A/N: The idea for this little monster came to me after finals ended. It all sprouted from the first line. Now here I sit, wondering just where to go from here. We shall see, I suppose. This is my first attempt at posting anything in this fandom, so I hope you enjoy it.
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairings: US x UK, more to come.
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I make no profit from writing this. Beat it, briefcase.
n.
I. A mere product of mental invention; a fantastic notion.
II. A feigned, invented, or imagined story, theory, etc.
From Late Latin figmentum: a fiction; From Latin fingere: to shape.
Figments
-1-
Knock
By approximately 8:15 on Friday morning, Arthur Kirkland was fairly sure that he had gone completely mad.
He placed the thought's occurrence at around 8:15 because by the time he hurtled past the clock maker's shop, the neatly-arranged, finely-tuned faces peered back a jaunty 8:25, and he felt about as winded as he did after a brisk ten minute run.
Granted, his usual run wasn't carried out in his work uniform, and it never involved darting an and out of traffic—bicycles, maybe, but never cars.
He was supposed to be boring.
Completely dry.
His personality was sour after years as the scrawny, bookish middle brother, and his features—which may have been otherwise quite attractive—were spoiled by his thick eyebrows, more than a little ill-suited for his face. His mother had tried for years to convince him that the monstrous things 'added character', but he wasn't quite that gullible.
In short, unusual things really should not have happened to dull, dry Arthur Kirkland. He awoke in the morning at 7 'o clock sharp, took his routine run through the park, and picked up his morning tea and pastry. His morning, thereafter, was occupied by his work preparation and morning commute, if one could call the short walk to the cafe that had, mercifully, employed the bushy-browed cynic as a waiter a 'commute'.
Any passing observer could tell you the sandy blonde man lived and breathed on schedule. Men like him did not go running through the bustling streets in blind panic to escape hulking, sharp-toothed monsters that were not there.
Unless, by 'hulking, sharp-toothed monster', you meant 'the prospect of being five minutes late'.
Men like him were the taupe-colored pillars of modern society, quiet and unassuming and painfully mundane.
Khaki people.
They didn't know what 'monsters' were.
...Then again, it wasn't as if Arthur had been completely sane to begin with. Any one of his
numerous family members could tell you that, since childhood, the black sheep of the Kirkland family had professed an ability to see faeries.
For years, he'd insisted that the fair folk were all around them. In the beginning, it had been charming. His mother had smiled and kissed her darling dreamer-child good-night, and may Mab herself guard his slumber.
And so old Mab did, but his mother had no way of knowing what glorious adventures the bewitching charioteer had brought for her precious little Arthur.
Years passed, and little Peter came along. His older brother's claims of magic in the waking world were relegated to quickly outgrown faerie tales, and finally dissolved into the immature fabrications of a needy middle child. The Kirklands no longer had time to indulge their awkward son's outlandish (and often unsettling) stories.
Stories, stories.
All Arthur had were stories.
But he'd never once told a story about a thing like this.
He'd never once seen a thing like this.
They'd always said he had an overactive imagination.
And now, it was going to kill him.
Sometimes, we find religion in the strangest places. Hymns beneath highway overpasses.
Baptisms at bus stops.
Prayer in a prison sentence.
G-d in a gunshot.
When Arthur Kirkland opened his eyes, his addled brain was still sorting out the smell of chk-bang, the sound of gunpowder, and the taste of, 'Oh, G-d, I'm going to die.'
The first thing he saw was a horribly bright purple mass from squeezing his eyes shut too tight.
The next was a pair of jean-clad thighs framing the now-limp corpse of Arthur's 'imaginary friend'.
He had to be crazy. If he were sane, there was no way his first act after having his life saved by some random, gun-toting stranger would be to admire the snug fit said stranger's jeans had on his ass.
"Hey."
"Uh...a-ahh...?" Arthur found himself remarkably short on words as his gaze traveled upward,
over the broad, strong back. There, angled over a crisply-defined shoulder, was a pair of inhumanly blue eyes.
The butt of the gun, as well, the barrel pointing skyward, and the butt of the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips—a frame for Arthur's newest manic hallucination.
"Hey. You're pretty fast for such a little guy."
"'Little'...?"
That was the first time that Arthur saw his shit-eating grin, coming closer, sinking to his level. And then that wide, pouting mouth was right there in front of him.
"Aw," The man nearly whined, cupping a flushed cheek in a warm, calloused palm, "Don't be sore at me, Arthur."
"How—?" He choked on a sudden coughing fit, and the man shifted to lightly rub his back through the thin material of his work shirt.
The flush wasn't going away any time soon.
"How did you know my name?"
Those big, blue eyes stared at him for a long moment, and Arthur found himself wondering if, perhaps, he weren't as safe as he'd thought. Another million dollar smile popped up before the Briton could make any accusations.
"Because you're Arthur," He shrugged, as if that explained everything, and then came the, "Duh."
'Duh'.
The single most useless article in the 'English' language, excepting, perhaps, the continued
cross-cultural rape of 'like' and 'ahmmmm'.
Suddenly, Arthur found it much easier to ignore the pleasantness of the man's features.
He took the opportunity to drum up his best acerbic glare.
"Oh, come on. Don't look at me like that, Arthur." Still with the smile. The man could get away with murder—
—with—
Arthur leaned to the side, saved from shredding his shirt on the dirty bricks of the alley wall only by the continued presence of the stranger's hand, staring pointedly at the leaking corpse mere paces away.
An alley.
Whatever it was had chased him into an alley. How nauseatingly predictable.
Light fingers drummed nervously against his back, and the taller man—blonde, sunshine blonde, Arthur thought—cleared his throat. "If you wanna be sick, it's okay. I've got tissues."
Arthur snorted.
Trust this dope to come up with something so crass and earthy in such a surreal situation. Still, he wouldn't deny that the lighthearted attitude was more than a little comforting in this situation. He'd been more than a little concerned that there was another shot reserved for him when he'd processed the presence of a firearm, but he couldn't bring himself to wonder now.
He should have. He really should have, but instead, he shook his head, "This is too bloody weird."
"Not really." The hand on his back smoothed steadily upward until it came to rest at the nape of his neck, playing with the soft strands of his hair, "Not if you think about it."
"And why should I believe you? A few moments ago, I was running for my life from that fucking thing, and you just came up and—and shot it! Like it's fucking monster season!"
The man giggled at the last bit, and Arthur was struck by the sudden urge to smack him upside the head. It occurred to Arthur that he really should be crying, right about now.
"Why...why do I trust you? Why do you know my name?"
He felt himself start to shiver, and suddenly that warm hand was cupping his cheek again, "Just think about it, Arthur."
And there it was, just like a gunshot—recognition.
Unearthly understanding.
Never once had a faerie asked his name.
"Not quite, but you're getting there."
"Shut up, Alfred. Just, please...shut up."
"You're gonna be late for work, ya know?"
It was only then, after that short, ordinary sentence that Arthur—quiet, khaki, crazy Arthur Kirkland—began to cry.
And Alfred pulled out the tissues.
A/N: There you have it. I'll endeavor to come up with a good direction for this story. Feel free to contact me on MSN if you've any ideas. ;)