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hetalia2010-06-18 11:19 pm
compos-dementis.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2010-06-18 11:19 pm
Entry tags:
FIC: Dear Arthur, UKUS, T
Title: Dear Arthur
Author: Dementis
Fandom: APH
Pairing: one-sided UKUS
Rated: T for use of the word "fuck"?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or universe.
Summary: A letter from Alfred to Arthur in honor of the upcoming holiday.
Dear Arthur,
I know we haven't really been through the best of times together. I know better than anyone else in the world just how much one little gesture can really fuck things up. That's why I hesitated to write you this letter - it's a little gesture, but one that means a lot to me, and one I haven't done before, so please cut me some slack. (Also, I know you'll never check your email, so I'm sending this via the post... sorry if it's a few days early/late.)
I'm a fuck-up. I know I'm a fuck-up. I try too damn hard to fix things I've fucked up, and only wind up fucking things up more than I already had. That mess with the Revolution was never intended to go down that way, and I think some part of you knows that... if you didn't know, I'd only wanted a quiet signature to grant me independence, not a 'shot heard round the world.' Then shortly after that, I had my Civil War, though I doubt you were paying too much attention at that point. (I doubt you still pay too much attention. You're busy, and I understand that.) I'm very lucky that Ivan helped me through it, but please know that I thought of you the whole time, even through the worst of the battles.
I fucked up the first World War just as badly as I fucked up the second - marching in late when people dear to me needed my help long before, claiming a victory when there isn't one for me to claim for my own, destroying nations with an invention I had meant to be for good. I know how much that bomb scared you. I also know that it wasn't my proudest moment. When the Cold War washed through, I just made things worse, both with my regular friendships and my relationship with you; I still have that bullet hole in my wall from where I'd nearly shot you, and I'm so, so sorry for that as well as for everything else.
Finally we've managed to come to a standstill, where I spend each and every day listening to you list my faults and flaws and follies as if I don't know them by heart. I know that I'm too tall, and awkward looking, and my glasses look stupid on me, and my hair won't lie flat unless I spend so many meticulous hours brushing it like a teenage girl. I know that I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, and that I'm not very appealing to the eye, and that I'm... not exactly the skinniest person around. I know the words that come out of your mouth before you get the chance to say them - stupid, fat, overeager, impulsive, paranoid... a fuck-up.
But the difference between now and before is that I've learned not to argue with you. Isn't the saying that "father knows best"? You would know me better than I do. You raised me, after all.
You know, it's kind of funny. I chose to write this letter because every time you cut me through with a word, every time you beat me down with insults, I come right back up because you sometimes just look so damn satisfied when you're done. That glow of victory around you. I don't get to see that often - it's almost as rare as your smile, though not nearly as beautiful. The thought of your smile is what helps me fall to sleep at night; your laugh like a lullaby, though I haven't heard that one since I was very young, long before any thoughts of rebellion came into my head. Back when I was just your boy, when it was almost impossible for me to do wrong by you or to make you cry. When I had to look up to see you, and you would pick me up and pretend that I could fly, or when we made forts out of blankets and had tickle fights until it tickled so bad that I nearly wet myself. When your smile would shine through, and in that dazzling glow of a feeling I hadn't been able to identify yet, I promised my loyalty to the crown.
In a way, I suppose I am still loyal to you, even if I can't ever imagine living like that with you again. I still long for the warmth of your smile, and the smell of London rain. I still dream about being held close and told that I'm loved, even if I know deep down that it can't ever happen. It's because I still love you more than anything in the world - as a son, as a brother, as a friend, and as something far beyond the reaches of friendship.
I am writing this letter to thank you for showing me how to cope with a want that will never come to fruition.
Happy Father's Day.
Love with all of my heart,
Alfred
Author: Dementis
Fandom: APH
Pairing: one-sided UKUS
Rated: T for use of the word "fuck"?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or universe.
Summary: A letter from Alfred to Arthur in honor of the upcoming holiday.
Dear Arthur,
I know we haven't really been through the best of times together. I know better than anyone else in the world just how much one little gesture can really fuck things up. That's why I hesitated to write you this letter - it's a little gesture, but one that means a lot to me, and one I haven't done before, so please cut me some slack. (Also, I know you'll never check your email, so I'm sending this via the post... sorry if it's a few days early/late.)
I'm a fuck-up. I know I'm a fuck-up. I try too damn hard to fix things I've fucked up, and only wind up fucking things up more than I already had. That mess with the Revolution was never intended to go down that way, and I think some part of you knows that... if you didn't know, I'd only wanted a quiet signature to grant me independence, not a 'shot heard round the world.' Then shortly after that, I had my Civil War, though I doubt you were paying too much attention at that point. (I doubt you still pay too much attention. You're busy, and I understand that.) I'm very lucky that Ivan helped me through it, but please know that I thought of you the whole time, even through the worst of the battles.
I fucked up the first World War just as badly as I fucked up the second - marching in late when people dear to me needed my help long before, claiming a victory when there isn't one for me to claim for my own, destroying nations with an invention I had meant to be for good. I know how much that bomb scared you. I also know that it wasn't my proudest moment. When the Cold War washed through, I just made things worse, both with my regular friendships and my relationship with you; I still have that bullet hole in my wall from where I'd nearly shot you, and I'm so, so sorry for that as well as for everything else.
Finally we've managed to come to a standstill, where I spend each and every day listening to you list my faults and flaws and follies as if I don't know them by heart. I know that I'm too tall, and awkward looking, and my glasses look stupid on me, and my hair won't lie flat unless I spend so many meticulous hours brushing it like a teenage girl. I know that I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, and that I'm not very appealing to the eye, and that I'm... not exactly the skinniest person around. I know the words that come out of your mouth before you get the chance to say them - stupid, fat, overeager, impulsive, paranoid... a fuck-up.
But the difference between now and before is that I've learned not to argue with you. Isn't the saying that "father knows best"? You would know me better than I do. You raised me, after all.
You know, it's kind of funny. I chose to write this letter because every time you cut me through with a word, every time you beat me down with insults, I come right back up because you sometimes just look so damn satisfied when you're done. That glow of victory around you. I don't get to see that often - it's almost as rare as your smile, though not nearly as beautiful. The thought of your smile is what helps me fall to sleep at night; your laugh like a lullaby, though I haven't heard that one since I was very young, long before any thoughts of rebellion came into my head. Back when I was just your boy, when it was almost impossible for me to do wrong by you or to make you cry. When I had to look up to see you, and you would pick me up and pretend that I could fly, or when we made forts out of blankets and had tickle fights until it tickled so bad that I nearly wet myself. When your smile would shine through, and in that dazzling glow of a feeling I hadn't been able to identify yet, I promised my loyalty to the crown.
In a way, I suppose I am still loyal to you, even if I can't ever imagine living like that with you again. I still long for the warmth of your smile, and the smell of London rain. I still dream about being held close and told that I'm loved, even if I know deep down that it can't ever happen. It's because I still love you more than anything in the world - as a son, as a brother, as a friend, and as something far beyond the reaches of friendship.
I am writing this letter to thank you for showing me how to cope with a want that will never come to fruition.
Happy Father's Day.
Love with all of my heart,
Alfred