The clouds, upon entering into London, were a grey and murky sort. Considering it was the middle of August, it made the heat rather stifling to most natives, though to Alfred there was a bitter chill in the air. He wasn't quite sure why that was, however.
England lived somewhere in a building down on the outskirts of the city. It was an old stone house, something that the man himself probably built with his own bare hands. It had actually managed to stand all this time; miraculously, even through the worst of the Blitz.
The windows to the building had the curtains peeking open, and there was a car in the drive. Some signs of life, then.
Feeling suddenly rather breathless (even after hailing a cab to the station, fidgeting so much on the train over the channel that the Frenchwoman sat opposite him was eyeing him rather suspiciously and practically running from the station what was probably over a mile to Arthur’s house), it was only as he reached the rather pathetic picket gate at the end of his front garden did his lungs contract and all the breath was punched out of him.
He couldn’t just knock on the door and demand to be let in, could he?
Jumping over the gate, he slowly scuttled over to the front window, peeking conspicuously (or so he hoped) through the gap in the curtains.
He jumped back instantly.
Arthur was stood in the kitchen, wrapped in a dressing gown and hovering over the electric kettle that was plugged into the wall. Alfred knew by his more-mussed-hair-than-usual that Arthur couldn’t have been moving around too much this morning.
His breath quickening, he ran a hand through his own blond locks. Could he?...
He yelped as the front door was wrenched open at the side of him, freezing against the wall. Arthur looked wearily to the side of him. As he spoke, he sounded bleary and stuffed.
“Alfred, I know you're there. Come on.”
The door was left open, and he disappeared inside.
Alfred stared at the wallpaper of the Briton's hallway, dumbfounded.
He was... meant to go... in?
Blinking, the American entered into the hallway, passing down the hall until he reached the kitchen. Arthur was still stood there (leaning, Alfred noted, at the hand he saw resting against the counter) and slowly made himself a cup of tea. Alfred, still shocked, shuffled uneasily beside the fridge next to him, which was smaller than even Arthur. He never comprehended how the older man could manage with such a small refrigerator.
There was a soft clink as the spoon was discarded to the side, and Arthur picked up and took a sip of the tea. He breathed out a sigh.
“India's was always an odd day. Sometimes I get just a headache and a dead arm, other times I wake up with a fever, dead arm and my hand feeling like it’s going to be pulled off.”
He found himself staring at Arthur’s arm, though he couldn’t even tell right now whether he was in pain or not. England himself had his eyes closed, and continued to take a slow sip of his drink.
“With Australia it’s always my leg. Horrible, horrible pins and needles. A lot of the time it’s horribly hard to walk on. If I’ve had to work or go out and about on those days I’ve usually had to borrow a crutch or a walking stick. Rather irritating, really.”
However, he paused to smile, fondly.
“But since your brother was the only one to ask for independence rather than fight or demand it, he… I don’t get any pain.”
Arthur looked at the other for a moment, before turning around and opening a cupboard, which contained an assortments of tins. He pulled out some hot chocolate, a mug from the shelf below, and started spooning in some hot chocolate in for the other, absent-mindedly. Alfred could only really watch him do this, and become increasingly irritated with himself.
Weep, Little Lion Man 6b/6
The clouds, upon entering into London, were a grey and murky sort. Considering it was the middle of August, it made the heat rather stifling to most natives, though to Alfred there was a bitter chill in the air. He wasn't quite sure why that was, however.
England lived somewhere in a building down on the outskirts of the city. It was an old stone house, something that the man himself probably built with his own bare hands. It had actually managed to stand all this time; miraculously, even through the worst of the Blitz.
The windows to the building had the curtains peeking open, and there was a car in the drive. Some signs of life, then.
Feeling suddenly rather breathless (even after hailing a cab to the station, fidgeting so much on the train over the channel that the Frenchwoman sat opposite him was eyeing him rather suspiciously and practically running from the station what was probably over a mile to Arthur’s house), it was only as he reached the rather pathetic picket gate at the end of his front garden did his lungs contract and all the breath was punched out of him.
He couldn’t just knock on the door and demand to be let in, could he?
Jumping over the gate, he slowly scuttled over to the front window, peeking conspicuously (or so he hoped) through the gap in the curtains.
He jumped back instantly.
Arthur was stood in the kitchen, wrapped in a dressing gown and hovering over the electric kettle that was plugged into the wall. Alfred knew by his more-mussed-hair-than-usual that Arthur couldn’t have been moving around too much this morning.
His breath quickening, he ran a hand through his own blond locks. Could he?...
He yelped as the front door was wrenched open at the side of him, freezing against the wall. Arthur looked wearily to the side of him. As he spoke, he sounded bleary and stuffed.
“Alfred, I know you're there. Come on.”
The door was left open, and he disappeared inside.
Alfred stared at the wallpaper of the Briton's hallway, dumbfounded.
He was... meant to go... in?
Blinking, the American entered into the hallway, passing down the hall until he reached the kitchen. Arthur was still stood there (leaning, Alfred noted, at the hand he saw resting against the counter) and slowly made himself a cup of tea. Alfred, still shocked, shuffled uneasily beside the fridge next to him, which was smaller than even Arthur. He never comprehended how the older man could manage with such a small refrigerator.
There was a soft clink as the spoon was discarded to the side, and Arthur picked up and took a sip of the tea. He breathed out a sigh.
“India's was always an odd day. Sometimes I get just a headache and a dead arm, other times I wake up with a fever, dead arm and my hand feeling like it’s going to be pulled off.”
He found himself staring at Arthur’s arm, though he couldn’t even tell right now whether he was in pain or not. England himself had his eyes closed, and continued to take a slow sip of his drink.
“With Australia it’s always my leg. Horrible, horrible pins and needles. A lot of the time it’s horribly hard to walk on. If I’ve had to work or go out and about on those days I’ve usually had to borrow a crutch or a walking stick. Rather irritating, really.”
However, he paused to smile, fondly.
“But since your brother was the only one to ask for independence rather than fight or demand it, he… I don’t get any pain.”
Arthur looked at the other for a moment, before turning around and opening a cupboard, which contained an assortments of tins. He pulled out some hot chocolate, a mug from the shelf below, and started spooning in some hot chocolate in for the other, absent-mindedly. Alfred could only really watch him do this, and become increasingly irritated with himself.