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Arthur can’t seem to steady his vision as the ceiling above him twists and swirls. He closes his eyes in a futile attempt to try and steady himself, but even in the pitch black behind his eyelids, he still feels himself spinning.
On most Fridays after work, he’d head straight to the pub and stay there until he was kicked out for making too much of a ruckus or until it was time for the establishment to close. Tonight, however, he finds himself drinking scotch on the floor in the confines of his own home.
He’s in charge of looking after Peter this weekend and he put off his usual excessive drinking until he knew the young nation was asleep. Sure, Peter could take care of himself, most if not all nations are self-reliant from a young age, but god knows how long Peter was left to fend for himself in the past. Arthur is familiar with the loneliness of being surrounded by the endless sea. At least he shared the same land with brothers.
In part, the company of others is the reason Arthur prefers drinking at pubs than in his own home. There’s always someone to talk to, whether they truly listened to his blabbering or not and over the course of the night, the bars tend to reek of people. The way the floor would start to become sticky underfoot, the smell of sweat, booze, and piss, and his favourite of all, the sound of people erupting into angry shouts or laughter. He doesn't understand why it comforts him.
Arthur groans and sets his glass down beside him in a sloppy motion that almost makes the contents spill. He lays back down on his backside, the wooden floor cools his burning skin and he adjusts himself in a way that brings as much skin as possible in contact with it.
Here, in his home, there are no people to socialise with. He is alone. Trapped within his own walls, rotting within his own filth of flesh that smells of sweat. He catches the faint tune of a Generation X song, but the song fades in and out with his focus and plays at a volume too low for his liking. He’d rather the volume be low than waking Peter anyway.
He rests his arm over his eyes to shield them from the only light source in the room coming from an antique desk lamp that he finds too much of a bother to get up and turn off.
His muddy mind sifts through barely coherent thoughts of today, tomorrow, events from centuries long past, and to the phantom presence of the far future. They jumble up in his mind, confusing him until they fade away with sleep.
He wakes from a foggy dream of confusing hallways and briny sea smells to the feeling of what he first thinks is the presence of a large cat. His brows pinch together. Did a stray somehow get inside? He slides his arm down, bumping his hand against its body. He retracts his hand briefly before bringing it back down to brush against what he assumes is fur, but the texture reminds him more like a shaggy dog.
Arthur’s hand travels further downward and touches skin. He feels around and makes out the shape of an ear. He lifts his head and through his blurry vision, he finds the figure curling into him to be Peter. He raises a brow.
Peter lays in a strange position, curled up like a rock with his arms and legs tucked underneath his body and his head pressing into Arthur’s rib. His chest expands and contracts in a slow, rhythmic fashion, indicating he must be sleeping.
Unable to tell the time, Arthur assumes Peter came down not too long after he fell asleep. He lowers his arm again and rubs Peter’s back. His fingers lightly trail over the kid's spine, feeling the cotton fabric of his thin Spongebob pyjama shirt.
It felt so long ago when he held the young Alfred and Matthew in his arms. He never got to embrace them often, but he still remembers the comforting feeling of cradling their small, warm bodies against his own. He misses it.
He rarely gets the chance to do the same with Peter. It’s like he’s averse to any kind of physical affection, preferring to gain his attention through obnoxious means. The attention-seeking behaviour reminds him of a certain American.
Arthur rolls onto his side, his ribs aching from the kid’s head jabbing into it and carefully moves his hand underneath Peter’s forehead to check if he’s sick. He doesn’t find anything of worry about Peter’s sudden appearance by his side and decides to enjoy the moment.
He moves his arm underneath his head to use as a pillow while the other wraps around Peter. It’s awkward, but Arthur can’t find himself to care at the moment as his eyes grow heavy and he’s called back to dreams of drowning.