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hetalia2010-08-02 03:38 pm
ryoku-chan.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2010-08-02 03:38 pm
Entry tags:
[Fanfic] Peace of Mind 3/?
Title: Peace of Mind 3/?
Author: Me
Character(s) or Pairing(s) in this chapter: Germany, Implied US/UK, France, mentions of others, will include most characters at some point.
Rating: PG
Warnings: An attempt at a Serious Sailor Moon fusion fill! And in this chapter violence...Also a de-anon from the kink meme...
Summary: Alfred's life on the Moon is unspeakably boring, but an unknown threat on the rise gives him his much desired break of boredom, and so much more.
Prologue, Chapter 1
It is a dream that wakes him at 3:14 that evening - or morning, if you prefer. Or perhaps it is the dream that takes place at 3:14.
At first it feels as if he is awake; Ludwig can feel the sheets that cover him, and knows that he is in his bedroom tucked away from the rest of humanity. But there is wind, great gusts and torrents of it that echo throughout his small room, and that is not normal. It is something for old clichéd movies; the ones where the breeze tousles the protagonist’s hair at just the right time for the key dramatic scene. It is not for Mercury, and it is certainly not for his own room.
Ludwig turns his head towards the wind that is prickling his face and there in the window is a woman. If Ludwig needed any more convincing that this is a dream, now he does not. Women do not sit on windows of fourth floor apartments.
He scoffs quietly at himself. Ludwig likes to think that his dreams are not of this style or formula. Obviously he is wrong, and the thought makes him feel tacky.
Ludwig can not see her face; her long silvery hair is reaching towards him, being jerked around by the wind as the strong torrents rush almost violently into his room. Her hair is entirely in the way, and does not look attractive in the least. It is obviously unkempt, sloppy; it looks clumsy – if hair can look that way - as if water is holding it together and ripping it apart at the same time.
She is balanced on his window, but there is nothing graceful or alluring about how she appears. She is squatting on one leg and the other is knelt, with her leg hanging out of the window. It does not occur to Ludwig that her leg should not be dangling like that, that it is unnatural. All Ludwig can think is that it is an unattractive stance for any woman, dream or not.
The thought strikes him that this woman should be beautiful, because she is not an ugly thing under close inspection. She is shapely and well-rounded in all the proper areas and from what he can tell she could easily turn heads, but as she is there is nothing that Ludwig can find about her that is either enchanting or beautiful.
Her small skirt is in tatters and slaps against her thighs in a rather sickening manner; it slops and Ludwig realizes that it is rather stained. Her hands are gripping the wall, and Ludwig notices that she is shaking and fumbling to hold on as best she can. It worries him to some degree - in his right mind he would have rushed to her aid - but this is a dream and there is no place for movement.
Despite how ragged she looks, and though Ludwig can not accurately make out her face because of the incessant wind, there is a wide grin on her face. It is not a look Ludwig has ever seen on a woman’s face before and it confuses him, because it is familiar and he can’t place it.
If this is meant to be a fevered wet dream, Ludwig is very confused.
Seconds pass like minutes, and finally she moves. One of her hands, still shaking like a leaf, is letting go of the terrace. It fumbles for a while until it reaches towards her neck. Ludwig notices that there is a ribbon adorning her throat, and that a glistening silver something is attached to it. Ludwig can’t make out what it is, but his brain screams not to look, not to recognize.
In one jerking motion the little thing is off of the ribbon, and into the woman’s hand. She struggles, reaches it out; thought the action seems rather pointless. Her frail shaky fingers can’t support the item's weight and it fumbles out between pale digits. Ludwig watches with something akin to morbid fascination as the wind picks up the item and whisks it from gravity's pull. The item rides the wind till it is safely placed on his nightstand.
Ludwig looks at the item; recognizes it. He rotates a puzzled look back to the woman but the wind becomes more violent. It moans and swirls around him, threatening to take his blanket with it. Ludwig sees a glimpse of her face – a resigned smile and tired red eyes that glisten -- before he has to shut his eyes from the wind's assault.
Ludwig thinks there is a sound, perhaps a word or two spoken, but he can’t decide what it is; the wind is suddenly unbearably loud.
Things settle far too quickly. One moment the wind is abusive and the next there is an utter absence. He opens his eyes and there is no trace that anything is amiss or ever was. His room is immaculate, nothing has been overturned - his sheets don’t even look like they’ve been ruffled. The window stands solemn. Closed, just as he left it, and there is no sign of a figure perched on his window.
Ludwig shakes his head and rolls over. He dreams of summer, and the watermelon that Kiku insisted on smashing.
---
Ludwig wakes to the sound of screaming. In his haste to get down stairs he does not notice the small cross on his night stand.
---
Whatever is taking place is warm and blinding and strange and marvelous all in one sporadic go. For a second he knows everything; for a moment he feels everything. Things are shifting and changing in ways that Alfred can not even begin to fathom. Its something his brain can not wrap itself around, the door is swung open but just as quickly it is closed again. The event leaves him wide eyed and curious, and he blinks away his utter confusion before pivoting so that he can rush back to England’s aid.
Only he doesn’t move seamlessly as he should. Instead, he turns and tumbles over flat on his face, balance an utter loss to him. There are things that he starts to notices as he groans and struggles to get back up. His hair is hanging in his face, and it seems abnormally long. In fact, Alfred is sure that he’s never allowed it to get that long in his life, so the idea is completely foreign. It’s strange, cause it hasn’t been that long since he got a trim either, but Alfred brushes it off. The real issue is his chest, because it's hurting, more so than it does when he normally falls; a lot more. Once he is has hoisted himself up into a sitting position Alfred tries to massage the area, because surely there has to be a reason for his chest, of all things, to hurt this much. His fingers fall upon something squishy; he can feel it as he gropes at them and then all movement stops. Alfred slowly angles his gaze downward.
He screams. It’s the first coherent thought in his mind; that he should scream, and the sound is loud and shrill and it is certainly not his voice. Tony is somewhere cackling loudly but that is totally the last thing on Alfred's mind at the moment. His eyes are glued to his chest, and they must be bulging out of his head, and his mouth must be hanging out in mock horror, and it’s probably a pretty funny sight, but Alfred would be hard pressed to give a damn.
He has breasts.
This revelation is cut short when there is a loud crashing sound filling his ears. Whatever the hell has happened to him will have to wait. His – or is he a she now? – England is in danger, and there is no way Alfred is going to leave her to fend off that thing alone. Alfred scrambles up as best she can, cause for some reason she’s wearing heals, and damnit if it's hard to walk in them. It takes a few moments for her to steady herself before she dashes off, struggling to stay upright. Running with a relatively big rack and high heals is a lot harder that in looks.
“Remember, you’re America!” Tony yells as the blonde takes off.
When America reaches the clearing, the monster is in her sights but there is no England to be seen. America panics and searches the area frantically, her head turning rapidly in either direction because England has to be here somewhere. America won’t allow herself to even think there is any other option. It goes unnoticed that the monster has taken notice of her, had seen her the instant she stumbled into the clearing, both the first time and second.
When America does notice the vine-esque arm-like appendages are already headed towards her at rapid pace. Her brain searches desperately for something to do, but only one solution takes shape in her mind. America narrows her eyes; feels the fire and energy coursing through her veins, more so than she can ever remember. She pulls back with her right fist in preparation – her plan is simple; pound that thing into oblivion, cause she’s always been a bit of a powerhouse, and she knows she can take it. She’s poised and ready, but never gets the chance.
“Fucking imbecile!”
America has just a moment to look to her right and see England charging towards her before England grabs her hand and the two are running, or perhaps it is better to say that England is running and America is trying not to trip. The taller blond struggles to keep up, the pace seems inhuman, and a part of her wonders how much it would hurt if she tripped and fell. But there’s no time to think much of the subject for England is not relenting, her grip choking and comforting at the same time. America doesn’t look behind her, but the sounds of mayhem are enough to make her want to try, after a near slip she abandons the thought and concentrates on moving; attempts to keep up.
“You can’t just pummel it, you have to kill it.” England doesn’t yell the words, but it carries and is piercing so America easily hears her. She doesn’t understand what England means – because England herself laid in her fists, it seemed like the right idea – and gulps loudly. America is going to ask exactly how she can kill that thing when alarms sound in her head. Something is coming towards them, and from the sound of it the vines are closing in from behind as well. America doesn’t know what to do, there is danger to the front and danger to the back, and England is still charging straight for it.
Trying to help America suddenly tries to stop, but England grunts and keeps her moving. They’re about to crash, and America prepares her self for collision, but England does not disappoint. She is full of surprises. Just as the claws reach them England jumps, and it isn’t any sort of normal jump. It's more like a super powered jump of awesome, because they soar through the sky for a few seconds, America holding on for dear life as the two of them easily ascend up a five story building to land seamlessly on its roof.
America notices that the vines are twisting and curing in on one another in the clearing, having narrowly missed their target. They’re flailing and searching desperately to try and find them, and it gives America some kind of hope that they have done the right thing.
“That saved us a spot of time.” England’s hands, firmly placed on America’s shoulders, are helping to steady the taller woman and then their eyes meet. For a split second they stare - green meeting blue - and there is something there, in that gaze, that America can’t possibly place. It’s a strong feeling, like longing and fear and sadness and relief and understanding and still more that America can’t place. It’s the kind of look that could change your life, or at least that’s what goes through America’s mind. It’s something like that, and it all just feels overly complicated for some reason. Something definite shapes coils and waits in the pit of America’s stomach, and she doesn’t quite know what it is.
But as suddenly as it started it is gone again, and for some reason England is straightening America’s sleeves and dusting off her shoulders. The action feels so very maternal that a part of America, some unexplained part wants to just hold England forever. But America doesn’t. She just watches as England fidgets, and buries the thought that England is refusing to look at her eye to eye any more.
“You’re going to have to concentrate, my power is ineffective. This won’t be easy for you, first time never is, but you’ll get it.”
England is fretting over her – the smaller woman is still tidying and inspecting America for possible injuries. Then England seems to realize what she’s doing. There is a sudden rigidness to her stance and England blinks. There’s a sharp intake of breathe and in slight hesitation her hands remove themselves from America’s person and instead move to take up residence at her sides. England takes a small step backwards, and America can only feel like the older woman is distancing herself; for some unexplainable reason.
“I’ll instruct you. Haven’t gotten much left, but it’ll do.” England nods, more to herself than to America, and moves to take a stance. The smaller blonde positions herself in front of America, facing out towards the clearing and America feels as if England is trying to shield her from a possible assault. America reaches for England’s shoulder, because she does not want to be protected – wants to be the protector herself - but England’s swift exhale stops all of America’s movements. England’s right hand suddenly swipes upwards and America can hear glass shattering from somewhere. And then there’s water entirely encasing them, almost like a bubble.
America looks on in amazement as the vines stumble over one another to violently crash into the water. They’re easily deflected, but they don’t stop - they just keep banging, pounding and pounding. America wonders how much the shield will manage, but doesn’t say anything. If it does break, then they are sitting ducks, and thought that isn’t a pleasant thing to be contemplating, but America can not help but think it. She can see those vines gripping onto them, ripping them to pieces and panic starts to set in. What is she doing here? She should be in class, not about to be ripped to bits-
“America”
And in a blink all those potentially damning thoughts vanish.
England’s right hand is still extended towards the water, and she won’t turn to look at America, but her tone isn’t trying or annoyed, or even labored; it’s just even. The word seems to let America’s mind calm. There are layers of reassurance in that one utterance that she can not fathom – and a part of America wonders how exactly England has this power over her thought they’ve never met before - but it brings America out and makes the strength inside of her writhe and pulse with purpose.
“Now you listen to me. Close your eyes.”
America hesitates, there is no reason she can see to do what England has commanded, but she has resigned herself to England’s experience. So even if it leaves a bad taste in her mouth to not see, America does what she is told.
“Now reach out with your mind. You should be able to feel me.”
At first there is nothing, just the familiar darkness that always greets when eyes are closed. America doesn’t understand what England is asking her to do, but she tries anyways; imagines as if she could see with her eyes closed, tries to reach out for anything.
At first there’s nothing, and its irritating, because this should work and it isn’t and maybe England should have described what she needs to do better and that banging is getting louder and louder. And then, faintly, something is reaching out towards her. It’s a gentle something, or perhaps right now it is a gentle something, because America can tell that it radiates strength. What ever it is, its calming, and America exhales and reaches for it with her mind.
This thing – it's blue, a deep sea greenish blue- is coaxing her to widen her gaze, and tentatively America does just that. And things start to take shape. America can feel the water - coursing with the same blue essence - around her. She can feel England right in front of her, and realizes that it was England’s aura that had beckoned her forward.
“Farther,” England instructs softly, and America strains her mind to reach for more. But it is no easy feat. A sort of pain starts to lodge in her head, and inch by inch it grows increasingly stronger. America has to ignore the pain as best she can and push. Then suddenly she can see everything, the seeping darkness that encircles the two of them and the ones that are still banging against the shield. It sickens her, because this energy is bubbling with perverted intent and it feels entirely unnatural. The feeling won’t leave, she’s not even close to it, but it’s as if she can feel that energy oozing and pulsing around her and it makes her want to violently retch right then and there.
America almost does, her eyes flutter open and her concentration completely dissipates. She reaches one hand to her mouth and the other to her stomach.
“Not the time!” England mutters and this time it is obvious that she is annoyed, the irritation drips from the statement and America has to force her self to focus. She brings her hands down to her sides again and closes her eyes once more.
She reaches forward just like she did the first time, and this time it's better, because she expects the unease and nausea that pass over her. It isn’t any less disturbing or disgusting, but America chants to herself that she has to deal with it and that she will.
“What now?” America asks, more tentatively than she’d like to admit.
“Concentrate on the energy that’s yours, but don’t lose sight of what’s around you.”
America hadn’t notices it before, but when England mentions America’s own strength it’s as if a bell goes off. Power; a blaze of energy is coiling in on itself inside of her, and it crackles to life, acknowledging her attention. It’s a warm and comforting sensation, and America almost does forget what England told her about remembering her surroundings. Almost.
America nods, she knows that England can see her, though the smaller woman is not facing her. She notices that England’s aura is getting steadily lighter, that its graceful flow is starting to seam forced and cognate; a part of her worries.
“England-“
“You’re going to channel that. Your energy. You must be precise, shape it correctly and when the time is right force all that energy forward to catch one of these roots. Doesn’t matter which, but once you have it, you’ve got to force it through, all the way to the main body.”
America doesn’t quite understand what England is asking of her, but she offers an “Ok” and tries to focus on shaping her energy. Her flaming orange aura at first seems to agree, but after a few seconds of trying it flares up and rages out of her control. She tries again, and again, but nothing seems to work. It frustrates her, and she can feel her irritation rising, her temper starting to boil.
“England! This isn’t working!”
The spell is broken when England’s hand reaches, - it must be the left, because the right is still sustaining the shield - and grips America’s. The world seems to melt at that exact moment. An unspeakable clam washes over America, her fried nerves and her raging energy all slow, and America can once again feel and know things very clearly. England’s sea is melding with America’s inferno and taming it.
“Now concentrate, I’ve done the hard work for you. Close your eyes and don’t think of anything but that power and mine.”
It is unspeakably easier this time. America coaxes the flames and they move at her will, completely pacified simply by England’s presence. The raging mass has turned into something cohesive and solid and useful. America poises herself, because this time she’s ready.
“When I pull back, channel it into my hand and I’ll force it through. Don’t hesitate for a second. Just get it there and sustain it. I’ll handle the rest.”
America nods her approval, and waits for when she will feel England’s energy pull back from the barrier. She doesn’t wait long.
Once England’s hand has fallen, America shoves. Heaves her energy into England’s hand and almost recoils. England’s aura is rejecting her, America can feel the energy panicking as it loses its composure, and America’s energy feeds off of its weakness. It’s fizzling – and the sound distinctly reminds America of screaming. She wants to pull back, and tries to but England grips her hand fiercely.
“Open your eyes and look at me!”
America complies. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the vines wrapping around the two of them, about to strike. But England has demanded her eyes, and she gets them.
“It’s ok, America, its all right. Just remember what I told you.”
Just as America feels the vines wrapping around her skin the flames erupt from England’s hand. Its an untamable blaze, and the roots it catches writhe and slither and flop and burn into unrecognizable masses. The power is entirely destructive, and leaves little in its wake.
“Concentrate!”
And America does, she remembers the role she has to play, and forces the flames to spread rapidly, they happily comply. The monster tries desperately to stop the inferno’s assault, even going so far as to the cut the roots already caught in the flame’s grasp, but there is no escape. The blaze catches from one vine to another to another until the thing is a flailing mess of flames, screeching like a banshee.
Then suddenly the scene is done. The monster cries one more unbearable screech, melts, bubbles and dissolves into ash and soot and filth. There is nothing to show for its existence except for the destruction of the area.
America wants to cheer and holler and say exciting things like, “Fuck ya Mother Fucker!” at the top of her lungs, but once the deed is done all she can do is collapse into a heap on top of the building. She is left speechless, blinking and sputtering as the event rewinds in her head over and over again. She doesn’t realize that she is still tightly grasping England’s right hand until the smaller woman gives her a little squeeze. America looks up, England is inspects the area with a critical eye and America tightens her hold. The smaller blonde shifts her gaze down and America takes the opportunity to tug the other woman down with her.
There’s an indignant squeak that erupts as England tumbles down on top of America, but all America can do is wrap her arms around the other woman. And sink her face into the other woman’s chest. And then America is crying, totally bawling and she can’t possibly think of a reason why. America tells herself that it must be because all of this is so new and nothing makes any sense and she so – fucking - did it! She killed the what ever the hell that was and she proved that she could be the hero and everything is once again right with the world.
There’s a deeper reason as well, but its something that America can’t understand yet, but it is nonetheless compelling.
So America buries her head into England’s chest – cause in her mind England’s chest exists so that she can nuzzle it – and just cries her eyes out.
If feels like forever, but hesitantly England’s hand reaches to America’s back, rubbing comforting circles. England’s voice, gruff and sweet at the same time follows closely after at a whisper, assuring America that he did well and that everything will be alright and all sorts of other nice things that America can’t exactly remember. But it's so damn comforting as she ever so slowly slips into oblivion.
---
It is only once America has fainted, and Alfred rests in her arms that England allows herself to lose an ounce of her composure. She wouldn’t have if his big lumbering – strong – arms weren’t still holding onto her, even in unconsciousness.
She doubles over on top of his still figure, grips him fiercely, rubs her face comfortingly against his strong shoulder blades and breathes in his scent. This is the closest she will allow herself, because dreams are for the young and stupid. For idiots like Alfred, who will marry a nice wife when all is said and done and will definitely have a happy family.
When the fae descend upon her, twinkling and twirling in excitement England is no longer on top of Alfred, though her grip is still strong. The fae would tease her for that, but they are hungry, almost turned mad at the feast they will take part in. There will be much blood to abate their thirst – England can feel it already - but that cannot happen yet. England still needs her strength.
She takes care in shifting Alfred, so that his huge lumbering arm is slung over her shoulder, and stumbles up. He is not light to carry, and she is not in her best shape, but England knows she will manage; is happy for the distraction. She mutters her request to the fae as people start to wander into the area and see the destruction. The fae whisper into her ear and dance around one another in excitement, but they do as she asks, and the pair, she and Alfred, vanish from all human eyes.
It takes England a long time to stumble to Alfred’s house and to deposit him into his bed. She takes great care in tucking him in, because that feels the natural thing to do, and hesitates before pecking him on the forehead.
“Sleep well, poppet…”
---
Francis turns the key in his lock, readjusts the bag hanging off of his shoulder and stumbles into his apartment. He hears the faucet stop and is not surprised. Tonight he can only worry, because the world makes a little bit more sense, and not nearly enough yet.
“Arthur.”
It isn’t a question, because he knows that Arthur is here. Often is.
“….Living room….” Comes the unslurred response. Francis would question why his neighbor's speech is so well this evening, but he doesn’t. Perhaps he has run out of alcohol. Whatever the case Francis is thankful. They must talk.
He moves into his bed room first, taking the time to place his duffel bag onto the bed and to put away the items he took with him. It isn’t much, just enough clothing to last him a few days and the items he needs every day. Once they are all away he makes his way into the living room, where Arthur is slumped on the love seat.
The lights are still off, so Francis flicks them on. He stifles a gasp at the sight. Arthur is a mess; he’s slouching on the seat because it’s obvious he doesn’t want to put pressure on his back. His legs are spread and twitching involuntary - never a good sign. It looks like he might have cracked a few ribs, and his left hand – to Francis’ trained eye – looks as if it has been cooked well-done.
It shouldn’t surprise him - to see Arthur so disheveled and injured – because he sees it a lot, but there are other matters on Francis’ mind that question. Is there possibly another reason for these things? A better excuse than the perpetual bar fights and Arthur’s insatiable love for violence? Has Francis always dismissed Arthur’s wild delusions too quickly?
For now there are no answers. Arthur is in a horrible state, and as per usual Francis takes it upon himself to fix up the poor drunkard.
“I can’t feel my legs.”
“The way they flop like fish tells me as much,” Francis mutters as he gazes from the living rooms entrance.
Arthur grunts but doesn’t move, which is probably better. Francis takes his time sauntering towards the other man so as to look over Arthur more thoroughly. With great care Francis unbuttons the lose shirt that Arthur is wearing, and slips it off. When Francis gently takes the man’s shoulder and pushes him forward so to see his back, Arthur hisses.
It’s a mess. Francis wonders if he was hit by a truck or something, but doesn’t comment, just sighs and pushes him back.
“I’ll need to take you downstairs. I can’t work on you here.”
Arthur groans, sinking farther into the loveseat. “I don’t want to move.”
“You have no choice in the matter. Might have injured your spine, I can’t check that here.”
Francis can tell that Arthur is trying to come up with some sort of an excuse as to why he shouldn’t be moved, but after a moment of having his mouth hang open the green eyed man clamps it shut.
Francis gives him an aggravated look and moves to pick up the other man. Arthur doesn’t do too much complaining, though that might have more to do with the fact that he’s obviously exhausted than anything else. They stumble through the door way and down the stairs into the clinic area. The lights flicker on as Francis throws the switch and ambles through the room to find a bed.
Francis tries to be gentle, but Arthur hisses at every step. Finally he deposits the man on one of the many beds. Francis moves from the bed as Arthur settles in. The machinery hums to life as Francis softly mumbles to himself. He doesn’t notice anything wrong till Arthur stops him.
“Francis, what are you saying?”
Francis waves his hand in dismissal and does not turn to address Arthur. “C'est rien vos affaires, l’Angleterre.
Something crashes, and Francis turns around, rather perturbed.
“Qu'êtes-vous jusqu'à ce temps?”
Arthur is trying to get up, with one hand and possibly a broken back. It would be funny if Francis wasn’t the one patching him up. But he is, so Francis saunters over and shoves him back down.
“Arrêtez, vous pourrait se blesser encore.”
“Francis, you aren’t speaking English.”
The statement hits him like a brick - he hadn’t. Francis pulls a blank. He doesn’t know any other languages, but this one flew off his tongue, dripped out as if it was born on his lips. He’s got no explanation, and his brain desperately searches for one.
Arthur’s laughter wakes him from his daze, and Francis looks at him in mock horror. His question has been answered and he wishes that he still did not know.
“Ah, so that’s how it is.”
Arthur continues to laugh, probably so violently that he’ll injure himself in his current state; and Francis desperately wants him to just stop.
Chapter 3
Sorry for the delay. I hope you have enjoyed this chapter, please let me know what you think. Thank you for your time, comments are lovely~
Author: Me
Character(s) or Pairing(s) in this chapter: Germany, Implied US/UK, France, mentions of others, will include most characters at some point.
Rating: PG
Warnings: An attempt at a Serious Sailor Moon fusion fill! And in this chapter violence...Also a de-anon from the kink meme...
Summary: Alfred's life on the Moon is unspeakably boring, but an unknown threat on the rise gives him his much desired break of boredom, and so much more.
Prologue, Chapter 1
It is a dream that wakes him at 3:14 that evening - or morning, if you prefer. Or perhaps it is the dream that takes place at 3:14.
At first it feels as if he is awake; Ludwig can feel the sheets that cover him, and knows that he is in his bedroom tucked away from the rest of humanity. But there is wind, great gusts and torrents of it that echo throughout his small room, and that is not normal. It is something for old clichéd movies; the ones where the breeze tousles the protagonist’s hair at just the right time for the key dramatic scene. It is not for Mercury, and it is certainly not for his own room.
Ludwig turns his head towards the wind that is prickling his face and there in the window is a woman. If Ludwig needed any more convincing that this is a dream, now he does not. Women do not sit on windows of fourth floor apartments.
He scoffs quietly at himself. Ludwig likes to think that his dreams are not of this style or formula. Obviously he is wrong, and the thought makes him feel tacky.
Ludwig can not see her face; her long silvery hair is reaching towards him, being jerked around by the wind as the strong torrents rush almost violently into his room. Her hair is entirely in the way, and does not look attractive in the least. It is obviously unkempt, sloppy; it looks clumsy – if hair can look that way - as if water is holding it together and ripping it apart at the same time.
She is balanced on his window, but there is nothing graceful or alluring about how she appears. She is squatting on one leg and the other is knelt, with her leg hanging out of the window. It does not occur to Ludwig that her leg should not be dangling like that, that it is unnatural. All Ludwig can think is that it is an unattractive stance for any woman, dream or not.
The thought strikes him that this woman should be beautiful, because she is not an ugly thing under close inspection. She is shapely and well-rounded in all the proper areas and from what he can tell she could easily turn heads, but as she is there is nothing that Ludwig can find about her that is either enchanting or beautiful.
Her small skirt is in tatters and slaps against her thighs in a rather sickening manner; it slops and Ludwig realizes that it is rather stained. Her hands are gripping the wall, and Ludwig notices that she is shaking and fumbling to hold on as best she can. It worries him to some degree - in his right mind he would have rushed to her aid - but this is a dream and there is no place for movement.
Despite how ragged she looks, and though Ludwig can not accurately make out her face because of the incessant wind, there is a wide grin on her face. It is not a look Ludwig has ever seen on a woman’s face before and it confuses him, because it is familiar and he can’t place it.
If this is meant to be a fevered wet dream, Ludwig is very confused.
Seconds pass like minutes, and finally she moves. One of her hands, still shaking like a leaf, is letting go of the terrace. It fumbles for a while until it reaches towards her neck. Ludwig notices that there is a ribbon adorning her throat, and that a glistening silver something is attached to it. Ludwig can’t make out what it is, but his brain screams not to look, not to recognize.
In one jerking motion the little thing is off of the ribbon, and into the woman’s hand. She struggles, reaches it out; thought the action seems rather pointless. Her frail shaky fingers can’t support the item's weight and it fumbles out between pale digits. Ludwig watches with something akin to morbid fascination as the wind picks up the item and whisks it from gravity's pull. The item rides the wind till it is safely placed on his nightstand.
Ludwig looks at the item; recognizes it. He rotates a puzzled look back to the woman but the wind becomes more violent. It moans and swirls around him, threatening to take his blanket with it. Ludwig sees a glimpse of her face – a resigned smile and tired red eyes that glisten -- before he has to shut his eyes from the wind's assault.
Ludwig thinks there is a sound, perhaps a word or two spoken, but he can’t decide what it is; the wind is suddenly unbearably loud.
Things settle far too quickly. One moment the wind is abusive and the next there is an utter absence. He opens his eyes and there is no trace that anything is amiss or ever was. His room is immaculate, nothing has been overturned - his sheets don’t even look like they’ve been ruffled. The window stands solemn. Closed, just as he left it, and there is no sign of a figure perched on his window.
Ludwig shakes his head and rolls over. He dreams of summer, and the watermelon that Kiku insisted on smashing.
---
Ludwig wakes to the sound of screaming. In his haste to get down stairs he does not notice the small cross on his night stand.
---
Whatever is taking place is warm and blinding and strange and marvelous all in one sporadic go. For a second he knows everything; for a moment he feels everything. Things are shifting and changing in ways that Alfred can not even begin to fathom. Its something his brain can not wrap itself around, the door is swung open but just as quickly it is closed again. The event leaves him wide eyed and curious, and he blinks away his utter confusion before pivoting so that he can rush back to England’s aid.
Only he doesn’t move seamlessly as he should. Instead, he turns and tumbles over flat on his face, balance an utter loss to him. There are things that he starts to notices as he groans and struggles to get back up. His hair is hanging in his face, and it seems abnormally long. In fact, Alfred is sure that he’s never allowed it to get that long in his life, so the idea is completely foreign. It’s strange, cause it hasn’t been that long since he got a trim either, but Alfred brushes it off. The real issue is his chest, because it's hurting, more so than it does when he normally falls; a lot more. Once he is has hoisted himself up into a sitting position Alfred tries to massage the area, because surely there has to be a reason for his chest, of all things, to hurt this much. His fingers fall upon something squishy; he can feel it as he gropes at them and then all movement stops. Alfred slowly angles his gaze downward.
He screams. It’s the first coherent thought in his mind; that he should scream, and the sound is loud and shrill and it is certainly not his voice. Tony is somewhere cackling loudly but that is totally the last thing on Alfred's mind at the moment. His eyes are glued to his chest, and they must be bulging out of his head, and his mouth must be hanging out in mock horror, and it’s probably a pretty funny sight, but Alfred would be hard pressed to give a damn.
He has breasts.
This revelation is cut short when there is a loud crashing sound filling his ears. Whatever the hell has happened to him will have to wait. His – or is he a she now? – England is in danger, and there is no way Alfred is going to leave her to fend off that thing alone. Alfred scrambles up as best she can, cause for some reason she’s wearing heals, and damnit if it's hard to walk in them. It takes a few moments for her to steady herself before she dashes off, struggling to stay upright. Running with a relatively big rack and high heals is a lot harder that in looks.
“Remember, you’re America!” Tony yells as the blonde takes off.
When America reaches the clearing, the monster is in her sights but there is no England to be seen. America panics and searches the area frantically, her head turning rapidly in either direction because England has to be here somewhere. America won’t allow herself to even think there is any other option. It goes unnoticed that the monster has taken notice of her, had seen her the instant she stumbled into the clearing, both the first time and second.
When America does notice the vine-esque arm-like appendages are already headed towards her at rapid pace. Her brain searches desperately for something to do, but only one solution takes shape in her mind. America narrows her eyes; feels the fire and energy coursing through her veins, more so than she can ever remember. She pulls back with her right fist in preparation – her plan is simple; pound that thing into oblivion, cause she’s always been a bit of a powerhouse, and she knows she can take it. She’s poised and ready, but never gets the chance.
“Fucking imbecile!”
America has just a moment to look to her right and see England charging towards her before England grabs her hand and the two are running, or perhaps it is better to say that England is running and America is trying not to trip. The taller blond struggles to keep up, the pace seems inhuman, and a part of her wonders how much it would hurt if she tripped and fell. But there’s no time to think much of the subject for England is not relenting, her grip choking and comforting at the same time. America doesn’t look behind her, but the sounds of mayhem are enough to make her want to try, after a near slip she abandons the thought and concentrates on moving; attempts to keep up.
“You can’t just pummel it, you have to kill it.” England doesn’t yell the words, but it carries and is piercing so America easily hears her. She doesn’t understand what England means – because England herself laid in her fists, it seemed like the right idea – and gulps loudly. America is going to ask exactly how she can kill that thing when alarms sound in her head. Something is coming towards them, and from the sound of it the vines are closing in from behind as well. America doesn’t know what to do, there is danger to the front and danger to the back, and England is still charging straight for it.
Trying to help America suddenly tries to stop, but England grunts and keeps her moving. They’re about to crash, and America prepares her self for collision, but England does not disappoint. She is full of surprises. Just as the claws reach them England jumps, and it isn’t any sort of normal jump. It's more like a super powered jump of awesome, because they soar through the sky for a few seconds, America holding on for dear life as the two of them easily ascend up a five story building to land seamlessly on its roof.
America notices that the vines are twisting and curing in on one another in the clearing, having narrowly missed their target. They’re flailing and searching desperately to try and find them, and it gives America some kind of hope that they have done the right thing.
“That saved us a spot of time.” England’s hands, firmly placed on America’s shoulders, are helping to steady the taller woman and then their eyes meet. For a split second they stare - green meeting blue - and there is something there, in that gaze, that America can’t possibly place. It’s a strong feeling, like longing and fear and sadness and relief and understanding and still more that America can’t place. It’s the kind of look that could change your life, or at least that’s what goes through America’s mind. It’s something like that, and it all just feels overly complicated for some reason. Something definite shapes coils and waits in the pit of America’s stomach, and she doesn’t quite know what it is.
But as suddenly as it started it is gone again, and for some reason England is straightening America’s sleeves and dusting off her shoulders. The action feels so very maternal that a part of America, some unexplained part wants to just hold England forever. But America doesn’t. She just watches as England fidgets, and buries the thought that England is refusing to look at her eye to eye any more.
“You’re going to have to concentrate, my power is ineffective. This won’t be easy for you, first time never is, but you’ll get it.”
England is fretting over her – the smaller woman is still tidying and inspecting America for possible injuries. Then England seems to realize what she’s doing. There is a sudden rigidness to her stance and England blinks. There’s a sharp intake of breathe and in slight hesitation her hands remove themselves from America’s person and instead move to take up residence at her sides. England takes a small step backwards, and America can only feel like the older woman is distancing herself; for some unexplainable reason.
“I’ll instruct you. Haven’t gotten much left, but it’ll do.” England nods, more to herself than to America, and moves to take a stance. The smaller blonde positions herself in front of America, facing out towards the clearing and America feels as if England is trying to shield her from a possible assault. America reaches for England’s shoulder, because she does not want to be protected – wants to be the protector herself - but England’s swift exhale stops all of America’s movements. England’s right hand suddenly swipes upwards and America can hear glass shattering from somewhere. And then there’s water entirely encasing them, almost like a bubble.
America looks on in amazement as the vines stumble over one another to violently crash into the water. They’re easily deflected, but they don’t stop - they just keep banging, pounding and pounding. America wonders how much the shield will manage, but doesn’t say anything. If it does break, then they are sitting ducks, and thought that isn’t a pleasant thing to be contemplating, but America can not help but think it. She can see those vines gripping onto them, ripping them to pieces and panic starts to set in. What is she doing here? She should be in class, not about to be ripped to bits-
“America”
And in a blink all those potentially damning thoughts vanish.
England’s right hand is still extended towards the water, and she won’t turn to look at America, but her tone isn’t trying or annoyed, or even labored; it’s just even. The word seems to let America’s mind calm. There are layers of reassurance in that one utterance that she can not fathom – and a part of America wonders how exactly England has this power over her thought they’ve never met before - but it brings America out and makes the strength inside of her writhe and pulse with purpose.
“Now you listen to me. Close your eyes.”
America hesitates, there is no reason she can see to do what England has commanded, but she has resigned herself to England’s experience. So even if it leaves a bad taste in her mouth to not see, America does what she is told.
“Now reach out with your mind. You should be able to feel me.”
At first there is nothing, just the familiar darkness that always greets when eyes are closed. America doesn’t understand what England is asking her to do, but she tries anyways; imagines as if she could see with her eyes closed, tries to reach out for anything.
At first there’s nothing, and its irritating, because this should work and it isn’t and maybe England should have described what she needs to do better and that banging is getting louder and louder. And then, faintly, something is reaching out towards her. It’s a gentle something, or perhaps right now it is a gentle something, because America can tell that it radiates strength. What ever it is, its calming, and America exhales and reaches for it with her mind.
This thing – it's blue, a deep sea greenish blue- is coaxing her to widen her gaze, and tentatively America does just that. And things start to take shape. America can feel the water - coursing with the same blue essence - around her. She can feel England right in front of her, and realizes that it was England’s aura that had beckoned her forward.
“Farther,” England instructs softly, and America strains her mind to reach for more. But it is no easy feat. A sort of pain starts to lodge in her head, and inch by inch it grows increasingly stronger. America has to ignore the pain as best she can and push. Then suddenly she can see everything, the seeping darkness that encircles the two of them and the ones that are still banging against the shield. It sickens her, because this energy is bubbling with perverted intent and it feels entirely unnatural. The feeling won’t leave, she’s not even close to it, but it’s as if she can feel that energy oozing and pulsing around her and it makes her want to violently retch right then and there.
America almost does, her eyes flutter open and her concentration completely dissipates. She reaches one hand to her mouth and the other to her stomach.
“Not the time!” England mutters and this time it is obvious that she is annoyed, the irritation drips from the statement and America has to force her self to focus. She brings her hands down to her sides again and closes her eyes once more.
She reaches forward just like she did the first time, and this time it's better, because she expects the unease and nausea that pass over her. It isn’t any less disturbing or disgusting, but America chants to herself that she has to deal with it and that she will.
“What now?” America asks, more tentatively than she’d like to admit.
“Concentrate on the energy that’s yours, but don’t lose sight of what’s around you.”
America hadn’t notices it before, but when England mentions America’s own strength it’s as if a bell goes off. Power; a blaze of energy is coiling in on itself inside of her, and it crackles to life, acknowledging her attention. It’s a warm and comforting sensation, and America almost does forget what England told her about remembering her surroundings. Almost.
America nods, she knows that England can see her, though the smaller woman is not facing her. She notices that England’s aura is getting steadily lighter, that its graceful flow is starting to seam forced and cognate; a part of her worries.
“England-“
“You’re going to channel that. Your energy. You must be precise, shape it correctly and when the time is right force all that energy forward to catch one of these roots. Doesn’t matter which, but once you have it, you’ve got to force it through, all the way to the main body.”
America doesn’t quite understand what England is asking of her, but she offers an “Ok” and tries to focus on shaping her energy. Her flaming orange aura at first seems to agree, but after a few seconds of trying it flares up and rages out of her control. She tries again, and again, but nothing seems to work. It frustrates her, and she can feel her irritation rising, her temper starting to boil.
“England! This isn’t working!”
The spell is broken when England’s hand reaches, - it must be the left, because the right is still sustaining the shield - and grips America’s. The world seems to melt at that exact moment. An unspeakable clam washes over America, her fried nerves and her raging energy all slow, and America can once again feel and know things very clearly. England’s sea is melding with America’s inferno and taming it.
“Now concentrate, I’ve done the hard work for you. Close your eyes and don’t think of anything but that power and mine.”
It is unspeakably easier this time. America coaxes the flames and they move at her will, completely pacified simply by England’s presence. The raging mass has turned into something cohesive and solid and useful. America poises herself, because this time she’s ready.
“When I pull back, channel it into my hand and I’ll force it through. Don’t hesitate for a second. Just get it there and sustain it. I’ll handle the rest.”
America nods her approval, and waits for when she will feel England’s energy pull back from the barrier. She doesn’t wait long.
Once England’s hand has fallen, America shoves. Heaves her energy into England’s hand and almost recoils. England’s aura is rejecting her, America can feel the energy panicking as it loses its composure, and America’s energy feeds off of its weakness. It’s fizzling – and the sound distinctly reminds America of screaming. She wants to pull back, and tries to but England grips her hand fiercely.
“Open your eyes and look at me!”
America complies. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the vines wrapping around the two of them, about to strike. But England has demanded her eyes, and she gets them.
“It’s ok, America, its all right. Just remember what I told you.”
Just as America feels the vines wrapping around her skin the flames erupt from England’s hand. Its an untamable blaze, and the roots it catches writhe and slither and flop and burn into unrecognizable masses. The power is entirely destructive, and leaves little in its wake.
“Concentrate!”
And America does, she remembers the role she has to play, and forces the flames to spread rapidly, they happily comply. The monster tries desperately to stop the inferno’s assault, even going so far as to the cut the roots already caught in the flame’s grasp, but there is no escape. The blaze catches from one vine to another to another until the thing is a flailing mess of flames, screeching like a banshee.
Then suddenly the scene is done. The monster cries one more unbearable screech, melts, bubbles and dissolves into ash and soot and filth. There is nothing to show for its existence except for the destruction of the area.
America wants to cheer and holler and say exciting things like, “Fuck ya Mother Fucker!” at the top of her lungs, but once the deed is done all she can do is collapse into a heap on top of the building. She is left speechless, blinking and sputtering as the event rewinds in her head over and over again. She doesn’t realize that she is still tightly grasping England’s right hand until the smaller woman gives her a little squeeze. America looks up, England is inspects the area with a critical eye and America tightens her hold. The smaller blonde shifts her gaze down and America takes the opportunity to tug the other woman down with her.
There’s an indignant squeak that erupts as England tumbles down on top of America, but all America can do is wrap her arms around the other woman. And sink her face into the other woman’s chest. And then America is crying, totally bawling and she can’t possibly think of a reason why. America tells herself that it must be because all of this is so new and nothing makes any sense and she so – fucking - did it! She killed the what ever the hell that was and she proved that she could be the hero and everything is once again right with the world.
There’s a deeper reason as well, but its something that America can’t understand yet, but it is nonetheless compelling.
So America buries her head into England’s chest – cause in her mind England’s chest exists so that she can nuzzle it – and just cries her eyes out.
If feels like forever, but hesitantly England’s hand reaches to America’s back, rubbing comforting circles. England’s voice, gruff and sweet at the same time follows closely after at a whisper, assuring America that he did well and that everything will be alright and all sorts of other nice things that America can’t exactly remember. But it's so damn comforting as she ever so slowly slips into oblivion.
---
It is only once America has fainted, and Alfred rests in her arms that England allows herself to lose an ounce of her composure. She wouldn’t have if his big lumbering – strong – arms weren’t still holding onto her, even in unconsciousness.
She doubles over on top of his still figure, grips him fiercely, rubs her face comfortingly against his strong shoulder blades and breathes in his scent. This is the closest she will allow herself, because dreams are for the young and stupid. For idiots like Alfred, who will marry a nice wife when all is said and done and will definitely have a happy family.
When the fae descend upon her, twinkling and twirling in excitement England is no longer on top of Alfred, though her grip is still strong. The fae would tease her for that, but they are hungry, almost turned mad at the feast they will take part in. There will be much blood to abate their thirst – England can feel it already - but that cannot happen yet. England still needs her strength.
She takes care in shifting Alfred, so that his huge lumbering arm is slung over her shoulder, and stumbles up. He is not light to carry, and she is not in her best shape, but England knows she will manage; is happy for the distraction. She mutters her request to the fae as people start to wander into the area and see the destruction. The fae whisper into her ear and dance around one another in excitement, but they do as she asks, and the pair, she and Alfred, vanish from all human eyes.
It takes England a long time to stumble to Alfred’s house and to deposit him into his bed. She takes great care in tucking him in, because that feels the natural thing to do, and hesitates before pecking him on the forehead.
“Sleep well, poppet…”
---
Francis turns the key in his lock, readjusts the bag hanging off of his shoulder and stumbles into his apartment. He hears the faucet stop and is not surprised. Tonight he can only worry, because the world makes a little bit more sense, and not nearly enough yet.
“Arthur.”
It isn’t a question, because he knows that Arthur is here. Often is.
“….Living room….” Comes the unslurred response. Francis would question why his neighbor's speech is so well this evening, but he doesn’t. Perhaps he has run out of alcohol. Whatever the case Francis is thankful. They must talk.
He moves into his bed room first, taking the time to place his duffel bag onto the bed and to put away the items he took with him. It isn’t much, just enough clothing to last him a few days and the items he needs every day. Once they are all away he makes his way into the living room, where Arthur is slumped on the love seat.
The lights are still off, so Francis flicks them on. He stifles a gasp at the sight. Arthur is a mess; he’s slouching on the seat because it’s obvious he doesn’t want to put pressure on his back. His legs are spread and twitching involuntary - never a good sign. It looks like he might have cracked a few ribs, and his left hand – to Francis’ trained eye – looks as if it has been cooked well-done.
It shouldn’t surprise him - to see Arthur so disheveled and injured – because he sees it a lot, but there are other matters on Francis’ mind that question. Is there possibly another reason for these things? A better excuse than the perpetual bar fights and Arthur’s insatiable love for violence? Has Francis always dismissed Arthur’s wild delusions too quickly?
For now there are no answers. Arthur is in a horrible state, and as per usual Francis takes it upon himself to fix up the poor drunkard.
“I can’t feel my legs.”
“The way they flop like fish tells me as much,” Francis mutters as he gazes from the living rooms entrance.
Arthur grunts but doesn’t move, which is probably better. Francis takes his time sauntering towards the other man so as to look over Arthur more thoroughly. With great care Francis unbuttons the lose shirt that Arthur is wearing, and slips it off. When Francis gently takes the man’s shoulder and pushes him forward so to see his back, Arthur hisses.
It’s a mess. Francis wonders if he was hit by a truck or something, but doesn’t comment, just sighs and pushes him back.
“I’ll need to take you downstairs. I can’t work on you here.”
Arthur groans, sinking farther into the loveseat. “I don’t want to move.”
“You have no choice in the matter. Might have injured your spine, I can’t check that here.”
Francis can tell that Arthur is trying to come up with some sort of an excuse as to why he shouldn’t be moved, but after a moment of having his mouth hang open the green eyed man clamps it shut.
Francis gives him an aggravated look and moves to pick up the other man. Arthur doesn’t do too much complaining, though that might have more to do with the fact that he’s obviously exhausted than anything else. They stumble through the door way and down the stairs into the clinic area. The lights flicker on as Francis throws the switch and ambles through the room to find a bed.
Francis tries to be gentle, but Arthur hisses at every step. Finally he deposits the man on one of the many beds. Francis moves from the bed as Arthur settles in. The machinery hums to life as Francis softly mumbles to himself. He doesn’t notice anything wrong till Arthur stops him.
“Francis, what are you saying?”
Francis waves his hand in dismissal and does not turn to address Arthur. “C'est rien vos affaires, l’Angleterre.
Something crashes, and Francis turns around, rather perturbed.
“Qu'êtes-vous jusqu'à ce temps?”
Arthur is trying to get up, with one hand and possibly a broken back. It would be funny if Francis wasn’t the one patching him up. But he is, so Francis saunters over and shoves him back down.
“Arrêtez, vous pourrait se blesser encore.”
“Francis, you aren’t speaking English.”
The statement hits him like a brick - he hadn’t. Francis pulls a blank. He doesn’t know any other languages, but this one flew off his tongue, dripped out as if it was born on his lips. He’s got no explanation, and his brain desperately searches for one.
Arthur’s laughter wakes him from his daze, and Francis looks at him in mock horror. His question has been answered and he wishes that he still did not know.
“Ah, so that’s how it is.”
Arthur continues to laugh, probably so violently that he’ll injure himself in his current state; and Francis desperately wants him to just stop.
Chapter 3
Sorry for the delay. I hope you have enjoyed this chapter, please let me know what you think. Thank you for your time, comments are lovely~