[Fanfic] The Five Stages 1/5 [USxUK]
Aug. 6th, 2010 01:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blood_wingedTitle: Stage One: Denial
Genre: Angst/Romance
Pairing/s: USxUK
Characters: (this chapter) US, Canada, UK mention.
Rating/Warnings: PG. Rating possibly subject to change.
Summary: When their break-up leaves Arthur devastated and Alfred hurt and steering clear of him, the American nation finds out that love doesn't work like it does in the movies, and sometimes you have to come close to losing something before you realise what you have.
Alfred was sure there must have been a time when it was good between the two of them, but he no longer remembered it. Since the attack on the World Trade Centre it seemed they had done nothing but argue.
First, it had been the war in Iraq – they had argued about that. Arthur didn’t like it, he didn’t like his soldiers being there or how pointless the entire thing seemed to be. Then, after the July 2005 bombings in London, there had been more arguments. Arthur had been hurting then, and Alfred couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to lash out… so he had lashed out, at Alfred. The older nation had always known the kinds of things to say which would hurt Alfred deeper than anything else, and in the time they had spent together Alfred had learned the same about Arthur. Yet, despite it all, despite the harsh words they would snarl from opposite sides of the house, they would always find some way to forgive each other, and it was rare that one of them would sleep in a different room.
The last argument they had had was the worst. With Arthur’s mood becoming increasingly volatile in the days leading up to the governmental elections, the Deepwater Horizon had exploded, setting in motion what would become the largest environmental disaster of modern times. They had fought, and Alfred could not even recall now what had started it, only that it had ended with Arthur throwing a glass at Alfred’s head, screaming at him to get out, and Alfred had needed seven stitches in the cut across his forehead. He hadn’t seen Arthur since.
It had been so long since he had been back to his house in Virginia that it had taken three hours of cleaning to work the musty smell from the air. Washing his hands afterwards in the now spotless bathroom he did his best to avoid looking at his reflection, but it was easier said than done, and the line of ugly black stitches on his forehead caught his attention. He leaned against the sink and frowned, winced, and brushed his hair aside to run the tip of one finger down the cut. It didn’t hurt, really, but the memory of how it had happened still stung.
Arthur had been so angry… He’d been drinking – a common thing and nothing that Alfred wasn’t used to – but there was something different about it that time. It was as if he was a different person, snapping at everything that Alfred said and pacing like a caged animal. Alfred had stayed calm, spoken softly, tried to take the bottle of whiskey from him and coax him to bed, and then the glass had been thrown at him, and he’d felt the impact and the sting of the alcohol, and the blood running over his skin. Then, Arthur was telling him to get out, his voice high and shrill, and Alfred had fled, forgetting his jacket in his haste. The next day there had been a message on his phone, from Arthur, his voice choked as he apologised over and over again, but Alfred hadn’t called him back. Two weeks later a box had arrived, his jacket inside it, folded so, so carefully.
He turned the light off and left the bathroom, heading up to a bed that seemed so cold without Arthur.
The next week was spent throwing himself into his work in a way he hadn’t done since Washington. People commented on the change in him, how he seemed so much more together, but while he undoubtedly got more done in those seven days than he had in the past seven years there was a kind of bitterness in it. He couldn’t bring himself to delete Arthur’s private number from his phone, though he often thought of it, and it was difficult not to send him an email, or look at his page on Facebook – barely used, set up for him by Alfred.
His own page was flooded. He hadn’t changed his relationship status and neither had Arthur, though Alfred had the feeling it might have been out of an inability to do so more than anything, but somehow, people knew. The comments ranged from ‘I told you so’s to sympathetic ‘I hope you’re alright’s, and one from his brother almost lost beneath the rest saying that he would be there as soon as he could. Even Mexico, though they hadn’t spoken civilly in years, hadn’t been too scathing.
Matthew, as promised, arrived on the first weekend flight. Unusually subdued, Alfred waited for him at the arrivals exit and the two of them shared a long, somewhat awkward look when they met, Matthew’s eyes flicking over his brother’s face, lingering on the wound on his forehead. Alfred cracked a lopsided grin, but he couldn’t hold it, and it faded quickly, his brother rubbing his arm lightly and declining his offer to take his case as they headed out to Alfred’s car. Inside, Matthew shut his eyes briefly and sighed, looking over to the so normally boisterous nation beside him.
“So, what’s the story, eh?”
“Story? What story?” Alfred asked as he put the car into gear and pulled out, the horn of the car he cut up behind him blaring out.
“You and Arthur, Al. He chose the worst person to go crying to when you left… a-and now… everybody, um… everybody knows.”
Glancing at him, Alfred almost missed a red light and slammed on the brakes, throwing them both forwards. He frowned and glared at the road ahead, pushing a hand through his hair and straightening his glasses.
“What does everybody know?” he asked, and Matthew shook his head, resting his elbow against the window and chewing his thumbnail.
“You two… uh… had some kind of bad fight, and you left, and, well…”
“Just spit it out already!”
“He’s fallen off the wagon something fierce, Alfred,” Matthew said in a rush after flinching at the tone in his brother’s voice.
“Oh.”
Alfred tried not to care. He tried to ignore the gnawing anxiety in his gut at the thought of Arthur drinking alone. He tried to forget that promise he’d made, a long time ago it seemed, that he wouldn’t leave him again, and how happy Arthur had looked when he said it. He tried to put the guilt he felt to one side as his brother watched him, eyes slightly narrowed and disapproval radiating from him in waves. The rest of the journey was spent in silence, save for small talk that passed almost unnoticed between the two of them, and Alfred didn’t even give Matthew the chance to protest as he carried his suitcase up to the house.
“You can have your usual room, bro,” he told him, handing his case over and watching him head off down the hallway. Heading into the kitchen, he paused by a photo frame and picked it up, gazing at the photograph and rubbing his thumb over the glass covering Arthur’s blushing face. Like the man’s phone number, he couldn’t bring himself to remove the mementos around the house that reminded him of his lover, no matter how much it stung every time he walked past it. He set it down and continued, switching the kettle on and sitting down at the kitchen table, his chin on his hands. When Matthew joined him he did so quietly, moving about the kitchen and making them both drinks, sitting down in silence and watching his brother as he sipped his tea. It was several long, uncomfortable minutes before Alfred met his eyes and just as quickly looked away, frowning slightly.
“It isn’t like I don’t care, y’know,” he blurted out, and Matthew’s eyebrows shot up. “I do, but he… he…” Alfred had always struggled with talking about his feelings and now was no different, but Matthew stayed silent, waiting patiently for him to continue. “He threw a glass at my head, Matt!”
“Was he drunk?”
“Well, yes, but he-”
“Why was he drunk, eh?”
“We were arguing, and-”
“So he wasn’t himself.”
“Stop interrupting me! Damnit, Matthew!”
Matthew bit his lip, distracting himself by taking a quick sip of his drink and wincing as it scalded his lips. His eyes slid back and forth as he watched his brother stand and pace, the worry on his face and tense hunch of his shoulders betraying more about his state of mind than words ever could. Alfred sat, fidgeted, and stood up again, gulping down a mouthful of coffee as he leaned against the table.
“Matt…”
“Hm?”
“What… uh… what would you do?”
“Me?”
“Um… yeah.”
Taking another, more careful sip of his tea, Matthew, made a thoughtful sound. He could count the number of times Alfred had asked him for advice on one hand, but he liked Arthur, even if the man did often mistake him for his brother. Matthew put that down to Arthur’s inherent forgetfulness more than any kind of malice.
“I… wouldn’t have gotten myself into a relationship with Arthur in the first place,” he said eventually, quietly, seeing Alfred’s face fall and the worry in his eyes darken. “But you were never the brightest candle in the chandelier, Alfred.”
“Don’t start on me. I’m not in the mood.”
Matthew muttered something under his breath in heavily accented, archaic French and lowered his eyes to his drink, clasping his fingers around the warm mug. Across from him, Alfred sat again and stayed seated, and let out a long, slow breath.
“He’ll be fine. It’s not like he’s never been drunk before.”
“Mmhm.”
“I mean, yeah, he doesn’t know where to stop sometimes, but there’s people there to look after him if he gets too bad.”
“If you say so, Alfred.”
“Damnit, Matt, he threw a glass at my head! Have you seen these stitches?” He lifted his hair to point at them, and his brother gave a small nod. “That’s gotta be uh, GBH or ABH or whatever. Assault! He’s lucky I don’t sue him!”
“Sure is…”
“He never appreciated me anyway. He’s always calling me an idiot, laughing at my ideas, he’s jealous, he’s possessive, he’s always talking to thin air and doing weird things and telling me the words I use are wrong, and he won’t hold my hand in public like he thinks us being together is a bad thing!”
“Huh.”
“H-he’s fussy, and controlling, and always drinking horrible tea, and burning my food then not letting me go to McDonalds, and complaining about how much I eat in that weird accent of his, and wearing those dorky sweater vests.”
“Uh huh…”
“He doesn’t need me.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Al.”
------------------------
I need to stop starting new fics! DX
Well, at least this one is only five chapters. -rubs face-
| Chapter Two |>
Genre: Angst/Romance
Pairing/s: USxUK
Characters: (this chapter) US, Canada, UK mention.
Rating/Warnings: PG. Rating possibly subject to change.
Summary: When their break-up leaves Arthur devastated and Alfred hurt and steering clear of him, the American nation finds out that love doesn't work like it does in the movies, and sometimes you have to come close to losing something before you realise what you have.
*****
Alfred was sure there must have been a time when it was good between the two of them, but he no longer remembered it. Since the attack on the World Trade Centre it seemed they had done nothing but argue.
First, it had been the war in Iraq – they had argued about that. Arthur didn’t like it, he didn’t like his soldiers being there or how pointless the entire thing seemed to be. Then, after the July 2005 bombings in London, there had been more arguments. Arthur had been hurting then, and Alfred couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to lash out… so he had lashed out, at Alfred. The older nation had always known the kinds of things to say which would hurt Alfred deeper than anything else, and in the time they had spent together Alfred had learned the same about Arthur. Yet, despite it all, despite the harsh words they would snarl from opposite sides of the house, they would always find some way to forgive each other, and it was rare that one of them would sleep in a different room.
The last argument they had had was the worst. With Arthur’s mood becoming increasingly volatile in the days leading up to the governmental elections, the Deepwater Horizon had exploded, setting in motion what would become the largest environmental disaster of modern times. They had fought, and Alfred could not even recall now what had started it, only that it had ended with Arthur throwing a glass at Alfred’s head, screaming at him to get out, and Alfred had needed seven stitches in the cut across his forehead. He hadn’t seen Arthur since.
It had been so long since he had been back to his house in Virginia that it had taken three hours of cleaning to work the musty smell from the air. Washing his hands afterwards in the now spotless bathroom he did his best to avoid looking at his reflection, but it was easier said than done, and the line of ugly black stitches on his forehead caught his attention. He leaned against the sink and frowned, winced, and brushed his hair aside to run the tip of one finger down the cut. It didn’t hurt, really, but the memory of how it had happened still stung.
Arthur had been so angry… He’d been drinking – a common thing and nothing that Alfred wasn’t used to – but there was something different about it that time. It was as if he was a different person, snapping at everything that Alfred said and pacing like a caged animal. Alfred had stayed calm, spoken softly, tried to take the bottle of whiskey from him and coax him to bed, and then the glass had been thrown at him, and he’d felt the impact and the sting of the alcohol, and the blood running over his skin. Then, Arthur was telling him to get out, his voice high and shrill, and Alfred had fled, forgetting his jacket in his haste. The next day there had been a message on his phone, from Arthur, his voice choked as he apologised over and over again, but Alfred hadn’t called him back. Two weeks later a box had arrived, his jacket inside it, folded so, so carefully.
He turned the light off and left the bathroom, heading up to a bed that seemed so cold without Arthur.
The next week was spent throwing himself into his work in a way he hadn’t done since Washington. People commented on the change in him, how he seemed so much more together, but while he undoubtedly got more done in those seven days than he had in the past seven years there was a kind of bitterness in it. He couldn’t bring himself to delete Arthur’s private number from his phone, though he often thought of it, and it was difficult not to send him an email, or look at his page on Facebook – barely used, set up for him by Alfred.
His own page was flooded. He hadn’t changed his relationship status and neither had Arthur, though Alfred had the feeling it might have been out of an inability to do so more than anything, but somehow, people knew. The comments ranged from ‘I told you so’s to sympathetic ‘I hope you’re alright’s, and one from his brother almost lost beneath the rest saying that he would be there as soon as he could. Even Mexico, though they hadn’t spoken civilly in years, hadn’t been too scathing.
Matthew, as promised, arrived on the first weekend flight. Unusually subdued, Alfred waited for him at the arrivals exit and the two of them shared a long, somewhat awkward look when they met, Matthew’s eyes flicking over his brother’s face, lingering on the wound on his forehead. Alfred cracked a lopsided grin, but he couldn’t hold it, and it faded quickly, his brother rubbing his arm lightly and declining his offer to take his case as they headed out to Alfred’s car. Inside, Matthew shut his eyes briefly and sighed, looking over to the so normally boisterous nation beside him.
“So, what’s the story, eh?”
“Story? What story?” Alfred asked as he put the car into gear and pulled out, the horn of the car he cut up behind him blaring out.
“You and Arthur, Al. He chose the worst person to go crying to when you left… a-and now… everybody, um… everybody knows.”
Glancing at him, Alfred almost missed a red light and slammed on the brakes, throwing them both forwards. He frowned and glared at the road ahead, pushing a hand through his hair and straightening his glasses.
“What does everybody know?” he asked, and Matthew shook his head, resting his elbow against the window and chewing his thumbnail.
“You two… uh… had some kind of bad fight, and you left, and, well…”
“Just spit it out already!”
“He’s fallen off the wagon something fierce, Alfred,” Matthew said in a rush after flinching at the tone in his brother’s voice.
“Oh.”
Alfred tried not to care. He tried to ignore the gnawing anxiety in his gut at the thought of Arthur drinking alone. He tried to forget that promise he’d made, a long time ago it seemed, that he wouldn’t leave him again, and how happy Arthur had looked when he said it. He tried to put the guilt he felt to one side as his brother watched him, eyes slightly narrowed and disapproval radiating from him in waves. The rest of the journey was spent in silence, save for small talk that passed almost unnoticed between the two of them, and Alfred didn’t even give Matthew the chance to protest as he carried his suitcase up to the house.
“You can have your usual room, bro,” he told him, handing his case over and watching him head off down the hallway. Heading into the kitchen, he paused by a photo frame and picked it up, gazing at the photograph and rubbing his thumb over the glass covering Arthur’s blushing face. Like the man’s phone number, he couldn’t bring himself to remove the mementos around the house that reminded him of his lover, no matter how much it stung every time he walked past it. He set it down and continued, switching the kettle on and sitting down at the kitchen table, his chin on his hands. When Matthew joined him he did so quietly, moving about the kitchen and making them both drinks, sitting down in silence and watching his brother as he sipped his tea. It was several long, uncomfortable minutes before Alfred met his eyes and just as quickly looked away, frowning slightly.
“It isn’t like I don’t care, y’know,” he blurted out, and Matthew’s eyebrows shot up. “I do, but he… he…” Alfred had always struggled with talking about his feelings and now was no different, but Matthew stayed silent, waiting patiently for him to continue. “He threw a glass at my head, Matt!”
“Was he drunk?”
“Well, yes, but he-”
“Why was he drunk, eh?”
“We were arguing, and-”
“So he wasn’t himself.”
“Stop interrupting me! Damnit, Matthew!”
Matthew bit his lip, distracting himself by taking a quick sip of his drink and wincing as it scalded his lips. His eyes slid back and forth as he watched his brother stand and pace, the worry on his face and tense hunch of his shoulders betraying more about his state of mind than words ever could. Alfred sat, fidgeted, and stood up again, gulping down a mouthful of coffee as he leaned against the table.
“Matt…”
“Hm?”
“What… uh… what would you do?”
“Me?”
“Um… yeah.”
Taking another, more careful sip of his tea, Matthew, made a thoughtful sound. He could count the number of times Alfred had asked him for advice on one hand, but he liked Arthur, even if the man did often mistake him for his brother. Matthew put that down to Arthur’s inherent forgetfulness more than any kind of malice.
“I… wouldn’t have gotten myself into a relationship with Arthur in the first place,” he said eventually, quietly, seeing Alfred’s face fall and the worry in his eyes darken. “But you were never the brightest candle in the chandelier, Alfred.”
“Don’t start on me. I’m not in the mood.”
Matthew muttered something under his breath in heavily accented, archaic French and lowered his eyes to his drink, clasping his fingers around the warm mug. Across from him, Alfred sat again and stayed seated, and let out a long, slow breath.
“He’ll be fine. It’s not like he’s never been drunk before.”
“Mmhm.”
“I mean, yeah, he doesn’t know where to stop sometimes, but there’s people there to look after him if he gets too bad.”
“If you say so, Alfred.”
“Damnit, Matt, he threw a glass at my head! Have you seen these stitches?” He lifted his hair to point at them, and his brother gave a small nod. “That’s gotta be uh, GBH or ABH or whatever. Assault! He’s lucky I don’t sue him!”
“Sure is…”
“He never appreciated me anyway. He’s always calling me an idiot, laughing at my ideas, he’s jealous, he’s possessive, he’s always talking to thin air and doing weird things and telling me the words I use are wrong, and he won’t hold my hand in public like he thinks us being together is a bad thing!”
“Huh.”
“H-he’s fussy, and controlling, and always drinking horrible tea, and burning my food then not letting me go to McDonalds, and complaining about how much I eat in that weird accent of his, and wearing those dorky sweater vests.”
“Uh huh…”
“He doesn’t need me.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Al.”
------------------------
I need to stop starting new fics! DX
Well, at least this one is only five chapters. -rubs face-
| Chapter Two |>
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-08-06 04:49 am (UTC)*Eagerly awaiting for the next chapter* ^_^
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Date: 2010-08-06 04:52 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-08-06 04:55 am (UTC)