b r o k e n

b o n e s

Journeys end

in lovers meeting.

- Shakespeare.

x.

They met on a high way one evening, around twilight, street lamps providing artificial light along with the headlights from the cars gliding past. Drivers falling asleep at the wheel were absorbed in their own lives, too preoccupied with their own thoughts that nobody else on the highway would ever know, because the world was so unattached and fragmented.

One girl perched at the side of the road, leaning against some rusty silver railings as she took a break from hitchhiking, took a drag from her cigarette and let the smoke mingle with her visible breath in the chilly night air. She flexed her wrist and grimaced, a shakey breath emitting from her throat, and decided not to make that same move again.

It was when lightning flashed in the sky and briefly lit up the entire prolonged road that she decided she had to get out of the middle of industrial nowhere, and she slipped off of the metal barrier and waved at drivers. Most didn't even spare her a passing glance, and the ones who did either sneered or rolled their eyes. One man rolled down his whistle and cat called, and she flipped him off.

Finally, after another thirty seven minutes of whispering curses at apathetic drivers, one pulled up. Several cars sped past without a second thought, and she gratefully yanked open the door and slipped into the Aston Martin, whistling in praise. She turned to the other occupant with a grin, prepared to thank them and introduce herself. She didn't like silence and with the rest of the motorway looming ominously up ahead, she didn't want to sit in awkward quiet for the rest of the journey.

But as she turned to her, she faltered, only briefly, as she drank in the details of the other woman sitting beside her. With bright emerald eyes that seemed conflicted and caught up in another cosmos entirely; her cut lips set into a frown; her pale skin that wasn't quite porcelain but more pallid and the long blonde hair held up in two pigtails that appeared too childish for her scowl that held what promised for a long history, she was a breathtaking image of her own private tragedy. Nevertheless, in spite of the strange moment that somehow induced a fluttering sensation in her stomach, she smiled at the irritable woman.

"Thanks for stopping," she breathed, wondering if she had ever sounded so quiet before. Her twin sister would definitely snort at such a thought, and she herself prevented from doing so. The woman dismissed her thanks with a shrug, stepping down on the pedal and easily sliding back onto the road. Her grip was tight on the steering wheel, and the hitchhiker wondered why she was wearing leather gloves. "I'm Amelia. Amelia F. Jones," she offered brightly, unperturbed when the other didn't respond. "What's your name, Miss?"

She appeared reluctant to answer, and for a moment Amelia thought she wouldn't. But then, with a fragile but troubled sigh, she muttered, "Alice."

Amelia noticed she hadn't provided her last name, but she decided not to probe. She wasn't in tune with her emotions, but she could recognise when someone else didn't want to reveal something. "You know," she said, already berating herself, "sometimes it's good to tell secrets to strangers, 'cause their judgement doesn't matter." She didn't know why she had said that and she didn't know why she wanted to know this stranger's personal business.

The depths of green flickered over to her and back out at the road again. "But we aren't strangers," she murmured softly, surprising Amelia. She had expected a gruff dismissal or even silence. She hadn't anticipated such a curious statement and it left her reeling for a moment. Before she could recover, Alice enquired, "Did you hurt your wrist?"

"Oh," the American breathed, and cleared her throat. "Um... Yeah. I was riding with someone and they chucked me out." She laughed, and the other woman stared at her like she was some sort of science experiment. She smiled sheepishly. "Friends are weird."

"Friends who abandon you are not friends," Alice mumbled, scowling deeply. "They're wankers who can't comprehend the concept of friendship and shall never experience any form of love." With that, she turned her nose up, and continued to drive.

Bewildered by this stranger's enigmatic responses, Amelia flicked on the radio and leaned against the window, allowing nameless tunes to lull her to sleep.

x.

She woke up to the smell of unidentified chemicals and warmth in her lap. Head swarming from the dizzying smells invading her senses, she looked down to find messy pigtails and light eyelashes brushing over flushed cheeks. There was a book grasped loosely in her fingertips, and Amelia carefully pried it from her grip.

Chasing Brooklyn, it read.

She opened it.

x.

"Don't know why I stayed overnight," Amelia mumbled sulkily, a pout on her face. "All I did was sprain my wrist."

"Broke it," Alice corrected, tugging at her pigtails. "Perhaps it's been you'd already fallen asleep before they could force you to leave. Nevertheless, I'm glad that you're all right."

Amelia grinned. "Takes more than broken bones to keep me down!" she exclaimed proudly, flashing a thumbs up.

The Brit raised her eyebrows and made a noise of acknowledgement. "Indeed," she agreed, "you don't seem like the type of person to give up easily. A martyr complex, you call it. Or pure stupidity, in some cases."

"Stupidity which leads to the saving of the unwilling."

Alice threw her a look, brows drawn together and lips pursed, and then turned away swiftly before any emotions could pass over her pale face. "If you say so, Superwoman."

As she became distracted by a unicorn plushie in a street window, Amelia slipped the book back into her bag, full of jibes about the toy to distract Alice from noticing anything different.

I want to rescue her.

x.

"That's a dirty habit, you know," she murmured softly, her sombre voice echoing in the night air, and suddenly the cigarette was plucked from Amelia's cold hands.

"Why do you always wear gloves?" she blurted out. She always focused on other people to take the attention away from herself.

Plump lips that have concealed cuts with Vaseline curved into a sardonic smile, the bitterness of which conflicted by her neurotic, fearful emerald eyes that Amelia, for whatever reason, couldn't get enough of. Alice leaned closer, brushing their noses together, and gave a deceptive smirk. "It's a secret," she whispered, breath ghosting over the American's coffee tainted lips, and she emphasised she word with shortening the distance between their lips. And then, as Amelia, in a moment of insanity, moved forwards, Alice recoiled, stepped back, and smirked. "Not all that glitters is gold, love," she said, talking at normal volume for the first time, and her voice was hoarse and strained like a dying instrument.

Amelia thought it was beautifully melancholic, just like the bruise on her cheek and the fingerprints on her neck. "What do you mean?" she asked, because the shorter blonde frequently spoke mystifying things.

And, as Alice turned and waved, tossing the cigarette on the floor as she departed from the deserted park, she realised that the English woman was an enigmatic mystery all her own. One who wanted to be saved.

Luckily, Amelia craved to save.

x.

It was a crisp autumn day when they first kissed.

"You're wearing make up."

Alice refused to raise her head from the parchment-like pages of her book. "Is that a crime?" She turned a page, eyes skimming over the words that she couldn't drink in.

"No," Amelia conceded, frowning down at her. "But assault is."

The English woman barely even grimaced. She turned another page. "I won't play the cliché role and flinch and pretend to be oblivious," she replied offhandedly, sounding bored if anything.

"So you admit it. You're covering your injuries and hiding your bruises," she said quickly, brows knitting together. Elegant, boney fingers slid over needless words, and Amelia tugged the book away from her, tossing it into the umber leaves. "This is serious!"

Alice looked up at her with half-lidded, exhausted eyes that were smouldering but soothing. It was odd how she could perform such extremeties at once. "I used to hurt myself," she suddenly confessed, shocking the American into silence. "But when somebody else began to do it, I realised that I didn't want to die prematurely. Life is such a beautiful thing, but you must accept it for its flaws too." She let out a soft sigh, eyes fluttering shut as a chilly breeze blew past, rustling the trees and sending fallen leaves dancing away. "Just like people," she breathed, her words mingling with the brisk, gentle air.

"Is that why you wear gloves all the time?" Amelia couldn't help but ask, feeling useless with such a serious discussion. But Alice appeared calm.

"It used to be," the woman replied with a careless shrug. "It sort of is. Mostly, it's to remind me of what I used to do, how I overcame it, and how things can turn out better."

"It's a way of hiding though."

Alice pushed herself up, swaying slightly for a minute, and then stared the younger girl in the eye. "So is wearing a mask, even if it's invisible." She patted Amelia's shoulder. "I'll be off now. Have a good day, Amelia Jones."

She stepped past her, walking gracefully as if she was one with the air, faraway green gaze contrasting with the burning autumn colours that filled the atmosphere. "Wait!" Amelia called, lurching down to grab the book, and then dashing up to the Brit. She grabbed her arm and twirled her around, revelling in the shocked look that graced her normally stoic features. "Y-your book," she stuttered after a pause that lasted for a moment too long, and slid the novel into Alice's concealed hands.

And, for whatever reason, she kissed her. She wasn't spurred by anything in particular unlike how she had imagined she would be; there was no explicitly romantic setting or a wind that sent dying leaves fluttering around them in a cold tango, no movement or words or expression given from either woman to express the strange feelings that she hadn't previously noticed. It seemed to happen too quickly and without notice like a book without a plot, but they lost themselves in it, lips fitting together and fingers gripping the material of their jackets to hold each other down to earth.

A veil of drizzle cascaded from the darkening sky, and suddenly they realised how they always met when the night drifted in. A street lamp flickered on above them, putting them in the limelight for the first time in their lives and, despite lacking an audience, they revelled in the absence of darkness, and held each other for a prolonged moment that they didn't bother measuring.

x.

There were eight missed calls on Alice's phone but she didn't listen to the messages on any of them. Instead, she tossed her phone somewhere in the pile of clothes on the floor, and threaded her fingers through Amelia's short honey blonde hair.

Leaning down to press a kiss on the woman's forehead, she breathed a sigh, pulling back with a sad smile as she guiltily drank in her features.

"It's not just bones that break when abused," she whispered as the self-loathing fell over her like storm clouds.

x.

"Run away," Amelia advised, voice a whisper although she wanted to shout. Her azure eyes were stinging but she refused to cry. "Leave him. All he does is hurt you. Just go!"

"Why run away when a battle is more fun?" Alice retorted, absorbed in her book. The library felt constricting. It was a place in which Amelia was suffocated by the aged items and Alice happily drowned herself amongst them.

"Battle?" the American hissed, eyes widening. "What the hell are you talking about? This ain't a battle, it's... it's...!"

"But it is," the older woman murmured soothingly, looking oddly remorseful. "He beats me up and I fuck him up. He toys with my body and I mess with his mind." Her smirk lacked any mirth. "And I don't feel bad for hurting him inside, but I feel guilty for lacking that guilt."

Amelia looked stricken, struggling for words. Perhaps to console, or perhaps wondering if she should be honest.

"In this world," Alice continued, not allowing Amelia to form an answer, "people are flawed. We love others for their flaws but we also despise them for being imperfect, despite how it's impossible to achieve. And thus, we are all indifferent to the suffering of others, or we are plagued by so many ghostly memories that we can't help but fall under the spell of evil ourselves. In this world," she said, "we're all on a journey to death."

It was then Amelia realised that no matter how amazing someone seemed, they had a million negative aspects to detract from it.

It was then she realised that she had to accept her own flaws too. It was just so difficult to do that when she wanted to be a hero.

"Superman didn't have flaws," she whispered brokenly.

Alice laughed, soft and quiet and sounding more like a memory than anything. "He had kryptonite," she replied, "his major weakness. It doesn't have to be something that renders you incapable of physical strength. It could be something that steals away your ability to maintain a facade."

Amelia wondered why everybody she knew were becoming superficial and two dimensional now that she knew such an enigmatic person.

Blissfully ignorant she had been indeed, but she didn't want to trade this broken English woman for false happiness anyway.

x.

"Tell me a story," she pleaded tiredly as brittle, cold fingers wove through her hair soothingly.

"Once upon a time," Alice murmured, and Amelia tried to picture what her voice would look like were it visible. The older woman's voice was so whispery and full of feelings she couldn't decipher. Her voice reminded Amelia of ghosts, haunted shadows that plagued your dreams, reminded you of things you tried to spend your life forgetting, and faded records and torn out pages of endless books. "Someone invented the introduction once upon a time..."

Amidst the strange tales that Amelia would expect to locate in obscure poetry books that probably didn't exist, she realised something: she wasn't Alice, and nor was she her inventor. Perhaps all humans were puppets on invisible strings, but she could not control Alice. She could save her, perhaps, but she couldn't force her to be saved. Maybe being a martyr wasn't what the lost English woman needed, but a lifeline; a palpable, physical being with a heartbeat and the ability to love and hold her and kiss her in the dark. She needed an anchor, but also a kite, and so Amelia decided she would be both. Maybe being someone's saviour didn't mean swooping in, defeating the villain, and whisking the damsel off towards a happy ending. Maybe it meant helping them feel something again, rescuing them from the mundane nothingness of their lives as they drive on highways every fortnight just to see the lights within the constant darkness.

She couldn't mend broken bones; they healed on their own. But she could piece back together Alice's shattered heart, even if it meant giving up some pieces of her own. But she knew... she knew that Alice would sacrifice parts of herself to make Amelia full too. They may never be complete after falling apart so many times in the past, but they could complete one another in their broken forms.

Alice never said The End when finishing her stories, and she always left off from where one 'ended' last time. Stories never have to end, she had said once over a cup of tea and a stained newspaper from last week. She never kept up to date but she claimed to revel in living in the past while the present lapsed into it, because she was waiting for it. She had been waiting for Amelia.

"I'm here now, babe," she whispered, gazing into starry green eyes.

Alice's lips twitched into a real smile, small and weak and anguished, but true. And Amelia returned it, just as broken but just as loving. The Brit leaned down, her long hair falling over them like a closing curtain. "I know," she returned softly, a single tear escaping. It fell to meet one of Amelia's, but neither of them moved to brush them away. "Thank you for finding me."

The American grinned. "Thank you for being worth the journey."

Even if Alice was still with the unidentified silhouette of a man who hurt her, she wouldn't always be. Besides, Amelia would gladly carry her home and kiss her new soon-to-be scars and let her fall asleep in her arms. At least until the day Alice's private war ended, she'd be the cavalry, the back up, waiting to catch her and lift her back up.

Outside, as they fell asleep entangled in each other, the world carried on, unaware of anything thanspiring.

The streetlamp outside flickered, and the dreams commenced.

x.

Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

A) I don't really care about their canon names; I personally believe these names are far more suited to them.

B) I honestly have no idea what this is or why I began writing it but it happened, so it's here.

C) This was meant to be short. Once again, I find it so difficult to keep anything short. Buggeration.

Yeah.

Yeah, that's it.

Hi.