I do not own Hetalia.
My name is Alfred F. Jones. I am 14 years old, and I am in love.
"Alfred, could you come over? I have something important to tell you, and I'd like us to be face-to face." Arthur's voice shook slightly, and he cleared his throat.
I've know Arthur my whole life. He may be 4 years olderbut that's never been a problem (considering we met when we were very small). Well, besides the teasing about me being a 'childish git'. We're almost always with each other. Whether it's me pulling him along on an awesome adventure, wondering why he's complaining when it's totally a cool thing that my super huge brain thought of, or it's him wanting to do something slow and peaceful (in my words, boring). I've never missed one of his school music concerts; he plays violin in a way that makes me want to listen forever. He was with me when I got my braces on (with a bit of teasing), and when I got them taken off. I was there when he went to the pet shop and got a big, chubby cat with a white coat and black neck fur. He had scolded me a lot when I ran around the pet shop excitedly.
What's the point of telling you this, you ask? Because I am in love with this boy who has been my best friend for years.
I swiveled back and forth in my chair, glancing down at the papers scattered all over my desk and wondering why he was asking me this on the night before exams. "But Arthur, dude, I have exams tomorrow! Shouldn't you be encouraging me studying? You always were such a teacher's pet," I teased. Instead of overreacting and yelling at me like usual, he just sighed. "Alfred, just come," he said, and hung up. Arthur Kirkland without a comeback? There was definitely something wrong. I jumped up from my desk, knocking my cup of coffee onto the floor. "Damn it," I hissed. I looked around my messy room wildly, and grabbed the duvet on my bed. I yanked the red fabric off and threw it over the growing brown stain on the carpet. Then I ran out, pulled on my shoes while almost tripping, and bolted out of the house.
The clock on the wall of Arthur's small, tea-scented apartment ticked by slowly, which only seemed to add to the suspense of what he was about to say to me. I pushed down on the light green, leathery fabric of his couch as I shifted positions. He paced slowly in front of me, occasionally glancing around the room. "This is going to come as a shock..." he said finally, and stopped pacing, pulling a chair up in front of me. He leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees, looking into my eyes. "When I was too busy to go to the baseball game with you on Monday... And the week before.... I was visiting a doctor." He looked down briefly before returning my intense gaze. My face paled. "D-Doctor..?" My voice cracked, and I tried joking to lighten the weight that was forming in my stomach. "Why? Did you hurt your voice freaking out because you ran out of tea?" Arthur shook his head. "Th-Then wh--" He put a slender finger over my lips, and I could feel it trembling. He swallowed thickly before whispering, "I have a t-terminal disease.They found it a little while ago, as there aren't symptoms right now... No one has found a cure yet, and the.. The doctors don't know how much longer I have left..." His eyes dropped to his lap, along with the finger. He was trembling all over. I stared blankly at him, my body numb. He glanced up at me, and I thought I saw his eyes watering, but my vision was blurring. "Please, Alfred... Don't cry..." My eyes burned, and I felt my cheeks grow wet from tears I didn't know were falling. I moved, wrapping my arms around him and pressing him as close to me as possible. "A-Arthur," I managed to choke out.
My name is Alfred F. Jones. I am 17 years old, and I am in love.
Arthur was eventually put into a hospital, after frequent visits to a doctor. As time passed, I visited him every day. Even if the thunderstorms I'm terrified of were raging through the sky, or if there was snow up to my ankles.I brought him his favorite flowers, something sweet, a book, anything to see him smile. When the sun was shining, I walked outside with him. Eventually I did all of the walking, pushing him along in a wheelchair. But I didn't mind a bit.
My name is Alfred F. Jones. I am 19 years old, and I am in love with a beautiful man.
Even though Arthur is in the hospital, he always smiles when I walk through the door. On walks, or having tea (and coffee, in my case) with him, or at night when I've stayed up talking to him until the doctors kick me out, he tells me how he believes he will be fine. He insists the doctors have it wrong, and that he feels stronger every day. I've never missed a day visiting him, until yesterday. Yesterday was the day I worked extra hard, and went out of the city to get something special. It's in my pocket now; a ring. Today is the day I ask my beautiful, smiling, strong-willed Arthur Kirkland to be mine.
As I walk down the same white, boring hallways I've walked for years, I adjust the flowers-- roses-- in my hand. The ring is weighing down my pocket, and sweat is sticking to the back of my neck. I turn the corner into his room, both eager and nervous to see the love of my life-- and find an empty room.
My name is Alfred F. Jones. I am 23 years old, and I am in love. I am in love with someone who is no longer there to smile for me. No longer there to hear how glad I am to have him in my life. To tell me he knows the doctors are mistaken. I am in love with someone who is no longer there, and can not wipe the tears from my face. Who will never hear how much I truly love them.
