d e c o d e
[ g o s a n g o k u ]
x.
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
x.
(Dear scratched out.) Alfred, Paper is hard to come by. Rations will be the death of me if this war is not. It slips my mind, however, that we are not like any of the other soldiers here; we do not face imminent death. Where we are mortally wounded, severely mutilated, or torn apart, we mend. I find myself seeking solace in the fact that Ancient Rome and Germania had fallen; it proves that we are not immortal. The prospect of immortality
I am wasting paper with my philosophical rants. It is not as if you even appreciate it and subsequently I shall cease my onesided discussions. I just wish (Ink blot. Scratched out words.)
(It hurts scratched out.) I am not doing as well as I had initially imagined, although admittedly it could be worse; several soldiers have already died, if not due to German attacks then because of the abysmal conditions of the trenches. A rat scuttled past me the other day and I (was reminded of the plague and it was ever so slightly fear inducing and it looked at me and I felt sick not written, but came to mind.) am feeling a tad nauseous, although I fear I am only complaining. Although I am aware you are indifferent, I must say I am not doing (Ink blot. Scratched out.) I am coping. The men are shouting. I suppose my time for writing you is at its end for a while. Rest assured I shall soon attempt to drown myself in alcohol. As for now, it is bullets, debris, and blood. Arthur. I bet the rations are difficult to overcome. I am all for philosophy. It is at least more tangible than mythology. I wonder if the trenches will cure you of your delusions or only reinforce them. Suffice to say, faeries are nonexistent.
Rats? I am fairly apathetic towards those creatures, although I do tend to avoid them. (You were always tense whenever rats appeared outside our houses, but you never told me why. But you never thought to tell me anything, did you, Arthur? he thought bitterly.)
Take care of yourself as best you can. I bid you good luck, Arthur. Alfred. It is probably past midnight. I cannot recall the last time I slept. I suppose I try not to. I must look terrible I do not want your bleeding chocolate, Alfred.
They are real. Without them I would have gone insane years ago. (When you left...) When alone, they enrapture me and converse with me so that I am not lonely. "No man is an island," said Donne, but there is an exception to prove every rule and in such a circumstance I am the exception. In a literal sense, I am an island, and (I am so lonely) I brought it upon myself. I am sure me saying so will appease you.(Ink blot. Hesitation.) You take care of yourself also, Alfred. (Lord knows one of us has to.)
Arthur.x.Arthur, Be more optimistic, Arthur - you cannot look much worse than you usually do. Do you ever accept offers? No, it appears you do not. You do not accept what is offered but demand what you cannot have. Do not try to involve me in this. This is not my war. I heard Matthew will be visiting. If you have persuaded him to try and make me join, it will not work. I am adamant and resilient, as the 1700s should have proved to you. Do take a hint, Arthur. I am no longer your pawn, old man. Cease your self-pity. It is sickening.
Alfred. x. I spoke with Matthew today. The Somme. It is... Matthew did not inform me of the extent of your wounds, but he appears serious. You will pull through, old man; you are far too stubborn not to. Get better swiftly and beat those blasted enemies of yours. Were you not the ruler of the seas? Alfred. It is I, Matthew. I arrived midnight yesterday. Arthur woke up, but it was brief. I am not sure he even noticed my presence. His eyes were open but unseeing. He fell unconscious soon after, but he did say something. He would be furious for me telling you, but... I felt compelled to. He said, "I'm tired. Where are you?" I was not sure why he asked that. I am still contemplating it. I do not have much time, however. I have to redress his wounds. Also, if he reassures you of his condition in his letters or sounds fine, he is not. Arthur is a good liar, as you know, but on occasion he does not lie solely for his own benefit. At least not in terms of wealth or territory. I think he is scared, Alfred. I think he has always been scared. The war to end all wars has begun, brother. Matthew.
Please notify me of his condition as regularly as possible.(He paused again. "Where are you?" he used to whisper fearfully into the atmosphere, and Arthur's safe arms always encompassed him and held him close. "I am here, my boy," he would murmur soothingly into his hair, "I am here.)
I am not sure what he means either. Simply assure him that he is not alone. Do not try to persuade me to join, Matthew. I will not be a part of this, even if it is my brother who asks it of me. I am free. Perhaps you should be also. Alfred.
A resounding knock at the door forced him to emerge from his irrelevant thoughts. Straightening up, he called, "Enter."
A weary looking man slipped through a crack in the door, tired brown eyes glancing up at him anxiously before he seemed to decide he was too exhausted to be intimidated. He extended his arm, bestowing the taller American with a letter. "Mr. Wilson," the man told him, "he has issued a statement in regards to the sinking of the Lusitania." With a sharp bow, the twenty-something year old man turned and left the room.
Masking his disappointment over the persona of the sender, Alfred tore open the letter and skimmed over it. He swallowed, fists tightening and blunt nails digging into the paper, before his shoulders slumped and he heaved a heavy sigh.
"It seems we still are not joining you, Arthur," he murmured, staring out of the window and watching ruefully as rain cascaded heavily upon it. "I am... regretful." His eyes fluttered shut and the letter was scrunched up in his strong hands. He paid no heed to the paper cut that sliced his palm. "If Roosevelt... But no, I have Wilson now, and he does not wish for me to be a part of this. Arthur, I..."
Why did he feel the need to justify himself?
"No matter what, England..." he heard his younger self whisper with determination, gazing out at the same sky, "I will always protect you, just as you have done for me.""It appears it was not only you who broke promises."
x.Alfred, Arthur has regained consciousness. The entirety of his side is coated in blood and I have had to stitch the wounds up a dozen times. They keep re-opening. He lurches awake and tries to get up every time. Tomorrow he will return to the trenches. He is still bleeding. You say he undermines you and thinks of you as a child, but he is even worse with me. He assures me he is fine when he is losing blood as hastily as he lost colonies. You were not there to see that, so I suppose the simile is lost on you. Whenever he lost one, it looked as if a part of himself had died. His body convulsed and it seemed as if his appendages had been torn off by an invisible foe. I am not ashamed to say that I cried. I am ashamed to say that he did not and you were not there. Comparable to now, I suppose. Matthew.
Lavender eyes scarcely moved from the page they were fixated upon as a soft voice responded, "Alfred."
The ticking of the clock filled the uncomfortable silence and measured the length of it, but in spite of the steadily moving hand on the clock it felt as if it lasted for years. Eventually, the Canadian looked away from the countless words and stared reproachfully as his brother, who gazed back with a facade of indifference, at which Matthew quirked a small smirk.
"Welcome," he murmured, voice deeper and disappearing into the small room. The word was more ominous than inviting and Alfred fought not to swallow or look away. Instead, he frowned deeply and heaved a sigh.
"Do not make jibes," he advised, more of a threat than anything, and his brother snorted.
"Now is hardly a time to make enemies of our allies," he muttered dubiously, casting Alfred an unimpressed scowl. The American deduced that it was due to his time spent with the neurotic Arthur, and suddenly all his thoughts of him lingering at the back of his mind became prominent again.
"Where is he...?"
"Arthur?" Matthew enquired, not needing affirmation. "He left a while ago," he replied, "but as for the primary reason you are here, the men are next door. They have decoded the Zimmermann Telegram." His sardonic smirk slipped into a dark grimace. "I dare say you will not like the results, Alfred."
x.It was cold.
The moon hid behind the thick grey clouds that Arthur was certain would soon be unable to contain its contents and allow rain to fall over the area. He gazed up at it, his expression one of nonchalance, although inside he wondered if he should feel anguish over tears of the sky that had fallen over his and Alfred's war. His sudden impassive perspective on everything briefly forced him to muse if he had finally moved on, but he would have laughed at his own naive thoughts were he able to possess the strength to do so. He still resented Alfred for leaving, disliked him for taking everything Arthur gave him for granted, for leaving him shedding tears and joining the sky's rainfall in the soil on that faithful day, but he was just too tired to get worked up over it.
It was akin to 1066. For a while after he had been emotionless over it, staring at stone walls as his pulse rippled like a calm sea, before his feelings exploded like a neutron star collision and the pain coursing throughout his being only served to fuel the immeasurable fire. To fuel his hatred of Francis.
But he had different feelings towards Alfred. Whilst he also betrayed him and... and left him, he... as much as it brutally wounded Arthur's pride to admit it, he did it for good reasons. He didn't want it to come to that, but it did, and Arthur was aware that he had arguably driven the boy to it. But no matter what, eventually the American would have craved independence. It was a matter of time ever since he came into existence. Arthur just... didn't want to believe it. He wanted to fool himself into thinking that Alfred would be with him forever, live for him forever. He called Alfred childish but truly, he was the one who was naive if he ever honestly believed that somebody would want to stay beside him forever...
I am sure that France must have laughed ever so much, he thought darkly, clutching his gun tightly and breathing in deeply. Then, as I stole the one he loved from him, perhaps I was deserving over his cruel mirth... Yet, although I know that, I won't forgive him. Likewise, he will never forgive me. He couldn't even manage a weak smile, and so he just let out a shakey breath and stared up at the dark sky full of smoke. We are a lot of unforgiving, unrepentant, unjustified fools. His eyes slid shut, lashes fluttering against his bruised skin, and he slumped against the mud wall behind him. Unjustified fools in unrequited love.
"I doubt you would be pleased to see me with such a posture," remarked a voice that had probably intended to sound amused, but only emerged through the frosty air like an anguished murmur.
If Arthur was surprised, he didn't show it. "Nor am I pleased to receive such an abysmal greeting after such a long time," he muttered, not trusting himself to speak properly. He had many excuses as to why he wished to be quiet, but the only truthful one was that he could not trust his voice. It would reveal everything and ruin his invisible fortress.
He heard a snort, shuffling, and then felt more than heard the presence beside him. "You're right," said the other man, "the conditions here really are absolutely..."
"Yes," he whispered, cutting the other off abruptly. "I know."
They sat in silence for a moment, and Arthur never once opened his eyes. There were no gunshots or barks of orders or debris falling through the air, but there was a small rumble of thunder that crashed above them. The Brit's grip on his weapon tightened almost imperceptibly and the American felt his heart lurch. It seemed as if Arthur reacted to even the smallest of sounds and, with remorseful realisation, it occurred to him that it had been that way ever since he could remember. He wondered if he would ever be told a tale of when Arthur hadn't been guarded and hidden behind his own impenetrable walls. With a strange wave of sadness that overwhelmed his usual irritation, he sighed softly.
"I am... glad... that you are here," the man beside him forced out, talking at a normal volume now, and his voice was hoarse and full of emotions that the younger man did not wish to decipher in fear of sympathising. "Alfred..."
"I never thought I would hear you speak my name again," the American breathed, mesmerised by the melodic tone that accompanied Arthur's voice when he said his name. It wasn't accompanied with a condescending smirk or a patronising roll of the eyes, but Arthur looked so exhausted and Alfred decided he wanted to hear his name spoken whilst staring into familiar green eyes.
"What can I say?" Arthur mumbled tiredly, barely moving his lips. "Whilst I am not fond of surprises, I enjoy being the one to astonish others. Perhaps it is due to years of treachery and stabbing others in the back, or maybe sneaking up on people and pointing a gun to their heads." He sighed, the sound too melancholic for his seemingly heartless words. "Or because it is just in my nature to be despicable."
Alfred was not sure how to respond. Whilst he wished to say analogous words to the very same man and had planned various ways to say several offensive but true things to him, seeing him now...
"You... have made mistakes," he said with difficulty.
"If intentional, I cannot pass my evil doings as mistakes." Another long pause took rein over them before the Englishman took a sharp intake of breath suddenly.
Alfred turned to him, brows contorting, concerned despite himself. "Are you hurt?" Matthew said he still had not recovered...Arthur bit his lip, drawing blood, and clutched his gun even tighter than before. A strange strangled sound escaped his closed lips, and his eyelids twitched and muscles convulsed painfully. He raised a hand, feeling useless, and moved to take the gun away from the older man, only for his arm to be caught in a vice grip. He froze as Arthur's long, slender, boney fingers tightened around his flesh, clinging to his arm as if Alfred was his lifeline. His eyes fluttered open, darkened by time but bright beneath the moonlight, and they were suddenly so beautifully emerald and reflected the stars that he couldn't see through the fog.
"Alfred..." he gasped, and something inside of the American just seemed to slip away.
The gun was placed on the ground a couple of feet away from them, hitting the floor just as Alfred's lips touched Arthur's, hesitant, anxious, curious, needy. It was quick and fleeting, and Alfred pulled away soon after to stare worriedly into his former guardian's pained face. Those same emerald eyes gazed up at him, torn and just as scared as his own, and Alfred realised that, even if Arthur was a lot older than him, he was still just as fearful. He still needed comfort. He felt the man's hand on his arm trembling and felt another flame of rue flare through him, and then their lips met once again.
Alfred raised his hand to grasp Arthur's, momentarily marvelling at how much smaller it was than how it used to be, and then threaded their fingers together as if retying the threads that he had broken all those years ago. He raised his gaze to see Arthur staring at their intertwined hands and couldn't help but smile, somehow reassured by how they both seemed to comprehend the meaning behind such a seemingly miniscule action. He increased the pressure on their hands and, after a second, Arthur squeezed back, eyes finally meeting his own.
This time, it was the Englishman who leaned forwards, eyes briefly flickering upwards as if seeking confirmation, and the younger man couldn't help but be touched by the unspoken question in the deep green hues. His features softened and his lips twitched into a small smile as he closed the remaining distance between them again, an "Arthur," escaping his lips with every breath he lost and Arthur took.
Alfred's lips strayed from Arthur's abused lips, trailing down to his jaw, hesitantly nipping at it, and then bestowing gentle butterfly kisses down his long neck. Debating with himself, he slowly bit at the exposed flesh, and then did it again after Arthur let out a small sound that he decided he liked. He found that he liked marking the Brit like this, trailing his kisses over his body, and eventually he found himself carefully prying open the older man's uniform, feeling aguished when boney shoulders tensed and emerald eyes clenched shut.
He wasn't sure if saying it was appropriate, but he felt compelled to. Offering a soft kiss to recently healed scar tissue, he whispered delicately against the fragile chest, "You're beautiful."
He heard Arthur's breath hitch and shrewdly glanced up through his fringe to see the man biting his lip again, swallowing and lashes fluttering over flushed cheeks. "Quiet," he whispered weakly, and winced at the sound of his own voice. "Do... do not make fun of me..."
"I'm not," Alfred insisted with vigour, brows drawing together. "I mean it. You're beautiful. I will say it until you believe me," he said, flushing lightly at his own declaration. But he meant it, he was surprised to discover.
Familiar, cold, calloused hands touched his face softly, and he looked up to see green eyes, more gentle than they had been in a long time, gazing at him with such loving that he felt his heart beat escalate. His eyes truly are beautiful, he thought. Why did it take me so long to notice that?
Arthur's lips parted as if he wished to speak, but then he took a breath and turned away, looking disappointed in himself. Somehow understanding the enigmatic man for once, Alfred raised a hand to touch the one resting on his cheek, offering a smile to the conflicted Brit. After a moment, Arthur returned it.
"This is the first time I've seen you smile in centuries," he whispered, leaning his forehead against his former caretaker's, who pressed their noses together. Cute...
"This is the first time I've seen you smile honestly in centuries," Arthur replied, startling the younger man, who eventually softened slightly, shaking his head in disbelief.
"I am... not sure how I feel about your ability to read me so well," he murmured quietly against bloodied lips, resisting the temptation to kiss them again.
Weary and yet smouldering green eyes met his own, and he wondered why he was trying to stop himself. He wondered if Arthur's eyes ever lost their spark because every time he had ever seen the man, no matter his emotion, be it happiness, melancholy, fury, or any other feeling, his eyes always shone. He recalled being younger, although he tried not to, and Arthur had only once commented on his eyes. His tone was full of poignance and his smile reflected it as he had said, "They are akin to the sky, your eyes, my boy... They resonate freedom." His eyes had fluttered shut and his arm lifted, outstretched as it reached towards the falling sun. "Perhaps, some day, you will also..."
And Alfred had never fully understood the significance behind those words, but he now did. Yet another sigh left his lips and he cast the older man a conflicted stare. "I have... I have never been in such a war, Arthur," he whispered, anxiety betraying him as his baritone voice shook. "I am... unprepared."
Those same cold fingertips hovered hesitantly above his face before carefully stroking his cheeks and he scrutinised the Brit lying before him with an intensity he had not often used before. "Nor have I engaged in a war comparable to this," Arthur confessed quietly, voice hoarse but still somehow soothing, perhaps only because it was his voice. Alfred had always sought comfort in it. I suppose I had simply never moved on, the American thought with a strange fond feeling, Even though saying so is such a human prospect, Arthur's voice always spurred me to stay strong throughout terrifying nights. It seems it still does. "I have been in wars. There is no doubt about that," he murmured, brows knitting together as he appeared to grow lost in thought. Alfred would have thought that the man would have said it bitterly or with a sense of smug irony both due to his success and his eventual failure, but the man sounded disturbingly neutral. But the subtle, almost imperceptible hints that Arthur probably didn't intend for him to notice, suggested that he definitely felt things over the past battles.
"Tell me about them," Alfred whispered against the man's lips, teasingly close, and then his warm, chapped lips pressed gently over his neck, teeth brushing over the flesh, tongue darting out to slide over the mark he innevitably made. His free hand, the other still laced together with Arthur's, slid down to the older country's hip, clutching it tightly enough to bruise, but the other man didn't seem to react, only breathing soft sighs in reponse to the ministrations conducted by the American.
"Nn... No," he breathed, breath hitching as a hand slid over a scar, followed by lips kissing it after a short moment of examining it. "Stop," he ordered, but it emerged from his mouth more like a faltering plea. He clenched his eyes shut, willing anger to arrive to disguise the self-conscious reluctance he displayed. "Stop it," he hissed again as the American's lips trailed carefully over his marred skin.
"Where did this one come from?" Alfred enquired, and Arthur would have berated him for his insolence were he able to move more or feel more, but as it was he had been practically numb prior to the American's pleasure inducing kisses, which were still being littered across his torso.
"Ah... F-first civil war," he forced out, wary of saying such words around his former colony. America's civil war had indeed been horrendous, and he knew that he had not been very helpful in the entire matter. "During the seventeenth century," he added, and Alfred glanced sharply at him. The Englishman had not visisted for a long several years during the latter part of the seventeenth century and, if his own civil war had been anything to go by during the 1800s, then perhaps it made sense why... Nevertheless, the man had still been wrong; the unjust taxes and the fact that he still viewed him as a child after all that time...
"First?" he found himself asking, stroking the scars with a single finger, marvelling at how smooth it felt beneath his own skin. He wondered if all of Arthur's body felt so soft...
"I had three." Green eyes fell closed. "Must we discuss warfare during such a time?"
"It is the perfect setting," Alfred supplied with a snort as he glanced at the walls of mud and the putrid smells of waste and gunpowder in the air.
"I... do not wish to speak of it." Arthur's hand tightened within his own. "It is not good for either of us."
Do you ever? Alfred shook his head, somehow disappointed by Arthur's recluctance to reveal more of him to the American, even in such circumstances. And so, masking his hurt, he allowed Arthur's shirt to fall from his shoulders, exposing more of the pale flesh and displaying more scars to him. More stories left untold.
Tightening his grasp on Arthur's hand, he bit at Arthur's one exposed nipple, the other covered by bloodstained bandages. He felt Arthur arch up slightly in response, sucking in a sudden breath, before exhaling shakily. "You... You do not have to do that," he gasped, squirming beneath the American's ministrations and letting out a strangled moan as his free hand drifted down to his uniform trousers which were covered in mud and blood, and he decided he didn't want to know how much of it was Arthur's. "Alfred, this... We shouldn't... Ah..."
"You appear to be struggling with your words," Alfred observed, eyelids falling to halfmast as he stared down at the tired man, who was now flushed and trying to maintain a steady breathing rate. "How odd..." Before he could receive a reprimand as a response, his hand slid beneath the waistband of his trousers after the belt was carefully pried off. He hesitated briefly, unsure of himself. He had bedded a couple of humans before, if only for experience, whom he never became attached to. But it was different now. The man gazing up at him through guarded eyes, still focused in spite of the present conditions, watching him, gaging his next move... this was the man who had found him, raised him, cared for him...
"Come, America," said the very same man, emerald eyes sparkling in the light of the sun that shone brightly over the meadows. His palm, seeming bigger all those years ago, sought Alfred's, and the boy readily grasped his hand with vigour, beaming happily up at his guardian. His brother, his father, his Arthur. His. "I am sorry for being so slow, England," he apologised ruefully as the man's strides became small steps and the speed fell from gliding through the fields to ambling along. But the man's smile remained in tact despite the cut on his cheek or the bandages on his neck that Alfred scarcely even noticed at the time. "Quite all right," replied the Brit softly, squeezing their intertwined hands. "I will wait for you, Alfred. I will wait forever, and an infinite lifetime after that." "Nothing exists after forever," the younger boy replied, blinking owlishly at the enigmatic statement that arose from the other man's lips. Arthur chuckled softly, smiling that smile that had once made him feel sheepish but pleased and now sparked a sort of agitation within him. "There is an exception for every rule." Arthur's smile softened into one that Alfred could not decipher. "This time, it is my love."
But then those dazzling emerald eyes fluttered back open and beckoned him forth, and so he leaned forwards and caught Arthur's mouth, their tongues an array of dances they could not tell the names of, as the American's hand stroked the older man's length, his efforts becoming easier as precum ebbed from the slit and coated Alfred's hand in the sticky substance.
"Al...fred," gasped Arthur hips lifting and then falling in time with the larger man's movements. With his free hand, the other still clutching Alfred's, he raised it to entangle in the other man's golden blond hair. Amber waves of grain, he mused distractedly, breaths short and erratic, just like his nervous heart. "Y-you needn't... perform such m-ministrations..." His gaze flickered away, the flush on his face darkening to a darker hue. "I-if you wish to do something, then..." He swallowed, drawing Alfred's attention back to his pale, blemished neck. Teeth latching onto it and biting down, nipping, sucking, and then licking by means of an unintended apology, he trailed sloppy kisses up the length of his neck until they brushed over his lips again, less coordinated than he previously had been.
"If you are sure, Arthur..."
The older man's bruised lips twitched into something resembling a pained smile. "Only if you are..." he agreed after a moment, not so much fearing the inevitable ache as he did losing his precious American. Unbeknownst to him, Alfred held similar thoughts; if they did this, they could never return to what they had once had.
Although, the American thought, slowly removing his wet hand from Arthur's trousers to lift the man's hips and carefully pull the clothing down to expose his erect length. He bit his lip as Arthur blushed, brows drawing together, and a low groan was emitted, but from which one of them, neither knew. He leaned forwards again, capturing Arthur's lips in a kiss full of longing and missing and why have we taken so long to do this? and slid one of his fingers inside of the older man's entrance. They broke away to breathe, Arthur arching and suppressing a strangled cry, and then their lips met once more. We could never return to that no matter what we did... For I do not wish to be viewed as an unworthy child any longer. Arthur... I am your equal. From you, I want kisses that lovers exchange, not fleeting smiles that hide your hidden feelings. I want all of you... I want you to want all of me.
"D-does it... Is it painful?" he nervously asked against the man's heated brow, bestowing a soft kiss against it and wincing in sympathy when Arthur let out a strange sound that he probably tried to stifle.
"N-no," he gasped out, but his fingers were tightly clutching Alfred's hand as if it were a lifeline. "It... is fine... so continue..."
Liar, thought Alfred, but acquiesced. Another digit entered the man who bit his lip hard and writhed in response, futile in his efforts to muffle his noises. "Don't," he advised, voice deep but quiet and concerned. "I want to hear you..."
"You want a lot of things," Arthur returned, but for once Alfred didn't respond to the jibe; he could tell that the Englishman was hurting because of wounds and the foreign fingers intruding within him. But it appeased him somehow, as guilty as he felt about it, that Arthur could respond in such a manner to something he had done; it made him feel more powerful but, as well as that, more... acknowledged. After a few more quiet moments filled with their gasps and grunts and groans, Arthur gave a small nod and Alfred tenderly touched their lips together as he removed his fingers, sensitively lifting the Brit's hips a bit more as he positioned himself, swiftly coating his member in the precum that coated his hand.
"It... Will it hurt a lot?" He loathed how nervous he sounded, but Arthur didn't seem to mind. He just bestowed the younger man with a weary smile, the one that caused his chest to ache, and nodded.
"Because it's you," he whispered, "I am sure I will be fine."
Alfred almost said Liar but the earnest emerald eyes that gazed up at him through a half-lidded stare screamed honesty, and he could not find it in him to be antagonistic. And so, enveloping Arthur's mouth with yet another kiss, and slowly embedded himself within the man who used to seem so big. But although the Englishman had lost his empire, his pirate ships, his rein over the seven seas, his colonies... he had never lost Alfred. No matter what he thought, he had always had Alfred's heart. He... He would just never know that.
Arthur was trembling in his arms and his grip on Alfred's hand was immeasurably tight; Alfred had not thought him capable of such strength. Nevertheless, he squeezed back once again, and when the Brit whispered, "Don't go," he kissed him to reassure him and replied, "I will never." Then he pushed forwards, silencing the cry that would have innevitably be heard by someone with his lips, barely granting either of them any oxygen as he moved forwards and backwards, rolling his hips, grasping Arthur's hard enough to leave more bruises on his boney hips.
It was painful; Arthur could feel every thrust and suppressed a grimace every time the younger man moved and he felt his recently closed wounds sting painfully, his bandages sticking and unravelling in diverse places, but Alfred's hand in his own provided some tangible comfort that somehow reassured him. It reeked of mud and unmentionable things that would make many wretch, but the wavering scent of Alfred's coffee beans and peppermint detracted from the putrid smell of the trenches, and Arthur found himself hoping that this would happen again, somewhere nicer, where he could be fully engulfed by the scent of pure Alfred.
"Look at me, Arthur..." whispered Alfred, eyes stinging as tears gathered in them, but he refuses to allow them to fall.
Gasping and writhing, Arthur's eyes flickered open, and he wondered when he had closed them. He trailed his shaking hand up Alfred's sweating, trembling arm, and cupped his cheek, thumb gently brushing over the flushed face, and he smiled again. "Alfred," he murmured in a whispery voice, airy and light and not fitting the setting at all. Arthur's voice always attracted Alfred; it was so different. Whilst not unlike in tone compared to many other men, it held a quintessence that Alfred imagined Arthur thought angels and faeries possessed. Whilst the American could not believe in such mythological creatures, he believed that such beings would have voices like Arthur's. "Alfred, I..."
He trailed off into a prolonged moan, cheeks flushing darker, back arching, losing his grip on Alfred's hand for a brief moment, before he came down from the sudden euphoria and leaned back, panting and squirming more than he had previously been. Normally I am not so sensitive, he thought, ashamed of his reaction, but unable to prevent himself from performing an analogous one when Alfred hit that very same spot. Perhaps since it has been so long, or that I am injured... His hand made its way back to Alfred's hair, twitsting in with the blond knots and insistently tugging him down, needily brushing their lips together before leaning forwards, their gasped breaths mingling, ghosting over one another's heated flesh as their lips met again and again. Neither fought to gain control over the kiss, but instead allowed it to flow seamlessly, as they clung to each other and moved rhythmically in response to one another's movements until the world suddenly disappeared in an explosion of bright white stars.
"Alfred..."
"Arthur...!"
The first thing both men saw when they came down from their ecstasy fuelled launch into the metaphorical galaxy within the backs of their minds was one another's eyes, filled with stars sparkling within the cloud filled sky. Their hands had never once broken apart and were now loosely intertwined, but as they caught their breath once more they tightened their grasp, grunting as Alfred reproachfully slipped out of the other man, resisting the compelling urge to fall because of exertion. With a shaking hand, he let go of Arthur's pronounced hip, and closed his own pants. After a moment of evident reluctance, he slid his hand out of Arthur's and moved to pull up the Brit's.
"I can..." the older man began wearily, but Alfred stubbornly shook his head.
"Let me," he said, "please."
Arthur didn't fight as he was cleaned up or lifted to practically lie on the American, and found himself unable to protest as the man's warm jacket was draped over both of them like a blanket. He blushed slightly at the gesture and buried his face into Alfred's shoulder, adamant in his decision not to allow the man to see the state he caused him to be in. But, after a brief debate, he thread their fingers together again, and then sunk deeper against the American. He heard the man let out a breathy chuckle and couldn't stop himself from smiling against his shoulder.
"G'night, Arthur."
A pause.
"Goodnight," he whispered, "Alfred."
x.Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I was going to add yet a scene at the end depicting them as lovers in the modern era, but I thought that the previous ending scene was a good finale. Also, I am tired. I wrote a lot of this last night but stopped approximately a quarter of the way through the lemon to go to bed... and subsequently be unable to sleep. Such is life. America joined WWI not long before its completion; they didn't wish to be involved and therefore made a deal with Germany - as long as the Germans didn't try anything with them, they wouldn't do anything either. But Germany sent Mexico a telegram that entailed its plan to strike against Americans, and that telegram was figured out by the British. After being aware of its contents in which it specified attacking against America, America joined the war as an Allied Power along with Great Britain. England did not return America's letters at one point, and during that period was when England was afflicted by the battle of the Somme. It is referred to as the bloodiest day in British history and it was indeed very brutal. I advise you to read England has indeed had three civil wars, all in succession. I shan't go into detail as it isn't terribly vital for this fanfiction, but I'm sure you can locate information on them if needs be. Whilst they weren't as famous or as potentially harmful as America's, they were fairly horrible. Started 'cause a king got too big for his boots. See, if we had King Arthur and Merlin, this issue could have been avoided. I Yes, everyone, my sex scenes are dull. I'm afraid I get caught up in their thoughts and feelings and the symbolism behind absolutely everything and thus I get carried away. Blargh. I'm terribly sorry. I shall improve at some point. Hopefully. Oh, and the trenches? They were worse than I described. The conditions were absolutely abysmal. Men died not only from bullet wounds or explosions, but due to the conditions in the trenches. It was horrendous. We will never be able to fathom how excruciating it was down there. So, yeah... their first time, at least in terms of this story, and it occurred within ditches of mud and waste and rats and bombs on a battlefield. Romantic, eh? I doubt France would agree, but then again... 1066. Yeah, I reference that too often. I'm a bitter Brit. Sorry, I seem to have Alfred obsessed with Arthur's voice and the latter being transfixed on the former's scent. That is... really odd. I can't help it even if I don't really understand either, but I feel that tangible reminders of one another's presence just reinforces their feelings. I like to think Alfred smelling of coacoa butter, coffee beans and peppermint, and Arthur of tea leaves, popery and... You know that smell of books? I can't be the only one who sniffs books, as strange as it sounds. I know I'm not alone in that... But there are reasons for Alfred being enamoured with Arthur's voice. :3 Give me your impressions, I like ideas. ;) I wrote this and my homework at the same time. Multitasking for the win! Seriously though, I'm surprised I contained myself and didn't fangasm over my work... Ah well. My work was fairly interesting anyway. Has anybody heard of platonic conception? Here's a hint: Gatsby. When I wrote, "Alfred, I..." I thought of the Doctor confessing to Rose before... before... ;A; (Did I just make anyone sad? Wahaha, I am so evil.) I'll cease my nonsensical rambling now; it is going nowhere. In any case, I hope you enjoyed this long winded and seemingly emotionless story. In the near future I should be writing another USUKUS story in which they're handcuffed together, so you've got that to look forward to. If you enjoy my long-winded rants. XD Take care, everyone. Pleasant reading. xo