[fic] The Sunshine State: England, America

[tredecaphobia.livejournal.com]

It feels seriously weird not doing something with Greece and Turkey. Like, really, really weird...

Title: The Sunshine State
Author: me
Pairing: none, really. Any love in here is brotherly (I know, I fail)
Characters: England, America.
Warnings: some bad touch
Summary: It's slightly unfortunate for Alfred that Cuba likes the Sunshine State, Florida.

 

               Arthur Kirkland had to admit that Alfred Jones was one of the most stable countries he knew; it wasn’t due to age, or even experience, really (though he had engaged in as many wars as some older countries had seen in their lifetimes), but perhaps due to a sort of natural wisdom. Therefore, it was rare to see him upset or downcast in any way; if something saddened or altered his mood, America would often face the problem head on, deal with it forthright (“Balls to the wall, Iggy.” He had said at one point, while his body shook with the stress and sickness of internal strife, and had laughed. Arthur could never quite encapsulate what he had felt in that moment), and move on with his life.

                So when America was actually in any other mood other than self-confident and brash, it was a rather unsettling experience (like seeing Russia anything other than completely insane). So to round the corner in the UN building, and find Alfred pressed into an alcove created by a doorway and a rather large, Qing-copy vase, trembling violently, his face flushed, and wiping away what were obviously involuntary tears, England’s reaction was, rather, of someone having been shot in the chest. And then, as if his nerves had somehow automatically hardwired into some sort of “Papa reaction”, he felt himself being propelled forward, completely against his own volition.

                “Jesus fucking Christ, Ally- what the hell’s wrong wiv you?” And as he said this, he had naturally reached forward to grasp the boy’s arms, instinctively checking for damage on the younger nation’s body, as if he were five and not nineteen, who had obviously not anticipated England’s approach, and started with a violence possessed only by the violated or melodramatic, into the oak-paneled wall behind him. And though Arthur would have readily any other day opted the latter, Alfred’s actual physical appearance suggested the former, and Arthur felt his stomach churn while taking a slow, silent inventory of the boy.  

                Wherever America’s favored bomber jacket had gone, England didn’t know; but the button-up shirt beneath had been torn at so viciously, several buttons had popped off entirely, while some were hanging by threads, and very few were left unmarred; correspondingly, his shirt had almost entirely been displaced from his pants, which were unbuttoned, unbelted, and the underwear beneath disturbed. It was all the signs of a rather recent and unwelcome physical attack

And England felt his blood burn. “Who did this to you?” He asked, trying not to scare the boy with the growl in his voice, but felt it coming out nonetheless. America wiped at his eyes.

“Ah, hey, there England. Christ, if I’d known you were here, too, I would have… I would have…” He seemed to grow a little more frantic as he tried to search for witty repartee he was not mentally equipped for at the moment, and a few more tears streaked down his face as he scraped a hand through his unruly blond hair.  

England knew that whatever had happened had happened long enough ago so that Alfred was trying to recover from it. He would try to pass it off and perhaps handle it himself later, isolating himself from those who could help him. “Goddamnit, Alfred, tell me who did this to you!”

                And, like glass, America’s expression shattered; he had obviously just been trying to collect his game face, and to have his effort disrupted so soon destroyed the entire attempt. “Ahm… uhm.” He held his arms at the elbows like Arthur had seen so many people do in an attempt to hold themselves together, and bit his lips as if trying to think. “Uh, well, I guess Cuba. You know… you know how he’s always trying to get Florida.”

                “Uh.” England stared at the boy, as if the answering physical construction would be readily evident, and then blanched upon realizing what he meant. “Oh.” He said, in a sort of sickening realization, and then, more hissing, “That fucking bastard. He actually touched you there?” He realized he was stepping forward, his posture straightening, becoming aggressive, but America didn’t react to it. He was too busy pulling himself out of his momentary break of composure.

                “Yeah.” He said, slightly throatily. “Yeah, I just… wasn’t expecting it. He got me unawares. I was totally not expecting a surprise attack, so…”

                “So what the hell happened?” Arthur demanded, feeling his arterial veins straining against his collar, and tried to calm down, lest Alfred think he had caused this, and watched as the youth seemed to collect himself almost entirely (aside for betraying tremors in his arms), and clear his throat briefly before speaking.

                “It was probably 14:00 when I got into the UN building, and found Cuba waiting for me at the entrance here.” He gestured to the meeting room, and Arthur felt a cold sliver shoot through his belly at the nearly military curtness of the recounting. “Mentally and emotionally unstable. Took a hold of the left side of my head and slammed it into the doorframe.” He motioned, almost as an afterthought, at the dented lathing where, Arthur noticed, his stomach lurching again, there to be a clump of blond hairs and a small streak of blood. Leaning over slightly as America continued to speak, he noticed, finally, the trickle of blood disappearing into the nape of the youth’s shirt. Heedless to this, Alfred continued. “Bullied me into the corner, here, proceeded to rip at my shirt, unbuckle my belt, unzip my pants, and grab Florida.” He paused again, briefly, as if in contemplation. “He’s always really liked Florida. He said some stuff, and finally left. And, I passed out for a few seconds, which was weird, and then you came along.”

                He returned a rather level gaze toward Arthur, and seemed to have rather composed himself. “And you probably shouldn’t  do anything, because you’re friends with Cuba, anyway, and by saying anything, you’d get on his bad side. It’s just something between me and him. So you’d better stay out of it.” And just like that, Alfred had shut him out again with that wide, impervious smile of a thousand Texan suns; no pain, no trauma. It was as if Cuba hadn’t even happened.

                And Arthur could easily say it chilled him; he knew this child was supposed to be the leader of the free world (and it wasn’t the arrogance, the bull-headedness, or the straight-shooting mannerisms that either floated or sunk you; it was little moments like these where you could either address it and get over it, or suppress it and have it eat you from the inside out), but it was like watching a domestic abuse victim. It was like the small, warm lump he’d held against his chest (taught grammar and Arithmatic, told bedtime stories to, soothed when there were nightmares, and he had tried so damn hard) was a million miles away, and Arthur had to say something (anything) to correct this awful distance and there was a long, cold pause between what Arthur could bring himself to say and what the past allowed him to.

“I love you, Ally, you know that, right?” And for an instant (just an instant!), the youth’s face was the one’s that he had left behind one last time (and he hadn’t wanted to say it was lonely and lost then, but now it screamed at him from nightmares) before the world turned into something uglier and grey. And then Alfred collected himself, eyes bright and untouchable, straightening his mired clothes.

“We’re too old for that, now, Iggy.” He had said, turning and walking, with a resoluteness that one wouldn’t have suspected the fragility that England could still see lingering around the boy’s shoulders and hitch of his step as he walked, and had caught, just before he turned away, that faint smile that had nothing to do with his strength or position in the world. Privately (with a thousand years of quarreling, bloodthirsty siblings jangling his nerves), Arthur liked to think he could congratulate himself on Alfred, at least.  

Notes: Yeah, so there’s no reason for me to be randomly hating on Cuba orz.