Sound and Sight
There was another roar of thunder that floated a sleeping Arthur into half-consciousness. Having been used to such loud English thunderstorms, he just grumbled sleepily, turned on his side, and tried to immerse back to full sleep, ignoring the aging creak of the door and the padding of soft feet on wood. It wasn’t until another roll of lightning and thunder roared and a little startled squeak sounded that he deemed raise his head off his pillow. Arthur squinted at the dark of the room, trying to find the source of the noise-that-wasn’t-the-storm -
“Alfred?” he said as incredulously as he can say it so late at night (or so early in the morning; it depends). “What are you doing here?”
Alfred did not say anything but whimpered as another lightning bolt forked across the sky, flashing bright harshness into the room and letting Arthur catch a glimpse of wide, terrified eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.
He let out a breath. “Oh, Alfred…” and sat up and raised up his arms to envelop the scared little one, just as Alfred scrambled to run, nearly tripping, and climbed onto the bed into his inviting arms, burying his little face in Arthur’s chest (“Aow-thur!”) as the thunder that came late after the lightning roared again. The little colony’s fists tightened their hold on Arthur’s clothing; Arthur hugged him even closer. Another roll of lightning and thunder cracked the sky and Arthur heard a strangled sob escape from the usual bundle of energy in his arms.
“Hush, little baby,” He hummed, trying to distract Alfred from the scare of the storm, and rocked him slightly. “Little baby, my little baby, hush now.” Alfred turned his tear-stained little face up at Arthur, who smiled softly at him and continued to hum, “My baby, pretty baby,” Alfred scrunched his face up, pouting, and Arthur had to keep himself from chuckling - he had been aiming for that. “Pretty baby, hush now, it’s alright.
“It’s alright,” Arthur sang softly, as the lids of little Alfred’s eyes grew heavy, eyes that were still on him, with tiny hands’ clasp that never loosened. “It’s alright, now, I’m here.
I’m here.
The keening of falling bombs and missiles, like the keening shriek and wail of the banshees of Ireland Arthur used to tell stories about, before they exploded with a loud and bloody boom on land, was shrill in the smoke-choked air. Stomping, running booted feet, panicked cries, stern loud orders. Various other loud noises, the roar of fire; crash and burn. All muffled by the concrete, but the sounds didn’t stop there: relentless coughing, pained groans, muffled sobbing, tense grinding of teeth, terrified silence. America looked around.
So many people.
So many wounded, groaning, bloody, hurt, ill, stoic, terrified, dying, strong people, it makes him want to cry.
He should be used to this by now, he really should. He had an excuse though; compared to the other nations in this god-awful situation they like to call war he’s only gone to give or take a couple or so of them.
Still - war is war. They’re all the same aren’t they? (No, they’re not) He really should be used to this.
Except he’s not. And he didn’t think he’d ever be.
Goddamn, the tension in this room is suffocating.
He spotted a tired-looking woman in a tattered business suit, her fountain pen out, scribbling on what seemed like heavily smudged paper - what is she writing? America thought, squinting at the woman’s direction. It looked like a grocery shopping list.
Yep. “Business as usual,” America thought, a bit bitterly (because it’s just so fucking sad) and with grudging respect (because his people are still more awesome; but England’s are a close second).
He looked anywhere but at the man lying unconscious on the bench before him.
Nobody’d told him about this.
Somebody had suggested looking into “the British situation” and America had volunteered and gone, despite his boss’s objections.
-He’s a hero.
He had wanted to see. And he saw, alright.
That deadly calm before everything disintegrates in burning and ashes. The last, soundless breath of death.
- He’s a hero, damn it, he should be used to this he should be stronger than this -
He had wanted to see but he sure as hell did not expect to see England here, of all people. Much less to see England here like this, but then what else did he expect? (It was war.)
Way, way back when, Alfred would have bawled his eyes out, seeing England like this. So white and pale and bandaged - I mean what the hell, he looks like a fucking mummy! - so bloody, bloody torn and gashed and -
And hurt, America thought, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to have an excuse for his eyes tearing up a bit. He bent down to take a closer look at the Brit’s injuries, jaw tensing as he noticed the extent of the damage on his former guardian. Golly, you even managed to burn yourself? Aren’t you smart enough not to get burned in a fire when trying to save someone, you stupid... Jeez, great, England, just great.
“Have a seat, sir,” said a deep, scratchy voice. America looked up. The owner of the voice pulled up a small box for him to sit on. “No use breaking your back just worrying.”
He gave the man a lopsided grin. “Ha, thanks.” The man cracked a tired grin of his own before walking away. America watched him go. He looked eerily familiar; America seemed to remember seeing a drummer-boy on the other side during that other war that looked just like him, but that’s just creepy and weird. He shook his head and turned his attention back to the injured Brit before him.
America sat on the small box the strange man had given him and tried to make himself comfortable. He shifted so much that he was so sure the tiny box would fall under all his weight and moving; he was surprised it held on at all. Brave, he thought. Just like…
The very slight whisper of movement, as a hand reached out and held another, bandaged hand and squeezed lightly.
There’s still hope.
America started to hum a lullaby, changing a word here and there, rocking slightly.
“Hush, little England, awesome England, my England, hush now,” he whispered, remembering rain and thunder and lightning and darkness - and the warmth and comfort and love that helped him make it through the storm.
“-My Arthur, pretty Arthur,” his mouth briefly quirked into a smirk, “Brave Arthur, rest now - at least for a while - it’s alright,” he hummed. “It’s alright…”
I’m here.
WWII = 1940's or something to it, American Indepence = 1740's or something of that sort 1776-1783 (thanks to ihatesasuke!)(CORRECT me if i'm wrong)
I figured 200 years will make them friendly enough to each other, but still with that pretty far, tense distance since these Nation-tans are pretty much immortal and that shiz... 200 years is a pretty short time for them eh?
Setting of American Second Half! : The Blitz http://www.historyplace.com/worldwar2/timeline/about-blitz.htm
Apologies in advance for the grammatical/subject-verb errors and the run-on sentences... and I hope I didn’t abuse your ‘suspension of disbelief’ with all the impossibilities of America going to England during the Blitz… XP
>the title was taken from the song Garden of Everything (from the anime RahXephon). Go look up the lyrics to see why I chose it. 8D HERE!
Thanks for reading!
xposted in hetalia and my ff.net