Work Text:
Farsightedness: when only faraway things are in focus. The opposite of nearsightedness.
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5 JULY 20XX — NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
"So. You were here all along, huh?"
Gilbert glanced up, his colourful eyes glazed over with the haze of alcohol. He scanned around for the mysterious voice, blinking the sleep out in the meanwhile, before finally spotting Alfred leaned up against the doorframe of his bedroom with a face he couldn't quite discern. He smiled stupidly, though he wasn't in the mood to, and waved the American over.
"Alfie, Alfie. Y'found out where 'm staying? That's kinda creepy~ hic-!" The words tasted and spilled out like vomit. He barely even registered them in the midst of sobering up. "C'mon, c'mon. Yer my guest now, ja? Make yerself comfy, or somethin'."
Gilbert looked around, observing his room. It was a fairly shabby apartment that the Prussian had rented for just about a month, for the duration of his stay in New York City. Ludwig, his brother, had some business in the UN building, which led to Gilbert tagging along for no particular reason. The bedroom of the apartment was dirty, yet neat, and beer bottles lined the floor around Gilbert like a lattice, with the only beer bottle not on the floor being in Gilbert's hands. He clinked it into place within the mosaic of bottles before shoving some aside to provide room for the intruding American.
"Speaking of, how'd ya get in? Y'got a key to my 'partment?? Weeeeiiiird," Gilbert slurred, his vision going in and out of focus. Alfred, in response, sighed, handing the Prussian a glass of water and plopping himself in front of him on the carpeted floors.
Now that they were closer, Gilbert could properly make out Alfred's face. Even in his befuddled brain, he should sense the sheer amount of emotion radiating off of Alfred in the form of short sighs, wrinkled brows, and tight grimaces—Alfred was disappointed. Nothing new, Gilbert supposed with a swig of water. Nothing new at all.
There was only one point in time where Alfred wasn't disappointed in Gilbert: it was when Alfred was mentally 15, and the world seemed so much easier for both of them. That was a while ago, however, and Gilbert was well aware of the current century.
"You're drinking again," Alfred stated bluntly, pushing his glasses up and turning towards Gilbert. "You know that's bad for you, right? I bet your liver's screaming right now."
Gilbert downed most of the remaining water and mildly sobered up, though he was still under the aftereffects of the excessive alcohol. The remaining water stayed in the glass, swirling around at the slightest tilt. He played around with the water until fully registering Alfred's question and letting it settle in the crevices of his cranium slowly. When his brain caught up, he frowned, before smiling. Here we go again.
"I am, Alfie. Are you disappointed in me?" Gilbert didn't seem like he cared what answer he got—not when his face contorted in such a way towards the American who, upon noticing Gilbert's expression, could only scowl with darkening eyes. It would be an odd sight for everyone besides Gilbert; very rarely did the American have such a pointed look on his face. Alfred, the man always smiling in front of the press, what wearing what could only be assumed the most detestable, detesting look he could muster. Calm blue eyes turned into dangerous whirlpools as he spoke. He breathed in, and-
"I am disappointed, Gilbert! In your apartment! In your beer intake! In your ego, and lack of skill, and uselessness, and inability to fix problems, and idiotic tirades, and sleeping habits, and-"
By this point, Alfred was back on his feet, screeching down at the Prussian like a child on a tantrum. The Prussian meanwhile, was not listening—or if he was, he wasn't showing it. Gilbert had likely blocked out the shouting quite a while ago, with that lack of reaction. Either that, or he was too used to it to flinch.
It appeared as if Alfred always had more to say, even when it seemed like his rant might end. Mentions of Gilbert's freeloading history and lack of accountability managed to weasel their way into the one-sided conversation. All the Prussian did, while being criticized, was stare blankly and perhaps reach for another bottle. What more could the once-mighty do, anyway? It's about what he is, not what he was.
Eventually, Gilbert noticed, with a sigh of relief, that Alfred's complaints started losing their steam. The American had worn himself out with all the shouting, and his expression diffused into something more tired and annoyed. Gilbert, too, was tired, though probably not for the same reason. He yawned a little before speaking, if only to fill the uncomfortable silence.
"I've always wanted to go out with a bang, y'know?" muttered Gilbert, unsure if it was him or the alcohol talking. "Guess Fate had other plans though."
Gilbert took another sip of water, burping. "If it was up to me, I would've made my exit on the world stage as awesome as those fireworks from yesterday. Yeah, that'd be nice, huh?" He put the water down, grinning.
"It'd be nice if you could just .. stay," Alfred murmured, plopping back cross-legged onto the carpet with a frown. Gilbert, in response, could only cackle loudly, throwing his head back and causing something hot to rise in Alfred's cheeks.
"Pfft .. kesesese! That's not how—haha!! Oh, I wish! That's not how it works, Alfie!" the Prussian explained amidst a flurry of laughter, making Alfred turn red for a completely different reason. He balled his hands into fists.
"Why not, huh? Says who?!" Alfred's brows were furrowed tightly again, but Gilbert seemed to tense this time. "You were supposed to be my awesome mentor, Gilbert. You were supposed to be great! And now look at you! You're not even a country anymore, let alone a state! You drink and waste your time with nothing! You said you'd stay alive forever-"
"Well what else was I supposed to say?" Gilbert retorted, his voice loud but not raised. "You were fifteen, Alfred! Fifteen! I don't care how long you were around; country or not, you were a child. How could I tell a kid, even a country, about my possible impending doom? It's like you forget how young you were back then!"
Alfred grumbled, obviously not satisfied at the answer but unable to refute anything. He crossed his arms, leaning back and almost knocking against the beer bottles before sighing quietly, "You've changed, Gilbert. I hate it."
Not nearly quiet enough though. The Prussian, who heard loud and clear, let out a short bark of laughter, as pointed as broken glass. Alfred visibly flinched. His next words were swift, like a slap to the face. "No, I haven't," Gilbert stated. "I think it's time you accepted that."
—
"Pat my head," Alfred said abruptly, breaking the silence. "Like you used to when I got a bullseye during training."
"Have you been listening to anything I've said?"
"Maybe, maybe not. Pat my head."
Gilbert raised an eyebrow, staring blankly. His lips pressed tightly together as he computed the sentences just said. This was an odd request, even for Alfred, but the American didn't seem like he was giving out much a choice with that statement. After a full count of three, Alfred grabbed Gilbert's hand, dangling it until it tapped the top of the American man's head in an awkward pat. It was pathetic. Gilbert jerked away, scowling as he groaned, "Stop that. I'll do it properly."
He lifted his somewhat sluggish arm and motioned Alfred forward. Then, with the practiced ease of a veteran, Gilbert softly sifted his fingers through the dirty blond hair of the other man. His warm fingers pat Alfred's head just as they did some 250 years ago, smoothing out whatever new wrinkles Alfred had gotten and letting him bask in the memories of days gone by. The nostalgia made him sigh in ease as he involuntarily leaned closer.
"I .." Gilbert started, before immediately hesitating—he'd always hated this sort of serious talk. Alfred merely hummed in response, not quite listening but acknowledging that there was a sound. He seemed more preoccupied with the hands that had slowed down.
"I don't think you're in love with me, Alfred. Not in the way you think, I mean," Gilbert announced. It was better to say it all before the other could respond. "You're in love with the idea of me—your idea of me, as something unreachable, or unattainable." He reaches upwards with his free hand, towards the popcorn ceilings that cover the shimmering stars. "And .. that's not love, dude. That's just a misconception."
For a moment, Gilbert didn't dare turn to face the American. But eventually, he ceded, discreetly glancing down at where Alfred was. The younger man was pushing his head closer to Gilbert's chest, like a cat asking for affection. His face seemed to give no hint that he heard a word of Gilbert's speech. Somehow, Gilbert was not surprised in the slightest.
"Were you listening to me?" he finally asked, his tone accusatory.
"Hmm? Was I? I think you're drunk, actually. Pat me some more," Alfred responded.
Gilbert frowned but continued, now using both his hands to mindlessly ruffle as he wondered, truly wondered, how things got to this point. The American pressed closer, before shifting around. He tilted his head up to meet Gilbert's bright, saturated, tired eyes and smiled. He smiled. His smile, if it could be called such, was sharp and grimaced, as full of hate as it was with love.
"No, I think I love you, Gilbert. So you better be worth my love."