have a dream?! Like, from what you can remember - before you woke up, did you have any kind of dream?” He leaned closer, excitement and fear rushing through him. If it was the same dream, then maybe it was linked to their five-week adventure more than he knew.
Naturally, England leaned away from America and shoved him back to where he had been originally resting. “Stop that!” He furrowed his eyebrows in uncertainty. “Well…” He grumbled after a moment of thought, “I did have a dream.” He saw a light flash in Alfred’s eyes. Arthur’s brows furrowed more as warmth flooded his cheeks. Looking to the side in embarrassment, he stammered, “But, I’m not going to tell you about it!” The gasp from the Yank made him roll his eyes. “There … isn’t much to tell, anyway,” he lied.
His eyes closed and for a moment, he was taken back to before he awoke. He had been alone in the darkness of his mind, sitting with his knees brought to his chest. Even the pearly white of his gown seemed to turn ash in the pitch black surroundings. Loneliness had gnawed at his heart in a pain, he remembered, that was nearly as bad as after the Revolution. Sudden warmth budded from his shoulder, and he looked back at a young man standing behind him. Arthur had stood quickly and stared into blue eyes, a handsome face smiling in return. Arthur could hardly breathe, and his voice was missing as he mouthed ‘Romeo’ before being engulfed in the man’s arms. The black all around him turned to white; the cold feeling of loneliness faded, and he nuzzled into his lover’s neck while his heart swelled. Death couldn’t, and wouldn’t, separate them.
A hand in front of his face awoke Arthur’s conscious, and he smacked at America’s hand. “Cut that out,” he grunted with an annoyed frown. The look the Yank gave him resembled curiosity and even concern, but England wouldn’t have any of it. “So, there’s all that,” he concluded his mini-story with a folding of his arms as he looked back up at Alfred. He wanted to ask what had happened to the boy, and opened his mouth to speak, but a gasp from Jones made him blink and decide against it. “What is it?” he asked.
One of Alfred‘s feet stomped at the ground in impatience, as if the thought he wanted to vocalize had gone away. The youth remembered shortly after and waved his hands, trying to make sure that England was paying attention. The glare he received was also his answer. “Wait a sec,“ he spoke, pointing at the shorter man in accusation. “Earlier, you said you missed me - you suppose. What d’ya mean by that?! C’mon, England, I died!” He paused to mull over this revelation, then shrugged with a half laugh. “But, uh, you did too.”
A frown tugged at Arthur’s lips and he huffed. “Yes, I know. Don’t … don’t bring that up so lightly, git.” He knew Alfred was horrible at reading the atmosphere he was in, but to say something that morbid so bluntly? It was as if dying was a daily occurrence to him. A chill ran up England’s spine, one he hoped America didn’t see. The feeling of the knife in his heart caused him to cross his arms tightly, a scowl crossing his face.
America winced slightly and thought about his obvious mistake. It was too fresh of a wound to bring up, and he wished he could have eaten his words. “Sorry,” he mumbled under his breath, an uncharacteristic frown pulling the corners of his mouth down. To cover the uncomfortable feeling returning, he changed his expression into a smirk, placed a hand against his hip, and leaned on one foot as his head canted to the side. “But, you didn’t answer my question! D’ya not love me anymore or somethin’?”
The blush on England’s face made him look like a cherry, and the grin growing on Alfred’s only made it worse. “Th - that’s …” he stammered. A foot hit the ground and he clenched his fists in frustration. “No! Don‘t think it‘s like that at all-”
“So, wait,” Alfred interrupted as he so often did. His face fell into that of confusion, and a light blush tainted his face. “You do love me?”
“No! Now, quit asking such stupid questions!”
He replied with a laugh and put a hand on England’s shoulder. The shorter moved to get the hand away, but Alfred continued to rest his hand on the other and shook him lightly. His smile was friendly and he tilted his head. “Calm down, Artie. I was just checkin’ to make sure it was you ‘n everything!” His smile grew. “I couldn’t have an England imposter hangin’ around me!”
Arthur rolled his eyes, obviously unimpressed. Of course it was him. Was Alfred really that stupid? However, he understood the hesitation. He chose to remain silent and quiet settled between them. He avoided America’s glance for a few moments before he settled on something to say. “Do you have any … er, lasting effects?” he asked, gazing up at the taller youth, who looked somewhat confused. He unconsciously placed a hand over his chest and winced as a small pain rose up where the knife had stabbed him. It had lasted all day, and he had to wonder when it would stop.
America’s confused glaze over his eyes faded and he blinked in realization. “Oh,” he mumbled. He rubbed his neck in thought. “Uhm, I threw up this morning? And the nausea hasn’t really gone away-”
“Well, don’t you dare vomit in my house! I had the carpets cleaned a few weeks ago.”
“Now hold yer horses, Artie; my stomach comes before your stupid carpets!”
They hadn’t seen each other alive for five minutes and were already at each other‘s throats. America huffed and folded his arms, closing his eyes and grunting. England, for his half, scoffed and put both hands on his hips and turned away with a flushed face. The shorter nation didn’t remain like that for long, though, as the pain in his chest persisted. He flinched and bit his lip, his hand once again covering the left side of his chest. “Damn her,” he whispered under his breath.
He didn’t expect America to have paid attention to his movements, but when he looked up the boy was returning the glance with a worried look in his eyes. “You alright?” he asked quietly, hesitantly, and the tiny frown on his face grew. Alfred drew away when he realized how close he had been, figuring Arthur would want his space, as he always seemed to, but nevertheless remained close by in case something was truly wrong with him.
England lightly nudged America away from him and continued to hold his hand against his torso. He debated lying again, but thought against it. “Well,” he murmured with slight caution, “Juliet stabbed herself in the end of the story, as you know.” Alfred’s eyes seemed to light up. England recalled explaining the deaths of Romeo and Juliet to America, but he figured that Romeo had blocked all of that out at the end. His frown grew. “And, consequently, I stabbed myself. There’s a scar, and it’s still a bit tender.” He furrowed his thick eyebrows and huffed quietly. “It’s … rather ugly, too.” He decided it was best to change the subject before Alfred started ripping off his clothes to find the scar and see it for himself (because he knew that America would try something like that). “So, er. Aside from vomiting, you’re alright then?”
Alfred nodded in reply. “Yup, everythin’s alright!” He chuckled and rubbed his neck with a small smile. “For a while, I was wonderin’ if you even remembered everythin’.” He glanced down at his hand, then held it to Arthur with his smile widening. “See, I still got my ring ‘n everythin’! Do you have yours?”
Arthur’s eyes squinted as he examined his ring finger. A small blush crossed his cheeks and warmed them as he realized that he had failed to remove his own ring. Right hand twisting his own ring unnoticeably, he finally decided to reveal it and held his hand up next to America’s. “Yes,” he spoke slowly, “I still do.” He saw something in Jones’ eyes lighten up, excitement or joy, and wondered why. He didn’t vocalize his questioning, however, and began to lower his hand. “In any case, perhaps I was considering selling it-”
England’s voice went silent when he felt America’s hand suddenly grab his own. Arthur’s face resembled a cherry, and he started to stammer out a query, but Alfred cut him off. “Don’t take it off!” Alfred insisted, only causing Arthur’s face to redden more. The American hardly cared about the blush and he cradled Arthur’s hand carefully, looking at their rings. Arthur looked down at their hands as well, and America seemed to put serious consideration into his words. Arthur half wished he would spit it out or leave.
He got his answer soon after in a hesitant voice. “I - it’s just that … Maybe all of that happened for some kinda crazy reason we don’t get it, and we need to remember it!” Looking down at England’s green eyes, he firmed his visage and released England’s hand hesitantly. “You have the scar to remember it, yeah, but I … we …” America frowned and tried to think of his words again.
The anticipation of what the youth had to say was an itch Arthur couldn‘t scratch. He huffed and demanded, “Finish your sentences, git! You have a habit of trailing off and it’s incredibly rude!” Many habit’s the boy had were rude, but that was, by far, one of the worse.
Eyes closing tightly, Alfred took a quick breath and blurted, “We went through it together and we ought to remember it together!” The pink on his cheeks and the stubbornness in his now eyes confused Arthur. Was he being sincere? Jones huffed after and his shoulder sagged slightly, his head hanging in something close to shame. “That sounded really lame, huh?” he asked quietly, laughing at himself with a smile. “B - but, it’s kinda true. We’re allies, and you’re my friend, and maybe these rings’re kinda like a bond between us,” he furthered his explanation. America gazed down at England in uncertainly, like a child looking for approval. “Do you get it?” he asked softly, half feeling stupid for confessing something as sentimental as all of that and half hoping that England understood what he had just said.
Arthur’s green eyes stared up into Alfred’s with surprise. How could such a childish boy suddenly say something so oddly profound? England wished he could have managed to find a smart retort, insult him and laugh about it, but he, much to his own confusion, found himself agreeing with his words. He could only muster a meek reply. “Git,” he mumbled. He didn’t have anything else to say and let his actions speak for him. Gazing down at his hand, he folded it into a fist and allowed his arm to fall to his side. “Fine, then,” he sighed after a moment of silence, “I’ll keep the bloody thing on.” America’s face broke into a grin, and England scowled to the side. “But, don’t think that this makes us ‘best friends’ or - or married or something ridiculous like that!”
The hearty laugh from his former colony made Arthur’s eyes roll. The blue-eyed boy looked an arm around the shorter and gave him a shake, his grin widening. “Nah, we aren’t married,” he reassured, “we’re just awesome buddies! Like two super heroes! Except, I’m the main super hero and you’re just the sidekick.” England’s angry scoff of offense made America laugh, and he released his newfound ‘sidekick’. “C’mon,” he urged as his hand reached for Arthur’s again, “let’s go inside! We can talk in there, but only after we eat. I’m starvin’; I’ll make us hamburgers because your cooking would re-kill us!”
England attempted to free himself of the taller man’s grasp, but gave up after a few attempts. “My cooking wouldn’t kill us,” he grumbled in offense as he was pulled towards his own house. England glanced at Alfred’s broad back and frowned slightly. The new feeling of comfort in Alfred’s company was odd. Instead of the desire to cast the boy away, like he so often wanted to, he was content with having him there and even welcomed it in a way like never before. It had taken America’s scripted death for England to truly appreciate him. Alfred would be the only person who could relate to everything that had happened. As possibly farfetched as it was, England had a feeling that he, perhaps, needed America’s company. He wouldn’t complain, though. Arthur looked down at the passing grass below their moving feet to hide the tiny, but very contented, smile on his face from American.
He didn’t know that Alfred felt exactly the same. But, unlike with England, there was something inside of the American that was waiting to come up, a lasting effect of the adventure they had endured. He glanced back at England with a small smile, then looked ahead of him. The two of them slid through the door a moment later. As Arthur headed to the stove (because he said that he couldn’t continue on without a cup of tea), Alfred observed him, thankful that the house was no longer empty, that he didn’t have to worry as much as he had. But why had he been so worried? And why, even with England five feet away from him, could he not stop thinking about him?
With a shake of his head, America waltzed to England’s side and started snooping through the cabinets for some coffee. Although disappointed that the Brit had none, he remained with him and decided that his overworking mind was simply not used to the prospect of England being fine, having been so worked up about it for the last six or seven hours. Had he known how wrong he was, he would have walked out the door right then. But, fate had an odd way of playing itself out. Juliet and Romeo never got the fairytale ending they deserved, and Arthur and Alfred had to endure the story together. But their own story was far from over. In many ways, it had only just begun…
Genre: Fluff; humor; angst
Pairing(s): US/UK
Rating: PG-PG13
Warnings: Human names, cursing, spoilers for Romeo and Juliet? ( ;; )
Summary: With a potion gone horribly awry, Alfred and Arthur find themselves far back in time - as the handsome Romeo Montague and the beautiful Juliet Capulet! Can they make it home before the inevitable and tragic end?
Author's Note: Fingers crossed that I finish this before I start college! orz Only two more chapters to do, and possibly an epilogue if I feel I can stand it. I have another fic already underway, along with a soundtrack I really ought to post here. And, remind me to never write an ending to a chapter at two in the morning ever again.
The previous chapters can be viewed at my journal;
flyingfortress Enjoy.
--
Silence settled between the two nations as another breeze rustled the trees behind Arthur’s house. They stood, the shorter staring at the taller, a mutual disbelief lying between the two. The last time they were face-to-face - with both of them alive - Arthur was being left behind as Alfred ran away to avoid certain death. America’s last sight of England was him lying on a tomb’s stone bed; and England had found Alfred dead on said tomb’s cold floor. There was an almost awkward air around them. They had gone from being two allied nations in a war, to star-crossed lovers, to dead, and all in a little under a week. Neither knew what to do now.
As he stared up into Alfred’s eyes, England relived the image of the boy laying crumpled on the tomb floor. He frowned and tried to get the memory out of his mind. He was alive, wasn’t he? Else, he wouldn’t be right in front of him. Quiet doubt numbed his mind as his eyes narrowed slightly. Was all of this happening at all, or was it some kind of dream?
America’s brows were arched as stared, completely dumbfounded, at the sight before him. England was actually alive. His eyes were open, he was breathing. America wanted to check for a heartbeat, but he was certain that the empire had one. In any other situation, he would have cracked a joke to ease the atmosphere, but the knowledge that he had risen from the dead, and he presumed that England had as well, kept him from being comfortable with a jest.
The uncertain and almost dark atmosphere wasn’t enough to keep him from finally cracking the widest smile he swore he had ever put on. Arthur looked slightly taken back, but Alfred could hardly care what his reaction was. He was alive, that was all that seemed to matter. America’s heart seemed to leap from his chest as his arms quickly scooped the shorter nation up. “England!!”
He held him in a tight embrace as he lifted England’s feet off the ground. He grinned in joy and ignored the squirming and stuttered outcries England replied with. “I was so worried about you!” America said with a relieved tone. He noticed that Arthur stopped squirming when he spoke; it must have captured his attention. He closed his eyes with a smile and held the smaller nation close as he continued. “You were in my dream but then you disappeared and I woke up then I called Churchill and he said he hadn’t seen you in a few days and I remembered everything and … you’re alive!”
England wanted to stop listening to the breathless rant, but had the manners not to. He was almost thankful for it, or else he wouldn‘t have caught the concern in America‘s tone. As he was put back on the ground (and was quite relieved to be), America kept his hands on his shoulders, and England looked up at him with a slightly baffled expression. His cheeks warmed when America laughed quietly and smiled down at him. His tone was soft as he spoke. “You’re … you’re here, you’re okay, and you’re not Juliet!”
He tugged England into an embrace once again, but the empire didn’t fidget this time. Instead, Arthur ignored his hot face and, hesitating slightly, slid his arms around Alfred’s broad back, lightly hiding his face in the boy’s chest. “I … was worried about you too,” he meekly confessed. “Or something.” He was quiet after and closed his eyes, allowing the somewhat familiar comfort of being in Alfred’s arms to wash over him again. It was royally embarrassing and if anyone was watching he would surely beat them, but he wouldn’t concern himself with looking. Not now, not after seeing America alive and well again.
America’s smile became warm as he felt England adjusting to his embrace. Contently, he rested his forehead against the smaller man’s shoulders and took in his scent; a mix of tea, fresh rain, a cold ocean breeze, and a vague scent of smoke. Alfred immediately stopped what he was doing and felt his face grow hot. He cleared his throat and abruptly ended the embrace by dropping his arms and very gently nudging England away from him. He rubbed his neck and focused on the house next to Arthur’s, mentally wishing his blush away. He could feel Arthur’s confused eyes quixotically locked on him, and he composed himself as best he could. Glancing back over, he tilted his head and rose a brow. “When didja get up? Did you have that weird dream, too?”
England squinted slightly. Dream? “What dream are you talking about?” he asked in a mutter. He shook his head not too soon after, not particularly caring what Alfred had meant. He had another question to answer, anyway. “I woke up around three o’clock this afternoon,” he explained. Folding his arms, a small frown crossed his face as he replayed what had happened in his mind. “I went about my day as normal, although I was wondering why I had slept so late. But when I got to work, Winston nearly burst a blood vessel.” He glanced momentarily at his feet. “As he explained that I had been missing, I began to remember … Well, everything that happened.” He looked up again and saw the American nodding in understanding. “He also told me that you were on your way, but I must have forgotten that.”
Alfred, briefly, was offended that Arthur would dare to forget a hero coming to save him - the damsel - but decided to bring it up later on. He shifted in anxiety and sputtered, “But, did you have a dream?! Like, from what you can remember - before you woke up, did you have any kind of dream?” He leaned closer, excitement and fear rushing through him. If it was the same dream, then maybe it was linked to their five-week adventure more than he knew.
Naturally, England leaned away from America and shoved him back to where he had been originally resting. “Stop that!” He furrowed his eyebrows in uncertainty. “Well…” He grumbled after a moment of thought, “I did have a dream.” He saw a light flash in Alfred’s eyes. Arthur’s brows furrowed more as warmth flooded his cheeks. Looking to the side in embarrassment, he stammered, “But, I’m not going to tell you about it!” The gasp from the Yank made him roll his eyes. “There … isn’t much to tell, anyway,” he lied.
His eyes closed and for a moment, he was taken back to before he awoke. He had been alone in the darkness of his mind, sitting with his knees brought to his chest. Even the pearly white of his gown seemed to turn ash in the pitch black surroundings. Loneliness had gnawed at his heart in a pain, he remembered, that was nearly as bad as after the Revolution. Sudden warmth budded from his shoulder, and he looked back at a young man standing behind him. Arthur had stood quickly and stared into blue eyes, a handsome face smiling in return. Arthur could hardly breathe, and his voice was missing as he mouthed ‘Romeo’ before being engulfed in the man’s arms. The black all around him turned to white; the cold feeling of loneliness faded, and he nuzzled into his lover’s neck while his heart swelled. Death couldn’t, and wouldn’t, separate them.
A hand in front of his face awoke Arthur’s conscious, and he smacked at America’s hand. “Cut that out,” he grunted with an annoyed frown. The look the Yank gave him resembled curiosity and even concern, but England wouldn’t have any of it. “So, there’s all that,” he concluded his mini-story with a folding of his arms as he looked back up at Alfred. He wanted to ask what had happened to the boy, and opened his mouth to speak, but a gasp from Jones made him blink and decide against it. “What is it?” he asked.
One of Alfred‘s feet stomped at the ground in impatience, as if the thought he wanted to vocalize had gone away. The youth remembered shortly after and waved his hands, trying to make sure that England was paying attention. The glare he received was also his answer. “Wait a sec,“ he spoke, pointing at the shorter man in accusation. “Earlier, you said you missed me - you suppose. What d’ya mean by that?! C’mon, England, I died!” He paused to mull over this revelation, then shrugged with a half laugh. “But, uh, you did too.”
A frown tugged at Arthur’s lips and he huffed. “Yes, I know. Don’t … don’t bring that up so lightly, git.” He knew Alfred was horrible at reading the atmosphere he was in, but to say something that morbid so bluntly? It was as if dying was a daily occurrence to him. A chill ran up England’s spine, one he hoped America didn’t see. The feeling of the knife in his heart caused him to cross his arms tightly, a scowl crossing his face.
America winced slightly and thought about his obvious mistake. It was too fresh of a wound to bring up, and he wished he could have eaten his words. “Sorry,” he mumbled under his breath, an uncharacteristic frown pulling the corners of his mouth down. To cover the uncomfortable feeling returning, he changed his expression into a smirk, placed a hand against his hip, and leaned on one foot as his head canted to the side. “But, you didn’t answer my question! D’ya not love me anymore or somethin’?”
The blush on England’s face made him look like a cherry, and the grin growing on Alfred’s only made it worse. “Th - that’s …” he stammered. A foot hit the ground and he clenched his fists in frustration. “No! Don‘t think it‘s like that at all-”
“So, wait,” Alfred interrupted as he so often did. His face fell into that of confusion, and a light blush tainted his face. “You do love me?”
“No! Now, quit asking such stupid questions!”
He replied with a laugh and put a hand on England’s shoulder. The shorter moved to get the hand away, but Alfred continued to rest his hand on the other and shook him lightly. His smile was friendly and he tilted his head. “Calm down, Artie. I was just checkin’ to make sure it was you ‘n everything!” His smile grew. “I couldn’t have an England imposter hangin’ around me!”
Arthur rolled his eyes, obviously unimpressed. Of course it was him. Was Alfred really that stupid? However, he understood the hesitation. He chose to remain silent and quiet settled between them. He avoided America’s glance for a few moments before he settled on something to say. “Do you have any … er, lasting effects?” he asked, gazing up at the taller youth, who looked somewhat confused. He unconsciously placed a hand over his chest and winced as a small pain rose up where the knife had stabbed him. It had lasted all day, and he had to wonder when it would stop.
America’s confused glaze over his eyes faded and he blinked in realization. “Oh,” he mumbled. He rubbed his neck in thought. “Uhm, I threw up this morning? And the nausea hasn’t really gone away-”
“Well, don’t you dare vomit in my house! I had the carpets cleaned a few weeks ago.”
“Now hold yer horses, Artie; my stomach comes before your stupid carpets!”
They hadn’t seen each other alive for five minutes and were already at each other‘s throats. America huffed and folded his arms, closing his eyes and grunting. England, for his half, scoffed and put both hands on his hips and turned away with a flushed face. The shorter nation didn’t remain like that for long, though, as the pain in his chest persisted. He flinched and bit his lip, his hand once again covering the left side of his chest. “Damn her,” he whispered under his breath.
He didn’t expect America to have paid attention to his movements, but when he looked up the boy was returning the glance with a worried look in his eyes. “You alright?” he asked quietly, hesitantly, and the tiny frown on his face grew. Alfred drew away when he realized how close he had been, figuring Arthur would want his space, as he always seemed to, but nevertheless remained close by in case something was truly wrong with him.
England lightly nudged America away from him and continued to hold his hand against his torso. He debated lying again, but thought against it. “Well,” he murmured with slight caution, “Juliet stabbed herself in the end of the story, as you know.” Alfred’s eyes seemed to light up. England recalled explaining the deaths of Romeo and Juliet to America, but he figured that Romeo had blocked all of that out at the end. His frown grew. “And, consequently, I stabbed myself. There’s a scar, and it’s still a bit tender.” He furrowed his thick eyebrows and huffed quietly. “It’s … rather ugly, too.” He decided it was best to change the subject before Alfred started ripping off his clothes to find the scar and see it for himself (because he knew that America would try something like that). “So, er. Aside from vomiting, you’re alright then?”
Alfred nodded in reply. “Yup, everythin’s alright!” He chuckled and rubbed his neck with a small smile. “For a while, I was wonderin’ if you even remembered everythin’.” He glanced down at his hand, then held it to Arthur with his smile widening. “See, I still got my ring ‘n everythin’! Do you have yours?”
Arthur’s eyes squinted as he examined his ring finger. A small blush crossed his cheeks and warmed them as he realized that he had failed to remove his own ring. Right hand twisting his own ring unnoticeably, he finally decided to reveal it and held his hand up next to America’s. “Yes,” he spoke slowly, “I still do.” He saw something in Jones’ eyes lighten up, excitement or joy, and wondered why. He didn’t vocalize his questioning, however, and began to lower his hand. “In any case, perhaps I was considering selling it-”
England’s voice went silent when he felt America’s hand suddenly grab his own. Arthur’s face resembled a cherry, and he started to stammer out a query, but Alfred cut him off. “Don’t take it off!” Alfred insisted, only causing Arthur’s face to redden more. The American hardly cared about the blush and he cradled Arthur’s hand carefully, looking at their rings. Arthur looked down at their hands as well, and America seemed to put serious consideration into his words. Arthur half wished he would spit it out or leave.
He got his answer soon after in a hesitant voice. “I - it’s just that … Maybe all of that happened for some kinda crazy reason we don’t get it, and we need to remember it!” Looking down at England’s green eyes, he firmed his visage and released England’s hand hesitantly. “You have the scar to remember it, yeah, but I … we …” America frowned and tried to think of his words again.
The anticipation of what the youth had to say was an itch Arthur couldn‘t scratch. He huffed and demanded, “Finish your sentences, git! You have a habit of trailing off and it’s incredibly rude!” Many habit’s the boy had were rude, but that was, by far, one of the worse.
Eyes closing tightly, Alfred took a quick breath and blurted, “We went through it together and we ought to remember it together!” The pink on his cheeks and the stubbornness in his now eyes confused Arthur. Was he being sincere? Jones huffed after and his shoulder sagged slightly, his head hanging in something close to shame. “That sounded really lame, huh?” he asked quietly, laughing at himself with a smile. “B - but, it’s kinda true. We’re allies, and you’re my friend, and maybe these rings’re kinda like a bond between us,” he furthered his explanation. America gazed down at England in uncertainly, like a child looking for approval. “Do you get it?” he asked softly, half feeling stupid for confessing something as sentimental as all of that and half hoping that England understood what he had just said.
Arthur’s green eyes stared up into Alfred’s with surprise. How could such a childish boy suddenly say something so oddly profound? England wished he could have managed to find a smart retort, insult him and laugh about it, but he, much to his own confusion, found himself agreeing with his words. He could only muster a meek reply. “Git,” he mumbled. He didn’t have anything else to say and let his actions speak for him. Gazing down at his hand, he folded it into a fist and allowed his arm to fall to his side. “Fine, then,” he sighed after a moment of silence, “I’ll keep the bloody thing on.” America’s face broke into a grin, and England scowled to the side. “But, don’t think that this makes us ‘best friends’ or - or married or something ridiculous like that!”
The hearty laugh from his former colony made Arthur’s eyes roll. The blue-eyed boy looked an arm around the shorter and gave him a shake, his grin widening. “Nah, we aren’t married,” he reassured, “we’re just awesome buddies! Like two super heroes! Except, I’m the main super hero and you’re just the sidekick.” England’s angry scoff of offense made America laugh, and he released his newfound ‘sidekick’. “C’mon,” he urged as his hand reached for Arthur’s again, “let’s go inside! We can talk in there, but only after we eat. I’m starvin’; I’ll make us hamburgers because your cooking would re-kill us!”
England attempted to free himself of the taller man’s grasp, but gave up after a few attempts. “My cooking wouldn’t kill us,” he grumbled in offense as he was pulled towards his own house. England glanced at Alfred’s broad back and frowned slightly. The new feeling of comfort in Alfred’s company was odd. Instead of the desire to cast the boy away, like he so often wanted to, he was content with having him there and even welcomed it in a way like never before. It had taken America’s scripted death for England to truly appreciate him. Alfred would be the only person who could relate to everything that had happened. As possibly farfetched as it was, England had a feeling that he, perhaps, needed America’s company. He wouldn’t complain, though. Arthur looked down at the passing grass below their moving feet to hide the tiny, but very contented, smile on his face from American.
He didn’t know that Alfred felt exactly the same. But, unlike with England, there was something inside of the American that was waiting to come up, a lasting effect of the adventure they had endured. He glanced back at England with a small smile, then looked ahead of him. The two of them slid through the door a moment later. As Arthur headed to the stove (because he said that he couldn’t continue on without a cup of tea), Alfred observed him, thankful that the house was no longer empty, that he didn’t have to worry as much as he had. But why had he been so worried? And why, even with England five feet away from him, could he not stop thinking about him?
With a shake of his head, America waltzed to England’s side and started snooping through the cabinets for some coffee. Although disappointed that the Brit had none, he remained with him and decided that his overworking mind was simply not used to the prospect of England being fine, having been so worked up about it for the last six or seven hours. Had he known how wrong he was, he would have walked out the door right then. But, fate had an odd way of playing itself out. Juliet and Romeo never got the fairytale ending they deserved, and Arthur and Alfred had to endure the story together. But their own story was far from over. In many ways, it had only just begun…
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Yes it had only just begun! *giddy for next chapters* It's so nice to have both boys back again <3 Lol at the awkwardness |D They even keep the rings, lol! France is so going to make fun of them if seeing it.