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hwsforeignrelations · 1 month ago

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A Fogged Up Plan

Summary: For three weeks, the Kingdom of Spades’ royals have been held captive in Diamond’s Fort Shellac. After one weevily meal too many, they hatch a plan to escape.

Made for @usuknetwork's USUKUSTwicePer zine: Cards, With Spades to Start. Read the full collection here (hehe I also designed the cover, please show everyone some love!!)

AO3 Link // Words: 3,812

Five moons before Queen Arthur Kirkland’s coronation, the isolated swamps of Southern Spades were inhabited by an insect known as PB Cup.

Previously known but unstudied, a small population found itself in the hold of a cargo ship en route towards the Kingdom of Diamonds.

Once docked, it is rumored that a seawoman unloading barrels and crates of imports carried the insects to her town on the outskirts of the port, where the red buzzers settled onto a Camellia sinensis farm. There, the small population decimated the crops. When customers purchased the expensive processed leaves in tea, it tasted of woody, bitter peanuts.

Diamond’s PB Cup population quickly spiraled into millions and one of the kingdom’s primary exports, tea, crashed.

With it, Diamond’s economic influence sank to match the impoverished Kingdom of Clubs.

Through no fault of his own, Queen Arthur inherited one of the world’s worst foreign affair conflicts in history as the Diamond government demanded compensation for their introduction of the bug to their crops, and Spades denied any responsibility for the lack of preparedness on the part of Diamond’s farming protection or economic infrastructure.

Thus a war broke out between the two kingdoms. Luckily, the Queen of Diamonds, Francis Bonnefoy, and Queen Arthur Kirkland had fluttered in similar social circles on opposing navy forces, during earlier military careers, before Oracle selected them for positions of royalty.

Due to their previously-held relationship, the conflicting countries maintained (albeit strained) contact.

However, twenty years later, the strung out conflict saw no resolution in sight. Neither party would budge. In the last two decades, Diamonds had mostly recovered, converting and subsidizing previously small industries to make up greater lumps of their exports.

Diamond GDP had mostly recovered, and the occasional skirmishes along the Spades-Diamond borders had lost their impact to both sides' citizens.

Mentions often paralleled this tone:

“Hey mom, Junior’s little league game’s canceled. Queen Arthur just announced Diamond shots fired near the field.”

“Gee, I’m in absolute shock. Let’s order a Continental basket for the other team. I know those sweet kids were looking forward to a Spadian roast but it can’t be helped.”

“Yes, ma.”

“Our government should really step off their high horse- it’s practically a soap opera! ‘You sent our kingdom into a depression!’, ‘No, your lack of planning sunk your economy!’ Honestly. Time for Gen. Jones to call it cuts… bring the phone while you're up, let’s reserve that basket before we forget.”

“Yes, ma.”

And so you see, neither kingdom withheld reservations to mock the ongoing conflict. So far in, it was nothing more than a contest of resolve between two too-proud kingdoms.

Bi-annual tea shortages, sport game cancellations, flight and ship delays, internal division among governments… but neither party appeared to be dismounting their positions, and as the conflict neared its twentieth anniversary Spades-Diamond tension surged.

Unbeknownst to regular citizens, the jack, queen, and king of Spades had disappeared from the castle three weeks prior.

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Drop-drop-drop sounded a mysteriously originating source of water, droplets plopping onto a moist stone ground.

The Jack of Spades, dressed in creased gold, purple, and blue fabrics cast his eyes towards his hands where he organized a cheap deck of playing cards.

The action demonstrated disinterest to anyone unattuned to Yao’s discreet mannerisms, but the way his fingers twitched to swipe brown hair behind his ear was telling.

“...I beg your pardon?”

Drop-drop-drop.

Army General Alfred Jones raised thin eyebrows above round glasses in a look that read “everyone in this dungeon heard me loud and clear”, but continued in a patronizingly careful tone.

“You need a command like brown bananas to banana bread, or day-old rice to fried rice. Something that suits your past-prime station, y’know?”

Drop.

Arthur Kirkland’s forehead actually twitched but his expression remained unaffected. “Well done, dear. I’ll be the first to admit, never in a million years would I imagine you capable of something so complicated as a simile”.

“Har har, Your Majesty,” Alfred reached across the cramped cell to knock his knuckles against the wrought iron bars.

Drop-drip.

“When I met you, 200-odd years ago, those magic bones would have no problemo melting, or-or slicing through these bars like butter.”

“-OH be silent for once, blathering-”

“And now look at you!” Alfred flung his hand in the general direction of his husband, himself melted on the floor, head balanced on a rock. “A washed-up seadog, no good for nothing but a semi-ok fuck. What the hell happened to you, man? You used to bring dragons to their knees. Now some Diamond-fired metal’s too much? Y’all know their quality’s shit,” he yawned.

“Retirement might be on the horizon, sweetheart. But no offense.”

Drop-drip-drop. Drip.

Yao didn’t even blink when hands lept for King Alfred’s throat.

“Gah-!” Vague choking escaped Alfred’s mouth while his oily hair tossed wildly and his cheeks went red from the loss of air.

Drop-drop-drip.

“Worthless excuse for a leader, I’d sew your thin lips shut before these stinking walls hear another lie from them. Seadog I am- and proud, too!” Arthur gave one last throttle before throwing Alfred aside in disgust.

It could have been his breath, too. They hadn’t exactly been given a toothbrush. Three weeks into captivity and their last frigid bucket shower was over four days ago.

At least they had a toilet, even if it was awfully cold when you sat. Stars above, Alfred wanted out.

Patience, Alfred reminded himself. That voice in his head sounded suspiciously like a certain magical queen, and the king ignored his own internal voice which insisted self-restraint would never be his specialty.

Drop-drop-drop.

The queen had retreated to the opposite wall to collect his composure, Alfred’s own ragged breathing filling the chamber and he coughed, once, before resuming his idle splay on the floor.

Arthur ascertained the damage choking his spouse had cost his nails.

“As for the jab at my sexual performance, love, I think everyone in this room can deny that claim with absolute confidence. Isn’t that right, Edison?”

Drop-drop-drop.

“H-huh?” Their guard startled at his post, not expecting to be addressed by name. His feet kicked at the ground, “Um. I-I guess rumors do get around.” Arthur turned smugly towards the army general and received a playful scoff for his troubles.

The jack spoke up, unimpressed by the exchange, “Do be mindful of others nearby who may not be so invested in his co-workers’ thrilling sexual escapades, please and thank yo-”

“Chow time!” Interrupted another guard, sliding three portions of beige sludge through a small slit in the bars, accompanied by biscuit.

All three groaned.

“C’mon! I get the prisoner thing, but is this,” the queen knocked his biscuit against the bars and three weevils fell out, “really necessary?” said Alfred.

The guards shrugged with indifference and Yao dipped the corner of his flour ball in their water, softening it enough to break off a piece and chew. He paused, fiddled the bite with his tongue, then pulled a long, curled hair out from his teeth.

Both guards had left for a smoke break.

With stony resolve, Yao declared, “We’re getting out of here tonight.”

“Fiunwwy!” said the king through his porridge.

“Ditto,” Arthur scowled. “And, these meals aren’t so bad. Navy ships serve far worse.”

“Ugg. That doesn’t make you look good, Admiral.” Alfred took a small handful of his food and fed it to a cluster of shadows in the corner of their chamber.

Gotta keep his slimy friend nourished, Alfred smiled as the shadows accepted the grub.

Meal finished, Arthur tossed his tray through the bars and sat against the wall, joining Yao where the jack dealt out three piles of playing cards. His technique was quick and clean, and Arthur would never admit to admiring the show.

Not even magic could put on that performance.

Envy forced him to deign his husband with a response. “Do us all a favor and shut your trap.”

Alfred clutched at imaginary pearls and Arthur smirked. “And finish your plate. Besides, army rations hardly pass as food, General Jones.”

Cramming the rest into his mouth with hardly a gag, Alfred discarded the plate and crawled towards the pair. He added an ass wiggle while Yao’s attention was elsewhere. The queen’s ears glowed red and he sneered at Alfred, disapproving of his husband dangling treats with no ability to give in the confined space.

Alfred laughed to himself. The queen was afflicted with an unfortunately high libido. Something which Alfred eagerly satisfied, even if his own needs paled in comparison. However…

Restricted to the meager dimensions of their cell with the observant jack… well, all jokes aside, the king looked with a mixture of trepidation and delight at the demolishment of his ass the moment they found a private space.

They were lucky enough to acquire the deck of cards and spent their time playing every game under the sun- and some new. With Arthur’s unmet sexual needs and most forms of exercise impossible, stir-crazy was an insufficient descriptor for the kinetic energy burning through them.

Cards helped starve off frustration, and offered an iota of normalcy.

Their favorite guard, Edison, returned from his break and all three royals exchanged glances. Alfred straightened up and humm-ed, “Did I ever tell y’all ‘bout that time Major Maisie single-handedly rallied the marines through Norbrandy?”

Yao and Arthur, having heard Alfred’s stories a million times, shook their heads. Alfred laid down a Four of Clubs and dove into his narrative, smiling behind his cards as Edison’s head tilted to hear their conversation better.

“Soulda heard from the boys direct-like. Said she flew in like a cannon. Fort Potomac was occupied by Hearts. Maisie rode in under the shield of fog, took one look at the opaque path ‘round the hill, and led her advance in the dead of night. Bombarded out of nowhere, King Kiku’s soldiers resisted heroically. But,”

“Potomac was conquered by dawn, with only five Spadian casualties.”

Arthur inspected his nails, ignoring the swell of power growing in his breast. “Impressive, I’m sure. What were the odds?”

As an ex-citizen of Spades (likely hired by Diamond forces for better wages than Spades’ less impressive salary), Edison’s vague admiration for his home-kingdom’s success fed the royals’ power. Having been away from the appraisal of most Spadian citizens for a month now, the ignorant guard was their only supplyant.

“Four Hearts soldiers to every one of ours.”

Alfred shivered in excitement when that number reached Edison’s ears and their unknowingly-benevolent guard emitted a burst of patriotism.

“Capital.” The queen spun a card onto the pile.

Yao delivered Arthur a sharp look. Sarcasm was fine, but not when a deaf person could hear it.

“500 points”, Yao announced in a tone which attempted neutrality but failed, tossing the last trick towards himself.

Arthur and Alfred groaned in unison, scratching one more check to the scoreboard on the stone wall. The box under “姚” had comically more checks than the “Al” and “K” beside it.

Alfred thought dreamily of their own castle’s gameroom, which displayed a point board of less comparatively devastating results.

The king’s husband stared hard at their score board, then exchanged with Alfred a look he recognized as offense. Eyebrows drawn to etch little wrinkles above his nose and the tiniest sneer curling the right side of his mouth.

The admiral’s tisk made Alfred break out into pearls of laughter and Yao allowed his own expression to revel in the satisfaction of besting his co-workers.

It was these shared moments which reminded Alfred of Oracle’s excellent match-making.

Drip.

Behind them, soldiers shuffled their shoes into the floor and small movements clinked metal armor.

Probably jealous they weren’t in on the joke, heh.

Yao caught his eye, subtly jutted his chin towards their window. A few miles off an oncoming fog made itself known. Alfred nodded, canines flashing in his grin.

It was go time.

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That night, all men finished their trays of food, persevering through the mealy texture.

Finally, after three weeks of drawing on Edison’s flaky Spadian patriotism, Yao, Arthur, and Alfred felt strong enough to fuel their escape.

But that had been true for three nights now. There was something else they needed to ensure a successful breakout from Fort Shellac. They knew it was only a matter of time, in Diamond’s chilly forest climate, for moisture to collect in the air. All they had to do was intensify the natural way of things.

In the ancient and clammy foundation of their prison, fog poured in through the bars and it only took slight encouragement from Arthur for a Féth fíada to emerge.

“Maisie’s a mage as well as a scientist, no?” asked Yao as the mist grew thicker.

Alfred nodded proudly, cupping something close to his chest so he wouldn’t lose it in his blindness. “Made her own fog machine and bribed some fairies to superpower it- resourceful as always.”

Their security was starting to notice the clouds curling at their metal feet and muttered in distress while their prisoners whispered and waited.

Moonlight cast its reflection on the fog, and as the minutes passed the damp room filled with blue hues.

Drop.

“H-hey!” Edison finally addressed them, kicking spastically at the vapor as though it could be intimidated by violence. He pointed an accusatory finger at Arthur, who played a game of Patience against the tilted wall, “You’ve something to do with this, necromancer?”

Drop-drop-drop.

The Queen of Spades didn’t respond, pulling an ace from the stockpile and whipping it at his captor.

It bounced off Edison’s helmet.

“What on Earth?” The guards watched in horror as the fog swallowed up their legs and began on their chests. “Find the director,” one snapped. Edison didn’t waste a moment, keys clanging in his grip as he scrambled to the exit.

His hurried footsteps echoed through the stairway while silence enveloped the prison. Yao could smell anxiety pouring from the invisible guards, the gentle clinking of their metal armor interrupting an otherwise soundless environment.

Suddenly the cast iron bars screamed, brute force bending and tearing through the metalwork. “Merde!” cursed a Diamond accent.

“That’s a lad,” complemented Arthur, patting his husband’s back while the King of Spades huffed another breath before finishing the job, ripping the door out of its hole with one last ear-splitting jerk.

With inhuman speed Alfred was gone in the fog. Before the unfortunate Diamond soldiers realized, their prisoner smashed them apart so they couldn’t see the other.

“Heh- happy to help.” Alfred smothered the unnamed guard’s mouth, delivering a fist into the armored abdomen. The force was enough to penetrate the protective metal and padded fabric and the body slumped instantly, held up by Alfred’s hand gripping his face.

Yao stepped over the raw metal of their prison door and into the face of Alfred’s catch. The Jack of Spades reached into the guard’s fauld and produced a string, on which he pulled and produced a small sheet of inscribed metal. In complete blindness Yao skimmed his finger beds along the sheet, memorizing the meaning of the indents, before stepping back and handling it the the Queen, who confirmed his interpretation with a hum.

“Thank Oracle for y’all’s Diamindortic, couldn’t read it even if I could see an inch from my face,” Alfred said, dropping the unconscious body and listening with satisfaction as it crashed into the floor.

Dusting off his hands, the cluster of shadows from their cell made itself known against Alfred’s prosthetic leg, oozing up the complicated gears and bolts. It chirped.

“Butters would like some gravity, Arthur,” Alfred said, taking “Butters” from his thigh and flailing in the air before locating the queen’s outstretched hand.

Butters slid the languid journey onto Arthur’s palm and waited patiently for the kiss which Arthur pressed to its head. “Erg. Revulsion doesn’t scratch the surface of your pet’s chosen skin.”

“Yeah, I know. But the mucus keeps ‘im healthy!

A large silhouette, barely discernible in the air, expanded before the three Spadian royals. It stopped growing at around six feet tall and sneezed when Yao touched its nose, approximately the size of a bocce ball.

“What a fine boy,” the jack complimented Butters’ chosen form, petting what felt like an enormous panda.

Yao felt the round ears under his hands and the strength behind the bones of its face. The doublecoat swallowed his fingers when the jack adoringly brushed them under Alfred’s pet’s ears. Beneath Butters’ muzzle were thick canines, and from the animals’ stomping Yao sensed hoofs rather than paws.

“Excellent form, bao.”

Butters wiggled at the praise.

With reluctance Yao released Butters from his coddling and stepped back, allowing the king’s approach towards his service animal.

Steps hurried down the staircase towards them, the sound bouncing off the walls like a stampede of metal-wearing bison.

“Time to go,” Arthur said, dragging a sword off an unconscious guard and advancing towards the stairwell, blade tip forward-facing. Yao chose a barbed mace from his own casualty and wasted no time in singing it through the air.

Alfred cringed against Butters’ neck after mounting, listening with unwanted familiarity to the shrieks and groans of wounded men and women. He had blown off many faces in his long career, but avoided violence when he could.

Right now they could not, and Alfred didn’t bother looking away when he held out two fingers and punctured a soldier through the neck as he and Butters rounded the last turn.

Ignoring any pain emitting from the base of his amputated leg, Alfred ushered Butters onward, the overgrown puppy smashing a recovering enemy back into the stone as they ascended the stairs behind his queen and jack.

Arthur’s weapon, guided under the experienced swordsmanship of a centuries-old navy admiral, sliced through Diamond flesh like butter. The queen was momentarily distracted by Yao’s comment and jammed the mental length through a ribcage up to the hilt.

The soldier’s scream was cut off as blood pooled up her throat and over her teeth, and when yanking went nowhere Arthur pressed one foot against the woman’s side and pushed, orange blood spurting all over him as the body crashed, limp and lifeless.

“Somehow,” panted Yao mid-run, “I didn’t expect so much blood.”

“We didn’t correctly anticipate enemy numbers,” Arthur nodded. “Either our previous estimations of Fort Shellac were off by hundreds, or Diamonds has since fortified its defense.”

“Fucking Francis,” Arthur grumbled to himself, sweat pouring down from his hairline and mixing with the Diamond blood on his cheek.

In Alfred’s marital opinion, his husband looked actually terrifying- and handsome as heck.

“You better not be,” Alfred laughed. In front of him, Yao groaned in a mix of exasperation and disgust.

“Spare me,” the jack pleaded.

Two pairs of feet and one set of hoofs ran along the fort’s main floor, evading who they could and decommissioning any who they couldn’t with little regard for the permanentness of the blow.

With poor Edison’s admiration for Spades to blame, amassed over weeks of captivity, the three royals utilized their inhumane strength without restraint, bulldozing through room after room, leaving behind a trail of massacred soldiers, heads and limbs and organs soaking the stone floor with orange and yellow blood. Like a line of sheets hung out to dry whipped up by a hurricane, screams tore and ripped themselves out from the throats of the wounded and dying.

“And that’s why we don’t wear white to the wedding,” Alfred joked at a guard’s white armor soaked through with orange “wine”. General Jones maintained a light mood with breathless chatter and the queen and jack responded in kind.

Anyone watching might express disgust at their attitude, might expect more from such experienced political figures.

The seasoned monarchs had no reason for suppressing resentment, for the trust broken and their own time wasted and negligent treatment, and did not benefit by acknowledging the graveness of their actions in the moment.

Kidnapping a suit’s royalty was a serious crime, war or no war. It would spell out a dreadful escalation back home. The Spadian monarchs were no wet-behind-the-ear politicians- they were representatives of an empire, with a responsibility to their kingdom above all else.

King Rajesh and Queen Francis would regret their decision, and the first part of Spades’ retribution began with the public condemnation which would befall Diamond royalty when the media caught wind of Fort Shellac’s heavy casualties.

Finally, Yao caught sight of sunlight streaming in through the squares of the portcullis. "सृष्टि डायमंड्स के साम्राज्य और इसे बनाए रखने वाले सभी लोगों को अच्छे अवसर प्रदान करे।, “ said the jack without much relish, quoting from the metal sheet’s engravings.

Only four women stood guard and they jumped in surprise at the correct spell, frozen with disbelief as the gate lifted.

The moment they advanced, the three royals were gone. Beneath them Butters galloped past, encouraged by Arhur’s remaining strength. They rode mile after mile, thoroughly exhausted by their massive expense of magical energy in so short a time.

The Clock gave them inhumane tolerance, but it would never be enough to keep the strain off their bodies in a fight like that.

Eventually, Butters’ pace petered until he came to a complete stop on a road.

Arthur and Alfred had passed out against the soft fur off Butters’ back, too exhausted to stay awake.

The weight of Yao’s eyelids threatened him with the same fate, but sleep wasn’t an option until they were with Spadian authorities.

Thankfully, Spades and Diamonds shared a long boarder and Yao only had to encourage Butters for another hour before a Spadian soldier’s blue armor could be spotted up the road.

She saw them immediately and grabbed her sidearm as she walked up. “Identify yourselves,” she demanded.

Without the energy to even speak, Yao peeled Alfred’s head from between Butters’ ears and used his sleeve to wipe the grime and caked blood from his face.

She recognized her army general immediately, even beneath the thickly remaining dirt, and dropped her weapon to fall to attention.

“Y-your majesties! My deepest, sincerest apologies, I didn’t recognize-,” She stumbled over her words, clearly struggling to find the next course of action.

“It’s fine,” waved aside the jack, feeling himself losing against consciousness. The woman before him might be a fresh recruit but he could care less. The sparkling spade over her breast was all that mattered.

“Just lead him to the nearest lookout,” Yao pointed to Butters. “Don’t bother waking us up,” Yao said before he slumped like a deck of cards with his king and queen, dead to the world.

#hetalia #hws america #hws england #usuk #my art #fanfic #usukustwiceperyear #usuknetwork #hwsfr cardsverse

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hwsforeignrelations · 9 months ago

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The Psychic And The Sceptic

AO3: Give it some love!

Words: 10k+

Summary: In the world of Mob Psycho 100, England convinces phasmophobic America he is haunted by a ghost named Birchington to get revenge against Alfred’s constant insistence that the supernatural does not exist. The prank goes too far when America generates enough collective fear to materialize Birchington into existence. Now faced with a dangerously powerful spirit, the Transatlantic lovers must defeat Birchington and save their vacation.

Made for: USUKUS Twice Per Year 2023-2: "Across the Universe" @usukustwiceperyear, organized by the most FANTASTIC Narco and Verus

Alfred F. Jones idles by Dog & Duck’s entrance, hands cupped against his lips to protect the Zippo’s flame from the London wind waiting to swallow its heat. The round, silver-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose fog up to temporarily blind his street view. It's late in the evening and America glances up, pretends he sees bright constellations against a black expanse instead of the light-polluted haze.

Alfred never liked the cold and he wants to crawl under a warm, heavy blanket. Preferably with the selfish bastard subjecting his American greatness to London’s miserable weather. Soho’s pointedly upturned barstools and the clusters of laughing suits pouring out from bars and onto cobblestone streets feel eternal in their effect. The scene could be seen in exactness on any Friday evening, one hundred years ago, even. The bitterness of tobacco bites the American’s throat with familiar comfort and his fingers tingle at the rush of nicotine. He always smoked more when abroad.

America presses his body closer to the doorframe and just stands there, fills his lungs with smoke and enjoys the peace of being surrounded by conversation he isn’t expected to lead. If he has his way, he’d be providing patronage a few doors down and he peeps longingly along 5th Street where Ronny Scott’s Jazz Club tests his commitment as Designated Arthur Escort.

Good music and the best espresso martini of his life…

“No fookin’ wae. Thi’ Japanese physic defeated th’ Dagger!” exclaims a woman, her and a similarly blasted friend gaping down at the phone held precariously in her hand. “Scared each ‘ther w’ stories about her in prim’ry school.”

America pauses a second then smiles behind his cigarette hand. It takes a day for his brain to realize every retail attendant and secretary he speaks to aren’t imitating British people. They just are British. Though he’s been balls deep for over half a century and should be accustomed, England’s voice doesn’t register as British. He just… sounds like England.

Somebody stumbles and curses behind him, crashing into his side when they exit. Speak of the devil, “Oi mate, watch where you stand!”

Alfred smushes the end of his cigarette into a street pole and flicks the butt into the abyss. It’ll decompose, right? He excuses it by rationalizing: the streets are already littered with soggy stubs. It wouldn't look very awesome to bend over and pick it up now that it’s done. Whatever.

He distracts himself by grabbing Arthur’s side and presses England close so he can smell the stale whiskey on his breath when the Englishman squawks in indignation.

Arthur wiggles but makes no move to dislodge himself from the American’s arm. To be perfectly honest with himself (which he didn’t make a habit of) he had doubts about whether Arthur was actually a lightweight or just enjoyed being carried home. Maybe a combination of both. Regardless, Arthur makes a consistently convincing show of being drunk off his tits.

Arthur slurs, “Didn’t see you there, lad. Just had a few, straight as a pole.” His eyebrows are pressed into one long furrow and his feet totter on the sidewalk, unfocused pupils never lingering on one thing. The yellow streetlamp catches faint freckles dotting Arthur’s nose when the Englishman presses a sloppy kiss against America's cheek. His coordination is off so it's more of a wet-lipped mush, but it’s so ridiculous that it folds Alfred’s lips upward.

If Arthur has been acting all these centuries Alfred would be honored by this magnificent display of public shitfaced-ness. It’s done a lot for their relationship over the years.

“C’mere, y’old drunk. Back to your fairy friends.” Alfred dumps his jacket on Arthur’s shoulders and keeps the Englishman tucked into his side when they finally abandon the closing bar. Arthur’s tie is missing and a mysterious beige stain sits on his left arm, right above the silver band on his ring finger. The little emerald nestled in the center sets off the color of his green eyes and Alfred kisses their closed lids.

“P-public indecency!”

“What?! Man, I fly my ass across the Atlantic, get dog-piled by everyone and their grandmother about some ESG ratings (which I can’t fucking control- I mean, c’mon!), barely find a second to order a burger and latte (thank god for Starbucks), then I’m dragged to Soho just to be put on Designated Arthur Duty so everyone else can drink their merry hearts to… aw I don't know- the Almighty Dollar! Now, now, I get gaslit by my limey sweetheart who hasn’t bothered to fly over in years! Y’all got lucky I ain’t on caffeine withdrawal, cuz tonight woulda been wayyy shorter.” Alfred laughs, and this time Arthur only huffs when Alfred kisses the other eyelid.

“‘M not drunk!” Arthur responds instead, followed by a noise like there’s peanut butter on the roof of his mouth and he can’t quite unstick his tongue. The silence following that declaration is so pungent an Olympic sprinter would cough.

“Tipsy,” Arthur allows, charitably. A guy passing them scoffs into his beer and Alfred just barely manages to yoink Arthur back before he lunges at the guy.

Alfred starts their walk towards a busier street to hail a taxi.

(“Cab, yank!”).

Arthur’s car is parked nearby but Arthur doesn't trust Alfred not to crash his beloved LHS 1955 Rolls Royce Silver Wraith into the nearest post box.

Alfred doesn’t argue. He wouldn’t dare risk denting those beautiful antique headlamps, that chrome grill…. A flush rises up Alfred’s cheeks and he dips in to kiss Arthur’s ear.

To apologize for his unfaithful thoughts towards The Car.

Not that the Englishman isn’t absolutely aware of what ol’ Roycie does for him because boy, oh boy does it do it for him!

Arthur naps on the ride back while nuzzling into the leather headrest in front of him. Outside the window, London's street lamps illuminate the city. Tudor and Victorian and Brutalist homes idle side-by-side, thin mailboxes odd with their vibrant red paint and phone boxes Alfred forgets exist outside of BBC shows whiz by on the streets. This is the stuff architects back home worship, and homes further from the shopping areas remind Alfred of San Francisco’s Victorians (minus the fun colors).

Then he’s struck with a sudden sadness. It depresses Alfred to remember the millions of families who lost their homes in the Blitz. Alfred sees their hollow, starving faces in his mind every time he hears the many construction projects replacing crudely assembled housing infrastructure.

But 77 years later and you wouldn’t know what carnage wrecked the city if you hadn’t seen England drag himself from the cliffend of abyss by the skin of his teeth. Two in the morning and London isn’t even close to quiet. America’s rolled window allows the wind to freeze his cheeks red, and he hopes they don’t look as flushed as the group of teenagers tottering down the sidewalk in their rumpled school uniforms.

England’s heart is decadent, simple, foreign, and familiar all at once. But it’s kinda creepy with all its crusty historical stuff. Ghosts like crusty historical stuff, and America does not like ghosts.

… Not that ghosts exist, exactly. But the vibes? SO ghosty.

A chill runs down America’s spine and he shakes himself from staring at the window to find a credit card that will pay their fare.

⚜⚜⚜

He’s loose and affectionate but vulnerable and inhibited, hiccuping against Alfred and bemoaning the glory days of sea life. . “Nothing compares to standing at the helm of an even ke-keeled- hermpfg-” England covers his mouth and jerks for them to stop walking.

After the cab (thank god) and on the beautifully pruned lion outside his condo Arthur chunders at least lunch and probably breakfast.

Alfred makes sure his partner hadn’t disgraced his shoes, then snatches England’s keys from the jacket slung over his shoulder. “Saw this scene play out the moment you ordered that last round of shots,” Alfred’s fingers sift through the keys while Arthur mutteres profanities up the short stairway. At the top the shorter man presses his forehead against Alfred’s back, steadying his dubious and trembling knees by clutching the American round the middle. “You d-didn’t think to stop me? Cruel,” Arthur moans, tightening his hold to emphasize the extent of Alfred’s inhumanity.

Alfred laughed. “Try? Babe, I couldn’t dream of getting between you and a bar tap. You’d send me home on the next flight!”

Arthur snuggles delightfully into his back, not denying. Alfred’s firm spine and familiar warmth quell the rebellion of his flesh, as if forgetting its owner's mistreatment to revel in the closeness to this source of love, so rarely afforded this luxury.

Relief was temporary, and all is not forgiven.

When Alfred opens the door he leaps out of the doorway (and Arthur’s arms) as a fairy comes barreling towards his face.

Arthur loses balance and crashes into an oakwood coat stand with a belated yelp.

Trixie sneers towards Alfred as he sprints at the bedroom, then circles back to flutter innocently around Arthur’s crumpled form.

Flying Mint Bunny peels off from the darkened window to join them, and England sees others gathered round the entrance watching. England swears he can feel glittery sparkles surrounding his magical friends like auras and he sneezes.

Trixie lands on his shoulder with an air of disdain and twitters, “You’re one of the most powerful physics in the world, and you pick a non-believer? Why do you burden yourself with that self-denying imbecile, Britannia? America felt my presence. Then he turns around and pretends we don’t exist.” Arthur sighs and shrugs a little helplessly. Trixie insists, “It’s insulting.”

England rubs where his smarting head smacked the wood and watches the last of his American disappear through the door to the bedroom. The bump on his scalp heals before it fully forms, and with it, so heals a part of his intoxication.

But he’s still a little tipsy and a lot too nauseous to re-engage that particular conversation regarding Alfred’s denial of the supernatural. It’s not as though Arthur disagrees with Trixie, per se. But he doesn’t want to get into it while Alfred exists just not far away, transforming the bedroom carpet into the aftermath of a hurricane.

A cacophony of mutilated zippers and abused, rough canvas assaults his ears as Alfred sorts through his suitcase.

“God, my head is killing me,” mumbles the Brit in lieu of a proper response, trying in a vague attempt to extract sympathy from beings he’s not sure possess it. Trixie and he can shit talk later over tea. He turns to Flying Mint Bunny for a distraction when he’s saved by “disaster”.

“Where in the fuck is my floss?” cries a familiar voice, dismayed. Sharp, emerald eyes follow the direction of the noise. Oil portraits and rectangular trimmings from floor to ceiling line cobalt walls, adorned in ornamental plasterwork. At the end of the hallway a seven section bay casement window bleeds moonlight onto the faded oriental rug, swathing an otherwise unlit space in soft blue hues. They are staying in an old house and one he hasn't updated to current styles in well over a century. He’s a self-admitted creature of habit, and he won’t ever update another of his properties if he can help it. The ancient foundations maintain their old magic and Trixie, Flying Mint Bunny and the rest are most comfortable on its undisturbed grounds.

“You smell like vomit,” Trixie adds, in that neutrally observational tone. Something Arthur can’t see catches their attention, they kiss his cheek and flutter off.

Mint Bunny squeals happily and flies off to the kitchen, probably to check his cupboards for the usual American snacks Alfred carries with him each visit. At least one of his friends approves of their relationship.

⚜⚜⚜

When Arthur finally peels himself from the coat rack and stumbles to the bedroom Alfred is sitting on the bed sorting through his email, nails click–clack-clacking at the keys and hair damp from the shower. A long string of floss is stuck in an incisor, just ending at his chin. Alfred looks much more comfortable than he did in his work attire, sporting a pair of disgraceful (adorable) striped pajamas. Blue eyes look up and smile at his now mostly-sober lover, beckoning with his bare toe for Arthur to come nearer.

Arthur raises an eyebrow and remains in the doorframe. Beyond the American’s bespeckled sight England presses his fingers into the wood, need for Alfred battling with his pride. What sort of besotted fool would he look? To follow that manicured big-toe’s command. He was England, for god’s sake! An officer of His Majesty’s Military, privateer of the seven seas, knight of King Arthur’s Round Table –

Alfred jumps off the bed, plucking the floss from his mouth in what Alfred must imagine to be sexier than it is. He approaches Arthur’s appraising gaze until they stand centimeters apart-

Arthur’s eyebrows untense and he’s wound into a warm, tight hug.

Alfred doesn’t mention that Arthur smells like stomach acid, which he knows he does. “Holding you in my arms, after a long-ass day… god Artie, I missed ya. You melt my heart right down to butter.” A huge smile breaks Alfred’s face (he can feel it against his shoulder), and Arthur closes his eyes to savour this feeling.

“Ditto.”

It’s difficult to internally admit when something foreign drives intense affection. The urge to become closer, to crawl under Alfred’s ridiculous pajamas and hold him beneath his skin is strong. It reminds him of the yearning he felt for cold, fresh water after a long while at sea. The crown of Arthur’s head is peppered with kisses and Alfred’s clean scent hits him like a rush of warm air. “You left me to die,” Arthur reminds Alfred’s chest, resisting the urge to nuzzle the edge. “By the door. I might have choked on my own sick and died.”

“Catch you in the field, babe,” Afred laughs, referring to the mysterious meadow where all nations regenerate, naked at the day… they were born?

Were they born?

It took about a day for a regenerated nation to find humanity and by then, its location was forgotten.

“Don’t even think about it, boy,” Arthur sasses, balancing the tone by groping Alfred’s lovely behind. “It's about time you pulled out that fat republican wallet. Eight o’clock tomorrow evening, reservation for two. Sushi, the best of what London has to offer.”

Alfred laughs, using one of his own hands to help Arthur get a better grip on his ass. “Sure thing, sugar. But first you’ve gotta work for it.”

“Needy Americans,” The Brit huffs, walking them towards the bed. The back of the American’s knees make contact with the mattress and Alfred falls with a huff, Arthur smirking over him.

Blue eyes smile up when England crawls on top and uses his quick, sharp tongue to ravish a California sun-tanned neck and collarbone and chest like the sky was falling. Alfred’s hands pull at Arthur’s shirt and he moans with pleasure, baring his neck to allow more access, to get all the attention he hasn’t been given for far too damn long.

“Bend your knees,” demands Arthur, taking one of Alfred’s legs in his hand and pushing it up so he can bite a line down his inner thigh. Alfred does as he is bid, but not without a bit of sass. He tries to focus on one hand and massages Arthur's left shoulder, right where he knows it’s tight.

The effect is immediate and Arthur slumps.

“Gghmph,” England moans.

“I missed you, sweetheart,” America pants, Southern twang drawing out the pet name and Arthur feels his arousal spike. Virginia always did the trick for Arthur, brought him right to his metaphorical (and occasionally physical) knees. Buttery and sweet like honey, Alfred keeps the accent up when he mewls the name of every deity he’s never believed in and breathes the Englishman’s name right against the ear adorned in silver piercings.

“Don’t you dare stop.” There’s no need to clarify what they won’t want to end, because it’s never been articulated beyond lips shaping their meaning against damp, desperate skin.

Arthur bites into his American roughly, at the juncture between his shoulder and neck, and one-handedly unties the drawstring of Alfred’s pants. The fabric is pulled down a beautiful pair of hips and now they’re both fully in the mood, cheeks red and huffing hotly.

Alfred kisses Arthur right shoulder the moment it’s revealed. “You’re still kinda dirty,” Alfred laughs and devours Arthur’s mouth.

✰ ✰ ✰

Wind sweeps through the open window and billows out the curtains like a lady’s ball gown. England and America lounge on the couch, Arthur’s perpetually chilled feet buried under the American. Arthur reads a dog-eared copy of Shakespeare’s works and Alfred is nose-deep in a Bureau of Labor Statistics report. They’ve been like this for two hours post-sex and it's disgustingly domestic, but Alfred decides he doesn’t care. It’s very late and Alfred can see sleep tugging at England’s eyes, and although it’s a full six hours ahead of Washington DC Alfred watches Arthur’s chin dip every ten minutes. Then he’d jerk awake, frown, and keep reading. It's a little entertaining and a lot cute.

The papers slap onto the side table to disturb an otherwise quiet space.

“Dude,” Alfred closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up his forehead. He looks under them at his partner.

Arthur doesn’t glance from the page but a toe shifts under his ass. Sassily.

Alfred rolls his eyes, “Arthur.”

Haughty green deigns to meet baby blues, expression still. Alfred stares back and Arthur eventually raises an impressive eyebrow. “Yes, love?”

Alfred laughs and flops sideways, fumbling until his ear lays over Arthur’s stomach and his right arm hangs over the couch to prevent either man from slipping. Arthur snorts and fusses a bit before settling into their new position, rubbing circles over Alfred’s temple. A few hours ago every point of contact burned like fire. Now, it just feels nice. And post-sex shower Arthur’s back to his usual soap and tea smell.

If all days getting dogpiled ended like today Alfred wouldn’t need half the cigarette budget.

“Read to me,” Alfred demands, proud of himself for such an awesome idea. The position is awkward but they fit together like puzzle pieces.

The hand rubbing his temple deftly pinches his nose. Alfred flinches and the same fingers ease wire frames off from where they’re squashed between Alfred’s ear and Arthur’s stomach, folding the arms on the side table over the rejected report. Alfred looks up to see the blurry shape he knows to be Arthur, adopts his most innocent expression.

“Please?”

Even the fuzzy colors of Arthur’s sharp features soften. Heh, got ‘im.

Arthur scoffs and resumes his petting. “Oh, very well. Spoilt brat.

“‘Benedict: O, she misused me past the endurance of a block! An oak but with one green leaf on it would have answered her. My very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the Prince’s jester, that I was duller than a great thaw, huddling jest upon jest ith such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood like a man at a mark with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs. If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the North Star.’”

Alfred laughs at the last sentence and Arthur’s eyes crinkle faintly at the edges. His reading voice is unbelievably sexy and warm, tongue looping through Shakespeare’s words like an experienced weaver’s hand winds their thread. Arthur doesn’t just read when telling a story. He spoke the lines and he brought their meaning to organic, vibrant life. Before the modest fireplace England delivered Benedict’s wit and charm with an adeptness Alfred, having attended Much Ado About Nothing dozens of times, had never felt. The Englishman’s affection for the words of his old poet and slight fatigue softening rounded vowels make America’s heart flutter.

Anxiety brought by the BLS’s report soars to far crevasses of America’s brain, busy activity settling by England’s lolling voice.

Alfred closes his eyes and breathes deep, deeper than he’s been able to breath in a long while. Vibrations of Arthir’s chest, pressed against his ear, flood his body with ease so he doesn’t register when the act ends and England’s silent.

⚜⚜⚜

England blinks through exhaustion at the lax, tanned face.

A silly urge prods the older blond and Arthur considers it absentmindedly. Squirming in embarrassment, Arthur gently blows America’s hair to confirm that he’s asleep. His eyelashes don’t flutter and Arthur sighs with relief and mutters, with more tenderness than he will ever allow the egotistical fool to hear awake, “I love you.”

The words hang in the air a moment, and Arthur closes his eyes and sighs deep when the American’s face remains relaxed in sleep.

“Coward!”

Arthur jumps, heart leaping up his throat. Trixie is watching from the mantle, their tiny feet swinging back and forth. It’s clear the faerie has been observing them for a while. Just his luck. Shouldn’t they have something better to do?!

England flushes and looks awaywhere but his small friend, demanding, “Something funny?”

Silence follows the question and Arthur eventually looks towards the fireplace, blames the heat in his cheeks on the flames licking up applewood. Trixie tilts their head, suddenly serious.

“Britannia slept wrapped amongst oak root flares,” they say, so indirectly it might not be for Arthur.

“You’re happier.” Now they face England. He doesn’t answer, picking apart the odd sentence.

Alfred produces a loud snore in the moment Trixie and Arthur lock eyes. Arthur raises his right hand, previously holding the book, to smooth through America’s golden hair. The stands are soft from the shower and he tugs gently at Nantucket. He raises an eyebrow at the mantle, tempting the magical creature to comment.

They don’t. Arthur looks down at his lovely lad and the rings of exhaustion below his eyes and the peacefulness of his expression in slumber. He looks younger without his glasses, and the weight of his torso is warm and heavy. Just enough to be comforting, even if he was losing some sensation in his legs. He can feel Trixie’s gaze on his face. He doesn’t know what thoughts might be going through their mind, but he believes what they say is true and he is happy for it, though he will not reveal such sentiment to reward their audacious behavior.

✰ ✰ ✰

America wakes to the sensation of a page brushing Nantucket and a pair of bony wrists resting on his crown. England reads beneath him and Alfred pretends to stay asleep.

“Good afternoon- or should I say morning, Mister Eastern Standard,” Arthur murmurs, blowing Alfred’s cover. Paper scrapes against America’s hair as England turns a page.

Sunlight filters through lacy curtains, its gentle warmth tingling the skin of Alfred’s back. Arthur’s lounge room’s overall chill is attributed to the outdated (to state it gently) building’s poor insulation.

Combined with their point of contact the temperature is perfect.

Snuggling close, Alfred smiles into Arthur’s waist and pulls his right hand up- except it’s fallen asleep on the floor. So he pulls that one in and successfully retires with his left where a thin-rimmed Texas is deposited.

Alfred didn’t like opening his eyes without them. He’s been told it makes him look tired and young, neither of which was his desired image. Plus he couldn’t see more than four inches in front of his face.

Alfred refuses to contemplate what that symbolized of his nationhood.

Without looking, the lenses squeak against a blanket pooled on the floor and are placed on Alfred’s face. Arthur's gaze briefly flicks down to meet blue eyes when the American looks up. His lip twitches just barely, then he goes back to reading. The Englishman looks younger than usual, features relaxed as sharp eyes scan the lines of text with efficiency. Sometimes his lips mimic the words, but Alfred knows Arthur would be self-conscious if he were told and so he tries not to look or smile too adoringly. He settles for nuzzling the inside of Arthur’s wrists.

“Morning! I’m a little surprised you didn’t try getting up,” Alfred digs his phone out from the couch cushion and starts checking the news. “I mean, not sure why you’d wanna.”

Above him Arthir huffs, “Oh, bugger off. I haven’t felt my legs for the last ten hours and you’re about fifteen tones above my current PR.”

Alfred smirks and wiggles, not moving. “Better get back to the gym then, sweetheart. I ain’t seen you in years. You can bet your black pudding I’m not moving before lunch. Speaking of,”

⚜⚜⚜

Alfred closes Wall Street Journal and scrolls through nearby restaurant pages. Now that food is mentioned, Arthur realizes he is starving. However, he doesn’t want Alfred to see his own realization because it would be embarrassing to admit he hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning, and forces his eyes to continue reading the words. Internally Arthur begs his stomach not to rat him out.

“Alfred!” Arthur squawks when America bounces up, sending Shakepeare at his face.

“Whoops!” shouts Alfred, already down the hall. He emerges a moment later wearing jeans, tugging a sweatshirt over his head. Arthur scowls while Alfred pulls his shoes, “Remember that French-Prusian bakery you took me, Matt, and the Aussie to in the ‘50s? With the halva croissants?”

It takes Arthur a moment, but he does. In fact, he remembers selecting that particular bakery, along with a few other restaurants, in an attempt to encourage America’s prolonged stay in London. So they could… so he could spend more time with him. Or something like that.

“Yes.”

“It’s gonna close in, like, thirty minutes,” Alfred pleads, struggling to tie the laces on his combat boots. Then he's running back for a toothbrush.

Memories of that visit are forced to the forefront of his mind and he allows them to run their course while he bookmarks his page and folds the blanket and stacks it on a towering pile of afghans.

As it turned out, Alfred hadn’t needed more than an invitation. Between the American embassy, London’s reconstruction, and a pitstop in the French countryside the two of them ended up in one another’s company for much of the following week as a result of “sheer coincidence”, and the tireless efforts of clever secretaries. Their schedules overlapped perfectly. It was pleasant remembering that week of travel and sleep, a small break from his own stressful affairs with the worn and edgy politicians reconstructing the dissonant pieces of a shattered empire.

On their train out of France and towards the Channel, England had broken down against the observation car’s rail. He had thought himself alone with cold, loud air rushing against his back. He didn’t make a habit of crying but in that moment he’d been overwhelmed by it all and dropped his shields in (what he thought was) the privacy of night. When Arthur wiped any trace of distress from his face and saw that an hour had passed, he reentered the car to find America staring out the window.

Two cups of liquid sat balanced on either knee and when he looked up, expression concealed by an absence of light, he offered the right one to England.

“Found a moment to cram your face in the dining car, have we?” Arthur asked, taking the cup with visible suspicion and sniffing the rim. His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

It was tea! Either he had fallen off the balcony and gone to heaven (extremely unlikely) or been the victim of frostbite and gone delirious (possible), because in no universe did the United States of America offer England tea.

England was more surprised not to receive even a “stuff it”. America’s silhouette only shrugged.

Sipping it delicately, England had tapped his foot. He wasn’t sure what response the situation deserved and America had resumed his window watching, occasionally sipping what Arthur assumed was coffee. Arthur was tired from years, decades, of constant change and it felt as though that hour of reflection had forced him to recognize the exhaustion for what it was. This brief display of care, in a moment of weakness, was enough to move his cold heart and he melted just a bit. His resolve to look unperturbed by America’s tea offering melted Arthur just enough to sit himself a few seats from the American.

His tongue had tasted black tea. It had been a tad cold, meaning Alfred had seen him crying and retreated to his seat for at least twenty minutes. Dash it all, he'd cursed internally.

The remainder of the trainride had passed in the most silence England and America had shared all week, and when his cup of tea had been drunk to the dregs he’d grabbed America’s hand in a firm grip and they nodded once. Then England had left, grabbed his bags, and boarded the Channel ferry without looking back.

That was not the first occasion America had revealed something tender and lovely behind that megawatt smile, but it was a memory he held dear to his heart during a time Arthur knew a gentle wind might toss him out of existence.

Blanket folded and feelings tender, Arthur pushes himself off the couch and vows never to remember it again. It makes him feel old and inglorious.

Arthur’s thoughts are interrupted by an unhappy, empty stomach.

“Don’t wait up” He tells the empty room sarcastically. Bare feet follow the farmed portraits towards his room, taking a moment to smooth out a carpet corner with his toe. Alfred has the unique gift of generating an awful racket with the smallest of tools and an orchestra of water, metal, and plastic against procline narrates Alfred’s routine exactly beyond the thick doors.

Clink! Alfred sets down a can of shaving cream.

When he enters the bathroom America shoves a bottle of sunscreen in his general direction, raising an eyebrow through the mirror where he’s shaving. England sees his own shadowed face in its reflection and shoos Alfred aside to lather his own cheeks in shaving cream.

“Fucking gorgeous day, huh? Haven’t slept that well in months. Suppose I sleep on you every night; I’d be Superman,” Alfred shows off perfect, pearly white teeth and Arthur considers flossing for the first time in weeks.

“Suppose you lose about three stone and we’ll revisit that idea,” he pauses to gargle mouthwash, then spits it down the drain and presses a kiss to America’s snarky smirk. “We’ll workshop.”

Slacks, vest, comb, and ten minutes later America and England are out the door and hand in hand towards the bakery.

⚜⚜⚜

Alfred is chipper as usual and Arthur enjoys the wonderful breeze and Alfred’s expressive background chatter as Arthur leads their speed-meander towards the bakery. No need really. The smell of warm pastries hits them a block off and now it’s Alfred pulling Arthur along, like a child towards a candy shop. It's a small building tucked between two larger modern ones and the bell on the door jangles when they enter.

“Arthur!” exclaims a jovial woman manning the register, “We haven’t seen you in months! How’ve you been? How did the roses come along this season?”

Alfred abandons their hold to explore the limited array of baked goods left from the morning crowd. If that boy smudges the display case…

“Blooming even more vibrant than last year, thank you. It’s wonderful to see you, Amahle,” She’s placing five of the remaining croissants in a white paper bag, deft movement not breaking their conversation. Arthur’s mouth waters a bit but thankfully his stomach does not expose his excitement.

He’s missed this bakery more than he realized. Alfred is pointing at a chocolate something-or-other and Amahle adds them to the bag with a smile.

“Business running smoothly?” he asks to be polite, although the answer is evident by the almost empty shelves.

“Always”, she laughs, and frowns playfully when Alfred tries offering his card. She hands Alfred the bag, stuffed to the brim. Golden pastry crust peaks over the edge.

“Thank you, ma’am!” Alfred’s hand crinkles the little white bag and emerges with a cookie, immediately shoving its entirety into his face.

“A-Alfred!” Arthur sputters behind him, barely resisting the urge to strangle the man for his slobbish eating habits. But Amahle just looks pleased to see a customer enjoying her food with gusto. Settling for a swift smack on that lovely behind Arthur slips a twenty pound banknote into the tipping jar while the shop owner is shelled by midwestern American enthusiasm for anything containing butter and sugar. America barely swallows before going on, “Your bakery is really delicious, you know? Artie dragged us here years ago. Best pastry crust I’ve ever had, and believe me when I say I’ve tried a lot. Haha, never forget!”

During COVID Arthur made a point to place weekly orders from a few private businesses. Amahle’s being one of them. Luckily her shop pulled through and it warmed Arthur’s heart to see their usual flourishing clientele returned.

He waves goodbye and drags Alfred, still talking, out the door. He hasn’t seen Alfred for years, and they have a lot to do today.

⚜⚜⚜

On the road towards the nearest Underground station and midway through a weak defense of the Imperial system, America shivers. “D-did you feel that, Arthur?” he whispers, pushing up his glasses and crowding closer. Arthur pulls when his partner’s steps falter, looking around briefly.

Some steps ahead a father pushes a stroller, and a woman wielding five leashes (all attached at the end to dogs of varying sizes) leans against a nearby tree watching her phone. Some ducks idle by the pond, and the usual animal suspects are present. Nothing out of the ordinary. And certainly nothing so peculiar as to cause America’s arm muscles to clamp under his clothes.

“Those USDA-approved chemicals finally hit their mark. A few bites of sashimi ought to right things,” he says, tapping the side of Alfred’s head to cover up a kiss. The smell of his own shampoo in Alfred’s blond curls makes him a little warm so he cuts it short.

Alfred returns the gesture. But he pulls on England’s arms, and the uncalibrated force both informs the Brit America isn’t joking, and yanks him down before Arthur can prepare. “Alfred, watch it!”

“Oops. But babe,” Alfred stops their walk, and forces Arthur to stare at intense, anxious blue eyes. “I- something- I felt something cold go through my chest. L-like a ghost,” he stammers out, cheeks gone white.

Arthur feels the urge to roll his eyes. He doesn’t fight it. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

“Dude!” Alfred shoots him a betrayed look, snatching his hand from their hold inside Arthur's pocket. “This ain’t funny! It’s almost a full moon!” He gestures vaguely at the sky.

If there had truly been any “ghost” phasing through Alfred's chest, Arthur would have noticed. And a full moon? Was that some American superstition- that ghosts would abandon their regular hauntings to pester the non-believers? America’s big, blue eyes plead Arthur’s unmoved green one’s to believe him. Or maybe to disprove his anxiety?

Well, there wasn’t any harm in encouraging this superstition. It might even provide the evidence America needed to overcome his see-it-then-I’ll-believe-it system. Trixie would be proud.

“Yes. Yes! Of course, how very silly of me, poppet. I didn’t realize you could sense, uh-” Arthur thought quickly, looking around for inspiration, “Birch!...ington. Birchington, that’s his name. Died an awful, painful death I hear… heard- from the papers.” Arthur nods solemnly, biting into a croissant.

He’s rewarded for his shoddy acting skills by a quick inhale, and his hand is immediately rejoined in his pocket. Ha!

It’s twitchier than usual and Arthur would feel guilt, except that Alfred’s persistent refusal to acknowledge the existence of the creatures that raised him for the first millennium of his life has festered into an admittedly bitter sore-spot in their relationship. As one of the world’s greatest psychics, the responsibility to legitimize his side profession partially fell on his shoulders. England was only performing his duty to all spirit and magic kind!

They descend into the station and Arthur continues the story while he fetches Alfred a metro ticket from the kiosk, “Oh yes, terrible thing it was. Worked under some old fart as a valet for years- 1890s, was it? TB caught him off guard and poof! Apparently he was quite the handsome devil, had the papers all in a rage.”

Arthur slips the ticket into a shaky hand and looks up into a white face, blue eyes wide like saucers. “T-terrible, huh?”

“Terrible,” Arthur agrees, smug.

⚜⚜⚜

To nations there is nothing more comfortable than standing in their homeland and Arthur is no exception. Nothing quite makes England’s day like riding the Underground. The cars are densely populated but quick, just enough people and time to recalibrate his senses after being away from society for any extended time.

Not even Alfred’s twitching can break this sensation of quiet contentment.

The weekend crowd is thin in today’s unseasonable weather and both men find seats promptly. Arthur busies himself multitasking: arguing with Scotland over text and editing a memo for his boss about yesterday’s meeting, excluding any detail of the after-work drinking party. His thumbs are too fat for the tiny keyboard and every word is a laborious process, relief only granted by Scotland’s motley, half-illertate notifications. Beside him Alfred startles like a lamb at every minute jerk of the traincar and unexpected noise, fiddling with video games on his phone and switching tabs to his inbox and hoaxy Twitter articles on the supernatural every other second.

That’s the third time he misspelled “propositional”! Fuck this!

“What’s got your knickers in a twist? That alien friend of yours escaped through the backyard fence again?”

Alfred delivers a particularly nasty look, knee bouncing. “First, Tony has free reign of the place! He ain’t a pet; he’s a fiend. Second: Ghosts, Arthur! Like you said! I mean, they don’t exist, but what if someone’s really, really good at imitating ‘em. Haunting and, and… and whatever the fuck else ghosts fo- Arg!” Flappy Bird crashes into a green pipe.

Arthur puts his hand out and Alfred drops his phone into it, watching Arthur beat America’s high score over the trenchcoated shoulder. Alfred raises a thin eyebrow when it’s given back. “Touché.”

Alfred and Kiku weren’t the only nations bored out of their minds in 2013.

“Birchington has better things to do than play tag, Alfred. It’s insulting to imply otherwise.”

When they arrive at Piccadilly Station Alfred bounces off his seat and flies at the doors, waiting with a hand on his hip for them to open. “Hun, really. I appreciate you tryna make me feel better but I’ve got a gut feeling- something’s gonna go down. I found this Twitter community- they totally agree.”

Alfred throws this over his shoulder. His clenched jaw catches the car’s dingy light. Stupidly handsome yank.

Blue eyes are hard behind silver glasses and his posture is ramrod straight beneath a classic WWII flight jacket. It reminds Arthur of an officer’s pose, the one Alfred wore during his own training. The serious attitude would be knee-buckling if Arthur didn’t know what nonsense brought the attitude about.

The effect is dampened. Only a slight rouse on the cheeks betray him. Luckily, Alfred is even denser when he’s in a mood and so the Englishman is spared the ridicule.

“Intuition? Good lord, lad, we’ve far too much to do to listen to that,” Arthur scoffs, offering half of his second croissant when they reach the street.

✰ ✰ ✰

Arthur isn’t taking this spooky business seriously enough. Maybe he’s spent so much time in his “Magic Club” with Norway, Romania, and Haiti he’s developed a tolerance. Which is super weird, considering magic doesn’t exist. One too many “scones”(read: coal nuggets) and his break with reality isn’t limited to his sense of taste.

But it’s okay, because Arthur looks extremely handsome and mature today and a little sass and insanity’s never been enough to keep him out of Arthur’s arms and bed.

Alfred accepts the croissant and nibbles at its flaky crust, following the beige back of a trenchcoat leading them towards a car. He’d prefer to nibble on his fingernails but then he'll get slapped by Arthur, teased by Mattie, and yelled at by the manicurist. A triple whammy he’d rather not relive.

They pass by an old bar with ivy weaving through its brick wall (that can’t be up to code) and goosebumps spread across his arms under the leather jacket like a wave of cold water crashing over his head. Jesus on a stick. Birchington, that bastard! He crams the rest of the pastry into his mouth and speed-saunters towards Arthur.

The Englisman scans his car, now visible through a light crowd. No smashed window glitters on the road. Hooray! “I’m picking up a few files at my office before dinner,” Arthur pats his arm with the hand holding his keys, swiping through his phone in the other. “Be a dear and quit stroking the sides. I know you’re besotted but I really hate seeing grease smudges on my way to work.”

Alfred snatches back the hand absentmindedly petting The Car. “I don’t- I wouldn’t- I. What?” He holds both hands in the air as if to pronounce his innocence.

See, officer? Unarmed. Arthur rolls his eyes and uses the edge of his shirt to wipe a nonexistent smudge on The Car. That ass.

“Not to spoil your plans but weren't we gonna go on that hike? Weather reports say it’s gonna be way worse the rest of my VK dates.”

The driver’s side opens with a well-oiled chick and they both slide in through respective doors. Alfred’s admiration for The Car is so strong it almost distracts the American’s thoughts from Birchington.

“Oh arse it all … yes. Those files will have to wait. You might be right- for once.”

“Haha, don’t hurt yourself.”

Arthur sits back a moment and looks pensive out the windshield. “ My hiking boots and bag are still in the back from last time. Everything should take less than six hours so we’ll be right in time for our reservation. Sounds good?”

“Sounds better than good. And I wanna pick up water and a box of Ding Dongs. When I checked the cupboard half the wrappers were empty.”

“It wasn’t me,” Arthur huffs, and Alfred doesn't know whether or not to believe him. Certainly, Ding Dongs don’t just go poof! But Arthur wouldn’t have had time to eat so many and Alfred has been known to sleepwalk (and eat).

Alfred brushes his legs up and down in an attempt to warm up. He feels colder than he did a minute ago.Winter can suck his balls. “Mind turning up the heat?”

His request is obliged and The Car is expertly wound through busy lanes. Alfred takes out his phone and scrolls through his Twitter feed. One of the trending posts by Reigan Arataka’s Spirits & Such Consultation. Defeated the Dagger in Japan?! Alfred heard dozens of rumors about her both in Japan and back home. Alfred retweets the post:

“OMG i’m in London rn w my bf and he says theres a ghost named birchington haunting us. any1 else in the uk heard of him?”

The car warms quickly as they drive (on the wrong side fuck fuck fuck Alfred resists the urge to scream every time they turn). Nevertheless a chill persists deep in his bones. It remains even when a sweat builds under his collar while Arthur insists the driver in front of them is a wanker and habitually fucks his mother on Sundays.

It’s cold, but it absolutely shouldn’t be. Could it be the ghost? That fucker Birchington?

“Who in their right mind allowed your daft,”

“Arthur.”

“Flea-bitten, pig-brained,”

“Arthur.”

“Chud to maneuver a vehicle on this blood- Oh you’re turning? Finally! Realized you could suck up even more oxygen by flicking the turnsig-”

“Arthur!”

“What?!”

“I know they don’t exist BUT- There’s a mutherfucking ghost haunting my ass and you’re pretending not to see it!” Alfred snaps, shivering under his clothes and twitching nervously.

Arthur taps the steering wheel and doesn’t respond immediately. Which he should, considering the gravity of the situation. “America,” he says, not kindly. “There’s no ghost.”

“…Promise?”

“Well, not in the car at the very least. There’s a placard in the glove compartment, be a dove and hang it under the mirror.”

Alfred sighs in disgust and digs through what must be a hundred maps (honestly, who still uses paper maps?) before pulling it out and doing as he’s told. There’s nothing to worry about, Alfred tells himself.

But when he moves his hand from blocking his view of the street a silhouette on the sidewalk appears. It’s a hunched figure wearing a ragged cloak and Alfred sees the red brick wall behind them. The hairs on the back of his neck stand ramrod and he turns to tug on Arthur’s sleeve when a moment later he blinks.

And the figure is gone.

If there was a ghost nearby Arthur would have noticed, what with all his freaky magic wizarding shit. The goosebumps and feeling like he’s being watched are probably a symptom of burnout. Alfred just doesn’t know how to relax and his brain has come up with something mean to scare his mind into its usual overworked state. That’s what Mattie says all the time, and his Canadian neighbor is usually not wrong.

Alfred can trust Arthur. Arthur wouldn’t lie about something like this. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

✰ ✰ ✰

Thirty minutes into their hike and twenty into the culpability of Twitter users abouts the existence of ghosts, and all the theories his followers proposed in Alfred’s tweet comments, Arthur proves him wrong.

“For goodness’ sake, Alfred! I was joking, love. There is no Birchington. I was just so pent up with your constantly jabbing my magic so I made up a silly little story.”

Alfred stops walking and flails before finding his voice, “... You lied to me?”

“It wasn’t creative enough to warrant a ‘lie’, per se. Anyone with half a brain could see through it. Just- just quit fussing so we can enjoy what little free time we get.” Arthur grabs Alfred’s hands, expression something between infuriated and pleading. Arthur looks at his watch and it’s clear the only thing the Englishman is concerned with is staying on schedule.

Alfred feels beyond betrayed. He trusted Arthur!

(To be frank this wasn’t inconsistent behavior. Their usual Halloween challenge relied on Arthur using Alfred’s particular weak spot against him. But!) This wasn’t Halloween. This vacation was supposed to be for sleep, exploring, and sex exclusively.

Flabbergasted, Alfred stutters angrily a few moments before turning cheek and stomping off. Unfortunately Arthur carries all of their navigation equipment, and so Alfred’s gesture can’t have the desired impact and storm out of sight the way he’d prefer, but he can sit down and start typing a draft to Mattie about what a jerk Arthur is.

Alfred finds a semi-dry log and does just that.

Honestly, doesn’t Arthur know how lucky he is to be with Alfred?? He’s so amazing. Massive biceps, a sweet face, sexy NASA station ID card… Arthur’s totally disrespecting him. Slandering his dignified image! That limey bastard!

Alfred types furiously on his smartphone, striking a comical silhouette along the trunk he leans against.

But he pauses when the shadow of an unkindness of ravens are bent by his foot. Birds twitter and chirp in the tree tops. They sound so merry, and of course they do. How could the birds be unhappy? The weather is lovely and they’re with all their bird friends. Who knows how long birds live, how long they’ll have to chirp together. Perchance. It’s nice to hear their musical notes and Alfred starts feeling silly for being bitter. Closing Whatsapp, Alfred starts looking towards his Englishman, about to forgive and forget-

Before he sees the expression on Arthur's face.

England has an unimpressed eyebrow raised above on an equally snooty gaze, almost glassy with disinterest. The birdsongs seem to cut off abruptly in Alfred’s ear and he whips back to Whatsapp, typing twice as furiously.

“If you need a moment to console yourself I’ll just be over there,” says Arthur eventually, finding a stump near a clearing to sip at his Yeti of tea. Japan gifted him a box of teas before the meeting and this black blend has subtle hibiscus tones. It’s excellent and Arthur mentally ponders what gifts he could thank Kiku’s gesture with.

Arthur does feel a little bad for keeping up the lie, but America is acting so childish that it would hurt him more to acknowledge it than apologize and it was such a fucking. Stupid. Lie!

Behind him Alfred curls his lip in Arthur’s direction, thumb pressing a hole through his phone screen.

The sound of crunching glass makes Arthur look over his shoulder to raise an even (if somehow possible) higher and haughtier eyebrow.

“Not. One. Word,” Alfred says in an intense whisper, ruined phone falling into a small pouch on the side of America’s borrowed hiking bag. This wasn’t the first technological casualty, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last

Arthur seals the Yeti bottle shut and nods, meeting Alfred in the middle of the trail where they initially parted ways.

Looking down at Arthur and remembering all the birds singing, he realizes how little time they have and how much he doesn’t wanna waste it. “Pop by Starbies tomorrow morning and we’re even.”

Arthur offers a sarcastic hand and Alfred shakes it.

They both look down at their hands for a moment before Alfred smiles. “Awww, c’mere you,” he dips Arthur into a tender kiss, almost overbalancing with their combined hiking equipment.

The trail leads England and America another four miles into the forest, an orange sun just beginning its Eastern dip to cast long tree shadows.

⚜⚜⚜

Arthur starts feeling something strange. Alfred convinced him to stray from the trail after a late lunch and he regrettes giving in. They each had headlamps but neither man was keen to stay out past dark.

Unfortunately the compass wouldn't quit spinning and Arthur’s phone was dead. Alfred was freaking out as the minutes went by and the sun sunk lower, and Arthur pretended he wasn’t freaking out as well by marching ahead.

Alfred wasn’t in the habit of verbalizing his anxiety, but Arthur chalked it up to some lingering ghost fears.

“We’re lost! Oh fuck Arthur, we’re lost,” Alfred whimpered, chugging his water. “If Birchington- if ghosts existed I’d be real nervous right about now. Dark, empty forest. No weapons, compass broken, phones dead. Ha ha ha. Heh.”

“Pity, it seems we’ll miss our reservation. But we’re fine. We entered the path on the Eastern side, so even if we don’t find the trail for a few miles we’ll run into a road.” But the temperature was dropping, and frankly neither Arthur nor Alfred had been following where they were. Who needed to with a trail?

“Uh, Artie?”

Arthur stopped smacking the side of the spinning compass to look up. “What?”

“The website didn’t mention a big ass castle anywhere.”

“Why would it? There’s no cast- Oh.” In the clearing, illuminated just by moonlight, loomed a massive, dilapidated and ivy-covered castle.

How neither man saw it before is beyond Arthur. It’s enormous and beautiful, with tall towers on either side. They stand so close they can see the mosaic of rocks, and thick ivy tearing through the binding. Moss kisses each crevasse and the rocks are smoothed by weather and time. It’s a jaw droppingly stunning building and it makes Arthur melt just a bit.

“I thought I’d seen them all…” Arthur whispers aloud. It is curious to realize that something this huge and close to home had gone under his radar.

A force he can’t place seems to pull Arthur’s body towards the looming structure, and before he realizes it he’s weaving through the brush filling the entrance.

“Wha- Arthur! No, man, no c’mon this is- it’s how people die in h-horror movies!”

Subconsciously, Arthur can tell how close to breaking Alfred’s tone is. But there’s a mixture of curiosity and something far more powerful pulling him in and denying his feet their forward march is actually painful. “You wait here, love. I’m gonna have a look about.”

His responses are vague flailing noises which increase steadily in volume until Alfred is glued to his side. They ascend a crumbling stairwell off the parlor, and with each step what little light remains steadily dulls until the brightest thing visible is the entrance to the stairs. They turn on their headlamps, but there’s not much to see.

“This is creepy as fuck,” Alfred complains, and Arthur can’t help but agree. There’s magic, strong magic, somewhere in these walls and he feels both threatened and enraptured by its pull. He can’t stop himself from placing one foot in front of the other even when he’s decided the potential risk is not worth quenching his curiosity. Alfred is clearly terrified, and the American’s unintentionally harsh hold over his arm threatens to snap the bone.

Behind him a rather nasty cough emanates. “Excuse me.”

At that Arthur whips around faster than light. Alfred would never apologize for coughing! He’s right: In front of his eyes festeres a spirit. His form is vague, but he wears a white shirt under a cloak, and it is speckled with blood. A cloth is held against his mouth and when he looms towards them he doesn’t make another sound.

”It’s Birchington, just like those guys on Twitter said!” Alfred exclmains.

Ah. That explained this then. What's more stereotypical than an English 1890’s TB victim haunting a dilapidated medieval castle? Very little, that’s what.

“How many Twitter followers do you have, love?” asks Arthur. He knows it's in the millions. It doesn’t bode well for them, alone with an extremely powerful spirit who's still gaining in power from fear generated by Alfred’s Tweet.

Six hours ago Birchington the ghost, an unfortunate victim of tuberculosis, did not exist.

Now Alfred and Arthur are being pulled right off their feet and into the air by a very real, very dangerous conjuring of the mass imagination. In the end, Arthur can admit this is his own doing.

Alfred’s unholy screams are devoured by an artificial wind, but his mouth is open and he can feel the American’s terror from where he’s being tossed and dragged against the walls on the other side of the room.

With each drag Arthur feels his skin ripping off from his back, arms, and legs and his clothes go damp. He smells copper, and he bites his tongue to keep from screaming.

Alfred has no such reserves and curses up a storm, his superior strength holding up better against Birchington’s onslaught.

Suddenly the bricks beside him explode into shards of rock and America is right next to him, arms strained against the wall and hands embedded in the crumbled dirty brick. “You said you lied, fucker!”

Arthur strains his neck in order to turn his head and yell against the howling wind, “I did not lie this time, Alfred! Your chronically online Twitter posse believed him into existence! Maybe you should keep your fucking life to yourself insetad of informing the world on your every step and thought, twat!”

“T-twa- I can’t believe you, you-Akk!” And Alfred is yoinked back into the air.

Below them Birchington coughs up what must be a lung and a half. The noise he produces is dreadful and comically fitting for his backstory. The concept of a coughing, evil ghost would be funny if the attacks weren’t so vicious. England is again slammed into a wall, this time stomach down, and he turns his head to snarl. He has to think of something to at least even the scale, and as he does his tongue curiously catches a tooth which must have cracked off when his face smashed against the bricks.

He spits it out onto his palm and clenches it tightly in a fist, closing his eyes and forcing his body to hold up against the invisible winds wanting to shove it to and fro. When he opens them his body remains in the same place and below Birchington releases an energized hacking fit. England senses the spirits' magic increase, but his own abilities allow his physical body to maintain its undisturbed hovering.

Above him Alfred continues to be spun about, flailing his arms and legs like someone who has never learned to swim in a body of water. Arthur can’t do anything about America while he stabilizes his own field of gravity and familiarizes himself with Birchington’s energy.

“I’m going to try exercising him, so try and grab onto something,” Arthur shouts, drawing upon his magic and forming a ball of light in one hand. It’s difficult to maintain because Birchington’s power is being drawn from the land around them, which England partially draws from as well. Without any magical conductor, he has nothing but his own limbs to centralize the force of his blow.

England takes a breath, flexes his leg,

And drops.

⚜⚜⚜

“Bloody buggering- fuck- goddamit,” Arthur seethes, forcing the two pieces of femur together. The only thing worse than breaking a femur was having to re-snap it when the bone healed crookedly.

Alfred, smushed against his side in an Uber that probably isn’t up to code, rubs his shoulder in sympathy. The lad was obviously exhausted. Not surprising considering the bodily trauma inflicted by Birchington’s attack. The American was fighting sleep, blinks becoming slower and slower.

The windows are open and leave the car feeling identical to the stone, bone-cold castle they escaped not hours before. The chilly temperature might have helped England fight his own desires to sleep if not for the warm leather jacket sitting over his shoulders.

Immediately after exercising Birchington Arthur blacked out. Alfred took the liberty of wrapping him in that beloved flight jacket and carrying them towards a road, where a car peeled off the road and the driver proclaimed herself an Uber.

Then Arthur awoke with a shout of pain.

They listened to her with disbelief, but little choice. The night was empty and it was a stroke of luck that anyone was out here at all.

“No card, though,” she’d then said, and with no cell signal to verify her credentials, they clambered into the back.

And they were, finally, on their way back and blessedly ghost-free. Now England could allow himself to breathe.

England tried relaxing a bit into his seat, laboriously unstiffening his shoulders and unclenching his jaw. Everything screamed, sore and bruised, and he was exhausted in every manner of the word. With his magical reserves depleted to nothing Arthur felt weak and out of his element, and the only thing which provided even a modicum of comfort was the promise that Alfred wasn’t so upset over the (obvious) ghost prank he wasn’t booking an early flight home.

Cheers!

“A spot of tea would be lovely right now,” Arthur mutters, leaning his forehead against the driver's headrest. The leather smelled of cigarettes and toffee and it distracts him from the sensation of bone knitting itself together.

“Mind if I light one?” Alfred asks the driver, Zippo flame already dancing against the wind’s pull.

“Not at all! Mind lighting two?”

“Artie?” Without looking Arthur declines with a small wave. He doesn’t want Alfred to see his hand shaking if he tried holding it.

Shrugging, Alfred hands the driver a cigarette and sucks on his own so long Arthur wonders if the American has switched off his need to breathe.

It would be an overreaction from Arthur’s perspective but then again, a little haunting never spooked him.

But then America breathes out and coughs and Arthur remembers he wants tea. Preferably cold by about twenty minutes, served in a quiet which lacked the burden of guilt.

Alfred acts natural enough, tapping ash out the window and smiling at tall, sparse trees whipping by. But if he were sincerely okay the car would be flooded with conversation and laughter.

“For what it’s worth…,” Arthur starts (gently, so Alfred will look). “I’m sorry I lied about Birchington. I might not care about ghosts and the like, but I knew you did. I took advantage of your trust and I’m sorry.”

The car is silent for a moment (minus cheesy pop blaring through the driver’s Airpods) and Alfred looks out the window again before meeting his eyes and smiling. This time it reaches his eyes and crinkles the crows feet and Arthur’s thoughts abandon his physical discomforts when he imagines kissing them.

“…It’s ok, I guess,” says Alfred, in a voice rarely used. Arthur knows he means it. “I kinda got caught up in all those news media stories about that Arataka guy in Japan and his Dagger story.”

That sentence sits in the air until it feels settled. Arthur starts, “Speaking of Japan…”

A beat. Then,

“Oh em gee, Sushi!”

#hetalia #usuk #hws america #hws england #fanfic #usukustwiceperyear

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