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Astronauts struggled to feel their limbs in microgravity. Without gravity, forgetting where an arm or leg happened to be was surprisingly easy. Sometimes, it got so bad that they’d be nauseous and disoriented. The phenomenon was commonly compared to motion sickness—whether the comparison was drawn due to the symptoms or systems involved, Alfred couldn’t quite remember. The specifics weren’t too important for his purposes.
While America was in no way struggling with motion sickness (though maybe with a bit of nausea), he liked to pretend that he was an astronaut. Sometimes, his limbs would feel light and distant enough that he occasionally worried he had none at all. His legs were constantly sore, but his feet and arms were numb—his brain was airy and empty in the way he couldn’t think right anymore. Fuzziness clogged his ears, ate at his eyes, and shrouded his brain. The entire world was converted to microgravity just for him. The thought comforted him when he needed a distraction. Like when he was at some Italian or Chinese or whatever restaurant and really didn’t want to be there.
Speaking of, the pair had been waiting to order for at least 10 minutes. The waiter must’ve been lazy. Or busy. Or it could have just had something to do with some cultural custom Alfred didn’t care enough to remember. He was still recovering from the three-hour dinners he’d attended the last time he visited England. If Arthur weren’t such an asshole, Alfred would assume he had found a way to stretch them out on purpose.
Speaking of (yet again), Arthur was still busy sifting through the menu as Alfred focused on reorganizing all of the sugar packets for the third time. They were lined up in this cute little cat tray that was definitely Instagram-worthy. At first, he just wanted the colors to match. Afterward, he arranged them into a nice, pretty pattern. He took a photo before putting them back to normal. Art was his third favorite passion or whatever.
Arthur set the laminated sheet down and looked up at him.
“Aren’t you going to look at the menu?”
Alfred continued sorting the packets. Now that he was thinking, it’d probably be more accurate to refer to all of them just as sweeteners than sugar. He didn’t know why he kept making that mistake when he was so familiar with them. They were super easy to horde.
“I dunno,” he replied as he slid the tray back to its proper place. “I don't really wanna get anything, so…”
Alfred looked up and got to see Arthur’s eyebrows furrowing. He almost snorted—the action reminded him of tectonic plates shifting. Utterly massive objects moving, causing all these little wrinkles and dips around them as a result.
Such things were easier to think about when his head was light and foggy. The world warped just for him. ‘Cause he was an astronaut. And had spent the lunch break crying in the bathroom because everything hurt too much...
At least he hadn’t brought his lunch this time. Probably would’ve resorted to eating rice with his fingers in one of the stalls like a few months ago. Cringe. Who ate lunch anyway? Alfred was doing just dandy.
“Are you sure?” Arthur looked him over. “You were looking a little pale at the meeting today.”
Alfred pouted, as if the man hadn’t just given him the perfect out.
“Well, that’s kind of why. I’m feeling a little sick, you know? Sure, I’m not feeling that bad, but I am pretty nauseous. I don’t wanna get sicker.”
Arthur’s mouth pressed into a thin line the way it did when Alfred was being a terrible liar. He could totally sell something when diplomacy demanded it, but Alfred’s head was fuzzy and aching, with a dull pain pulsating since the first break. He was too tired and nauseous to not be a shitty liar. England would totally point out the deceit and crucify him. Instead of letting the other respond, Alfred cut him off right when he was opening his mouth,
“Does that make you uncomfortable, England? Does my discomfort make you irritated?? Can we not just hang out for the sake of hanging out? Because I can totally leave right now if this is going to turn into a fight. I’m too sleepy for your BS.”
Alfred delivered it like he was in one of those movies. Big and dramatic and stupid though there wasn’t any bite. And he replaced the word tired with sleepy so that there’d be no reason for the Brit to speculate on his mental health or something (he’d learned that one with Canada—ugh).
Arthur in turn stared at him as if he were an alien. That thought was pretty cool, so Alfred wasn’t an astronaut anymore. He was an alien. The alien looked at Arthur as he kept scratching at his fingers. Arthur was too obvious when nervous. He was too out of character too. But his anger kind of evened it out, so things stayed normal.
“What the hell, Alfred?” he scoffed, eyes narrowing. “I was just going to say that I hoped you started feeling better. Why are you acting like such a twat?”
His anger meant great things for Alfred. If this ended in a fight, he could ditch the restaurant entirely and probably be pissed enough to go on a run. He’d probably end up on the ground, unable to see from his vision blacking out (throwback LMAO), but he could burn at least something up to that point. And if he burned enough of nothing, he might’ve actually been able to levitate. Both astronauts and aliens probably did that. He wouldn’t have had to worry about everyone hating him for being so irritable all the time either because he’d be fucking dead.
“I don’t know,” Alfred sneered, “When did you get so fucking concerned with my business? You’re so nosy.”
Arthur’s lips pulled back in a snarl, his hands clenched, and his chest heaved in preparation to—suddenly deflate? Arthur let out a long, weary sigh as he mopped his face with one of his hands.
“I guess since you’ve been doing… whatever it is you’re doing. It feels like we haven’t had an actual conversation in months, and you’ve been so distant. Is it impossible to believe that I’m actually worried for you? That I’m able to tell when someone I’m close with is pulling away?”
Alfred shifted in his seat, firmly grabbing his elbow as he glanced away. Why didn’t Arthur just explode like usual? Now he just felt bad.
“It’s not like I’ve gone anywhere,” Alfred mumbled, “I still go to the things I’ve always gone to. Plus, it’s not like I’m a little kid—I can handle myself.”
Arthur wrinkled his nose.
“You look half dead.”
Alfred snorted and rolled his eyes. Like that wasn’t some of the most validating shit he’d heard in months.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Look—Matthew’s been worried too. Why don’t you just open up and get help for whatever’s wrong?”
Pft, as if England wasn’t the poster child for repressing and exacerbating issues. Only Canada should’ve been able to call him out like that.
“Because nothing’s actually wrong,” Alfred deadpanned. “Things are pretty good, y’ know? You’ve seen my insta story, right? I’m living, laughing, and loving like always. C’est la vie. I’m absolutely thriving.”
Alfred had actually fainted three days ago, but he did get a really cool game too. If Arthur cared about him enough to check his socials before putting him on blast, he’d see that he made a really nice breakfast recently as well. He was going gourmet on that shit, and, if he were actually struggling, he wouldn’t have that type of energy.
Instead of accepting the truth (Alfred’s denial of reality), England once again just stared at him.
Some people just had trouble accepting the facts, he’d guess.
This time, Alfred didn’t start talking more (aka throwing gas on the fire) because a waiter finally came over to take their orders. Arthur ordered some pasta dish, and he ordered some water.
Then, they waited on the food in silence. The air was tense and awkward like it was every time one of them tried to talk about feelings. So, Alfred occupied himself with his silverware. He liked balancing them at odd angles. Maybe he could go back to college and get a degree in civil engineering. They designed bridges and stuff, right?
(He wanted to go to his hotel room, lay down, and never get up again. Maybe if he played his cards right, he could skip tomorrow’s meetings. He was feeling sick.)
The waiter came out with the drinks first. Arthur got some sort of tea or whatever since he somehow trusted restaurants to not irreparably fuck him up.
On the other hand, Alfred distastefully removed the wedge of lemon from his drink. Everything in restaurants was tainted with… something. Alfred didn’t have the exact evidence to support his claim, but he knew it was true. Nothing was safe at restaurants. Which was part of why he hated being in them so much.
England sighed as he stirred his tea. Drama queen.
“Do you not trust me?”
“I don’t.” Alfred quickly replied. “And I wouldn’t say anything even if I did, since nothing’s wrong.”
England frowned in a way that made him look old and sad, managing to accumulate even more wrinkles. Must’ve sucked to be such an old man.
“You know, when you were little,” (oh God.) “you used to tell me everything. And when you started to try and keep secrets from me, you’d always end up giving yourself away because you hated the distance it caused.”
Arthur put down his spoon on a napkin, glancing down. He avoided making eye contact.
“I know I can’t ask for things to go back to how they were, but I never hurt you for confiding in me. I’m not saying that you have to tell me or anything, but please at least think of telling someone. No one else would have to know. At the very least, let me know if there’s something I could do to help.”
England looked back up at him. That was the end of his million-dollar speech that was supposed to win Alfred over and repair centuries of estrangement. His painful sacrifice that’d rebuild the gap between them and magically return them to what they were. Yet another guise of help with no expectations. Every word was perfectly crafted, perfectly placed…
America snorted. There would always be strings attached. The least Arthur could do was acknowledge it and stop acting like some martyr. He couldn’t be genuine because Alfred wasn’t ready to give up anything. So, he buckled down instead.
“There’s nothing to say, and there’s nothing to change.”
England sighed.
“I just want to help–”
“There’s nothing to help with .”
England clicked his tongue–he hated being interrupted.
“We both know that’s a damn lie.”
Alfred hated being contradicted.
“Pft, you’re just fucking delirious,” he spat. “First, you see fairies—and now you go around projecting all your little insecurities onto me because you can’t stand the idea that I’m doing better than you. You’re a manipulative piece of shit, and nothing is wrong here except for you.”
His rising voice earned the ire of a few tables. Neither party noticed nor cared.
“Why can’t you ever be fucking honest with me??” England’s face scrunched into disdain as he slammed a fist onto the table. “You act like telling me even a little bit about what’s up would destroy everything. Would it actually kill you?”
Alfred’s eyes lit up– oh, as if Arthur had the right to be mad!
“With the way you respond to this shit?” America waved a hand around. “Probably!”
England snarled as if choking on acid.
“The way I respond??—At least I make an effort to change!”
Pft, as if he was any different from the man he was centuries ago. Alfred’s nails dug into his palm until the pain punctured the adrenaline. The action did nothing to calm him, but it was better than punching England’s face in.
“Oh?? So this is all my fault now?” He raised his pitch until it was a mocking whine. “And if I tried just a little bit harder, everything would be fucking great?? All of my issues would go away and we could all sing fucking kumbayah?”
“I
never
said that–”
“You don’t need to. Every time I struggle with anything, you come over and invalidate all of my issues. A little tired? Oh, well at least I got more than four hours of sleep. A little irritated? I must not have heard about all of the people who have it way worse. You talk about helping, but all you’ll do—the moment I trust you—is use it against me. All of this shit is selfish, and you know it. So stop pretending like you’re trying to make anything better.”
Arthur’s eyes stared hard at the wall behind Alfred as he crumpled up a napkin. His face was flushed, and his chest kept rising in shuddering heaps. Alfred could almost hear him mentally counting to ten.
“Why–” Arthur’s voice warbled, “Why do you constantly assume that everyone is out to get you? It’s almost like you didn’t hear a word of what I said.”
“Because I don’t need to. Regardless of the words, it’s always the same. Why would anything be different?”
“Because I care about you,” Arthur murmured, “I care about you, Alfred, and you won’t even give me a moment of consideration. You can’t even humor the idea of trusting me even when I try my best to be sincere. When was the last time you’ve seen anything beyond yourself? I might be a piece of shit, but at least I know I’m not the fucking Sun. I don’t sit in dark corners scheming up a whole slew of ways to ruin you.” He gathered up all the trash on his end of the table. “Even if I did, at this point, you do it to yourself.”
England’s chair scraped across the floor as he stood up. He slammed a 20 on the table and walked right out the door.
The quiet murmuring and gossip of bystanders muddled into nothing but white noise. He focused on breathing and counting until his lungs seemed to work on their own, even though his throat felt raw and irritated.
Well, he’d gotten that fight. Nothing was better for it.
With shaking hands, Alfred grabbed his glass of water and took a slow sip. Condensation smeared on his hands as the cold stung his teeth and snaked down his throat.
Alfred had gotten his way. Arthur didn’t care about whatever was wrong with him, and he was finally alone.
Alfred was all alone. Perfectly empty, and entirely alone.
Did anything even change?