Day Off
Title: Day Off
Characters/pairings: Arthur/England, bit of America and mentions of others.
Summary: Arthur takes a time-out and tries to not be England for the day
On Tuesday Arthur feels unwell, so he takes a break from being England and is simply Arthur for the day. He pops a few Tylenols and thinks about hopping on the Underground, going down to Westminster Abbey because he hasn’t been there in the longest time, not since Churchill’s funeral. But the tourists, they get more and more annoying; at first he’d welcomed them with open arms, swelling with pride at being able to show off the wonders of his home, but as time passes he wishes more and more that everyone would leave him alone. His fairies haven’t shown up in a while because he is always surrounded by people, people who ask his advice, people who question his policies and sometimes Arthur thinks with fond nostalgia of the Splendid Isolation and all he wants to do is stroll around the cities he has so lovingly crafted without a politician or foreign guest at his side.
But it’s not like he wants to be completely alone, that’s not what he wants either. He thinks about giving Kiku a call, but no, Kiku is busy discussing rockets with North Korea today. This makes Arthur feel uneasy, it really isn’t the right time to be taking a break, he has to deal with a strike and review some U.N. paperwork and of course there’s always the economy-
“Stop it,” Arthur mutters to himself, “that’s not my job.” Today he is only Arthur, and whatever’s happening in the world is none of his business. He is detached, detached from all of that and he lives in a cozy little house with a few fairy friends and a freshly made pot of tea and he takes the phone off the hook and hides all the paperwork in a drawer under the desk.
He forces the mermaid out of the tub and sinks into a soothing bath. Close at hand are 2008’s British Book of the Year (he loves to read, although really, keeping up with new novels feels like a duty for him, he’d feel guilty if he didn’t) and a cup of tea (“should be wine”, mocks a vision of Francis in his head, but Arthur tells pretend-Francis to shut up it isn’t even noon yet and Francis turns into France and France is telling Arthur that they need to arrange another EU meeting, Arthur thinks France is even more annoying than Francis).
“Oh hell,” Arthur mutters later after his unsatisfactorily short bath, aren’t there other things to think about? All his relationships are layered and country duties are omnipresent at the back of his mind, being England is a part of being Arthur and after all this time he still doesn’t understand what the balance is or what it should be. But there must be other things to think about.
He does the laundry himself, feels proud, wonders why the rest of the world doesn’t find this as impressive as they do that time he invented the jet engine. He vacuums the floor and makes some curry, even tries to do a bit of painting, although really, painting’s never been his thing. He does it from time to time and is otherwise content to watch Francis and Feliciano, their brushes stroking canvases like lovers caress each other. Maybe that’s why Arthur isn’t good at painting. He has sacrificed the ability to freely display passion for other things, other things and he isn’t sure if it was worth it or how good he is at keeping up facades.
It’s not particularly his lack of talent at painting that bothers him, but rather the fact that others can do something that he can’t. He has always hated being left behind. Recently he feels more and more like things are slipping out of his control. Some days Arthur thinks that growing old isn’t so bad, he’ll have more time for gardening and taking slow walks and watching the tide wash in and out, but England always grips on tightly, desperate to show that he is still relevant and Arthur has to admit that what he fears most is being forgotten. What’s making him nervous now is that it’s the afternoon and no one has called him yet, hasn’t someone screwed up, doesn’t someone need him to fix the world?
Suddenly he hears America knocking and shouting at the door, or is it Alfred?, “England! China is freaking about the economy again, you gotta help me deal with him!“, ah, America after all. “I’ve been trying to call you all day, open your door!” America yells. Oh, that’s right. The phone has been off the hook.
Arthur puts on his best scowl and wrenches open the door. “I told you I was sick, you git. This is my day off. Leave me alone.”
“Come on, you owe me one. Everyone owes me one. You’ve had the whole day to do your knitting and shit, let’s go! I’ve been trying to ask China about Tibet too, but it’s pointless, he’s really flippin- come on, get your coat on! You don’t even look sick.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” grumbles Arthur, as he pulls on his coat, “I was just beginning to relax, too.” What he will never admit to America is that he’s relieved the other nation showed up. Perhaps he isn’t meant to take days off. He simply can’t help but feel anxious when he’s not doing anything. What if he falls behind? He steps out the door and is England once again, or rather, he always was; he can’t take a part of his identity on and off like he can his coat, his shoes, the haughty grimace that he has gotten so used to wearing but goes without whenever it’s just him and the fairies and a freshly made pot of tea.
*
A/N: Hope it doesn't suck. T___T Constructive crticism is totally welcome and loved! I find Hetalia fic so hard to write because it like forces you to know things about history/culture/current events, and I know NOTHIIINNGG and looking up specific current events that fit was harder than I thought so you can probably tell that everything here is just crazy wikipedia'd. ;____; Lemme know if I messed anything up? u_u ♥
Characters/pairings: Arthur/England, bit of America and mentions of others.
Summary: Arthur takes a time-out and tries to not be England for the day
On Tuesday Arthur feels unwell, so he takes a break from being England and is simply Arthur for the day. He pops a few Tylenols and thinks about hopping on the Underground, going down to Westminster Abbey because he hasn’t been there in the longest time, not since Churchill’s funeral. But the tourists, they get more and more annoying; at first he’d welcomed them with open arms, swelling with pride at being able to show off the wonders of his home, but as time passes he wishes more and more that everyone would leave him alone. His fairies haven’t shown up in a while because he is always surrounded by people, people who ask his advice, people who question his policies and sometimes Arthur thinks with fond nostalgia of the Splendid Isolation and all he wants to do is stroll around the cities he has so lovingly crafted without a politician or foreign guest at his side.
But it’s not like he wants to be completely alone, that’s not what he wants either. He thinks about giving Kiku a call, but no, Kiku is busy discussing rockets with North Korea today. This makes Arthur feel uneasy, it really isn’t the right time to be taking a break, he has to deal with a strike and review some U.N. paperwork and of course there’s always the economy-
“Stop it,” Arthur mutters to himself, “that’s not my job.” Today he is only Arthur, and whatever’s happening in the world is none of his business. He is detached, detached from all of that and he lives in a cozy little house with a few fairy friends and a freshly made pot of tea and he takes the phone off the hook and hides all the paperwork in a drawer under the desk.
He forces the mermaid out of the tub and sinks into a soothing bath. Close at hand are 2008’s British Book of the Year (he loves to read, although really, keeping up with new novels feels like a duty for him, he’d feel guilty if he didn’t) and a cup of tea (“should be wine”, mocks a vision of Francis in his head, but Arthur tells pretend-Francis to shut up it isn’t even noon yet and Francis turns into France and France is telling Arthur that they need to arrange another EU meeting, Arthur thinks France is even more annoying than Francis).
“Oh hell,” Arthur mutters later after his unsatisfactorily short bath, aren’t there other things to think about? All his relationships are layered and country duties are omnipresent at the back of his mind, being England is a part of being Arthur and after all this time he still doesn’t understand what the balance is or what it should be. But there must be other things to think about.
He does the laundry himself, feels proud, wonders why the rest of the world doesn’t find this as impressive as they do that time he invented the jet engine. He vacuums the floor and makes some curry, even tries to do a bit of painting, although really, painting’s never been his thing. He does it from time to time and is otherwise content to watch Francis and Feliciano, their brushes stroking canvases like lovers caress each other. Maybe that’s why Arthur isn’t good at painting. He has sacrificed the ability to freely display passion for other things, other things and he isn’t sure if it was worth it or how good he is at keeping up facades.
It’s not particularly his lack of talent at painting that bothers him, but rather the fact that others can do something that he can’t. He has always hated being left behind. Recently he feels more and more like things are slipping out of his control. Some days Arthur thinks that growing old isn’t so bad, he’ll have more time for gardening and taking slow walks and watching the tide wash in and out, but England always grips on tightly, desperate to show that he is still relevant and Arthur has to admit that what he fears most is being forgotten. What’s making him nervous now is that it’s the afternoon and no one has called him yet, hasn’t someone screwed up, doesn’t someone need him to fix the world?
Suddenly he hears America knocking and shouting at the door, or is it Alfred?, “England! China is freaking about the economy again, you gotta help me deal with him!“, ah, America after all. “I’ve been trying to call you all day, open your door!” America yells. Oh, that’s right. The phone has been off the hook.
Arthur puts on his best scowl and wrenches open the door. “I told you I was sick, you git. This is my day off. Leave me alone.”
“Come on, you owe me one. Everyone owes me one. You’ve had the whole day to do your knitting and shit, let’s go! I’ve been trying to ask China about Tibet too, but it’s pointless, he’s really flippin- come on, get your coat on! You don’t even look sick.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” grumbles Arthur, as he pulls on his coat, “I was just beginning to relax, too.” What he will never admit to America is that he’s relieved the other nation showed up. Perhaps he isn’t meant to take days off. He simply can’t help but feel anxious when he’s not doing anything. What if he falls behind? He steps out the door and is England once again, or rather, he always was; he can’t take a part of his identity on and off like he can his coat, his shoes, the haughty grimace that he has gotten so used to wearing but goes without whenever it’s just him and the fairies and a freshly made pot of tea.
*
A/N: Hope it doesn't suck. T___T Constructive crticism is totally welcome and loved! I find Hetalia fic so hard to write because it like forces you to know things about history/culture/current events, and I know NOTHIIINNGG and looking up specific current events that fit was harder than I thought so you can probably tell that everything here is just crazy wikipedia'd. ;____; Lemme know if I messed anything up? u_u ♥