Terminal

[gwenchan]

Fandom: Hetalia
Character: HWS England/Arthur Kirkland

Tag: Nation verse

Chapter 3/?

Prompt: Aeroporto all'alba

One never knows how many useless trinkets they carry around until they have to empty their pockets before the fate pillars of judgement otherwise known as check-in. The tingling rain of pennies right into the grey plastic container covered the irritated mumbling of the man who had been stopped for more thorough control. In his line, counting three heads before his, England stretched his mouth in a poor attempt to suffocate a yawn.

Take off at dawn were not a novelty - quite the contrary - but he couldn't say he liked them. He barely slept, too filled with nervous energy to even try, only managing some half-sleep before the telly.

Moreover, up to last evening, he didn't expect he would be flying in a  few hours.  Mind and body were having a bit of hard time getting adjusted to the change.

 

One hand moved to loosen the shoestrings, enough to peel the wing-tips off in case of a scrupulous controller. Up to now nobody had been made undress their shoes, but the practice had taught England the habitual motto of better safe than sorry

He had taken a plane more than most humans could ever do, experienced all kinds and levels of security controls, in the end, they started to mix. Here one had to take off their shoes, there only boots, but sometimes only if they reached the knee. Absolutely no liquids, chances for food.

England had never had a passion to fly - or, more precisely, to travel by plane. Fly he liked, dare to say it, almost loved. That was, however, only when he was the one behind the cloche, on a raging Spitfire, twirling and tumbling down in the London skies. While the Navy remained his favourite military branch, RAF came in short second place.

 

He moved in line, up to his own turn, by pure muscle memory, discarding the watch among all the other metallic trinkets with less attention usually due to a vintage Arnold & Son, already mentally preparing for the ordeal of gathering back all his belongings in the shortest time possible.

 

The check in to begin piping at full volume wasn't in the plans. England stepped back, dropped his eyes in case he forgot to shed the belt, fished into his pockets for spares coins, gestured he actually didn't have any metal on his body. The detector rang again and the grimace on the controller's face deepened. 

 

Spreading obediently his arms in T pose, sure to not having anything dangerous on him and half irritated to have to pass through all the extra controls.

The metal detector biped descending from his nape to the calves, bringing the realization as to why when it thrilled in the hip area. El Alamein, debris of grenade that his body had already managed to inglobate, healing around, by the time England had received proper medic assistance at the first camp hospital. There was a bullet from Waterloo lodged in his right shoulder, metal from Yorktown just above the left knee. All mementoes and pieces so old and by now so embedded in his body removing them surgically didn't seem right, other than probably very complex and painful.

 

Besides, most metal detectors didn't catch them, including Heathrow's. Guess the chance. He bit his lips again to not yawn right in the guard's face

 

"Prosthesis" England said instead, stiffening for a pair of hands patting his back with the unceremonious quickness of a queue that needed to be moved the fastest possible.

"Fine. Go" came the final verdict. Thank heaven.

 

His flight wouldn't leave in other two hours, enough time to properly wake up and explore all the citadel of the airport; if there had been something left to explore, that is to say. 

Despite having explored every corner of Heathrow airport in the ninety years since its establishment, England adjusted the backpack on his shoulders, secured the grip on the trolley, and attempted to not have a marching pace while walking down the nearest aisle. In the continuous attempt to make the venue more modern, more comfortable, there was always a new shop or eating place popping out from one day to another. More often than not, it filled him with the usual regret, the bitter taste to discover a chain coffee-shop had engulfed an old favourite eating place. It happened he still walked absentmindedly to the grocery shop he had frequented every week in the early 20th century, dismayed every time to find a parking space instead.

 

In any case, the new sandwich-place seemed enough intriguing to risk a midnight snack, sort of a second dinner in preparation for the nine hours of flight. Sitting at a free table, sandwich ordered, England checked again his ticket. He grimaced.

Central row. The later the ticket, the crappier the seats. 

 

He prayed against having any person younger than twenty in the adjacent seats. Adults he could tolerate. Old people would be the best.

 

Most old people either preferred to enjoy their flight in blessed silence or rather dived into tearful memories of this little village or that battle. Both cases were a blessing.

It never failed to bring a smile on England's lips to see the face of an eighty years old granny when he revealed that of course, he knew that twenty soul village in the south-east. Same it went with the men, most of which have served and whose eyes shone in awe and respect to find a conversationalist whose expertise didn't match his age. It even happened to cross path with people England had met when younger

 

He glanced again at the ticket, to infer by pure divination skills his travels companions. Given his recent luck, he would surely end up seating next to a couple of noisy brats, the kind that prefers to chat instead of sleeping like a decent human being.

 

Searching for a seat to spend the left hour before boarding, it was easy to divine who was leaving and who returning, the accent, the status of their clothes and luggage. Pristine suitcase here and baggage on the verge of bursting there; London voices wondering about American towns viability and American replies in return.

With no seat free left, England let himself fall on the ground, the rigid hand-luggage as a makeshift seat, both too tired and experienced to give a damn about what others may think. He had seen people boarding in their pyjamas. Airports were strange places, liminal lands where everything could happen. There he could create his own bubble of personal space, pretending to be home, resting in his armchair, with an embroidery work that soon found its way from the backpack into England's hands. 

 

He didn't mean in the slightest to show off, but it happened, curious stares crawling up his nape, at least twenty intrigued eyes meeting his own when he lifted his head from the needle-work.

First, doing complex embroidery work in an airport was already quite unusual, elusive personal bubble or not. Second of all, he was a man, engaging in a traditionally feminine activity, despite one could have written a whole essay on how wrong the affirmation was.

Third and most of all, he was, in the eye of the beholder, young and embroidery wasn't exactly the latest fashion among Generations Z.

Right, soon and it would have to change generation again. England often forgot his outside appearance was meant to be to one of a man in the prime of his early twenties.

Sometimes he insisted to have an ID card with new age, thirty maybe, pretending a bad case of a babyface. The government still hadn't accepted his proposal, sticking to old habits and bureaucracy.

Nations grew too, but so slowly it would take another three centuries to add a couple more candles on England imaginary birthday cake.

Meanwhile, he revered in his lucky twenty-three; others had it worst, like America and his eternal nineteen.

 

Speaking of which, now that he thought about it, England wasn't all too sure America had been warned of his arrival. Scotland swore he called - or did England believe he was stupid? He didn't; not now, that was. However, trusting his older brother was something England had stopped doing for a long time.

 

Five minutes after having sent the message a sense of uneasiness crept on his lower back.

Seven minutes in and he caught what it was. It was too silent. America lived his phone glued to his persona, leaving rarely more than one or two minutes before answering, able to carry on several chats at once, all at the same time and England had yet to catch him posting the wrong reply to the wrong channel. For him not to answer could only mean he had had his phone off, which he did only when dealing with highly classified discussions. Damn, America didn’t put the phone on silent mode even when conferring with his president. Especially not when conferring with his president since the last change in power.

 

The first boarding call caught England with his phone already pressed to the ear, America’s recorded voice informing at top lungs that “You reached the inbox of the United States of America. I am currently busy making the world a better place, but I’ll be back to you in a flash”. 

 

“Hi. I’m not sure Scotland or Wales told you, but my boss allowed me for that vacation. I should be in New York in about eight hours. Boarding now. I’ll read your messages when I arrive. I love you”

 

Outside the windows, the lower sky was tinting pink and a soft blue. 

 

It took only to rest his head against the seat for England to drowse off once on the plane, seat-belt fastened, plane mode activated, not a single care for the safety instruction. He had shot bloody murder at both people seated next to him and that had been enough to discourage the tiniest attempt at conversation.

 

He dreamed of the party, again.