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Time Slips By	By : Darbracken Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 1243 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Germany, England or America or Hetalia ot the 1940s. I have not and will not make any profit from this fic.

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To everyone who has reviewed any of my Hetalia fanfiction so far.. thank you so much! o/ I love reviews, generally it gives me warm fuzzies and inspires me to keep writing and uploading. This fic came about because I was given a smut request for England and Germany on tumblr. If you want to follow the trials and tribulations of England I roleplay him at theenglisharecoming [dot] tumblr [dot] com. Also if you just want to harass me via asks to write stuff.. come and join us!

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When Ludwig returned that evening no light shone from the windows of the little cottage he’d been sharing with the policeman. It was unusual. By now Arthur would be home, complaining about one thing or another. How Mrs Smith had asked him to get her cat down from a tree again or the antics of the local school children and missing bottles of milk. So when he saw no light instinctively his stomach lurched.

Whilst the life of a village policeman was not one filled with bravado and risk there were still dangers to the job – though it didn’t include Mrs Fenwick’s gutter falling on one’s head. Arthur had been livid after that. Somewhere along the way he’d come to find the Brit’s little rants charming and entertaining. They made up for his cooking, which was terrible.

It’d been over a year now since he’d fled Germany. At the time he’d had no real goal other than to get as far away from the insanity he saw brewing at its heart as he could. Consequentially he’d ended up in England, living with the local bobby no less. Perhaps it was because they didn’t trust him and had wanted to put him somewhere they thought he’d be watched.

The darker side of his mind whispered it was because no one other than Arthur would have taken him in.

At first they were very cordial, polite. They barely spoke other than a good morning or a good night. Over time though they’d become closer, or at least enough that Ludwig knew that Arthur was the youngest of four brothers, he liked football and had an odd penchant for French cuisine – which he cooked terribly.

When Ludwig had first brought up joining the armed forces to fight against his countrymen, to try to right some of the terrible wrong that was being committed Arthur had fallen silent. Though they’d never spoken of it he’d seen the longing glint in the Englishman’s eyes. It had struck him as a little odd that an intelligent, healthy, young man like Arthur wasn’t on the front lines himself but those kinds of conversations were best avoided.

That night it seemed he wasn’t the only one who wondered such things.

Across the bright, green wooden door, daubed in red paint there were two words.

“Cowardly homo.”

From the door handle a vibrant yellow ribbon hung. As Ludwig looked up he realised there were more. Dozens of little yellow ribbons, tied wherever they could be fastened. Anger overtook worry, tearing at the fabric with bear hands, pulling as many away as he could.

Arthur wasn’t a coward. Arthur was one of the kindest men he knew. Yes he was rough round the edges, yes he swore a lot but he’d always done his best to make Ludwig feel at home.

Hands full of the hateful fabric he felt grateful, if Arthur wasn’t home yet then perhaps he could even repaint the door and the Englishman would never need to know. It was then that the door opened before him, the man in question looking up at him with dark emerald eyes, pale and drawn.

“It’s ok, you can leave them Ludwig.”

Yet he didn’t want to leave them, he wanted to rip down every single one.

“Nein! Ich werde ihnen nie verzeihen!“

Nervously emerald eyes darted around, it was then Ludwig realised the Brit was sporting a split lip and the starts of a black eye.

“Arthur…”

“It’s been a long day, just come in already.”

Not allowing further disobedience he was ushered inside, swiftly throwing the ribbons away and washing his hands. By the time he was done Arthur was slumped across the kitchen table, a glass half full of brandy cradled in his arms. On the table lay a number of small boxes and a few papers.

“Arthur…” Again he tried, unsure what to say. It wasn’t like he was good at such things and the Englishman was never one for grand displays of emotion. Quietly he sat across from him, watching as long fingers played with the most ornate of the boxes. At length the blonde sat back, fixing emerald eyes on him.

“I just want someone to understand…” The scent of alcohol was evident on his breath, though his words were not slurred in the least. Reverently a black and white photograph was slipped across the table to him. It showed a young man, incredibly handsome, perhaps one of Arthur’s brothers. Taking it Ludwig held it up to better view it. Over the top he saw pain swell in Arthur’s eyes.

“Alfred, his name was Alfred.”

Was? Wracking his mind Ludwig couldn’t connect the name to any of Arthur’s brothers. There was Hugh, Dilan and Patrick, right? So who was Alfred?

“That was taken before he went to war, he was so proud to serve his country. Even when he was a young lad he’d look to the skies and say one day he’d be up there. Never quite made it though, ended up in the army and now he’s gone.”

On instinct he reached out, grasping the man’s hand. Arthur just looked so defeated.

“I loved him. Against every moral, every God given commandment I loved him, so, so much…”

Cold shock ran through his spine at such words. It was almost unthinkable; such things were never openly spoken of. Yet Arthur was pouring his heart out to him, he could not reject him, nor release his hand.

“When they gave me his medals and affects I lost it.”

So that was how they found out? Hot anger bubbled below his surface, silently tightening his grasp around the now trembling hand. Bastards. Didn’t they have any sense of respect? Carefully he put the photograph down, trying to work out the best thing to say to the man who had been so generous towards him.

“Listen Arthur I…”

“I’m not a coward.” Clipped tones cut in, pushing the small box over the space between them. Carefully Ludwig pried it open, within it sat an RAF badge. “It wasn’t his, it was mine.” Confused he glanced up, the very starts of a depreciating smile curling lips. “I was due to set out before him. There was an accident; I broke my ankle landing in a ditch in a night jump. I was discharged; the doctor said it was no use. Alfred always kept it though; he said one day he’d take me flying with him.”

What could he say? There was nothing he could say. Instead he refilled the brandy glass and gathered it up, taking a long drink from it.

“To Alfred.”

“To Alfred.”

Silence swallowed them then for some time, neither feeling the need to speak until Arthur finally stood up.

“So now you know. If you find someone like me disgusting I will try to help you find somewhere else to stay.”

Ludwig wanted to yell that he didn’t care. Why did it even matter? People’s lives were so fragile, they died all the time. Even his father and mother, his elder brother might be dead and he’d never know. Life was what was important and the living of it. Words were silenced though by the crash of lips as Arthur kissed him.

Instinctually he moved to push him away, but the Brit was so shaky, so breakable he couldn’t bear to do it. “I just… comfort…” Words were mumbled into his chest. Cautiously he licked lips. It wasn’t so bad; they were just humans at the end of the day. Though Ludwig had never given much thought to his sexuality he found he wasn’t as disgusted by the act as he might have been.

That night they lay together. Touches were shy, tentative at first, fuelled by alcohol. They became bolder; Arthur’s fingers skimming up the inner of his thigh, a nip too forceful reopening the cut lip. Somehow he just wanted to make it –right- for the man he had grown fond of. Even if he wasn’t Alfred, even if he wasn’t a woman they were just two lonely people and they were alive. That was all that mattered.

Lips tangled, holding back a groan as calloused fingers coiled around his shaft and stroked slowly. Unsure where to put hands he ended up clutching muscular shoulders, pulling Arthur closer. Watching those self-same fingers sink into the hot body above him was perhaps one of the most erotic sights he’d ever witnessed. Softly Arthur had grunted his expression one of intense concentration as he oiled and stretched himself to accommodate his generous length.

The heat had been almost overwhelming as the Brit had sunk into his lap, connecting them. It must have hurt because Arthur hissed and nervously he had kissed along the pale flesh of his throat to try to distract him. Yet when they finally moved, rocking slowly together he found that he couldn’t restrain himself any further.

What had started cautious became firm, almost a little rough. Neither complained as hands grabbed, bruised and held firmly. Sweat had made bodies slick as they shuddered and crashed together, seeking release in the only way their bodies seemed to know how. Then Arthur had relented, the tight squeeze all it had taken to encourage Ludwig to follow him.

They had never spoken of it again and years later when the war ended and Ludwig returned to Germany he often thought of the sorrowful, emerald eyed Englishman.

Years passed slowly, marriage, children of his own. The memory never left him though. Time changed the world. Ludwig was middle-aged by the time he visited England again. Still he had not forgotten and in the break between business meetings he had travelled to the small village where he’d spent the war.

Everyone he asked had never heard of Arthur. Eventually he found him though.

Two graves side by side.

Alfred F Jones – War hero.

Arthur Kirkland – Perished in the line of duty. Our streets are less safe with his absence.
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