ちょや

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to...aw, fuck it, you know...

...

The air was clinging to Arthur's clothes.

Smoke and dust fell, heavy, weighing down like lead on his skin. He was at his weakest state, heaving under the influence of alcohol. He batted at the air ever now and then, at something that was not there, muttering, "Fuck you, Washington...fuck your fake teeth..."

Kiku stood from afar—he did want the occasional sake or umeshu—watching him with the usual stoicism. The cup was in his hand; he was conscious of the smoothness of texture around his fingers. Moments such as this made him feel like a little boy again, with idle hands. Perhaps a little boy watching his parents fight.

"GO BURN, VON STEUBEN!"

Kiku almost winced at the tone of his voice; and heads turned. Someone sniggered. Kiku sighed; it left before he could stop it. This was not the first time he had found Arthur wasted and wallowing in unpleasant memories, and yet he himself had felt too pushed by the awkwardness to act. His thoughts always flashed to Yao, who must've cried in bars like this as well; then swept the guilt away—he was as bad as Alfred, then. Worse, probably.

"Go to hell, volunteer army!" The tankard fell against the counter with a thud—Kiku could never understand why moaning drunkards were always situated at the very bar—and only Arthur himself seemed to not notice something of a hush falling over the scene.

Really, this was a bar—but Kiku did note the unusual quiet tonight; a few solemn mutterings here, a small flirtation there...

The whole room was transfixed as Arthur raved on; Kiku swore that he saw him foaming at the mouth. Another sigh flew past his lips. Kami-sama...

"SPAIN! PRUSSIA!" The tankard banged against the tabletop with almost wanton fury, and it was then that Kiku began to move, though at the same time as the bartender. The cup was quickly abandoned. Kiku picked up his pace; his forehead folded in concern. Truly, this seemed to be a little too much...

Arthur was a mess, though that was no surprise; those green eyes were dripping tears; his hair was matted, his clothes were intact rags. And still he wailed with draught after draught of the wine—it must be wine, yes...—slamming his fist against the countertop, voice pitching and falling. "Stupid America! God damn it!" Bam.

By this time, Kiku's concern was mounting. He walked faster; it seemed to be going too slowly, even though he was in fact close to England's seat.

"Lafayette! Burn! Fucking Frenchmen. WINE BASTARD!"

More snickers spread among the on looking bystanders. Now practically distressed, Kiku rushed as much as he could without really jogging, getting there before the chagrined bartender could.

"FRANCE!"

Kiku paused once he was there; Arthur was swinging about, flailing without noticing his surroundings. He tried not to sigh, before saying levelly, a little higher than flat, "Ano..." He could feel eyes on him; embarrassed, he went on gamely. "Aas—Arthur-san..." He was stuttering...stuttering, of all things.

The eyes turned upon him; Arthur had been caught in mid-rage. Kiku, though unnerved, was not the least bit afraid of the beast-like essence in his eyes. "Let's go home...," he said, very conscious of how odd it sounded; someone whistled. His cheeks must've reddened.

"Pardon us," he added at the bartender who was finally there; he bowed and dropped a sum of currency in front of him, wondering whether or not he should ask for payback the next day. One look at Arthur's bleary-eyed condition told him no; the Briton looked too pathetically confused.

"Let's go." Trying not to wince, he threw Arthur's arm around his shoulders, hauling him off; all eyes followed, though he ignored any side-quips. The other nation was unexpectedly heavy. Who had carried Yao home—?

I'm getting too old... Kiku kept that thought purely to himself.

...

Arthur's house was warm. It was heavenly beside the outside frost. Kiku noted that with a subconscious tone.

The Briton himself was still mumbling in staccato beneath his breath; it sounded like a dead shamisen, or a broken qin; a jumble of diverse notes. It was pitiful and somewhat eerie. Kiku caught a few words as he wordlessly dropped—gingerly, however—Arthur onto the couch:

"America...France...war...'ig...fucking...rain..."

"You're drunk," Kiku murmured, as if that wasn't obvious enough.

The green eyes, absent of real color, set sights around the room.

...

PT: Will be a two-shot –shrugs- It came to me while my whole family was fussing over a jar of Choya—a brand of umeshu—on New Year's. My mom and aunt were praising its awesomeness, and I was thinking of how I used to turn the jars upside down to see the fruit move x) Personally, I don't trust it after a few sips I had tried of Canadian and French wine –winces- Eh. Reviews would be nice, and I hope you liked this.