heroescuties | [Axis Powers Hetalia, America/England: The Adventure of the Famous Fiddler COMPLETE: 6/6]

Title: The Adventure of the Famous Fiddler (COMPLETE: 6/6) [FF.net] [Previous Chapters]
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre: Adventure/Mystery/Romance/FLUFF
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: America/England
Word Count: 2,226
Summary: When a famous friend of America's mysteriously disappears, England puts his detective skills to the test. Helping America through his grief while unraveling clues, the two must work together to find out what has become of the missing fiddler. [England POV]
Notes: The final chapter, with a nice dose of fluff. I really hope everyone (especially

sillyputtie since this is for her prompt) enjoys it!

As the brothers finished to boisterous applause, my eyes caught sight of the person I was there to see standing in the backstage wings across the way. This was the promised surprise, the reason America had taken up fiddling in the first place; my heart sped up a little more at the thought.

America was clearly no longer wearing the suit he’d arrived in; his trek to the dressing rooms earlier with Fletcher having resulted in something a little flashier for the stage. At the moment, I couldn’t say I disapproved of the look.

I could see America giving me a nervous smile and a tiny wave with the two fingers not clutching his bow and I waved back, allowing myself a bit more of a smile in hopes he could see it across the brightly lit stage.

“And now, a fiddler you’ve not yet heard of, but who is still extremely talented for his age- I give you, Alfred Jones!”

If I thought America’s outfit was befitting before now, seeing it under the lights simply took my breath away. It was a smart, royal blue suit; but old fashioned in its make so it had coat tails and a red vest, along with a puff tie.

As America took center stage, he turned slightly to his left. The audience, I’m certain, merely assumed he was looking over at where Fletcher O’Bray stood beside him. But the fact of the matter is, he had locked eyes with me. I knew then that this song was being played for me and me alone, the rest of the listeners be damned.

As Fletcher started up the back melody, America counted down the beats before lifting his bow up and jumping right in, his polished shoes tapping the stage floor in rhythm and his piercing blue eyes never once leaving my gaze.

Without a word from his lips, I knew he was saying to me, “England, this is for you.”

There are perhaps words to describe what I witnessed that night, but at that moment in time, I was positively speechless.

First and foremost, I was struck by the melody America was playing; an old English reel that I’d not heard for many, many years. I wondered for a moment what had inspired America to choose this song, when I suddenly remembered my penchant for humming it while cooking. Leave it to this git to do something as idiotically romantic as learning to play a song I’ve hummed now and again.

As if that wasn’t enough to woo me, the blasted idiot, was damned good at what he was playing as well. If the glimpse I’d seen of his talent when he’d played the fiddle at the Chafley’s house was amazing, this was tenfold so. Movements so fluid, so quick, that his fingers were all but a blur to me. Never once did the jaunty tempo slip, and at times, it almost seemed like he was slightly speeding it up just to show off a little.

That’s when he shot me a wink, and I knew that he was indeed showing off and I was the intended target of such buffoonery. So what if my heart skipped a beat or some such frivolous nonsense at his behavior?

As the song began to draw to a close, America grinned wide and bright at the audience. With a quick glance at Fletcher, America sped up the last strands of the song up into a furious tempo, the audience rising to their feet in an ovation as he hit the last chord with a flourish.

America beamed, bowing to the audience before the curtain fell on the first act of Fletcher’s show. It was then, that America turned his sights to the two people he most wanted to see the reaction from.

“Mr. Chafley, how did I…” America asked, voice seeming small after such a loud and lively performance.

“You were brilliant, Alfred. The best student I’ve ever mentored, wouldn’t you say Robert?” Fletcher asked as the two walked off stage to the wing we waited in.

“Absolute best.”

America pouted. “Hey now, I’m the only student you’ve mentored.”

Fletcher put an arm around his shoulders at that and smiled. “I’m certain I would think the same even if I’d mentored thousands. You’re something special, Alfred. Arthur’s lucky to have you.”

At the mention of my public name, America turned his sights to me. With a few shuffled steps in my direction, he bit his lip as he queried, “So, did you like it?”

I closed the space between us, drawing him into a searing kiss- backstage spectators be damned. It was really, honestly, the only way I felt I could convey anything at that moment; to tell him how touched I was and how magnificently he’d played.

As we parted, I leveled him with a look. “Idiot. How could I not? You learned the song I bloody hum while cooking, on the fiddle, just…j-just for me?”

He gave me a dopey smile. “Y-Yeah.”

Still unable to find words to express my utter disbelief at his romantic endeavors, I kissed him again for good measure.

Fletcher or Robert, I couldn’t tell without seeing, muttered a quiet, “I’m going to guess he liked it.” But at that moment, I was a little too preoccupied to care about it or the fiddle prodding me in the side from where America still held it.

Blushing thoroughly, we parted and I cleared my throat. “So um, I suppose yes, if pressed, I did rather…love it.”

Fletcher and Robert chuckled, while America just beamed and pulled me into a fierce hug.

“Really? You did? That’s so awesome!”

“Yes, really. Now, can you get your fiddle out of my side?”

He withdrew from the embrace with a sheepish grin. “Sorry, just…you really loved it?”

I reached over and took his hand, giving it a slight squeeze. “Quite so.”

“Good,” he replied with a squeeze back.

A stage hand approached then with two cups, the aroma quite enough for me to already surmise their contents. Certainly enough, he turned to Fletcher and said, “Mr. O’Bray, the tea you requested, sir.”

Fletecher took the two tea cups and thanked the young man before sending him on his way. Turning to me, he held one out with a smile. “As promised Arthur, my part of the bargain.”

If the aroma hadn’t tipped me off already, the color of the tea in the cup definitely assured me that my prediction was correct. With a smile, I nodded my thanks and took the cup from him. I blew a tendril of steam away and delicately took a sip. As expected. “Ah, Borengajuli?”

He nodded, “Best blend out there. Figured you could enjoy it before you joined the audience for our second act.”

America grinned, swinging an arm around my shoulders; I frowned as a droplet of tea was jostled out of the cup, which had been on the way to my mouth. “He got us front row seats, of course.”

For the tea and the gesture both, I replied, “Many thanks, Mr. O’Bray.”

He smiled. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Mr…” He hesitated, the new name still so foreign to his tongue. “Mr. O’Bray?” America asked. He had removed his arm from around me and was nervously crossing over to his friend.

“Yes Alfred?”

America wrapped the man in a grateful hug, saying quite ardently, “Thank you, for everything.”

The fiddler patted America on the back. “You’re welcome, dear friend.”

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We watched the rest of the performance from the center of the front row, America’s hand snugly clasping mine when he wasn’t clapping along with the melodies Fletcher played. It was a brilliant show. After the performance, we exchanged pleasantries with the two brothers, both of them thanking us for helping reunite them. And, as Robert put it, “We’ll even excuse you breaking into our house as thanks.”

As we parted, I pulled Robert aside to inform him of one more little clue I’d just picked up on. “You do realize your brother is still playing in your name, right?”

He frowned. “I don’t follow.”

I held out the show’s programme to him, indicating where I’d drawn out the following on the lettering there. “See, if you rearrange the letters of ‘Fletcher O’Bray’ it spells out…”

“My…my name. Robert Chafley,” he finished in shock.

We both turned then to where America and Fletcher were saying their goodbyes.

“I understand what it’s like to have a difference of views with someone you care about. But…sometimes you need to know when to apologize, even if it’s hard.”

Robert snorted. “You’re a wise man, Arthur.”

I gave a wry smile. “Perhaps I am, now.”

--------------------------------

Fletcher had insisted on putting us up in his hotel; best suite he could afford at that. America had tried in vain to argue that it wasn’t necessary, but he persisted; it was another ‘thank you’ to use for all we’d done. As for Robert- America told me he overheard him telling his brother that Fletcher O’Bray was welcome to call on him at any time for a special performance at his show. I smiled, glad to hear that they’d fully made their amends.

America too, had been invited by both brothers to seek them out if he wanted to continue his lessons, and this earned them both a big grin and hugs all around. It seemed that in learning the instrument for the sake of one surprise, America had grown rather fond of it and did indeed wish to learn more from both of them.

All in all, we’d parted on fond terms with well-wishes and promises to see one another the next time America wanted a lesson or the next time I wished for a good cup of tea and a front row seat to America’s performance.

The case was, as they say, officially closed.

“Hey England?” America murmured, coming into our room and standing beside our bed.

I put aside the pen and paper I’d been writing notes out on. Somewhere along the line, I’d thought it might be interesting to jot down the more extraordinary points of this case. That was, after all, what Watson had done for Holmes; and while I was definitely no Sherlock, I wouldn’t mind having a record of this strange adventure to keep for my own personal recollection.

“Yes?”

I noticed then, as I glanced over at him, that he’d just exited from the shower, his shirt off and a towel draped around his shoulders. And while that was…ahem, well, all well and good, there was one thing I found a bit off about the image.

Namely, the fiddle clutched in his right hand.

“I um…wanted to thank you. You know, for helping out?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “So if you er…” He held up the fiddle feebly. “Have any requests?”

I blinked, then with a softening glance, I patted the bed beside me. “It’s been, well, it a rather busy day if I do say so.”

America laughed at that, sitting down where I’d indicated. “Just a bit of adventure, that’s all.”

“Shall we cap it off with a nice quiet song then? One of those songs with a sweet melody that warms the heart, and all that rubbish?”

He shot me a sly look. “Are you wanting me to play you a love song?”

I flushed. “I didn’t say…”

“I’m not sure I know anything good, um…” He paused, sticking his tongue out in thought.

“Do you know ‘Lavender Blue’?”

I’m not quite sure what compelled me to request it, but I felt like perhaps it was time I gave back to America a bit of what he’d given to me. If only he knew the tune…

His brows furrowed in thought, and he picked up his bow, tuning the fiddle before he sat poised and ready to play. “I think I know the melody, but not the lyrics…”

“Just play,” I said softly.

Shifting a bit closer, he struck up the soft sweeping tune. I allowed him to play a full verse, watching him in the dim moonlit room. Bare-chested, and wearing nothing more than his boxers and the towel around his shoulders, he still managed to make his fiddle work sound like an art even in his dressed-down state. It was gorgeous.

I sat up, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before I rested my head against his shoulder and began to quietly sing the words.

“Lavender's green, dilly, dilly, Lavender's blue,
If you love me, dilly, dilly, I will love you.
Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so?
Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so.”

As I finished that verse, America silently sat aside his fiddle and bow. I was about to ask him why he’d stopped playing, but that question died on my lips as he turned to capture them in a fierce kiss. Well, that question would just have to wait.

And as his hands crept up my back, I decided that at the moment, I was much more interested in returning his attentions than figuring out the mystery behind why he’d stopped playing anyway. Considering all the clues he was currently giving me, I did have a damn good hunch, after all.

THE END