ℰvery ʂιɴɢle ԃαy ∯ Five

〖Hetalia ©〗

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∯Every Single Day∯

by☛EtherealTonic

Psychoanalysis has taught that the dead -- a dead parent, for example -- can be more alive for us, more powerful, more scary, than the living. It is the question of ghosts.

Jacques Derrida

You already know something is wrong. Arthur is happily jogging towards home, his hand pulling you along behind him in a frantic manner. The streets are empty and quiet, just the way you are accustomed to, and even though Arthur is right in front of you, you don’t feel safe at all. You refrain from speaking until he races through his front door, slamming it open in the process. You stand in the doorway, a worried smile worming its way onto your features, “Christ, Arthur, calm down would you? You’re going to wake up the whole neighborhood.”

“Absolutely not! If you haven’t noticed, I’ve brought you back from the dead. Excuse me for being just a little bit excited.”

“Artie, dude, what’s got you so worked up?”

Alfred is at the top of the stairs, leaning over the banister and scratching at his neck in a tired fashion. A smile lights your features at the familiar face, and you’re about to call out to him before you realize he’s wearing his glasses. He should be able to see you as clear as day. But he doesn’t.

“Alfred! You will never fathom what I’ve just been able to do.”

“Arthur,” you tug on his sleeve and gain his attention, an undertone of your voice strained, “he can’t see me.”

He squints slightly, smile falling for a mere moment before picking up once again, “What? Of course he can. Alfred, you can see her, can’t you?”

Alfred straightens and tightens his jaw as he skeptically walks towards the mouth of the stairs for a closer look. Hesitantly, he shakes his head, and you slowly close your eyelids in disappointment at what Alfred has to say, “There’s no one there. Look, I know you’ve had it rough lately Arthur, but it’s about time you stopped playing with imaginary friends.”

The sounds of Alfred storming back to his bedroom resonate through the home. There’s a few seconds of silence before you can hear Arthur speak in a solemn tone, “Bloody Hell, what was I thinking?”

You open your eyes to see him heading towards the stairs, leaping two at a time to reach the second landing sooner. A heavy feeling of encumbering empathy rolls through your body, and you begin moving up the stairs, “Arthur?“

He’s silent, and you follow him into his room before you call out to him again, “Ar-?”

He turns sharply, his face bitter as he stares at you with a level gaze, “Please. Just leave me be.”

Arthur can blatantly see the sorrowful gaze you’re sending him, but it only seems to enrage him as he stage whispers, “Leave!”

His demand is accompanied by a thrust of his hand, aiming at nothing in particular, only wishing to get his point across. You furrow your brows, crossing your arms as you contemplate the situation. He isn’t being serious, is he? Undoubtedly, he is. Your gaze shifts about the room unhurriedly, observing how it had changed in the span of time you had died. Finally, your line of sight lands on a photo frame on his bedside table.

“Well?”

“I know that you don’t really want me to leave.”

His shoulders slacken, visibly deflating as he drops his arm, “I’m saying to you right now, leave, and yet you think I’m joking?”

You walk past him, brushing shoulders and only barely noticing how he stiffens at the contact. You attempt to pick up the frame, watching as it wobbles and starts to phase through your hands. Concentration wins over, and it settles in your grip, “Because you went to all the trouble of bringing me ‘back to life’.”

The frame contains a photo of Arthur and yourself, a cup of ice-cream each. There’s a line of pink down the side of his face, his expression something akin to astonished, more than likely from the shock of having something so cold slapped on his face. Meanwhile, you appear to be a giggling mess, hand still outstretched towards his face with leftover strawberry ice-cream dripping from your fingertips. You smile, turning to him with a cheeky grin, “That, and I have nowhere else to go. You could at least be the gentlemen you always harp on about and offer me a place to stay.”

He presses the heels of his palms to his evergreen eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh as he sits down on his bed in a heap, visibly shaking with internal conflict and anxiety. You gently place the frame back down on the tabletop as you patiently wait for his reply, confident his answer will be in your favor. He’s your best friend – or, was your best friend, at least – hallucination or not, he would never kick you out with no place to stay.

“All right, you can stay. At least until I can figure this out,” he drops his hands, untying the strap of his cloak, “you are my problem now, after all.”

“Oh, so now I’m a problem?”

“Well, what else would you call this other than a predicament?”

“. . . Touché.”

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