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blood_wingedTitle: Keep Calm and Carry On.
Genre: General
Word Count: 1437
Rating/Warnings: U, none. (fluff?)
Summary: In the midst of the Second World War, Arthur and Alfred have a chat on a quiet night in the trenches.
It wasn’t often that they were all in the same place at the same time when it came to on-field fighting but when the bosses decided that they could use some kind of team building exercise this hadn’t really been what they’d had in mind. Between Francis complaining about the cold and the mud getting into his boots, as well as his constant bickering with Arthur, Ivan making Yao – already put on edge by having to share a living space with England – increasingly nervous by the day simply with his presence and Alfred’s growing mistrust of the Russian nation it was a wonder that they hadn’t killed each other already. Matthew had been keeping mostly to himself, to a degree that Arthur was beginning to wonder whether or not he was actually there or just turning up to sleep.
For Arthur, the only one of his ‘allies’ that was even half tolerable was Alfred, and even then he didn’t really want to spent any time around the kid. He’d been moping about having to spend his birthday in the trenches and Arthur swore that if he had to look at the pout on his face one more time he was going to have to hit him just to give him something else to complain about. Francis had been sympathetic. Pandering. It made him sick to his stomach to see it.
He was taking the first watch while the others slept, sitting out ankle deep in mud hugging a rifle to his chest and listening to the people in the dugout shack behind him breathing quietly. Ivan snored like nothing he’d ever heard before, but it wasn’t keeping anyone awake. They were all far too weary for that. Arthur sighed and tipped his head back, letting his eyes close for a moment. His clothes itched. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d last bathed or had a cup of tea that didn’t taste as if it was made from the dirt they were living under and he was already so very, very tired of all of this. War was a dirty game, and it had only grown worse over the centuries. There were no words for how much he hated this place. The equipment was different, but the war itself… war never changed.
A door squeaked open behind him and he mentally prepared himself for whatever idiocy might come out of the mouth of whoever it was, only for someone to move quietly up beside him, crouched down to keep their head below the level of the trench lip. Out of the corner of his eye Arthur saw the faint glint of light on glass and he knew who it was. He let out a short grunt by way of greeting and Alfred glanced at him, then up to the cloudless sky. There had been no fireworks on the fourth of July this year. No explosions save for the ones raining down over them. If he was honest with himself, Arthur could understand why Alfred was a little put out by it all. The English nation hadn’t cared about his birthday for a while but if he did he was sure that this wasn’t the kind of place he’d want to be spending it.
“What’s the word?” Alfred murmured quietly.
“Sodding Jerries haven’t made a peep all night,” Arthur replied, softly, barely moving his lips as he spoke. He shifted in his seat and peered down at the gun on his lap, carefully switching on a dim, covered torch and scanning the metal. It was to distract himself more than anything else. “Reckon they’re planning something big. Orders are to keep shtum and hope they get bored of waiting for one of us to fuck up and give away our position.”
“Ah.” The American retreated back into the shack and brought out a chair, sinking it into the mud beside Arthur’s and sitting down. It sank slightly, bringing his head almost level with the smaller nation’s, and he stretched his legs out in front of him in an effort to keep them from being submerged in the half-liquidated ground. “Francis thinks he’s getting trench foot,” he whispered, leaning a little towards the other to make himself more easily heard.
“He isn’t getting trench foot,” was the flat-voiced response to that. “Francis would claim he had the bubonic plague to get out of this. The sooner he settles down the better – we’re all in this for the full term, no getting out of it.”
Alfred chuckled lowly and turned his eyes skywards. “Hey, Arthur,” he said. “Do you think that Ludwig, Kiku and Feliciano are over there?”
“I hope they’re all over there, then we can take them all out in one go.” Arthur’s voice was hushed enough that his tone couldn’t really be discerned but his eyes were cold and he noted the faint shiver that ran through Alfred at his words. He wasn’t going to say he didn’t mean it. Before all of this, Arthur might have called Kiku a friend and he had held little quarrel with the slightly air-headed Italian. Even Ludwig, the younger brother of a man he had once called one of his closest allies, had been little more than a faint nuisance. He hadn’t seen Gilbert in a long time, and Ivan always avoided his questioning when he asked about the man. It was worrying, but this was war, and it was no time to be getting sentimental over old ties.
“Heh… you’re serious…”
“Of course I’m serious. This isn’t a rugby game where we’re all going to go out, drink and play darts once it’s over. I don’t know how long this is going to last, or what’s going to happen when we’re done.” Alfred was looking at him, silent, attentive. It was unnerving. “No matter who wins, no one is going to leave this unscathed. Not even you.”
The younger blonde looked away, a tiny frown on his face as he touched a hand to his side. It begged a question that didn’t need to be asked. This war had left its mark on all of them. Arthur sighed, and finally looked over to the other man. Sometimes, it was far too easy to forget that Alfred wasn’t a child any longer. He’d seen war, he’d fought and bled for his people, he’d come to the aid of other nations caught up in a war that had little to do with him once before and now he was doing it again. The gratitude was there, even if Arthur didn’t really show it.
“But…” he added softly, and Alfred glanced over to him. There was a smudge of dirt on his cheek that Arthur was itching to clean away but that would have been too strange, far too intimate a thing to do now that Alfred was grown up. “Eventually, things will get better. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I know.” Turning up the collar of his bomber jacket, Alfred buried his chin down into the soft lining and let out a quiet huff. Even in the middle of summer the trenches always seemed to be so cold at night, though Arthur was sure that it was just his imagination. He reached over and clapped one hand down on the others shoulder, feeling the faint flinch under his hand. Alfred didn’t shrug him off, and when he let his hand drop a moment later, the younger man slumped to one side, resting his head on Arthur’s shoulder. His hands were curled on his lap and Arthur just looked straight ahead, not knowing whether or not he ought to feel embarrassed. Alfred’s hair was tickling against his ear and he was close enough that Arthur’s heart was doing triple flips in his chest for a reason that the English nation though he had abandoned decades earlier.
Arthur set his rifle up against the opposite shoulder and moved slowly, reaching out and touching one finger to the other man’s palm. Reflexively, it seemed, all four fingers closed around that one digit and held it, and Arthur flushed darker than the St George’s Cross. The American nation’s breathing had slowed, and if he was only pretending to be sleeping, then Arthur had no wish to ruin the act by disturbing him. Instead, he closed the remaining free fingers over the top of Alfred’s hand and turned his head away, gazing down the narrow trench and focusing on the faint movement he could see in the darkness. He didn’t see the way that Alfred’s lips tipped up in a smile.
Genre: General
Word Count: 1437
Rating/Warnings: U, none. (fluff?)
Summary: In the midst of the Second World War, Arthur and Alfred have a chat on a quiet night in the trenches.
*****
It wasn’t often that they were all in the same place at the same time when it came to on-field fighting but when the bosses decided that they could use some kind of team building exercise this hadn’t really been what they’d had in mind. Between Francis complaining about the cold and the mud getting into his boots, as well as his constant bickering with Arthur, Ivan making Yao – already put on edge by having to share a living space with England – increasingly nervous by the day simply with his presence and Alfred’s growing mistrust of the Russian nation it was a wonder that they hadn’t killed each other already. Matthew had been keeping mostly to himself, to a degree that Arthur was beginning to wonder whether or not he was actually there or just turning up to sleep.
For Arthur, the only one of his ‘allies’ that was even half tolerable was Alfred, and even then he didn’t really want to spent any time around the kid. He’d been moping about having to spend his birthday in the trenches and Arthur swore that if he had to look at the pout on his face one more time he was going to have to hit him just to give him something else to complain about. Francis had been sympathetic. Pandering. It made him sick to his stomach to see it.
He was taking the first watch while the others slept, sitting out ankle deep in mud hugging a rifle to his chest and listening to the people in the dugout shack behind him breathing quietly. Ivan snored like nothing he’d ever heard before, but it wasn’t keeping anyone awake. They were all far too weary for that. Arthur sighed and tipped his head back, letting his eyes close for a moment. His clothes itched. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d last bathed or had a cup of tea that didn’t taste as if it was made from the dirt they were living under and he was already so very, very tired of all of this. War was a dirty game, and it had only grown worse over the centuries. There were no words for how much he hated this place. The equipment was different, but the war itself… war never changed.
A door squeaked open behind him and he mentally prepared himself for whatever idiocy might come out of the mouth of whoever it was, only for someone to move quietly up beside him, crouched down to keep their head below the level of the trench lip. Out of the corner of his eye Arthur saw the faint glint of light on glass and he knew who it was. He let out a short grunt by way of greeting and Alfred glanced at him, then up to the cloudless sky. There had been no fireworks on the fourth of July this year. No explosions save for the ones raining down over them. If he was honest with himself, Arthur could understand why Alfred was a little put out by it all. The English nation hadn’t cared about his birthday for a while but if he did he was sure that this wasn’t the kind of place he’d want to be spending it.
“What’s the word?” Alfred murmured quietly.
“Sodding Jerries haven’t made a peep all night,” Arthur replied, softly, barely moving his lips as he spoke. He shifted in his seat and peered down at the gun on his lap, carefully switching on a dim, covered torch and scanning the metal. It was to distract himself more than anything else. “Reckon they’re planning something big. Orders are to keep shtum and hope they get bored of waiting for one of us to fuck up and give away our position.”
“Ah.” The American retreated back into the shack and brought out a chair, sinking it into the mud beside Arthur’s and sitting down. It sank slightly, bringing his head almost level with the smaller nation’s, and he stretched his legs out in front of him in an effort to keep them from being submerged in the half-liquidated ground. “Francis thinks he’s getting trench foot,” he whispered, leaning a little towards the other to make himself more easily heard.
“He isn’t getting trench foot,” was the flat-voiced response to that. “Francis would claim he had the bubonic plague to get out of this. The sooner he settles down the better – we’re all in this for the full term, no getting out of it.”
Alfred chuckled lowly and turned his eyes skywards. “Hey, Arthur,” he said. “Do you think that Ludwig, Kiku and Feliciano are over there?”
“I hope they’re all over there, then we can take them all out in one go.” Arthur’s voice was hushed enough that his tone couldn’t really be discerned but his eyes were cold and he noted the faint shiver that ran through Alfred at his words. He wasn’t going to say he didn’t mean it. Before all of this, Arthur might have called Kiku a friend and he had held little quarrel with the slightly air-headed Italian. Even Ludwig, the younger brother of a man he had once called one of his closest allies, had been little more than a faint nuisance. He hadn’t seen Gilbert in a long time, and Ivan always avoided his questioning when he asked about the man. It was worrying, but this was war, and it was no time to be getting sentimental over old ties.
“Heh… you’re serious…”
“Of course I’m serious. This isn’t a rugby game where we’re all going to go out, drink and play darts once it’s over. I don’t know how long this is going to last, or what’s going to happen when we’re done.” Alfred was looking at him, silent, attentive. It was unnerving. “No matter who wins, no one is going to leave this unscathed. Not even you.”
The younger blonde looked away, a tiny frown on his face as he touched a hand to his side. It begged a question that didn’t need to be asked. This war had left its mark on all of them. Arthur sighed, and finally looked over to the other man. Sometimes, it was far too easy to forget that Alfred wasn’t a child any longer. He’d seen war, he’d fought and bled for his people, he’d come to the aid of other nations caught up in a war that had little to do with him once before and now he was doing it again. The gratitude was there, even if Arthur didn’t really show it.
“But…” he added softly, and Alfred glanced over to him. There was a smudge of dirt on his cheek that Arthur was itching to clean away but that would have been too strange, far too intimate a thing to do now that Alfred was grown up. “Eventually, things will get better. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I know.” Turning up the collar of his bomber jacket, Alfred buried his chin down into the soft lining and let out a quiet huff. Even in the middle of summer the trenches always seemed to be so cold at night, though Arthur was sure that it was just his imagination. He reached over and clapped one hand down on the others shoulder, feeling the faint flinch under his hand. Alfred didn’t shrug him off, and when he let his hand drop a moment later, the younger man slumped to one side, resting his head on Arthur’s shoulder. His hands were curled on his lap and Arthur just looked straight ahead, not knowing whether or not he ought to feel embarrassed. Alfred’s hair was tickling against his ear and he was close enough that Arthur’s heart was doing triple flips in his chest for a reason that the English nation though he had abandoned decades earlier.
Arthur set his rifle up against the opposite shoulder and moved slowly, reaching out and touching one finger to the other man’s palm. Reflexively, it seemed, all four fingers closed around that one digit and held it, and Arthur flushed darker than the St George’s Cross. The American nation’s breathing had slowed, and if he was only pretending to be sleeping, then Arthur had no wish to ruin the act by disturbing him. Instead, he closed the remaining free fingers over the top of Alfred’s hand and turned his head away, gazing down the narrow trench and focusing on the faint movement he could see in the darkness. He didn’t see the way that Alfred’s lips tipped up in a smile.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2011-07-06 06:29 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-07-06 01:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-07-06 04:41 pm (UTC)asdfghjkllakjdhadj ♥♥ That just gets me right in the heart. Once again, very nice fic ;w; I like the balance of serious and sweet and their particular brand of awkward.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-07-06 04:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-07-07 03:45 am (UTC)he was close enough that Arthur’s heart was doing triple flips in his chest for a reason that the English nation though he had abandoned decades earlier.
Guess not! :D
*smiles at the end*