Autumn Air

The autumn air seemed to be colder than last winter. The maroon leaves fell to the ground in clumps and small hills. Whistling of birds filled his deafened ears and he held all too loosely onto the edge of the window.

He was inside his apartment around November if I were to name a month. And I suppose "inside" doesn't quite fit him either. He was sitting on the ledge, as if he would fall backwards at any given moment. His sandy-blond hair fell over his forehead and the fringes dusted over his eyebrows (that if you asked others, they'd tell you they were over-sized.) His eyes were a deep green and he gazed curiously down seven stories to the asphalt on the ground with people walking down the road to get to work or other places.

Two years wasn't a long time. No, not at all for a nation. But every minute felt like a century without his love that he'd let slip through his fingers. His eyes were often vacant and he looked wistfully to the clouds and the flowers. His home wasn't quite untidy, however many appliances had yet to be used for a long while. The doorbell had collected dust and the kitchen stove hadn't been used—not that he could use it well in the first place.

Arthur. That's what he called himself, or to others, to most of the world, he was called the United Kingdom.

The misconception about nations having to be present for their own country to thrive—that they couldn't die, really was a lie. Maybe their physical bodies couldn't deteriorate, but their minds, oh their minds, they could crumble and shatter and stay that way for all eternity. And to Arthur, it had always been like that.

He often wondered if someone got bored building him and just left him in shards without a manual on how to put himself back together.

What had he done wrong, he wondered to himself, to make everyone run from him; hate him so. His tough exterior and stubbornness had soon withered and he was simply tired of breathing. Of course if you came up to him, he could put the act back up and everything would be the same. He had to admit it hurt not to have someone notice he was faking it now, but it wasn't like this was a drama where people could tell.

He remembered quite vividly the day Alfred just decided he'd had enough of him. In fact, it was just over a phone call. He was upset he didn't have the decency to actually break up with him face-to-face, but then once it happened he was thankful he couldn't see him cry behind the words he was saying.

"So, um… I'm sorry, but I just don't feel anything anymore," Alfred had said that day.

"Excuse me..?" Arthur had asked, hoping he'd heard something wrong.

A nervous chuckle crackled behind the line, "I mean… I don't really… love you anymore. I think it'd be best to see other people."

Arthur was quiet for the longest time before he replied, "Oh… Okay…"

"We cool?"

Arthur closed his eyes momentarily, "Of course," is what he said.

"Awesome! So I guess I'll see you around?"

Arthur nodded numbly before realizing Alfred couldn't see him. "See ya," he said, hardly trusting his voice and relieved it didn't crack.

There was a click and Arthur finally let his sobs escape. He'd always known this was coming, but he just hoped it wouldn't be so soon. His shoulders shook and he hugged his knees, alone on his bed, yearning for a warm embrace that would no longer be at his disposal.

What was wrong with him? Why did he satisfy no one? Why did he satisfy not even himself?

And so he sat numbly at the window sill. His feet hung over the edge and he felt no emotion in particular in his heart. He sat dangerously close to the edge, feeling a sort of thrill from being so close to death. He watched all the figures dance beneath him, twirl in magnificent dresses and clap to the beat. The instruments played wondrous music on violins and on cellos. They all clapped and they asked him to come join them.

He'd heard his doorbell ring, and turned his head in confusion. There was a shout from the other side, calling his name and the door flew open. He'd stopped locking his door for a couple months now, not caring much for material items anyways. Thieves may come if they like; at least they'd find comfort in his objects.

"A-Arthur why are you—What are you doing?" came a new voice Arthur didn't care to place.

Arthur kicked his feet almost playfully over the edge and smiled apathetically, not caring to answer the new person in the room.

"Arthur..?" the voice questioned again.

"Have you ever wondered," Arthur whispered, "Why the clouds make shapes?"

The new person in the room shuffled his feet awkwardly, furrowing his or her brow, "No, not really…" came the admitted response.

One of Arthur's hands let go and it pointed up to the sky, leaving him precariously atop the window sill. The pointed finger swept across the clouds, making its own shapes of swirls and demonstrating many shapes.

"I think it's fate's way of telling you things," Arthur said softly, "Like magic."

He finally turned around and was able to identify the person in his room as none other than Alfred. It honestly felt like he was in the middle of a drama now, but his heart was so tattered he couldn't relish the moment. Turning back to the sky, he sighed of contempt.

And in the fleeting moment Arthur had turned around, Alfred felt his heart constrict. The green irises that once held so much life were now dull and apathetic. He'd never pegged Arthur for being happy ever in his life, but at that moment it was obvious he was at least happier then than now. The ever-present scowl on his face always seemed to tell him he was angry all the time, and yet at this moment, the small smile curled into this icy face gave him the chills. Yes, this autumn air felt colder than last winter.

"Can you hand me that?" Arthur asked, moving his gaze to the scissors lying on the kitchen table next to a few sewing supplies.

Alfred skeptically raised a brow, but moved his heavy feet over to the square table nonetheless, picking up the scissors and he set them next to him on the sill, looking curiously to see what he would do with them. What could he do sitting on a window sill?

Arthur picked up the scissors and turned them over in his hand, opening them and looking for something before he close them again and took the long sleeve of his shirt and peeled it back.

Alfred's eyes widened and his heart clenched as he saw red bracelets and beads hanging decoratively from his forearm and wrist and a steady hand moving to make more. The silvery blades of the scissors moved across his arm without a physical sound and yet such a slice to Alfred's ears.

Hardly without thinking, Alfred dashed forward, hooking one arm around his waist to keep him from falling while he took the scissors from his hand and threw them behind him.

"W-What are you doing?" he shouted with his face buried in his back, though he knew the answer.

"I started to feel empty again," Arthur stated casually, curling and uncurling his fingers as if he missed the scissors. "They're made for sewing so they cut really well."

The words made Alfred sick, and the tone he was using as if he were explaining what his favorite color was. Arthur's feet swung a bit more and he seemed to inch forward instinctively. Alfred's hold on him tightened.

"Who did you go to after me?" Arthur asked. "What was wrong with me?"

His tone wasn't accusing, it wasn't angry, it wasn't sad, it wasn't wistful, it was just… curious.

And that's what killed Alfred the most.

"N-Nothing was wrong with you, I just felt—"

"Empty?" Arthur finished. "I know…" he kicked his feet some more. "Can you let go?"

Alfred shook his head against his back. "You'll fall."

"Hopefully," Arthur whispered and his head lowered.

Alfred clutched onto him tighter.

"Why do you keep talking like that? How long have you b-been like this?" Alfred felt his voice cracking, but he struggled to keep it steady.

"Since you called," Arthur stated simply, "But don't worry it isn't your fault. There's just… Something about me that no one seems to like. I make people feel empty…" he quoted back with no real emotion behind his voice.

"No I-I didn't mean… It wasn't… It wasn't you…" Alfred felt his throat close up and he wanted to cry. "I-I cheated on you," he admitted, "I couldn't d-deal with the guilt so I broke up with you. You deserve b-better than me!"

Alfred tried to hide his face in Arthur's shirt, feeling tears threaten just by the change in smell of him. He used to smell of his favorite tea and a homely smell, and now the tea was wilted and he smelled of nothing in particular. He smelled lost.

"I don't deserve anything… You don't deserve anything… Nothing is deserved. It's such a fake word. Nothing in the world is deserved; there is just what is owned and what is not received. I don't deserve better than you, I simply had you. I don't deserve you; I simply don't… have you anymore."

"But I want you," Alfred cried into his blue-plaid shirt.

Alfred picked Arthur up from the window sill and sank to the floor with him in his lap. Arthur leaned his head on Alfred's shoulder and Alfred ran his hands through Arthur's hair, missing the feel of his silky hair so much. Arthur held onto Alfred's shirt tightly and lifted his eyes to meet the blue oceans he'd missed for so long. There was shallow breathing and a flicker of emotion in Arthur's eyes as he parted his chapped lips.

"Kiss me," he whispered softly through the warm autumn air.