[When he wakes, he’s disoriented, but that is hardly anything new for the lapsed-recovering alcoholic. His first thought, of course, is that he’s gone on another bender and somehow found himself on the other side of the country (again), however when he opens his eyes and looks out of the train window it is immediately clear to him that this is not England, not Britain, not even Europe by the looks of it. Plains, as far as he could see. A strange feeling comes over him, one of being watched and not by a presence that he thought entirely friendly, but a quick turning in his seat reveals nothing other than the undeniable fact that he is utterly alone.]
What the bloody hell did I drink..?
[It is curiosity, more than the strange urge that he has to disembark that pushes him from the train. The clothes he is wearing are familiar at least, save for… wait, what is this? He pats his pocket, hoping for a ticket stub or something to tell him where the devil he is, and draws out a watch, turning it over in his hands as he steps out onto the platform. A watch, it looks like, but not like any watch he’s ever seen before. He frowns, and looks up and down the deserted train platform. His finger slides along the edge of the watch, unwittingly broadcasting communications to anyone who’s listening.]
Where the hell am I…
Third Person:
‘Til now, I always got by on my own, I never really cared until I met y—‘
Arthur made an irritated sound and smacked his hand against the ‘off’ button of the radio. He was sure that song was dogging him and it was only making it more difficult to concentrate on what he was going to do. What he wanted to do. So far he had attempted three times to get the words out but twice nothing had happened and the third time he had been interrupted and simply shot a snide insult instead. It had done very little to help his cause but he supposed that Alfred had to be used to that kind of thing by now.
He didn’t think that the younger man was on to him, but how could he be? Arthur was rather aware that he was no prize catch and he had spent so many years ridiculing the American nation that it was almost second nature for him to do so. Today, he was going to do it. He was going to tell the idiot how he felt once and for all, for better or worse. The consequences didn’t bear thinking about if it went badly – he knew he’d not feel right showing his face for a while – but he was refusing to allow himself to be beaten by such a foolish thing as a crush on a boy.
Gazing up at the high ceiling of his hotel room, Arthur let out a slow sigh and shook his head. He hated being in this country, but he loved it all the same. There was no other land quite like America, no other place made him feel so bloody insignificant and it drove him insane. Yet, he always felt so remarkably comfortable here. Perhaps that was odd considering his history with it but they were far from Virginia now, and such things didn’t bother him as much when there was nothing around to remind him.
Finally, he rolled out of bed and moved to the bathroom to wash his face and shave the slight crop of stubble that was dusting the lower half of his face. Putting on his tie took too long, and it was when he noticed that his hands were shaking that he had to open the minibar and grab a small bottle of whiskey that he downed in one mouthful. As the liquid burned its way down to his stomach and settled there as an uncomfortable heat, he leaned on the dresser and stared at himself. The past two decades had not been terribly kind to Arthur, and it showed when he stopped to look at his reflection. He was a little too thin, he knew that, and the pallor of his skin was just shy of unhealthy. What bothered him the most were the purplish shadows under his eyes, and had he been a vainer man (one did come to mind) he might have used makeup to cover them.
However, Arthur was not that vain of a man and he took one last look at himself before grabbing his jacket and heading out.
Re: [CANON] ARTHUR KIRKLAND || Axis Powers: Hetalia || No Reserve || 1 of 3
[When he wakes, he’s disoriented, but that is hardly anything new for the lapsed-recovering alcoholic. His first thought, of course, is that he’s gone on another bender and somehow found himself on the other side of the country (again), however when he opens his eyes and looks out of the train window it is immediately clear to him that this is not England, not Britain, not even Europe by the looks of it. Plains, as far as he could see. A strange feeling comes over him, one of being watched and not by a presence that he thought entirely friendly, but a quick turning in his seat reveals nothing other than the undeniable fact that he is utterly alone.]
What the bloody hell did I drink..?
[It is curiosity, more than the strange urge that he has to disembark that pushes him from the train. The clothes he is wearing are familiar at least, save for… wait, what is this? He pats his pocket, hoping for a ticket stub or something to tell him where the devil he is, and draws out a watch, turning it over in his hands as he steps out onto the platform. A watch, it looks like, but not like any watch he’s ever seen before. He frowns, and looks up and down the deserted train platform. His finger slides along the edge of the watch, unwittingly broadcasting communications to anyone who’s listening.]
Where the hell am I…
Third Person:
‘Til now, I always got by on my own, I never really cared until I met y—‘
Arthur made an irritated sound and smacked his hand against the ‘off’ button of the radio. He was sure that song was dogging him and it was only making it more difficult to concentrate on what he was going to do. What he wanted to do. So far he had attempted three times to get the words out but twice nothing had happened and the third time he had been interrupted and simply shot a snide insult instead. It had done very little to help his cause but he supposed that Alfred had to be used to that kind of thing by now.
He didn’t think that the younger man was on to him, but how could he be? Arthur was rather aware that he was no prize catch and he had spent so many years ridiculing the American nation that it was almost second nature for him to do so. Today, he was going to do it. He was going to tell the idiot how he felt once and for all, for better or worse. The consequences didn’t bear thinking about if it went badly – he knew he’d not feel right showing his face for a while – but he was refusing to allow himself to be beaten by such a foolish thing as a crush on a boy.
Gazing up at the high ceiling of his hotel room, Arthur let out a slow sigh and shook his head. He hated being in this country, but he loved it all the same. There was no other land quite like America, no other place made him feel so bloody insignificant and it drove him insane. Yet, he always felt so remarkably comfortable here. Perhaps that was odd considering his history with it but they were far from Virginia now, and such things didn’t bother him as much when there was nothing around to remind him.
Finally, he rolled out of bed and moved to the bathroom to wash his face and shave the slight crop of stubble that was dusting the lower half of his face. Putting on his tie took too long, and it was when he noticed that his hands were shaking that he had to open the minibar and grab a small bottle of whiskey that he downed in one mouthful. As the liquid burned its way down to his stomach and settled there as an uncomfortable heat, he leaned on the dresser and stared at himself. The past two decades had not been terribly kind to Arthur, and it showed when he stopped to look at his reflection. He was a little too thin, he knew that, and the pallor of his skin was just shy of unhealthy. What bothered him the most were the purplish shadows under his eyes, and had he been a vainer man (one did come to mind) he might have used makeup to cover them.
However, Arthur was not that vain of a man and he took one last look at himself before grabbing his jacket and heading out.