Tithonus by Mist Over Water

That awkward moment when you've been busy with getting ready to start university and celebrating your eighteenth (and trying to recover ;~; ). I really don't know if I'm going to be able to finish this on time…

Warnings
Not exactly detailed sex… But not exactly hinted. Increased warning maybe?

Part IV

America knew he had made a huge mistake.

As soon as he had put the phone down upon leaving the message for Arthur Kirkland, in the hazy phase between drunk and sober, he regretted it. A part of him wished that they were just a one night stand and that was that, but another part of him felt as though they should be together, for reasons that he could not quite fathom. He hated himself—truly detested himself—the internal battle between the forces of love and lust against the feeling of duty of his job (or even who and what he was) battled fruitlessly. Distracting him from sleeping, from practically functioning.

Even at the World Meeting, he stared blankly at the German introducing the schedule, barely hearing that it was his turn to speak, he shook his head, trying to rid of any thoughts of the British man as he stood; ignoring the groans, sighs and mutterings of how much of a waste of time this was, that he never had any good ideas. Generally, as soon as he stands, he began to sprout ideas, but this time, he looked around the representatives of the world. "I'm sorry," He said after a moment of reflective silence, "Germany… May I speak to you for a moment?" After a short pause, he adds quietly, looking down to his papers and shuffling them, "Outside?"

The German groaned, but nodded anyway, and the two made their way to the corridor outside of the room. America had a feeling that the other countries were more than likely pressing their ears against the door to know what was bothering the happy-go-lucky nation, but turned around anyway. Never had he been intimidated by the broader nation before, but as he looked down his clothing, and began to pat them down in an attempt to rid of the creases, he found it difficult to make the words come out, "America, we do not have time for this. We have a schedule to go by, so please state your business so we can continue."

"I've done something horrible." Alfred began, and with one breath he told the story about the bar and how the man with the eyebrows had enticed him silently to spend the night, and under the influence of alcohol and lust he could not find the strength to say no. All the while, Germany's expression showed that he knew what was to come, and so he ended his short tale of romance (questionable phrasing): "I- I told an English citizen my true identity, and I know it's a bad idea! And I know I'm not supposed to, but… I just." He looked down to the floor, his glasses slipping down his nose as he closed his eyes and sighed: "He just looked like—"

"It doesn't make it any less right." The German's voice was hinting at the fact that he was angry, but the expression across his features showed that he sympathised with the younger nation; he was young, after all, and as of yet had very little experience in the art of coping with loss—well, compared to the rest of the world. "I know this has been hard on you, but this is going to make things worse. If you end up being together for a long time, then you are going to have to let him go again. If you don't last… There's a chance that he might tell everyone about our true identities."

America did not need to hear any more; it would be best if he did not tell anyone else about his relationship—or potential. He took his phone from his pocket as Germany went back to the meeting, and just as he had thought, there was still no reply from 'Last Nights Shag'.

Part V

There was a knock on the door, and with a disgruntled groan, America pushed himself from off the couch. Not even bothering to look through the peephole to see who it was as he opened the door. The blood drained from his face as he saw the man from the bar—Arthur Kirkland, Last Night's Shag—standing in the corridor. Nude shoulders being lit just perfectly by the dim bulbs outside his apartment; the half lidded green eyes sent pleasant shocks down his spine. A lump in his throat formed when he noticed the red, white and blue flag wrapped around his figure; the shoulders implying that underneath the American flag, he was completely nude. A part of him wanted to say how distasteful it was, whilst the other side that was being overpowered by lust was telling him that it was probably the sexiest image he had ever had the privilege of seeing.

The smaller man dropped the edges that he was holding, pushing them over his shoulder to keep them there, and moved closer to the American. Taking a deep breath, he began to say in a slow, quiet and shaking voice, "I- I pledge allegiance to the flag…" The front of their bodies pushed together, one naked and one clothed, and in the heat of the moment they seemed to fit together perfectly. Alfred—America!?—held Arthur by his waist and pulled him into the flat, "of United States of America." The blue eyes that mirrored the skies in the warm southern states met his own, and as they were entranced in just looking at one another as the Brit pushed the door shut with his foot, he continued, "And to the Republic for which it stands."

America could not help but smiled, watching the soft lips move as the words were uttered. The words of complete loyalty and dedication for the nation; and although millions of his citizens said it daily, he could not help but bite his lip, waiting for Arthur to finish the oath, and although he had been mature for almost two hundred years, and had seen many sexual partners in his time, nothing he had ever done was as sensual as the words that were being rolled about his—probably—soon-to-be partners tongue. "One nation under God…" His voice trailed off as he began to kiss each expanse of skin, kissing over his neck, over his collar bone and just above his flat chest the was level with his eyesight. "Indivisible."

The flag that was hiding his back was dropped, looking up to the American; he smiled with a flush spreading over his cheeks, knowing once more where the night was headed as he stood in his purest form against the nations fully clothed form. He grasped the bottom of the blue hoodie, pulling it upwards and over his head, stopping momentarily to look over the scars, tracing each one with delicate fingers as he read American history, trying to render which came from which war, which even. Even softer fingers pulled him from his reverie, a smile telling him that there was enough time in the world for Arthur to learn everything he had ever wanted to know about the United States of America.

The two moved closer, too slowly in each other's eyes, but wanted to take in the feeling of their hitched breath brushing over each of their faces as half lidded eyes met; fingers gliding to feel the hair beneath the pads of their fingers, before finally meeting in a chaste kiss. Arthur Kirkland pushed the button of America's jeans through the hole, and began unzipping the piece of clothing, smirking against the chapped lips as his hand brushed against a half-mast member. He pushed the pair of jeans and boxers down slightly, allowing them to fall the rest of the way to the floor, America stepped out of the clothing. He pulled away from the kiss and whispered, "With liberty and justice for all."

With those words, America cupped the Briton's backside, massaging the flesh there with—what Arthur thought to be—too enthusiastic fingers. Lifting him up, and continuing the kiss as he stumbled about the flat, continuing the kiss, but this time, allowing their tongues to fight for dominance, to run along one another, to try and memorise the feel of each other's mouths, and know where on their bodies they would like to be touched. America smirked at the Brit's muffled complaints as a hand slipped under the clothing, and he began playing with the flesh that made his behind. The two seemed to be able to know where what was of each other's body, even blindly. Knowing their bodies better than their own; maybe that was the power of true love. America would hate himself later for such cliché thoughts.

The feeling of the wall behind Arthur was nearly as comforting as the hands on his backside lifting him up, or the body rocking against him. Swallowing the moans that emanated from each of their mouths; the Brit never thought he would say he loved the United States of America with every molecule that made him, but even with a short amount of time they had known one another, something felt right. The feeling that novels and poets write about; the thing that people dream about. Arthur praised the country like a deity, throwing his head back and crying to a God, any God, to bless the man pounding—not even pounding, pushing in and out, almost sliding, as if it was the most natural thing to do—into him.

Even as he moaned with his mouth away from the other, Alfred kissed his form. Pressed his lips against the sweat slicken skin, the perspiration that allowed them to slide together perfectly; no commands coming from either of them, Alfred knew when to go faster, when to go harder, which angle to aim, and Arthur in turn knew when to thrust his body down, when to clench his muscles. It seemed only natural that they reached between them at the same time; bringing them both to completion.

Part VI

There was a secret of Arthur Kirkland that he did not know; all of the countries he had met at the world conference knew, and America knew. It made all of the nation's stare at him with shock, America honestly hoped that Arthur had not noticed the rather stale atmosphere that hung about the room as a human watched what their meetings generally consisted of. It was unusually for this occurance to happen, yes, but there seemed something slightly… Different. But all during the car journey home, Arthur had been watching the world pass quietly. America tried to reason with himself that it was because how strange it must have been to know that the people he had spent the day with were technically not people—

"What was wrong with them?"

—Fuck

"They kept acting… Strange around me," Arthur said as the two made their way inside America's house, and as a habit, made their way straight for the kitchen; Jones straight away beginning to make dinner for the two. "I understand that it must have been strange for them to see someone not like them in the room, but honestly. It seemed that most of them spent the majority of the time looking at me than paying attention to the actual meeting! It's moronic!" He sat down at the breakfast bar on the outskirts of the kitchen, rubbing his forehead and continuing to mumble to himself.

Alfred knew that it was wrong, but he had gone against the main protocol so far, so what was it to give away a secret of someone else's history? He sat down beside Arthur, and took his hand, feeling over the skin that had been made slightly rough by hours of working with plants in the garden. "It was my fault, okay? You just have to know that first, and don't ask any questions. I guess… We decided to date before. I was selfish, I'm not going to lie. You had work to do, I just wanted you to myself. Your boss got angry with you for slacking on your work, and… I done something stupid. I- I gave you the choice between him or me, and you just left; I thought you had decided to choose him.

"You came back drunk—which wasn't any surprise, you generally do, but… This time you were in tears—well. Actually you usually come back in tears, Telling me that after the revolution you didn't want to lose me again, but you had duties to fulfil… And that you couldn't choose from between me or your boss. Things… Pretty much went downhill from there. I'll spare you the worst of the details, but all you need to know is that… They decided to get a new representative. No one knows how, or even who done this. But the next thing I knew, I was seeing you about. That's why I brought you that drink that night… I had to protect you from making the same mistakes again. I can't let you hurt yourself because of stupid people, or responsibilities, or anything. You see?"

And for the life of him, the once personification of England, now known as Arthur Kirkland, could not think of anything to say.

Part VII

"So… Different parts of you represent different states?"

"Yeah…"

Arthur lay on his side in bed, looking over the nude form of his lover, running a hand up and down his torso, feeling the warmth that radiated from his slightly tanned skin; if what he was saying was the truth, then he guessed the warmth was from the heat that was present in the different states. He placed a hand on the others hip, and rubbed the skin with his thumb, "Do you think you could tell me? Or I could at least guess as to where certain states are… Like Florida?" America chuckled and nodded, pulling his hand up to his chest.

"My heart is Washington D.C.; it isn't in a state, per say. It's its own district; has its own government." He watched Arthur for a moment, how his eyes were fixated on where his fingers where pressed against, where the beating of the muscle beneath muscle, skin and bones. He moved the hand toward his right breast. "Even though it's not in a state, it's between two states that offered their land to the city. What are they?" Really, he knew it was a stupid question to ask the Brit; he knew little of the geography and history of the United States now that he was no longer dubbed 'England', and so when the other looked up with adorable lost green eyes, he answered for him, "This is Maryland, and," he moved the hand to the other side of his chest, "And this is Virginia."

It was only when Arthur's hand was moved from where America's heart was he noticed a scar running down his chest, and Alfred prayed silently that he did not ask where he got the imperfection. How could he say that a past version of himself burnt his heart to the ground? Fortunately, his vision and touch travelled downward. "All these are from different points in your history?" Arthur was a little shocked to see how many were practically invisible, lest the viewer looked closely at the skin; however, there were some that were thick, that looked like they had only recently healed over.

"Arthur, we can talk about that another day. I wanna tell you about the better parts of me…" Taking the hand again, he put it on his hair, manipulating his fingers to grip the cowlick. "This represents Nantucket. It's an island just south of Cape Cod. And by the blank look on your face, I'm going to guess that you have no idea where that is." He laughed, letting the hand go to allow Arthur to run his hand through the blond hair. "That's Massachusetts." He reached behind him to the bedside table to retrieve his spectacles, "This is Texas—fuck!"

He was caught off guard as his backside was grabbed; a coy smirk playing about Arthur's lips, "And this is? Fuck… The state with the Grand Canyon… Arizona?" Alfred laughed and nodded, pulling his hands away; not wanting this lesson to be sexual, but apparently Arthur was getting agitated, probably even bored, at what America had to say. "Alright, that's good. But… You said I was once the representation of England. I'm guessing that… Different parts of be were different counties? Where were they?"

"I only knew of two. Norfolk and Suffolk."

"Where were they?"

By this point, Arthur had already jumped in surprise as he too was groped from behind; Alfred having a strong grasp on two pieces of flesh, pulling him into a kiss. He guessed that was the best answer he was going to get.

Part VIII

Thou seëst all things, thou wilt see my grave:
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn;
I earth in earth forget these empty courts,
And thee returning on thy silver wheels

As his health faltered, and his once ash-blond hair turned a unique shade of white, Arthur Kirkland found himself enticed in the story of Tithonus; he himself had loved an immortal woman, and had had the chance to ensure their love remained for as long as her beauty had; a blessing which soon turned into a curse. Whenever something would appear in their life together that would threaten his mortality, he would read the story, would look over the poetry of Lord Alfred Tennyson, which had been inspired by the tale. Whenever Alfred would come home from a busy workday and find Arthur weeping at the reality that was he would curl behind him in bed, holding him as tightly as he could.

As the lines on Arthur's face began to form, Alfred stayed his nineteen-year old self. As happy and obnoxious as ever; the world watched as America tried to keep his lover—who became husband after a few bumpy years of dating—from slipping into the arms of mortality. The shadowy women adorned in black was never far from either of their thoughts; not that they would ever openly talk about it. America had lost people before, he had lost lovers before, and it saddened him to know that someday—although not soon—he would be able to think about Arthur without a hint of sadness.

He was not heartless; it was just how nations were made to think.

Arthur Kirkland was a lonely man to say the least, spending his days surrounded by the countries of the world; all the while by the side of the United States of America. The powerful nation had told him that it was not healthy, that he should socialise with his own kind, but he always dismissed these words. All he needed was the wedding band on his finger, and the man it tied him to and that was that. Although, as Arthur's age rolled into his thirties, he yearned to have a child; America was thus forced to sit him down and tell him the truth. The personifications were supposed to be a secret; therefore they were not allowed to have children.

And America was sure that after that, Arthur was going to leave to find another mortal citizen.

But he did not. He stayed, and went about his general duties that he took up in his job as house husband. Slightly quieter than usual, and he would spend a long time looking at their spare bedroom with longing; America would watch him. He would stand at the door, just simply looking in. During their love making, Arthur would mumble words not of love or adoration, but of pregnancy and children. For a while, the US had thought about throwing caution to the wind and applying for adoption, but each time he would talk out loud to himself about it, Germany would always find out and threaten the ideas out of his head.

Alfred thought about the decisions that Arthur had made in his life a lot, and how wanting to spend the rest of his life with him probably ruined his drastically short life. And none of these thoughts crossed his mind moreso on the day he came home to find a lifeless body on his bed.

He had sensed something was wrong from the moment he walked into the house, call it some kind of lover's intuition, but there was something… Arthurless about the atmosphere in the house; when he opened the door to their bedroom, he dutifully lay behind him, holding his small, frail body close. He held the hands that were cold, and kissed the snowy hair, taking in the scent that was the one thing that never really changed about the Brit over the years. He still smelt of tea, old books and just all over plain. He dared not look at his face, knowing now more than ever, how he had aged would be apparent upon his expression.

But he knew of the ugliness of death; knowing that before any official would get to see the body, he would clean it. Whilst he carried out his duties, he recited the poem that he would have read through the petrified tears, and by the time he got down to the final lines that would be engraved in his tombstone, he had finished the deed. Looking down to the man dressed in just the American's sweat pants, he kissed each piece of skin on his face. He continued this way after he had called the services about finding his father's body. He did not take his eyes away from Arthur's features as he was taken away in a black bag—such an undignified way for him to go, America could not help but think.

And he thought of all of this each year; on the anniversary of his husband's death, without fail, he would make his way to Washington D.C., and wherever he found himself sitting first, he would recite the poem Kirkland had once loved; hoping that somewhere in his heart, some reminisce of the ex-personification of England was roaming, listening unknowingly to the words of literature he had sought comfort in.

End

The Pledge of Allegiance—I feel as though I may offend some American's with this, but (headcannon time!), I imagine that America likes to hear his lovers—particularly nations—say the pledge of allegiance. Think about it: he's rather egotistical, and so why wouldn't he like his lovers to practically promise their loyalty to him?

States and counties—As much as I love the fandom, there's something that really frustrates me. The characters are representations of countries, and so surely that means the states and counties within them. I imagine that different parts of the countries represent different states (for America) and counties (for England)… Yeah, that's another headcannon… And I live in Suffolk, and for as long as I can remember I've said I lived on England's arse (which made it awkward when I discovered Hetalia. Sigh. :c), but that's where that idea came from, fyi xD

Geography of USA—I barely know the geography of my own country, so I'm not going to know a lot about America. I did do a fair bit of research, however…

Part VIII—This wasn't supposed to be particularly sad; I was hoping to get the view of America across, how he had seen people die before, and had lost lovers, so you'd see it in his light. I hope it worked. D: And the opening lines to the part are what was supposed to be on Arthur's tomb; the final lines of 'Tithonus' by Alfred Tennyson.

Reviews/criticism?