Charlotte (Charlie, Lottie)
May 25th
One Year Later...
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"Happy Birthday!"
I jump at the sudden light, the sudden noise, then suck in a quick breath, and feign a smile. Everyone's here, in our home, balloons and streamers decorating every corner. I've never been thrown a surprise party before- It's weird. Everyone's staring at me expectantly, am I supposed to do something?
"Thanks guys", I smile sweetly, tilting my head a bit to add to the charm.
I wish I could say I had fun, but the day went by just like every other birthday party. Except, it was a bit lonesome. Papa was upstairs, unable to handle Arthur's company, and Matthew- he didn't even show.
The highlight of my day was when Ivan came by to wish me happy birthday, and snuck me a bottle of vodka.
"You're seventeen now", He said through his thick accent, a proud smile playing on his lips. "An adult now. Drink responsibly!"
I smile at the memory, and cross my legs as I sit. The girls decided to have a meeting in my room- and by girls, I mean Katyusha and Elizabeta. I'm not sure where the rest were- probably downstairs enjoying the desserts I made. Hopefully.
They're talking to me, I know they are, but it feels like an out-of-body experience. I answer them, but I'm not entirely sure what words are escaping my lips. They seem content though, and start to chatter amongst themselves.
I check my phone for the fifteenth time today. I know what I'm expecting, I just don't dare make myself realize that it won't happen. I'd like to cling to childish hope for a little while longer, at least until the clock strikes midnight. Quickly, I switch my ringer on, and shove my phone back in my pocket.
The case brushes against the fresh scars on my thighs, and I grit my teeth to mask the pain.
After the whole ordeal with Matthew, and Papa being more absent than usual, I picked up a bad habit- a dangerous addiction. I don't do it every night- I don't do it as a chance to play with fate. I'm not suicidal.
I just like the feeling of pain better than numbness.
Tonight only feeds the urge. Papa hasn't even come down to wish me happy birthday, Matthew hasn't even texted, and nobody but these two has noticed I retreated to my room. I'm not angry. I just feel a bit isolated from the rest. It's always been that way, really. It's as if there's something different about all these people that separates me from them, regardless of age. It's like there's something different about me.
Suddenly, Katyusha and Elizabeta are headed towards the door, waving and speaking to me. All I hear is muffled voices, but I respond anyhow, and when they're content with the conversation, they amble back downstairs.
I sigh heavily, and throw myself onto the bed, trying to sink into the mattress. I contemplate visiting Papa, but I should know better by now. The past year, I've done my very best to cheer him up, but I know the smile he gives me is fake. I don't want to push him past his breaking point- he's stressed enough trying to get over Arthur.
I remember seeing Arthur only once today, through the crowd. He pushed through, wished me Happy Birthday, but it seemed as if he was looking past me. I don't mind. I know who he was looking for.
Still, I wish they'd just make up.
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France (Francis)
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I feel horrible.
Not because I'm not downstairs, hosting Charlotte's seventeenth birthday, being by her side as she's one year away from leaving- Well, of course I feel horrible about that- but I'm also sick. Physically.
And it's been like that for the past year. Ever since England left. It may be the alcohol, I haven't missed a pint a day in months. Or perhaps my time is finally coming. God, I hope it's the latter. Living without Angleterre is pure torture. I could bear him not living here, sure, but not having any contact with him at all..
The best way I can describe it is being deprived of narcotics after getting hooked. My fingers tremble, I sweat constantly- It's awful. I've thrown up more times than I can count just this week. It's worse today, though, because I know he's just downstairs. He wouldn't miss Charlie's party. He loves her.
He just doesn't love me.
Which is why the knocking on the door is most likely Charlie, coming to cheer me up. She hasn't done that in a while.. I think she caught on that most of our conversation was an out-of-body experience for me. It's as if I'm watching myself speak, but I can't quiet hear what I'm saying.
I haven't felt this way since Joan.
I can't go through this pain again. I can't lose someone so important, so perhaps it's time I finally retire. One more year, and Charlie will be gone- I'll be free to die as a mortal.
Slowly, I slump out of bed, and slump heavily towards the door. I stretch, cracking my back, neck, knuckles, before opening the door with a wide grin. I expected Charlie to smile back, hug me, tell me that I need to shave- but in the door frame wasn't Charlie.
It was Arthur.
I can't stop the quiver of my lip, or the knitting of my brows in a pained expression. A sudden wave of emotion hits me, and I'm forced to walk away, to sit back down on the bed. I'm aware now, of the unkept beard lining my face, of the grease and oil stuck between strands of my hair- I look disgusting. I can't even remember the last time I showered.
"I don't suppose you'll pop downstairs and give Lottie a 'Happy Birthday', seeing as you look like that", He speaks casually, as if we had bumped into each other on the street after a sweet departure. "No matter, she climbed up the stairs soon after everyone started to chit-chat."
"Why are you here?", I ask quietly, my voice strained and raspy from the lack of use.
He closes the door slowly, keeping his back towards me. "Does it matter right now?"
I stare sleepily at his frame, digging my gaze deep into him. I want to remember every little detail of this moment, because who knows if I'll scare him away again. If he does toss me aside, I'll be content with seeing him just this last time- when neither of us are angry and screaming. Everything is so calm, even the atmosphere.
"You smell like shit", He finally turns around, giving me a smile I know only to mask the pain in his tear filled eyes. "Take a shower, old man."
"Why are you crying?", I stand up, taking only the tiniest of steps towards him.
"I'm not", his voice trembles, but he quickly clears his throat and fixes his tie. "I'm not", he repeats with more clarity.
I tilt my head, scoffing ever so slightly. Even to himself, he won't admit how he feels. I trace his features with my eyes, and I never remembered him looking so beautiful. It's dark, the curtains are closed, but I can still see him. My eyes have adjusted after the long hours of not being outside. I want to kiss him, now more than ever. I should brush my teeth first, though..
"It's not like you to not take care of yourself", He walks over, eventually circling me slowly, and looking me up and down. "Go on. Shower. I'll be here waiting."
I look deep into his eyes, holding his gaze longer than I should. Usually, I can read him like a book. His face normally reveals what he's thinking- but now, I'm not sure if he's lying to me or not. I have to take my chances, though.
I quickly snag some pajamas from the dresser, and give Angleterre one last look before entering the bathroom. He seemed perfectly content waiting for my return as he sat on the bed.
Once undressing, I found myself staring very cautiously in the mirror. I don't normally do so, I know I look flawless- well, except for today. Black bags droop down from my eyelids, my hair a tangled, greasy mess. I almost audibly gasp when my eyes trail down to my body. Not eating has really been getting to me. I can see my rips when I stretch my hands above my head.
The water from the shower feels so warm yet so unwelcoming against my skin. I haven't inhaled this steam in a long time- It wraps around me like a giant hug.. a giant hug from Angleterre. One thing leads to another, and I end up doing something a bit mischievous.
I use my unoccupied hand to cover my mouth, trapping any moans or gasps that may escape my lips. It's been a while since I've done this, too. Yet, all I can imagine is England underneath me, legs wrapped tightly around my waist, his slim fingers tangled in my hair.
I didn't expect to finish so quickly. I guess that's what I get for not doing it for over a year.
I change into my clothes as quick as possible, and stumble out of the bathroom, still drying my hair with a towel. When I spot England, still waiting patiently on the bed, I exhale in relief. He notices my reaction, and chuckles dryly.
"Think I was going to escape, huh? Bloody git, I came here for a reason."
I turn to him, throwing the towel to the floor and stepping forwards. "And what reason would that be, mon ami?", I ask, my confidence boosted 10x after showering.
"I love you."
I freeze, and replay the words in my head over, and over again. Did he really say that, or am I hallucinating? I tend to do that quite a bit nowadays, especially about him. I take in a quick breath, and exhale shakily. I'm not particularly sure how to respond. Do I.. love him back? Non, non, I have these- feelings but.. It's no more than infatuation, oui?
He stares at me expectantly, and all I do is run a hand through my damp hair. He sighs, and walks towards me. I step back, just a bit, but he keeps forwards, until our faces are only inches apart, and I smell the whisky in his breath. I smirk a bit, and set my hands on his shoulders.
"Are you drunk?"
"Perhaps."
With that, he kisses me. Not as passionately as I'd expect, no, more sweetly and fluidly. As if it was so natural, so right. I sunk into it, and let our legs tangle, let our lips interlock as long as possible before losing breath.
Maybe it was the kiss, maybe it was him- regardless, when he pulled away, I was left completely breathless.
Yet, I couldn't accept it.
"Drunk confessions don't count", I whisper, pressing my forehead against his. "If you want me, you have to be honest with me."
"I am-"
"While you're sober."
He pauses, and bites his bottom lip, puffing out his cheeks like a toddler. I kiss him one last time, perhaps for the last time, and savor his sickly sweet lips.