Trigger subjects are used. Such as: Uses of drugs [marijuna] and an overuse of Science that may offend some religious beliefs. Please read at your own risk.
"Goodbye Earth, hello Moon. Fancy meeting you so soon.
I'm taking leave, taking flight, leave the universe in light"
Terminal by Globus
On a cold Saturday morning, in the month of May and on the eve of June, Alfred finds himself sitting abnormally quiet on the dark-wooded floor of his brother's living room with his back pressed up against the overstuffed arm of the overstuffed couch covered in cheeto dust. It feels as if he floats in and out existence, his body simple mist as the world melts and builds back up all around him.
He is there. He is not. And so he floats.
"Hey, Mattie..." His voice is breezy, wheezy, as his lungs take in more of the smoke that drifts around the room, blurrying its items and decor. "You still alive?" Just a simple question – something silly to ask a nation, but Alfred barely can feel his body at the moment.
His brother is somewhere, somewhere, in the endless plane behind him that he cannot see. From all he could know, there could be nothing behind his head and only such came into existence as soon as his eyes turned in that direction. Nothing and everything could exist beyond what he cannot see.
"Mmm." His brother groans, his quiet voice rising out from the dark and the mist. "Mmmmm. I am...existing right now. Am I here, Al? Are we alive?"
The smoke is thick, but Alfred can still make out the different materials of the room even without his glasses. Even though his amazing eyesight goes from superhero capability to jackshit as soon as his glasses are removed, he can still make out the coffee stains from the mug of it he dropped earlier, his brother's dying plants (Matthew was always shit at taking care of stuff that couldn't take care of itself), the plaid armchair that is probably older than half his states, and a fireplace that had seen the transition over into gas some time ago. His brother's living room is plain, he realises, and that the probably only interesting thing it is the original painting of some asshole artist whose 'DARKENED SOUL' led to him to monstrousity on his brother's wall.
"Hey Mattie, I just realised." Alfred suddenly says, over Matthew's ugly furniture and shitty art taste already.
"What? Have you finally...finally realised you're the biggest idiot ever."
"No. That we're old as balls."
"We're not that old–"
"You were found by that...that...Danish guy. Or was it his stony-faced friend...? Scandanavia. Well, fuck. Anyway, they found you in 896 when they discovered Newfound...land."
"Newfies," Matthew snorts. "God, I love the Newfies."
"You make fun of them all the time!"
"Of course! It's not like you don't make fun of your fifty-something states."
"Not the point! The point is...The point...Point..." Alfred trails off, his train of thought dying along with his speech. He slides down some, resting his chin on his chest and lets his thoughts wonder. "We're so old, man." Alfred murmurs. "And we haven't done a lot."
"What's there to do, Al? Our job is to make sure Europe doesn't 'toe out of line' while trying to keep ourselves in check. Our job is to pretty much babysit Europe and the Middle East. Of course, you're the bully babysitter that forces the Middle East to pump your car and get you illegal cigarettes. Other than that...We're left to pretty much do this."
"Get baked? Speaking... Also! I am not a bully, Canada! I am a responsible adult who is merely trying to help the unfortunate as difficult as they may be. Now where's the damn thing?"
"Hold on...Hold on...Shit fuck penis. I think Kuma ate the bowl."
"What? Is your bear's digestive system fucking boss? Or has it ascended to fucking God-Tier? If I ate a bowl, I'm pretty sure it would not be –"
"No...Wait. Wait. Found it! What were you saying?"
"Oh, uh. Old as balls, right. We haven't done a lot, Mattie. We're literally, like over a millennia now years of age, and fuck – we haven't even been outside of our solar system!"
"There's can't be a lot out there, Al. It's all silence and balls of fire."
"There's gotta be life out there, Mattie. Look at Tony!"
"Even if there is, who in their fucking right mind would stop willing on this planet? We go forth in the name of the man who lives in the sky. Alfred, we believe in a man who lives on a cloud. Besides, Tony is a dick and he doesn't even want to be here. He wants to go home and you won't let him."
"God, you're such a fucking pessimist."
"No, Al. I'm realistic."
"You're supposed to be stoned right now! You're not supposed to be realistic. Fuck realism. Now hand over that pipe before I pass out."
"Hold on, fatass. Besides, this is a bowl and this is my weed."
"Speaking of the weed, where do you even get this stuff? The Netherlands? This shit is off the house, nigga."
"Al, I'm whiter than you are. And fuck, I can barely get Kumajirou through customs without them thinking I'm cray-cray. With the world as paranoid as it is, even I can't get high-grade illegal narcotics past the eyes of the system and on the aeroplanes. A live polar bear is apparently just a bit too much to ask for."
"Even on your private jet?"
"Al, I don't have a private jet."
"What! Fuck, I know what I'm getting you for your birthday then–"
"I swear if you show up with a fucking jet on my birthday, I will kick your ass. You're in a recession, asshole!"
"Don't worry, man! I've got this Barack Brobama has totally got my back!"
"Did you really just call your president, 'Brobama'–"
"He's cool with it, man. He's cool."
Alfred can feel Matthew slide down and out from the plane of reality of which the Canadian had surrounded himself with and settle down next to him. The bowl in his hand is visible through the thinning mist that has invaded their silly lives, shiny with the melted glass it's made up of and loaded up and ready to go. His brother brings the mouth of the bowl to his lips, readies the lighter to light up, and Alfred can only watch in silence and appreciate the beauty and grace of which his brothers get fucking loaded.
A loud expletive burst through the silence when Matthew's thumb catches on the flame of the lighter. "We need one of those...gas lighter things. My thumb isn't going to be a thumb after all of this."
"Because you got girly hands, bro." Alfred points out. "But man up, Matt. If you were a man like me, you wouldn't have this problem."
"Go fuck yourself, Al." Matthew shakes his head and steadies the lighter, taking his own long, blissful hit before handing it over to his brother. Alfred does the same as his brother but with no where near as much grace and etheral awesome and settles down against the side of the couch.
Both brothers fall back into a state of eerie bliss – the troubles and difficulties floating out and away with the smoke. They leave their bodies, leaving mortal shells behind and float on.
"Do you think there's life...out there...in different places?" Alfred breathes the smoke out with words, revelling in the burning of his throat, and watching fascinated as the smoke tumbles out from his throat and joins its breathern in space. Alfred wonders if he has dragon breath. "Not...space. Not...the universe. At least...Not this one."
"Maybe," His brother's voice fades back into that calm, peaceful tone once more. "I like to think that...sometimes, you know, we're not alone. That...That we're not the only dickbags in the universe, but to think...Of there being more? is a little hard, Al...A lot of hard..."
"It's hard to think of that...when we can barely fat...fash...fathom our own solar system, let alone a multitude of universes, but I belie...ve in them. I want to visit one one day and see what I did to create that universe. Like, I wonder what that universe would look like if I was on the 'Man's' side of the Drug War. We sure as hell wouldn't be doing this."
"That would be terrible."
"Yeah, any universe I went to too! Probably. I'd probably...fuck shit up without even touchin' anything!" America's head droops slightly, but he continues on with his talk. "Did...Did you know that the centre of our galaxy is a black hole? What...What would happen if you went into that black hole, man? Would we be ripped to shreds or thrown out into an alternate universe where we breath hydrogen instead of oxygen?"
"Well, what's...the difference between a blackhole and...wormhole? Because I don't think–"
"Well, either way! There's gotta be parallel universes out there, Mattie. Seriously. Seriously."
"How? How would they be fashioned?"
"From, god, anything! General accepted idea that a parallel universe is created...at the opposite of a done action. There are millions, millions, of parallel universes, Mattie. Some suggest that there are more parallel universes than there are stars. And Matt, there's a lot of stars."
The Canadian sighs. "Stars are so pretty, Al."
"They are." Alfred agrees. "Even though half of them are dead and have been dead before we were even thought of."
"...Thanks for telling me that." He takes back his bowl with slight force as if offended by Alfred's truth. Everyone hates the truth. No one likes it. What did truth ever do to them? Truth exists to tell the truth. Millions of the stars they see, they fawn over, they love are dead and blew out long ago. Truth did nothing but tell the truth. It is not truth's fault that the stars are dead. He did not kill the stars.
Matthew takes another hit from the bowl, his thumb almost being burnt by the lighter as he attempts to angle it just right. He breathes out the smoke from his nose almost like a dragon. Alfred takes the next hit, blowing a plethora of rings of smoke from his mouth.
Silence uncomfortably settles over them. It leaves the brothers confused and quiet.
Then, Matthew suddenly is the one to break the silence.
"Ekki-Ekki-Ekki-Ekki-PTANG. Zoom-Boing. Z'nourrwringmm."
Both brothers burst into outrageous laughter at the quote, falling besides themselves with the whole stupidity of the situation. As stupid as it is, as dumb as the random quote is, it is something however that sets them over the edge with laughter and happiness, their ribs and lungs aching. Then again, stone-cold sober or stupidly stoned, Monty Phython is always funny.
Then, the smoke of the room thins out with their laughter. Slowly, they return to their bodies – the weight of themselves suddenly pushed upon them once again and cancelling out their last chuckles. They settle uncomfortably in their humans, yearning to float on again.
"Man, we're so unfunny. While we're on the subject though, have you gotten a shrubbery yet?" Matthew chuckles and asks.
"I don't know about you, but there was just a universe created where it was I who said that and it was you who got the shrubbery but it died because you're shit at plants. Also, I don't know if you realised but we're fucking hilarious."
"Well, there's a universe that was just created where I just slapped you across the face. I almost did it, Al! But then I decided that I'm the adult here."
"Fuck you, Mattie. God, you're so immature. Fight me."
"Um, no. Your idea of fighting since the Cold War is pulling at my hair and calling me names and telling me I take dick."
"God, just because Russia doesn't want to brawl with me any more doesn't mean I can't take you on bro. This isn't just fat man. This is pure American muscle! Also, you do take dick. Remember the Netherlands and the Switzerland incident?"
"Holy shit, he was so pissed. Well, there's a universe then where I can kick your ass!"
"I'm the one he came after! He thought I was you and he still does! And for bringing that up, I'm going to murder that universe then. That universe has just made itself an enemy."
"You brought it up asshole! Besides, I'm not the one who caught giving someone head!"
"You did not just bring that up, I fucking tripped you dickbag –"
"Yeah okay, Al. Dude, his dick was out –"
"You're being ignored now."
"Oh just like every other day?"
The conversation suddenly dies off; the twins lapse quietly into a state of silence at Matthew's cold words. The smoke thins some more, and begins to clear out. Objects in the room slowly return to sight. Matthew's dead plants look even more dead. As the high dies, their bodies settle and they feel even more foreign and uncomfortable.
"Do parallel universes die?" Matthew suddenly pipes up, wanting to get over the hump that normally divides them daily.
"Probably, man. Probably. Probably get sucked up by a big ol' black hole in the blink of an eye. Or they just die 'cause they can go no further. Could happen to us, ya know."
"We would be that unlucky, Al."
"Yeah, definitely. Some day some aliens will be floatin' on by and see our wreck of a home planet or at least the shit outside our atmosphere because there would probably be nothing left of our planet and ask: 'Oh hey, what happened to those assholes?' 'Oh you know, like a bunch of noobs, they got sucked up by a fucking black hole.' 'What dickbags!'" Despite it only being remotely funny, Alfred giggles stupidly and snorts at his own humour, thinking how he should probably take a hit at professional comedy before he suddenly lets out a depressing sigh. "What fuckery. Man, this just makes me depressed."
"Why? It's not going to really happen, Al. At least while we're still...'alive'."
The American fiddles with the bowl resting in his hands without thought. When did it get there? "It's not that. It's that we don't have access to anything. Not to God, not to the universe, not to the outside of the galaxy, not to even fucking alternate realities. Mattie, I've just realised. We suck."
"No seriously, we suck. We could do so much but we let the fact that we're human get in the way. We could totally survive a black hole. Sure, we might get ripped to shreds, but we'd live. Maybe regenerate and shit. I did get my leg pretty fucked up in the Great War and it healed up pretty nicely and it was almost entirely gone. Either way, we'd so fucking live as long as our country is still alive. Hopefully, our respawn time won't be as bad as every other immortal out there."
"God, Jesus' lag time was horrible."
"Yeah, I know! Three days! But Mattie, can you imagine it?"
"Jesus taking forever to respawn? Well their system was probably really outdated back then and totally primitive to ours–"
"No, asshole. Imagine the world opposite of ours. I would be such a dick. Like every testosterone fuelled teenager of today but worse and immortal."
"But what could cause that? Every action opposite of the world of this one would have to lead to separate parallel worlds and nothing would add up."
"Yeah, there's probably thousands of worlds, maybe millions, of alternate realities created at the hands of our stupidity. Like, imagine if it had been Rome that had been burnt down by Hannibal and his hairy men."
"They weren't hairy, Al."
"They're Egyptian, God! Haven't you ever seen Egypt with his shirt off? He's hairy."
"Alfred, Egypt's on the otherside of Africa. Carthage is near Tunisia, you ignorant asshole."
"God, Mattie. Everyone knows the world map consists of America and America alone! Leave me alone! But don't worry, you'll be on that map when you unify with me."
"Hopefully, my government decides that unification with you is something they have nothing to do with at the moment–"
"Mattie, that doesn't matter. Seriously, just imagine. Imagine the world where Erik the Red crashed and burnt and never encountered Greenland or Newfie-world. Imagine if Napoleon had defeated the Russians at their own games and never had to deal with Waterloo and his himilating defeat and banishment. Imagine if England was left to itself and the Romans decided 'fuck this shit. Islands suck balls!' and we never got invaded by Sir Pubic Eyebrows of the Hairy Gentleman. Think of the worlds–"
"Imagine the world where you lost the war." Canada's voice is quiet, and his thought seems careless. The words cause the American to halt his ever-constant moving train of thought. It squeals on its tracks, almost curving over as it attempts to slow down from its fast speed. The thoughtless child on the tracks smiles and curses him with a new thought.
Yes, yes. Imagine that world. A terrifying prospect that hurts to imagine. That world would have been brutual – a world where he would be forced to live something that was not him and something that would never be him. He would have no voice – just another one of the several boys Arthur has ruined in his quest for global conquest. He would have no freedom, no choice, no friends or family. He would be doomed and lost and be forced to march under the Queen without the comfort of Cheetos to guide him.
Sure, his brother had remained under British control and he was free today, but who is to say that if America did the same thing that the world would be the same? Sure, the Commonwealths is something great and dandy and the one club he could never officially enter, but if he rode under the British flag – would the world be the same? Would the same technologies, the same advancements, the same things have happened? Would he be the same?
"That sounds like a shitty parallel universe." Alfred answers after a moment, the train back on its track and the child with the thoughtless thought dead beneath the some 200 tons of black American steel. "God, I'd have to deal with Arthur's cooking forever. Fuck, that just sounds terrible. And I'd have to be a gentleman and I couldn't burp in public any more! Holy shit, Mattie. If I lost the war, I wouldn't have Jersey Shore! Mattie, I wouldn't have cheetos. What kind of life is that!"
Canada shoots him a disturbed look. "What did you do before there was television?"
"Farming and sleeping, duh."
"You're sounding increasingly sober, Al. And so I am. Take a hit. Let's run this batch dry."
"Fine, fine." He brings the mouth of the bowl to his lips, almost latching on before hesitating. He looks down at the bowl with a quiet thought and then looks at his brother.
"The universe where I'm everything I'm not is the one universe I don't want to go."
"But with our luck..."
"...That's exactly where I'll end up. And –"
"Yeah, sure, Al. Take a hit."
Alfred takes a deep hit, burning up the rest of what's in the bowl, and coughs out the burning feel that collects in his chest. He holds out the bowl to his brother, rests his arms and head on his knees and laughs like an idiot.
"Hey, bro! I'm fuckin' gonna find my way into a parallel universe! Just you wait and see!"
And eventually, he does.
"One million black holes in my head. Swiss cheese brain, those cells are dead.
No carbon matter goes to waste,
I'll dissipate in endless space."
- Terminal by Globus
Um...noh hoy youy me noy.
Sorry for the derp I guess and the high North American bros.
Anyway, review and favourite if you care enough to.
Well, I forgot the trigger warning.