axis powers hetalia kink meme part 8 STOP! DO NOT REQUEST HERE! NEW REQUESTS GO IN THE MOST RECENT PART! New fills for this part go HERE. Get information HERE.
"...Sir, Sir - Officer! I mean, this would probably sound very strange, but..."
The balding man with the short mustache stammers at him, waving a paintbrush. Ludwig stares at him. He cannot help it, really.
"I am a painter by trade - Well, most of my time is spent doing other things, now, but that's what I started out doing, anyway, and - Oh, damn, I sound like a lunatic, don't I?"
Ludwig opens his mouth, and then closes it. This is a rather different kind of creepy, even he has to admit.
"So, ah, what I was trying to say was - May I draw you? ...And paint you?"
Ludwig nods, automatically - He can't help himself at all.
" - Oh, it's so good to have somebody to talk to in German - For some strange reason, my English is so much better then my French, you know? My Polish makes my wife burst out laughing, though - Even my Yiddish is better, she says..."
Wife? Ludwig murmurs, as the man tells him to sit on the nearby fountain's rim.
"Oh, yes, yes - This is my wife and son! Jacob is getting so big..."
The photo of a happy family - The older man, his much younger wife - she had to be somewhere in her twenties, while the man in front of him was in his fifties - and their son. Ludwig takes this all in, numbly.
"Your wife is from - Poland?"
"Oh, yes - The pogroms, you know. I actually met her in Paris - On the very first day I arrived, in fact!"
Pencils move over the man's sketchbook, skritch skritch skritch, while he murmurs.
"Ahh, yes, very good - The thing is, you see - I am not a very good painter. At all. But still - Paris, eh? Paris is special, for all artists - And once Art has her in her hands, she does not really ever let you go, I think..."
The sun is setting, while the clouds dance across the swiftly darkening skies.
"And so I came to Paris, and I met my wife - Though it was a while till she became my wife, of course - And now, I'm - Something else."
The man takes a look at his sketches, and shaking his head, puts his pencil down.
"Here, Sir - What do you think?"
Ludwig looks at the sketch of himself sitting at the fountain's rim in his uniform, and wonders why his sight seems strangely blurred.
" - It seems to be a fine picture, Sir."
The man blinks at the Sir, but does not comment.
"You are too kind, young sir! But now - "
Monsieur, Monsieur! -
The voices call from the swiftly darkening streets.
It's time for the rally, Monsieur!
"...I'm coming!" The man calls back, putting his sketchbook away.
" - Rally? What do you rally for, Sir?"
The man blinks at him, owlishly. "Well, ah - Democracy. Treating other human being decently. ...All those soft, squishy things that so many people say make 'their people' - weak. Eh?"
And now, there is that glint in his eyes, fires fires burning bright -
And then he smiles - And he is just a middle-aged man putting his equipment away, under the starry skies and the moon.
Except that the fire is not gone, it is just banked, somehow, and -
And Ludwig Beilschmidt wakes up next to a softly snoring Feliciano, tears leaking out of his eyes.
America had a lot of Christmas traditions that England didn't enjoy. As soon as American Thanksgiving had passed, Alfred would start in on the Christmas songs. It wasn't that America was a bad singer - though his taste in music left a few things to be desired - but Arthur could only listen to so much holiday music before he was ready to rip his own ears off. Then there were the movies. The same movies, every year. America could quote Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer verbatim - and despite Arthur's objections, he always DID and sang along with every damn song too. So, he figured that he should have known better than to actually agree to visit when America had called him up with that desperate note in his voice.
He knew what to expect, so when America met him at the door and wasn't already dressed in a tacky Christmas sweater or wearing a Santa hat, he felt his expectations begin to falter. When Alfred ushered him inside, he saw the usual decorations and relaxed a little, only pausing to stare as he noticed not the two stockings he was used to, but all fifty of them, lined up in an immaculate fashion on the mantle.
"Are you having all the states over for Christmas, Alfred?"
The younger nation's back was to him, but he saw the flinch anyway. Arthur opened his mouth to say something, wondering just what was wrong, then the rest of the scene registered with him. Not only the stockings, but the tree was out as well, decorated with all the little ornaments that Alfred had always made with his states over the years. Children's books littered the end table and there was a pile of stuffed animals on the couch - he recognized them as the state animals Alfred had sewn for his children while they were growing up. He hadn't even known America had kept those. As weird as that was, it had nothing on the neat row of baby bottles with the name of each state on them.
"No." America's voice was cheerful, but the sort of cheerful you would normally hear from a lunatic recently escaped from an insane asylum. "None of them could make it this year. They're 'too big for Family Christmas, mom'." Alfred was doing air quotes. England quickly scoped out the nearest heavy object just in case America were to come at him.
Taking a step backward, Arthur gave a nervous laugh. "Well, you know how children can be..."
Alfred sank down on the couch, pulling a plush from the pile and cuddling it against his chest - England recognized it as the seal as belonging to Hawaii. "I know... they get too big and then they move out and they don't even send a Christmas card..."
Bloody hell... Arthur fought back the urge to box America's ears and point out that Alfred had done the same damn thing, but a lot less politely. He couldn't believe that he was beginning to think the Christmas songs were preferable to this moping. "And that's why you called me and told me I absolutely needed to come over and it was an emergency?"
The young nation blinked a few times before looking up from cuddling the stuffed seal. "I said that?" Then, a few seconds later. "Oh!" England rolled his eyes, then almost jumped back as America launched himself off of the couch, scattering plush animals everywhere. "No, no it's not that!"
Sigh. "Then what is it, Alfred?"
"It's these!" America leaned over the back of the couch and retrieved a large sack. As he tugged it into his lap, a few envelopes drifted out of the open mouth and landed on the floor. Gingerly, Arthur reached down and picked up the nearest one.
"Letters to Santa?" They were already postmarked. So much for the American mail system.
"They were on my doorstep when I was checking for my remastered 'It's a Wonderful Life' dvd." Alfred fretted, "They refused to take them back at the post office, can you believe that? What happened to the holiday spirit?"
"Commercialism." England replied dryly. Then, because he knew America was going to say it, and because one of his own authors had penned the words, "Bah Humbug."
I was originally going to submit this to hetalia_contest but changed my mind at the last minute haha. It didn't seem to fit the prompt too much and why not contribute to the filling frenzy? XD Anyways...
Set around late 1989, Austria goes to buy flowers for Hungary. He reflects in a verbose manner. Nothing much happens.
He does not come to this part of the city often.
That is not to say that he is lost; he is simply not too familiar with the surroundings around him at the moment. Nevertheless the people-- his people-- dressed warmly for the weather pass by in trickles outside the window as they speak in a language he is accustomed to and live in the manner he knows, reminding him that he is still home. But he knows he has come further than he usually does on his strolls: he is far from his house which has sat oddly empty for many years, and even further from the concert halls that resonate melancholy from the music of his symphonies.
"A special occasion?"
The question brings him back to the setting at hand, the aging flower shop owner trimming stems of the tulips with deft skill acquired over the years.
"No, not anything special." He answers, as this is true. It is Wednesday today, but that is nothing to celebrate. He is sure Hungary would agree: there was a time to celebrate and a time to mourn. He has already mourned for too long, and celebration has since passed a week ago. Today is time for neither.
"She's a lucky lady then, to have you give her flowers without a special occasion. She herself must be special."
Coughing lightly into his glove, he takes a moment to reply. "She is... certainly worth the efforts."
She must be, he tells himself. It has been a long time since he has last held her, had her within arm's length, or even spoken to her of a book she had read during the course of her leisure. It has been a while, undeniably, but he still remembers her warmth under his coat as fresh as cold that seeps in between the leather of his gloves.
The owner does not notice and ambles on in his conversation. "Love should always be worth it." He pauses suddenly, looking at him for what seemed like the first time since walking into the shop. "What color does she like? There are only three colors today though."
He chooses pale pink as there is no deep red. That was most likely for the best; it is evident that she would not want to see that color for a while. The owner nods approvingly at his choice when he points to the pink crinoline, busying himself with wrapping the bouquet. Austria calmly watches the crinkled papers come to life under the quick fingers; it reminds him that he has not written music for quite a while as well. The papers lie scattered in the music room, untouched but not forgotten beside his flawlessly polished instruments. The ink must have dried up in the pen, it has been so long. When had he last engaged in his fancy of trilling melodies and steady bass? He can not remember but his hand twitches by his side as a fleeting memory.
If she knew of this, Hungary would have been disappointed.
"Not particularly talkative, are you? Well I suppose the women like the silent type a little more. Same color ribbon?"
"I...” He pushes up his glasses back to their position on the bridge of his nose. “Yes."
A romantic? The thought had never occurred to him, he realizes. A romantic… He might have nodded at another time, in his notion that most women were romantics at heart. However now he feels quite plainly as if he can not speak for Hungary. Undoubtedly she is a passionate woman. He knows her fierce cries during war, even as she hides it by not mentioning them once in his presence. He also knows of her peculiar love for romances in the… unique variety. And he will stop there as to not deign to let himself remember other details which should only remind him of his long years of abstinence. Nonetheless he’d like to think that Hungary is also a woman of sense who can distinguish between fantasy and reality without compromising one for the other.
“She has much heart,” he concludes after a brief interlude. “She has a zeal for what she does.”
“Zeal, hm?” He winks at him knowingly, and Austria bristles inside as he thinks ‘no you oaf, not that kind of zeal’. But the wink is gone and the owner goes back to his bouquet in a matter of fact way before he can react properly.
“I see you love her. I’m envious, sir! My own wife’s been at peace for years.”
Austria blinks, then looks down at his calm hands that have waited patiently to embrace the tulips. “I am sorry.” Yet the owner shakes his head. “No need. I rather she not deal with all this trouble with the wars and such.” And Austria nods in silent agreement, ‘ja’, and thinks ‘I am sorry for that’.
The minutes pass by in awkward silence until he suddenly speaks out to the owner. “She is not my wife. We haven’t been married in a very long time.”
In a gesture that surprises him, the owner shrugs nonchalantly. “Still you love her.”
… Did he? He thinks about her, sometimes. Not everyday, as that would only worsen the hole torn into his house. But he does think about her often enough to imagine on a particularly indulgent day that she stands outside the door to his room in polite silence as not to disturb him. Other times she prepares breakfast in the kitchen though he is not hungry in the least. Still others she passes her time in his study flipping through the books with fervour. And he…
He missed her. Misses her. Liebe, was it? He finds that he has little argument against it and therefore can not disagree.
The bouquet that is handed to him is much more extravagant than what he had planned. The pink explodes from the yellow-red tulips in the center; he can barely contain the ribbons slipping over the sides in a cascade of tight spiral curls. “This is not a special occasion.”
“I know,” the owner replies. “It’s Wednesday, nothing special. This is just a way to charge you more.”
When Austria gives him a look, he only laughs jovially behind the counter. “I kid, though not really. But it’ll be nice to greet her after so long, ja?”
He wills himself not to smile too widely at the owner, not yet. Reaching for his tattered wallet in his pocket, he replies softly from the corner of his lips-- almost a whisper-- ‘ja’. It would be nice indeed.
(most of weirdness about war from Russia & Prussia is paraphrased from what I remember of the war speech of insanity from Hellsing. The idea of Russia being that crazy has the dubious honor to be the inspiration for this)
Russia sweeps Prussia into his large coat and Prussia hangs in his arms like a rag doll. He is losing, no, he already lost. While the battle rages on the conclusion is settled now when General Winter has entered the battlefield.
“Beautiful, isn't it?” Russia says as they watch a tank going down. Prussia isn't sure which side is dying at the moment, it doesn't really matter anymore. “Nothing moves me like seeing my soldiers run down a defenseless enemy, to see tanks blown into pieces, deserters shot and you German fools keep charging even though you are already dead.”
“Yes,” Prussia unsteadily replies, because the worst is, it is true. There is nothing like a country rising from the ashes to destroy everything in its way. Germany and his boss thought they had already won when their attack started out as such a success. Prussia always knew better but said nothing because he wanted to charge Stalingrad, no matter the consequences. Russia has reserves. Russia always has reserves. Everyone should know this by now. Prussia just thought the might of the Third Reich would be enough.
Russia binds the wound on his shoulder and pours vodka down his throat. Prussia thirstily gulps down every drop, making a small sound of disappointment when Russia takes the bottle away. Around them humans are still dying, the fight has become urban and truly dirty. Prussia suspects no surrender no retreat has been ordered.
“Is this not exactly what you wanted? A war so grand as to make hell itself tremble. Something to be remembered forever.”
“Yes, but it should be you bleeding, not me,” Prussia whispers because he can barley make his voice obey him.
“But I am bleeding,” Russia replies.
It is true Prussia realizes as Russia's attention is temporarily elsewhere, gunning down two approaching Germans who think they are about to save Prussia. One of them hits Russia in the shoulder before he dies and Russia keeps smiling like he isn't hurt at all. Another solider appears, a Russian who keeps his weapon pointed at Prussia and looks at the iron cross around his neck with pure hatred. He's going to pull the trigger, Prussia realizes. He braces himself for the pain and hears the shot. Strange, there is no pain. Prussia looks up to see the Russian soldier on the ground and Russia himself above him, laughing.
Russia lifts Prussia to his feet and drags him behind as he continues forward. He smiles brightly and madly and shots the next soldier he sees too, without even looking at him.
When Russia prowls the street that night anyone crossing his path is food for his blood lust. Prussia laughs out loud at the absurdity of the entire thing and thinks he must be hallucinating from the damage he took earlier. He doesn't try to run, not now, not when Russia is so far gone that it could start up anything and all of this probably isn't real anyway.
“Sacrifices for Winter,” Russia says as he shoots one of his own officers in the head. “Sacrifices to the merciless, bloody carnage we both want.”
It's impossible to know if there really is some kind of ancient pact in blood or if Russia has lost his mind even more spectacularly than usual.
Francis Bonnefoy had it all – he was very wealthy, popular in town for his good mood and pretty face, and he lived in a gorgeous mansion with his two sons, Matthew and Alfred.
Matthew was the quiet, intelligent one. He could often be found in the town’s library, reading books on history and science. He was always dressed nicely in a suit, even on the warmest day of summer, and when he spoke, everyone listened, for his voice enchanted people and left them wanting more. There wasn’t one girl who hadn’t had a crush on him, and mostly the mailman brought a handful of love-letters to the house every day, though it was a well-known fact that Matthew didn’t bother to read them through.
Alfred, on the other hand, was louder than loud, had more energy than all the young men in town together, and he was mostly seen flirting with the girls, making fun of Matthew or claiming stuff that wasn’t his. The reason? He was just bored. He’d never opened a book, never learned to read or write, and he was considered being rather brainless. However, he did make a boring day feisty, and he was admired for his stunning beauty. Golden hair and bright blue eyes, a trained body to die for and a laughter that made even the saddest person break into a smile.
So Francis was rather satisfied with his life – or that’s what people thought. For underneath his happy surface, the Frenchman was sour and tired and bitter. He didn’t mind the money, the fame, the mansion – hell, he even adored Matthew. But when it came to Alfred, he’d just had enough. Every time he looked at the child, it was like looking into the past, for Alfred had his beauty from his deceased mother. A woman Francis had loved so much, but who’d died while giving birth to Alfred. Still today Francis couldn’t quite understand why she had done what she had done. The doctors had told her that she was very weak after the last pregnancy with Matthew, and getting Alfred could be risky for her health. But she’d denied the possibility of an abortion.
‘I won’t kill a child,’ she’d said as Francis had suggested her giving up on him. ‘And if you ever bring up the possibility of an abortion again, I’ll never forgive you.’
So Francis had stayed quiet during the nine months, he hadn’t said a word as her water broker, and he had waited quietly outside the door behind which she gave birth. But as the nurse came to him, telling him that his wife hadn’t made it, he cried, and he cried, and he cried, and he went so hysterical that he wasn’t allowed to see his own baby for a month, as the doctors feared he would choke it with his own bare hands.
And he would’ve. And he still wants to – but now Alfred’s far stronger than him. An attack on the man would mean his own death. But he hasn’t given up. He’s eager to see the child off.
Then one day he was offered the chance by coincidence. And he accepted.
Summary: Colonial America makes his first attempt at flight...it goes about as well as one could expect. England is not amused (and he totally did not flail about like a girl either no matter how America tells the story later in life...)
* * *
"England...what are you doing...England...why are you doing it...England...where did you get that quill....England...when are you going to be done...England....why don't you want to play with me...England...England...England...England..."
England groaned and rubbed his forehead as he tried to drown out the litany going on at his elbow as his curious colony questioned anything and everything that he could get his hands on, or even just see, on the desk in front of him. The stream of questions had been cute at first now they were just giving him a massive headache.
"America...stop that..." he barked out sharply feeling only a little guilty at his tone when America shrank back from him as he shot his hand out to grab at a pile of books and papers America had almost knocked off the desk in his excitement. "Please...be quite," he said in a much calmer tone after he straightened the pile. "I'm trying to concentrate on these papers, the sooner I can finish the sooner I will be able to spend time with you.
"You said that yesterday," America said with a huff. "You were in here the whole day and didn't even come in to say goodnight to me before I went to bed."
"I'm very sorry, America," England said with a sigh. "But I am a very busy nation, and have very important things that need to get done. I will try to spend some time with you today but I won't be able to do that if you don't stop distracting me..."
America sighed heavily and nodded his head. He moved away from England's side but only just far enough that he could look at some of the papers that had been exposed when they'd almost toppled off the floor. England watched him out of the corner of his eyes but said nothing. He didn't think there was anything among them that he had to worry about should America hurt them. He admired the boys curiosity even if it seemed to come with a lot of energy and a lot of questions.
"England..." America's voice tentatively interrupted the silence that had descended over them. Silence that England had just started to put to use.
"America...what did I just say..." England said with a sigh.
"What's this?" America asked curiously.
England looked up and tilted his head to see what America had discovered. There was a strange drawing on the piece or parchment. Something circular and spindly looking. Curious he pulled the paper out and saw the other drawing underneath of a winged creation he realized what he was looking at. America hurried around the side of the desk again to get a closer look at the whole parchment.
"This is a copy of some drawings done by a Leonardo da Vinci, he was from Florence," England said reaching over to look through the other parchments looking for the other pieces he knew where in there. "He lived in the 1400's and was quite a good artist...among other things," he made a noise of triumph as he located the papers and brought them over so that America could look through them as well. America's eyes were wide and curious as he looked at them. If he'd known that America would be so interested in art he would have brought other copies with him that would be far more interesting than these strange sketches.
"What are they?" America asked gesturing at the drawings. "What do they do?"
"They're flying machines," England said with a disinterested shrug of his shoulders, already turning back to his other papers.
"Flying machines?" America echoed in confusion then his eyes opened in wonder. "You mean you can fly with these...like the birds?"
"Yes...well..." England said picking up his quill to get back to his work. "That's the theory at any rate."
"They didn't work then?" America asked with frown.
I actually wanted to fill the “Become one with Russia” request (found here http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10960.html?thread=22061264#t22061264 ), but I think it will end up far from fluff as I started to think about how many reasons Prussia and Russia have to be pissed at each other.
It hurt seeing Koenigsberg like this. Prussia remembered past moment of awesomeness and saw a city that didn't look like his at all. He also remembered the city falling, his people trying to run. That memory hurt even worse.
The cathedral had been rebuilt, strange, it didn't seem like something Russia would do. Prussia decided the new one wasn't nearly as good at it used to be. He felt like a ghost walking through the streets that used to be his but he could no longer recognize.
He went to Koenigsberg to feel better but ended up worse. The last thing he needed was to be reminded of what he used to have and lost.
It didn't take him long to find a bar where he began to order vodka. Because nations were hopelessly drawn to each other he walked right into the same bar as Russia. Prussia didn't even bother to count the glasses of vodka he downed as he stared at Russia across the room. Russia didn't look back and didn't even bother with glasses when he drank his vodka.
“Hey, Russia,” Prussia called out across the room. He had started to become more comfortable after that last glass. “What exactly would become one with Russia mean?”
“To be mine of course,” Russia said, not at all surprised. Perhaps he was not as unaware as he appeared. He moved to Prussia's side with unexpected speed, almost breathing down his neck. “Everyone should be one with me so I can take care of them, make the decisions and create a better world. It will be nice, da?”
“I want you to be really, really specific,” Prussia said, pointing unsteadily at Russia. “Can I have Koenigsberg back? Do I have to clean your house in a French maid dress?”
“It is Kaliningrad when it is mine,” Russia said with a very annoying smile. “And if you want it back you have to be mine too. I will be nice to you.”
“I don't like to clean. And I don't play dress-up. And I'm not going to be your sex-slave or some kind of weird shit. But I want my capital back.”
“You are very strange,” Russia said.
“I'm calling your bluff!” Prussia yelled and heads turned as he finished his glass in one grandiose sweep. “Make me one with Russia!”
Prussia woke up in an unknown bed. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence and it didn't bother him. He tried to recall last night. If it was Ukraine's bed it would be awesome. If it was Denmark's it wouldn't be unexpected. He felt a bit sore so Denmark seemed likely, unless Hungary finally given in and decided to top the hell out of him in a way not even his favorite dreams could match. But overall he felt great, better than in a long time. No hangover, instead all tingly with anticipation of something he couldn't name.
“Morning!”
Prussia almost fell off the bed in horror as Russia entered with a tray of small pancakes.
I've decided to pitch in an idea I've been tossing around for a while. I was going to request it to see what others came up with, but this may be a good time to share!
Basically, an idea for an RPG style game revolving around an alternate future. I wanted to have lots of fun with this, and I'll probably ask for help along the way!
Feliciano grinned, holding out a large basket of Panettone.
Ludwig, on the other hand, was very carefully checking out the temperature gauge of his state-of-the-art oven.
"Merry Christmas, Feliciano. - Please wait a moment, the Stollen will be ready in...7 more minutes, perhaps?"
" - Hmph." Lovino muttered, swiping a chicken-bit off the table. "As if that - that monstrity made of too many candied fruits could ever even compete with a proper Panettone. It's barely a cake any more, much less a bread, there's so much marzipan and fruits and nuts in it..."
" - What did you say about Stollen?" Gilbert mumbled drunkenly, grabbing Lovino from behind.
"Stollen is famous around the world now, y'know that? Even Kiku's place has them! Right, Kiku?"
"Well, yes, they have become quite popular recently - Many bakeries seem to make them around Christmas." Kiku smiled at both of them.
"I believe that, ahh, Panettones are quite popular too, around the world? Alfred-san said that his supermarkets stock them now, too - Alongside the Stollens and gingerbread, that is."
" - T'ch."
"Humph!"
Kiku smiled softly as Lovino and Gilbert continued bickering drunkenly about the pros and cons of their various Christmas traditions.
This probably wasn't the time to mention that he'd tried making both Panettones and Stollens from the exact same batch of dough, and had pretty much succeeded at making pretty good versions of both...
"Is everybody ready?"
Kiku nodded - He'd sent over most his presents beforehand, of course, it's not like he could carry all of them by himself. Gilbert took one last swig out of his bottle, while Lovino 't'ch'ed again.
Feliciano laughed, balancing his basket on his head while Ludwig just looked at him. Ludwig's Stollens were very prudently packed into large boxes, of course.
Late Christmas fic that doesn't fit in anywhere. Actually written as a gift but... I got too shy to give it to them ;A; and I hope they'll see it here and maybe, just maybe, like it even a little bit.
Five Days of Winter
i. The First Winter
"'tis cold t'day."
Norway shows no signs of having heard his words. His fingers are cupped tightly around the mug of hot coffee, his eyes gazing into the swirls of steam.
"'m goin' out." Sweden turns and leaves the room. A few seconds later, Norway hears the sharp click of the front door closing.
It is his first winter under this roof. They rarely speak to each other or stay in the same room, yet Norway feels as though the four walls are closing in on him. He is constantly aware of the other's presence, too close to him, the house too unfamiliar to him, reminding him every waking moment that he is still ruled by a stronger power.
On the streets outside and in the houses other than this one people are preparing for the Feast of Saint Lucia, but this house, the house he shares with the other one, remains as quiet as it has been since the day he moved in.
Norway downs the dregs of his coffee and longs for the icy fjords and rough, open seas of his homeland.
ii. One Step Closer
It is late. The darkness all around is the darkness of empty streets and deep slumber. Norway parts the heavy curtains of his room slightly with his fingers. Outside, fat, heavy flakes are falling slowly towards the ground. He touches the glass and feels the cold seep into his body through his fingertips.
The events of the day scrolls through his head. Walking along the snowy paths with him, hovering around the stove - stirring, mixing and tasting, sharing a meal, sharing warmth and companionship. They had not spoken much, there was no need to, Norway thinks. He does not remember when he grew to be fond of him and much as it makes his days more pleasant, he fears what it means to him as a nation.
He turns his head sharply as he hears a soft creak outside the door of the room. He lets the curtains fall back into place and waits in the darkness - for a knock? An invitation? Chiding himself in his head, he walks across the room, taking extra care to be silent and opens the door.
The hallway outside is empty. A box sits on the floor right before him, a dark forest green box tied neatly with a wide silver ribbon. Norway glances down the hallway once more, then picks up the box and pushes the door shut behind him.
He turns on the night lamp on his bedside table and carefully unties the ribbon before lifting the lid off the box. A long and thick knitted scarf lies folded neatly inside, deep wine red in colour. Norway lifts the scarf out of the box, his fingers sinking into the soft, warm wool. There was no note in the box but he knows instinctively whose hands had knitted it and placed the box outside his door.
He lays the gift down on the bed next to him. He thinks he will wear it when dawn comes, just for him.
Okay... I didn't technically write it for the kink meme, but it's so hard to find anything with Poland, so I thought the other anons might enjoy it too.
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His world was on fire.
Every breath that shivered through him was dry with the heat, dust coating the rawness of his throat - he was drowning in it. Dimly he was aware of his own body, felt himself stretching outward, past the buildings, past the men being dragged into the street like so much cattle. He could feel Poland - feel himself - all the way to his borders. The land screamed to him and he had no air to give it voice. He wished for the rain to fall, to cool him but the clouds overhead were black and they were smoke and he was burning.
Germany's hand had him by the nape, a warning squeeze that wasn't needed. He'd already tried to fight - his uprising had failed... the Allies had left him to fight this battle alone, despite their assurances of support. And he had fought. He'd fought until the Allies had given him up, left him for lost. They'd said nothing, but he knew they'd regarded their pact as less than useless.
But even so...
"Please, Germany," His voice was foreign to his own ears. "I've already surrendered. This isn't necessary..." Not this... never this. Warsaw... his Warsaw...
The grip was merciless, dragging him to his feet. He stumbled, pitched forward, held from falling by the unrelenting hand. His limbs failed him, clothing tearing as Germany lost patience trying to guide him and chose to simply drag him instead. Poland barely noticed the fingers around his throat cutting off his air - he couldn't breathe anyway.
He was flung to the ground, a broken doll, shivering, panting. He pressed his cheek to the road and felt the welcome coolness of begin to seep into his hot skin.
"The city must completely disappear from the surface of the earth." Germany's words ripped through him, shock seeping from his veins like blood. There was no anger in the other nation's voice, only a cold distance. This meant nothing to him. "No stone can remain standing. Every building must be razed to its foundation."
Palms flat against the ground, muscles aching as he pushed himself up. He did not want to see, but he had to know.
Not her. Not Zaluski...
A wealth of knowledge - precious Zaluski - he'd helped lay her foundation with his own hands. In so many ways her worth was greater than his own. Within her walls lay one of the greatest collection of books in all of Europe... How he'd struggled to put her back together in the years after the partition of his country.
"Please..." One hand caught at the edge of Germany's sleeve, words torn from the raw hollow of his throat. "Please no..." He could muster no eloquence for her, not for the books, the manuscripts, the maps. All that he had was his agony of his plea - he would have begged for her if he could have.
In the end, his words made no difference. A hand lashed out, dashing him to the ground. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, vision blurring in and out, but it could not stop him from seeing the tide of soldiers with their torches. The flames rose up into the night, fed by Zaluski's insides - ashes and bits of burning paper on the wind as he doubled up around himself - his screams silent. Poland burned.
He screamed and he burned and the rain did not come.
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Zaluski Library was the oldest library in Poland - and considered by some to be the first. It was also one of the most extensive libraries in all of Europe. It was burned by Nazi forces after the Warsaw uprising.
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ReCaptcha: Campus Rome (High School AU?)
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D'oh! I totally misfired and posted this somewhere else. Um... I wrote a misfire fill for it myself, so here's the link, so all of you anons can laugh too.
I'm not exactly sure where this came from. Probably the result of eating too many chocolates during the holidays and listening to "Norwegian Wood" one too many times.
This little AU features stuck-in-a-rut-both-professionally-and-emotionally Belgium as an out of work chocolatier and very-recently-widowed England as a mourning writer. Like with the name Anaïs, most of Belgium's personality or tone is entirely my fabrication since she has yet to be featured in the webcomics. Abuse of artistic license I call it.
Also, this is unforgivably confusing and depressing.
To be honest nothing romantic happened, not in the least. But we were both too desperate to notice or care, too busy being wrapped in our own respective deaths-- you over the only person who ever really loved you and me over myself. Like the ice-encrusted glass in the left corner of my decrepit apartment. Cracking at the edges. I think once, when you were sober but just barely, you mentioned that you'd fix that for me. “I’m alright, but it’s too bloody chilly for a lady.”
You never seemed to mind my apartment, or maybe it was because you were always drunk-- I'll always remember you as a drunk, for all your redeeming intelligence-- when you visited so that the dust gathering on the floors or the paint cracking at the edges were all a heavy blur to your spinning, alcoholic world. Even as we rolled on it you never seemed to mind or notice and just went on your merry way strolling down the narrow lane on my collar bone with your dry lips pressed on my shivering skin-- it was always so cold in there, do you remember?-- as if we were making love on a five-star hotel bed, or even just a normal one.
Laughing when you heard about the fate of my poor bed, you held me close. Ale was in your very soul. You mentioned that you liked it bitter now-- “Funny because I like my tea sweet”-- as you sampled my leftover chocolates. You lingered over the truffles but didn’t dare touch them: always the bittersweets.
"What are you doing here?" I think I asked you the first time, and after the first time I only asked "Why are you here?" though maybe that was a more important question. Licking cocoa off my fingers, you'd answer the same way the entire time "Why did you let me in, Anne?" like you were trying to be sober-- you were in no way sober, because you were either drowning in alcohol or drowning in your own sorrow. I never answered you because I didn't really know myself: I wanted you to think I'd picked up promiscuity from 'that damned frog' so that you wouldn't think of me as the 'good woman' from year ago when everything went wrong. You wouldn’t regret anything from back then, nothing from now.
I remember years ago I was the catch you missed. You were too busy pouring over the words of dead poets to hold me, and I didn’t care for the words of dead men. I wanted life and good food; you wanted elegiac fancies for your four walls. “I think you’re mistaken,” but I don’t think I was. Tragedies were fascinating because you were happy than, or as happy as a lonely genius could be. You lived in a terrible warped fantasy. Even frogs knew more on love than you.
“Sempiternal,” you’d told me, cigarette dangling from your writer’s hands. “She is eternal.” And I didn’t question it. Love made you say silly things, no matter how late you discovered it. Silly things in purple prose. “I love her.” I agreed, you must have. She loved you too, I could see it-- your lucid eyes still searching for her light. “She loves me. Loved.” You took a drag on the cigarette, holding your breath ‘til your eyes watered. I pretended not to know that they were there even before the smoke began to burn your lungs-- emotion was one thing you couldn’t do, even if your writing cried you would not have a single tear in your eye but waste inside instead. “She wasn’t supposed to die.” I agreed to this too, because my heart was not supposed to die either.
Summary: Slice of life at the end of the world. Warning: Sci-Fi Apocalypse (Not AU), Mentions of a specific character death others implied. Characters/Pairings: Russia/America. If you squint you might be able to see implied USUK if you want it to be there. But I had a familial role only in my head when I was writing it.
Notes: This got considerably more shippy then I had originally anticipated it being (Russia is a brat) but I'm happy with how it turned out.
A sense of fear washed through him as he continued his run. He knew it’s useless to run away because the other will catch up to him sooner or later. Continuing his run, he go straight to a dead end. He gulped and turn back. And the fact that he found himself in front of his chaser will never be a good experience in his mind.
"Why do you try to run, Arthur? All I want is for you to be with me after all~" In all actuality, he don't know how this 'game' started at the first place. He didn't know why everything is happening. He wished for this to stop because he can't stand it anymore. But, he can't run away as his feet felt like it's rooted to the spot.
Warm breath ghosted over his ear. "You can't run Arthur... Because I finally got you and you are mine. Forever and ever." He whispered, holding his hand in possessive manner. He don't have any time to think however, the other already claimed his lips in bruising and dominating manner. He let out a small gasp when he can feel the other bit his lips. "N-No!" He wanted to move, he really do, but his body just won't obey his mind anymore.
Tongue go into his mouth and explored inside it, no matter how much he wanted to push the other away, he can't, and he felt like every second passed like it's torture. His chaser, no, no longer chaser, he's his master now because it's the rule of the 'game'. The 'game' that every nations participated in because they will become the world's strongest nation if they got him. But he knew that his current 'master' wants to get him not only because he will become the strongest nation but he also want to be able to possess him.
How he knew that? It's easy. The other always, and always be paranoid. Afraid that the person he hold dear will gone. Will go away from him. "Ssh... You don't need to worry anymore, Arthur. I will take care of everything... Nobody will ever take you from me, you hear? Nobody. I will make sure of that." He whispered to him, and Arthur can feel the thinking sink to his mind too because that's what his master wish...
"Y-Yes... Master..." Arthur whispered, his mouth moving on it's own accord. Or maybe that's what Arthur trying to think. Because he didn't want to think, that... his master is... the person he love. He didn't want this. He never want this. That's what he wanted to scream but instead, he can feel that thought of his started to wilt because there's more than what he wished is at work here.
Magic is the one at work and he now can actually think that... Alfred is his master. He can see the satisfied smile the other gave him when he called him 'Master'. "Good boy..." Alfred whispered, caressing his cheek in what people can say... kind. But Arthur's real thinking is no longer on that, what passed in his thought is whether on how he can please his master...
I hope someone is able to feel happy from this... Despite some of it's contents. *Shifty eyes*
A/N: This was actually written initially for a request for China/America in the random!song-meme on my LJ. The song was #400 on my playlist, which was "Jillian" by Within Temptation - it was oddly fitting. I've noticed a bit more requests for China/America here, so I thought the meme folks might appreciate it.
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China knows this is a bad idea the very first time their eyes meet. He knows when he finds himself drawn into the stunning blue of America's gaze - so vital, so raw... so achingly new. The young nation drips with inexperience, a boy in a man's body - still trying to get steady on his long, wobbly limbs. China can see this. He turns America's heat and hunger aside, shaping them into something different.
He soon learns that America takes well to excess, though the boy never reaches the levels of hedonism to be found in Europe. His tastes are different - lavish. He shows China his creations - dens as grand as those back in Asia. Draped across a chair, the expensive silk sliding down one bare shoulder as smoke rolls from his lips, America is no less compelling than he was that first day. There is a demon trapped beneath his pale, perfect skin, it calls to China - a siren's song. Lips against the smooth expanse of America's throat, a fleeting touch, but beneath the sweet smoke and the rich fabric, there is still a boy in those eyes.
Mewling protest follows China as he pulls away. He has taught America well, but the wrong lesson, it seems...
It is not the last time America offers. It feels like that demon is always there, haunting China. He teaches America - trying to pull something constructive from the need he has created. America absorbs his lessons so quickly, changes them around to suit his needs. What he shows China upon his return is not what China has taught him.
America is nothing like the others China has mentored. His willful behaviour and stubbornness are failings that can be assets if bent to the right purpose. China pushes and finds that America balks at being treated in such a manner. Even when China is delicate about it, the reaction remains, instilled too deep for China to move. England has given America this core of hurt, and the boy guards it jealously, unwilling to relinquish it. It is not the first time that China has cause to be bitter toward England - as England has been, and continues to be a source of strife for China's people - but it is the first time that China is aware of how badly England has ruined this boy...
Even a hard stone will crumble if the water wears it down enough. The haunted look in America's eyes as San Francisco burns will stay with China forever. It is the first time China yields to America's needs - and to his own. In the midst of silk, and sweat, and the sweetness of bare skin beneath his tongue, China already knows this is folly, at best. America's legs wrap around China's middle, drawing him in. Before he can think better of it, he is held to America, in America.
It's afterward, with America crooning, spooned up against his side in a nakedness that is unashamed without being vulgar, that China is aware of how badly he has ruined this boy.
It's an addiction. For himself as well as for America. America is free with his money - free in borrowing money. He binds himself to China with his debt and his body and that brilliant smile and China does not care that this is madness. It's all consuming.
He chooses not to think about the future they weave into place. America settles after the depression, after the wars, their relationship eases into something a bit less heated, a bit more relaxed. The nebulousness China saw in the beginning has coalesced into something solid. America has built himself up, layer upon layer. He doesn't seem aware that he doesn't need China anymore.
But he will be, China knows. America will realize this eventually.
China carves America's name somewhere small and hidden away - preemptive. America is not the first - not by a long shot - and China senses that he will not be the last either. China has already seen the rise and fall of many nations stronger than America is now. Those nations are gone, and China is still here. It's a cold truth.
Pairings: Russia/America (main), America/Canada (Platonic/Brotherly), Canada/Ukraine (Mentioned) Summary: Alfred struggles to find solace after civilization crumbles in a post-apocalyptic world. My take on the classic “Aliens invade planet earth” set up.
A/n: Was afraid to post this up on the main comm & the Russia/America comm., So I decided to test it out here. My first time writing Russia/America. Part of a one-shot 20 theme challenge I'm doing.
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Why am I still alive?
It was a question he asked himself every morning since the day of the flash.
I shouldn’t be here.
It happened after a long day of meetings with his boss and the cabinet. He drove home in his truck, thinking only of crawling under the cotton sheets and resting his head upon the goose-down pillows. He might have been hungry, but mental exhaustion and tunnel vision over-ruled. Car’s flew past him on the lonely two-lane highway, acres of private land on either side of the road. Beside him on the passenger seat lay his cell phone. It trilled shortly, signaling a new text message he’d received. Stealing a glance, he found it to be from Russia, whom he’d been messaging back and forth for the past several hours. Turning onto an ancient gravel road, his old Virginia home finally came into view. He sloppily parked his truck in the street and stumbled across the lawn to his front door in a haze.
Sleep first… I’ll call him later.
Tony failed to greet him at the door. In hindsight, he should’ve been more concerned with this, as his alien friend always, without fail, met him at the door. It was a mannerism of Tony’s at first that soon grew into a silent ritual. However, America found himself too focused on the soft mattress and pillows upstairs to care. Throwing everything to the floor, he shuffled up the stairs, into his room and promptly collapsed into his bed.
How is this even possible?
Sometime later, he felt a tiny hand clutching his shoulders. Groaning unintelligently, America twisted away. The grip suddenly grew painful as he was drug from the bed.
“Ow- hey-!”
America’s head hit the floor first.
“What the hell-??”
Tony had both his hands in a bruising grip.
“Tony, what-?”
The grip on his wrists grew unbearably painful as he was thrown into a small enclosure. Tony jumped in after him, his movement’s jerky and almost panicked. America turned to the smaller creature, trying to pick himself off the floor.
“What the hell is going on?” America glared at his old, alien friend. “What-“
Tony grasped the side of the enclosure, tugging a sliding metal sheet across when the flash happened.
Actually wrote this for my France, but it needs to see the light of internet day. Thank you anon, for giving me this chance! Written to the song Mouth by Bush. (I am proud to tell all of my friends that I have finally posted something here) ---------------
Francis tugged at his bonds experimentally, testing the quality and strength of his captor’s cords. He tilted his head, feeling his long hair slide against his cheek and neck, brushing past his shoulder as he slowly moved, trying to feel out the floor with his knees. His hands flexed open and closed at the small of his back, but the movement only cramped muscles in his shoulders and didn’t seem likely to release him.
If he stared hard enough, he could see vague shapes through the soft cloth covering his eyes, brushing against his eyelashes. Unlike the cord around his wrists, the blindfold was soft, sweet, not crushing or holding. It was probably meant to slip off if he moved too much, which, of course, he would. In time.
Out of the silence came a sound, repetitive, jarring, perfect.
Clop, clop, clop.
The sound of lightly heeled boots strolling confidently towards him, walking with an air of importance and grace. No hurry, just an eloquent expression of the wearer’s intention.
A door slammed open somewhere, making Francis start despite his determination to remain unmoved by the dramatic entrance. He tried to turn his head toward the sound of approaching feet, tilting his whole body so as to present a pleasant image. He was, after all, very concerned with how he looked, whether or not he could visually assess himself. He smiled, strong white teeth standing out against his bruised lip.
The Frenchman waited for something to happen, tilting his head, questioning. He could feel his captor there, standing just before him, probably seething at the pleasant smile fixed on his handsome face. The heat gave him away. Where the stone room, and Francis, were delightfully cool, the man before him radiated heat like the very sun.
“Bon soir, Moussieur. Or is it morning now? I really have no idea, you see.” He let the words flow out of his mouth, voice deep and seductive. A moment of nothing passed and he felt movement. A strong hand slapped across his face, a fierce backhanded throw that was made slightly more bearable by the soft glove on that cruel hand. The blindfolded man only smiled again, spitting out what was probably blood and ran his tongue over his lip. He could taste it there, warm, coppery. He made a show of swallowing it up, licking it and enjoying the abuse.
England wakes to a gun pointing at his forehead. He follows it to a leather-clad arm to the slant of a smiling chin to a boy’s eyes.
He closes his eyes for two seconds and opens them. The barrel is still there, and he thinks, perhaps inappropriately, that the morning sunlight surrounding it makes it look almost holy.
England inhales very deeply before saying, “Good morning, America.”
“Hey, England,” says America. “Did you know that you sleep really soundly? I mean, I’ve been sitting here for the past half hour waiting for you to wake up and I think I have a cramp in my thigh, you know, how does that even work?”
“It’s because you’re leaning,” England tells the ceiling, although it’s hard because the gun is sort of blocking his view. “You’re putting all your weight on that arm and leaning to one side, so obviously you’re going to get some twists there.”
The gun touches his forehead. It’s a cool contrast to the muggy summer of the room.
“Right as usual, England,” says America sunnily. He’s always been a morning person, England remembers. Although he may be remembering wrong, since no one’s seen America for half a year. Which really wasn’t that long of a time, but when you’re talking about America even half a week was eternity.
“Not, apparently, about some things.” This time England talks to the gun tip.
“Like what?” The barrel is digging into his skin, and he honestly wonders why America is bothering with it, because it isn’t going to kill him. Sure, it’ll blast most of his brains out for a good day or two and during that time he’d be as responsive as Ireland after that first loss against France, but after that there’d be nothing but a faint scar, more likely from the indenting America’s doing than the actual wound.
Unless it’s decoration for the whole thing, and if it really is then he really can’t say anything. America has always had that touch for dramatics and Hollywood, always been pining for the ‘real deal’—whatever that was—and England blames it all on France.
As he does for, well, everything. Except maybe this. Never in a thousand years (and England’s seen one or two) this.
“Like you showing up at my house with a gun in my face,” England grits out.
“Oh! Yeah, surprise, huh?” America beams. “I didn’t really know how to go about doing this, and I really wanted to ask you guys since you do know, but obviously I couldn’t, so I pretty much winged the whole thing. Did a damn good job though, I think—you should see Toronto, England, last night it looked like an apocalypse movie—“
“What?”
“Like an apocalypse movie, you know, like The Day After Tomorrow or something, except this is way more awesome—“
England can handle guns. He’s woken up to scores of them over the centuries, and knows how to deal with them. And he can handle countries with personalities that flip inside-out overnight too (and numbs himself from thinking this is America, America—), and it probably isn’t true anyway, but this is. This Is.
He surges up against the pistol, something metallic on his tongue, and America immediately throws him into the headboard.
It cracks.
His sheets are tangled all around his legs now and so is the front of his undershirt in America’s left hand, and he tries to talk but only garbles come out. It’s his head. His head made the headboard crack when it slammed against it.
“Careful, England,” comes America’s voice from somewhere to the right of him. “You wouldn’t want to impale yourself on a bullet or two.”
America’s villain lines need polishing, he thinks as the room fades, swirling around him with sunlight everywhere. They’re too overdone—it’s Hollywood again, definitely, and France.
There’s sunlight everywhere and it’s ridiculous. Maybe if he closed his eyes things would be less hot.
2.
America’s house has never seemed so large, so glossy, so empty.
The second time England wakes up it’s in the kitchen, sitting upright at one of the silver island counters. A glass of orange juice clinks gently onto it. He looks up.
America’s there again—bloody hell, he can never get tired of seeing the boy’s face—and smiling again. “You okay, Art? Made you some orange juice to keep up the whole damsel in distress thing.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Anything Goes (As Long As There's Hetalia In There Someplace)
(Anonymous) 2009-11-11 05:40 pm (UTC)(link)Crossovers and Fusions are OK, too.
I like well written/drawn, etc, fills of all and any kind, by the way.
Paris
(Anonymous) 2009-12-02 01:22 pm (UTC)(link)The balding man with the short mustache stammers at him, waving a paintbrush. Ludwig stares at him. He cannot help it, really.
"I am a painter by trade - Well, most of my time is spent doing other things, now, but that's what I started out doing, anyway, and - Oh, damn, I sound like a lunatic, don't I?"
Ludwig opens his mouth, and then closes it. This is a rather different kind of creepy, even he has to admit.
"So, ah, what I was trying to say was - May I draw you? ...And paint you?"
Ludwig nods, automatically - He can't help himself at all.
" - Oh, it's so good to have somebody to talk to in German - For some strange reason, my English is so much better then my French, you know? My Polish makes my wife burst out laughing, though - Even my Yiddish is better, she says..."
Wife? Ludwig murmurs, as the man tells him to sit on the nearby fountain's rim.
"Oh, yes, yes - This is my wife and son! Jacob is getting so big..."
The photo of a happy family - The older man, his much younger wife - she had to be somewhere in her twenties, while the man in front of him was in his fifties - and their son. Ludwig takes this all in, numbly.
"Your wife is from - Poland?"
"Oh, yes - The pogroms, you know. I actually met her in Paris - On the very first day I arrived, in fact!"
Pencils move over the man's sketchbook, skritch skritch skritch, while he murmurs.
"Ahh, yes, very good - The thing is, you see - I am not a very good painter. At all. But still - Paris, eh? Paris is special, for all artists - And once Art has her in her hands, she does not really ever let you go, I think..."
The sun is setting, while the clouds dance across the swiftly darkening skies.
"And so I came to Paris, and I met my wife - Though it was a while till she became my wife, of course - And now, I'm - Something else."
The man takes a look at his sketches, and shaking his head, puts his pencil down.
"Here, Sir - What do you think?"
Ludwig looks at the sketch of himself sitting at the fountain's rim in his uniform, and wonders why his sight seems strangely blurred.
" - It seems to be a fine picture, Sir."
The man blinks at the Sir, but does not comment.
"You are too kind, young sir! But now - "
Monsieur, Monsieur! -
The voices call from the swiftly darkening streets.
It's time for the rally, Monsieur!
"...I'm coming!" The man calls back, putting his sketchbook away.
" - Rally? What do you rally for, Sir?"
The man blinks at him, owlishly. "Well, ah - Democracy. Treating other human being decently. ...All those soft, squishy things that so many people say make 'their people' - weak. Eh?"
And now, there is that glint in his eyes, fires fires burning bright -
And then he smiles - And he is just a middle-aged man putting his equipment away, under the starry skies and the moon.
Except that the fire is not gone, it is just banked, somehow, and -
And Ludwig Beilschmidt wakes up next to a softly snoring Feliciano, tears leaking out of his eyes.
Paris : Notes
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-02 13:33 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Paris
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-02 22:45 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Paris
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-06 15:23 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Paris
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-15 11:39 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Paris
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-15 14:19 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Paris
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-31 03:51 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Paris
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-31 16:45 (UTC) - ExpandEven a Miracle (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2009-12-03 01:23 pm (UTC)(link)-
Because there's so few Christmas requests.
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America had a lot of Christmas traditions that England didn't enjoy. As soon as American Thanksgiving had passed, Alfred would start in on the Christmas songs. It wasn't that America was a bad singer - though his taste in music left a few things to be desired - but Arthur could only listen to so much holiday music before he was ready to rip his own ears off. Then there were the movies. The same movies, every year. America could quote Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer verbatim - and despite Arthur's objections, he always DID and sang along with every damn song too. So, he figured that he should have known better than to actually agree to visit when America had called him up with that desperate note in his voice.
He knew what to expect, so when America met him at the door and wasn't already dressed in a tacky Christmas sweater or wearing a Santa hat, he felt his expectations begin to falter. When Alfred ushered him inside, he saw the usual decorations and relaxed a little, only pausing to stare as he noticed not the two stockings he was used to, but all fifty of them, lined up in an immaculate fashion on the mantle.
"Are you having all the states over for Christmas, Alfred?"
The younger nation's back was to him, but he saw the flinch anyway. Arthur opened his mouth to say something, wondering just what was wrong, then the rest of the scene registered with him. Not only the stockings, but the tree was out as well, decorated with all the little ornaments that Alfred had always made with his states over the years. Children's books littered the end table and there was a pile of stuffed animals on the couch - he recognized them as the state animals Alfred had sewn for his children while they were growing up. He hadn't even known America had kept those. As weird as that was, it had nothing on the neat row of baby bottles with the name of each state on them.
"No." America's voice was cheerful, but the sort of cheerful you would normally hear from a lunatic recently escaped from an insane asylum. "None of them could make it this year. They're 'too big for Family Christmas, mom'." Alfred was doing air quotes. England quickly scoped out the nearest heavy object just in case America were to come at him.
Taking a step backward, Arthur gave a nervous laugh. "Well, you know how children can be..."
Alfred sank down on the couch, pulling a plush from the pile and cuddling it against his chest - England recognized it as the seal as belonging to Hawaii. "I know... they get too big and then they move out and they don't even send a Christmas card..."
Bloody hell... Arthur fought back the urge to box America's ears and point out that Alfred had done the same damn thing, but a lot less politely. He couldn't believe that he was beginning to think the Christmas songs were preferable to this moping. "And that's why you called me and told me I absolutely needed to come over and it was an emergency?"
The young nation blinked a few times before looking up from cuddling the stuffed seal. "I said that?" Then, a few seconds later. "Oh!" England rolled his eyes, then almost jumped back as America launched himself off of the couch, scattering plush animals everywhere. "No, no it's not that!"
Sigh. "Then what is it, Alfred?"
"It's these!" America leaned over the back of the couch and retrieved a large sack. As he tugged it into his lap, a few envelopes drifted out of the open mouth and landed on the floor. Gingerly, Arthur reached down and picked up the nearest one.
"Letters to Santa?" They were already postmarked. So much for the American mail system.
"They were on my doorstep when I was checking for my remastered 'It's a Wonderful Life' dvd." Alfred fretted, "They refused to take them back at the post office, can you believe that? What happened to the holiday spirit?"
"Commercialism." England replied dryly. Then, because he knew America was going to say it, and because one of his own authors had penned the words, "Bah Humbug."
Even a Miracle (1b/?)
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-03 13:24 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Even a Miracle (1b/?)
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-06 04:07 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Even a Miracle (1b/?)
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-06 05:55 (UTC) - ExpandOP Here!
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-06 10:13 (UTC) - ExpandEven a Miracle (2/?)
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-06 15:43 (UTC) - Expand...
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-06 15:44 (UTC) - Expand...
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-06 17:38 (UTC) - Expand...
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-06 23:08 (UTC) - Expand...
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-07 11:57 (UTC) - ExpandWednesday [1/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-12-05 10:01 pm (UTC)(link)Set around late 1989, Austria goes to buy flowers for Hungary. He reflects in a verbose manner. Nothing much happens.
He does not come to this part of the city often.
That is not to say that he is lost; he is simply not too familiar with the surroundings around him at the moment. Nevertheless the people-- his people-- dressed warmly for the weather pass by in trickles outside the window as they speak in a language he is accustomed to and live in the manner he knows, reminding him that he is still home. But he knows he has come further than he usually does on his strolls: he is far from his house which has sat oddly empty for many years, and even further from the concert halls that resonate melancholy from the music of his symphonies.
"A special occasion?"
The question brings him back to the setting at hand, the aging flower shop owner trimming stems of the tulips with deft skill acquired over the years.
"No, not anything special." He answers, as this is true. It is Wednesday today, but that is nothing to celebrate. He is sure Hungary would agree: there was a time to celebrate and a time to mourn. He has already mourned for too long, and celebration has since passed a week ago. Today is time for neither.
"She's a lucky lady then, to have you give her flowers without a special occasion. She herself must be special."
Coughing lightly into his glove, he takes a moment to reply. "She is... certainly worth the efforts."
She must be, he tells himself. It has been a long time since he has last held her, had her within arm's length, or even spoken to her of a book she had read during the course of her leisure. It has been a while, undeniably, but he still remembers her warmth under his coat as fresh as cold that seeps in between the leather of his gloves.
The owner does not notice and ambles on in his conversation. "Love should always be worth it." He pauses suddenly, looking at him for what seemed like the first time since walking into the shop. "What color does she like? There are only three colors today though."
He chooses pale pink as there is no deep red. That was most likely for the best; it is evident that she would not want to see that color for a while. The owner nods approvingly at his choice when he points to the pink crinoline, busying himself with wrapping the bouquet. Austria calmly watches the crinkled papers come to life under the quick fingers; it reminds him that he has not written music for quite a while as well. The papers lie scattered in the music room, untouched but not forgotten beside his flawlessly polished instruments. The ink must have dried up in the pen, it has been so long. When had he last engaged in his fancy of trilling melodies and steady bass? He can not remember but his hand twitches by his side as a fleeting memory.
If she knew of this, Hungary would have been disappointed.
"Not particularly talkative, are you? Well I suppose the women like the silent type a little more. Same color ribbon?"
"I...” He pushes up his glasses back to their position on the bridge of his nose. “Yes."
"Good taste. … She a romantic, your lady?"
Wednesday [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-12-05 10:02 pm (UTC)(link)“She has much heart,” he concludes after a brief interlude. “She has a zeal for what she does.”
“Zeal, hm?” He winks at him knowingly, and Austria bristles inside as he thinks ‘no you oaf, not that kind of zeal’. But the wink is gone and the owner goes back to his bouquet in a matter of fact way before he can react properly.
“I see you love her. I’m envious, sir! My own wife’s been at peace for years.”
Austria blinks, then looks down at his calm hands that have waited patiently to embrace the tulips. “I am sorry.” Yet the owner shakes his head. “No need. I rather she not deal with all this trouble with the wars and such.” And Austria nods in silent agreement, ‘ja’, and thinks ‘I am sorry for that’.
The minutes pass by in awkward silence until he suddenly speaks out to the owner. “She is not my wife. We haven’t been married in a very long time.”
In a gesture that surprises him, the owner shrugs nonchalantly. “Still you love her.”
… Did he? He thinks about her, sometimes. Not everyday, as that would only worsen the hole torn into his house. But he does think about her often enough to imagine on a particularly indulgent day that she stands outside the door to his room in polite silence as not to disturb him. Other times she prepares breakfast in the kitchen though he is not hungry in the least. Still others she passes her time in his study flipping through the books with fervour. And he…
He missed her. Misses her. Liebe, was it? He finds that he has little argument against it and therefore can not disagree.
The bouquet that is handed to him is much more extravagant than what he had planned. The pink explodes from the yellow-red tulips in the center; he can barely contain the ribbons slipping over the sides in a cascade of tight spiral curls. “This is not a special occasion.”
“I know,” the owner replies. “It’s Wednesday, nothing special. This is just a way to charge you more.”
When Austria gives him a look, he only laughs jovially behind the counter. “I kid, though not really. But it’ll be nice to greet her after so long, ja?”
He wills himself not to smile too widely at the owner, not yet. Reaching for his tattered wallet in his pocket, he replies softly from the corner of his lips-- almost a whisper-- ‘ja’. It would be nice indeed.
Re: Wednesday [2/2]
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-06 01:04 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Wednesday [2/2]
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-06 04:10 (UTC) - ExpandOP Here!
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-06 10:15 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Wednesday [2/2]
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-09 08:04 (UTC) - ExpandKein Mitleid part 1
(Anonymous) 2009-12-07 06:29 pm (UTC)(link)Russia sweeps Prussia into his large coat and Prussia hangs in his arms like a rag doll. He is losing, no, he already lost. While the battle rages on the conclusion is settled now when General Winter has entered the battlefield.
“Beautiful, isn't it?” Russia says as they watch a tank going down. Prussia isn't sure which side is dying at the moment, it doesn't really matter anymore. “Nothing moves me like seeing my soldiers run down a defenseless enemy, to see tanks blown into pieces, deserters shot and you German fools keep charging even though you are already dead.”
“Yes,” Prussia unsteadily replies, because the worst is, it is true. There is nothing like a country rising from the ashes to destroy everything in its way. Germany and his boss thought they had already won when their attack started out as such a success. Prussia always knew better but said nothing because he wanted to charge Stalingrad, no matter the consequences. Russia has reserves. Russia always has reserves. Everyone should know this by now. Prussia just thought the might of the Third Reich would be enough.
Russia binds the wound on his shoulder and pours vodka down his throat. Prussia thirstily gulps down every drop, making a small sound of disappointment when Russia takes the bottle away. Around them humans are still dying, the fight has become urban and truly dirty. Prussia suspects no surrender no retreat has been ordered.
“Is this not exactly what you wanted? A war so grand as to make hell itself tremble. Something to be remembered forever.”
“Yes, but it should be you bleeding, not me,” Prussia whispers because he can barley make his voice obey him.
“But I am bleeding,” Russia replies.
It is true Prussia realizes as Russia's attention is temporarily elsewhere, gunning down two approaching Germans who think they are about to save Prussia. One of them hits Russia in the shoulder before he dies and Russia keeps smiling like he isn't hurt at all. Another solider appears, a Russian who keeps his weapon pointed at Prussia and looks at the iron cross around his neck with pure hatred. He's going to pull the trigger, Prussia realizes. He braces himself for the pain and hears the shot. Strange, there is no pain. Prussia looks up to see the Russian soldier on the ground and Russia himself above him, laughing.
Russia lifts Prussia to his feet and drags him behind as he continues forward. He smiles brightly and madly and shots the next soldier he sees too, without even looking at him.
When Russia prowls the street that night anyone crossing his path is food for his blood lust. Prussia laughs out loud at the absurdity of the entire thing and thinks he must be hallucinating from the damage he took earlier. He doesn't try to run, not now, not when Russia is so far gone that it could start up anything and all of this probably isn't real anyway.
“Sacrifices for Winter,” Russia says as he shoots one of his own officers in the head. “Sacrifices to the merciless, bloody carnage we both want.”
It's impossible to know if there really is some kind of ancient pact in blood or if Russia has lost his mind even more spectacularly than usual.
Re: Kein Mitleid part 1
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-07 21:01 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Kein Mitleid part 1
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-08 16:00 (UTC) - ExpandKein Mitleid part 2
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-08 17:43 (UTC) - ExpandOP Here!
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-09 10:34 (UTC) - ExpandKein Mitleid part 3
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-09 15:35 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
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(Anonymous) - 2009-12-09 23:55 (UTC) - ExpandKein Mitleid end
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-12 20:58 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
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(Anonymous) - 2010-01-21 20:55 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Kein Mitleid end
(Anonymous) - 2012-09-12 12:27 (UTC) - ExpandThe Beauty and the Beast (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2009-12-09 04:18 am (UTC)(link)Matthew was the quiet, intelligent one. He could often be found in the town’s library, reading books on history and science. He was always dressed nicely in a suit, even on the warmest day of summer, and when he spoke, everyone listened, for his voice enchanted people and left them wanting more. There wasn’t one girl who hadn’t had a crush on him, and mostly the mailman brought a handful of love-letters to the house every day, though it was a well-known fact that Matthew didn’t bother to read them through.
Alfred, on the other hand, was louder than loud, had more energy than all the young men in town together, and he was mostly seen flirting with the girls, making fun of Matthew or claiming stuff that wasn’t his. The reason? He was just bored. He’d never opened a book, never learned to read or write, and he was considered being rather brainless. However, he did make a boring day feisty, and he was admired for his stunning beauty. Golden hair and bright blue eyes, a trained body to die for and a laughter that made even the saddest person break into a smile.
So Francis was rather satisfied with his life – or that’s what people thought. For underneath his happy surface, the Frenchman was sour and tired and bitter. He didn’t mind the money, the fame, the mansion – hell, he even adored Matthew. But when it came to Alfred, he’d just had enough. Every time he looked at the child, it was like looking into the past, for Alfred had his beauty from his deceased mother. A woman Francis had loved so much, but who’d died while giving birth to Alfred. Still today Francis couldn’t quite understand why she had done what she had done. The doctors had told her that she was very weak after the last pregnancy with Matthew, and getting Alfred could be risky for her health. But she’d denied the possibility of an abortion.
‘I won’t kill a child,’ she’d said as Francis had suggested her giving up on him. ‘And if you ever bring up the possibility of an abortion again, I’ll never forgive you.’
So Francis had stayed quiet during the nine months, he hadn’t said a word as her water broker, and he had waited quietly outside the door behind which she gave birth. But as the nurse came to him, telling him that his wife hadn’t made it, he cried, and he cried, and he cried, and he went so hysterical that he wasn’t allowed to see his own baby for a month, as the doctors feared he would choke it with his own bare hands.
And he would’ve. And he still wants to – but now Alfred’s far stronger than him. An attack on the man would mean his own death. But he hasn’t given up. He’s eager to see the child off.
Then one day he was offered the chance by coincidence. And he accepted.
The Beauty and the Beast (2a/?)
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(Anonymous) - 2009-12-10 04:11 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
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(Anonymous) - 2009-12-16 20:37 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The Beauty and the Beast (4b/?)
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-01 07:31 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The Beauty and the Beast (4b/?)
(Anonymous) - 2010-06-10 05:01 (UTC) - ExpandSolstice
(Anonymous) 2009-12-13 02:49 pm (UTC)(link)An AU SF story.
Solstice Part 1
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-13 14:55 (UTC) - ExpandSolstice - Part 2
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-13 15:04 (UTC) - ExpandSolstice : Notes
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-13 15:25 (UTC) - ExpandThe First Flight of an American Ace -- Part 1a
(Anonymous) 2009-12-14 03:27 am (UTC)(link)* * *
"England...what are you doing...England...why are you doing it...England...where did you get that quill....England...when are you going to be done...England....why don't you want to play with me...England...England...England...England..."
England groaned and rubbed his forehead as he tried to drown out the litany going on at his elbow as his curious colony questioned anything and everything that he could get his hands on, or even just see, on the desk in front of him. The stream of questions had been cute at first now they were just giving him a massive headache.
"America...stop that..." he barked out sharply feeling only a little guilty at his tone when America shrank back from him as he shot his hand out to grab at a pile of books and papers America had almost knocked off the desk in his excitement. "Please...be quite," he said in a much calmer tone after he straightened the pile. "I'm trying to concentrate on these papers, the sooner I can finish the sooner I will be able to spend time with you.
"You said that yesterday," America said with a huff. "You were in here the whole day and didn't even come in to say goodnight to me before I went to bed."
"I'm very sorry, America," England said with a sigh. "But I am a very busy nation, and have very important things that need to get done. I will try to spend some time with you today but I won't be able to do that if you don't stop distracting me..."
America sighed heavily and nodded his head. He moved away from England's side but only just far enough that he could look at some of the papers that had been exposed when they'd almost toppled off the floor. England watched him out of the corner of his eyes but said nothing. He didn't think there was anything among them that he had to worry about should America hurt them. He admired the boys curiosity even if it seemed to come with a lot of energy and a lot of questions.
"England..." America's voice tentatively interrupted the silence that had descended over them. Silence that England had just started to put to use.
"America...what did I just say..." England said with a sigh.
"What's this?" America asked curiously.
England looked up and tilted his head to see what America had discovered. There was a strange drawing on the piece or parchment. Something circular and spindly looking. Curious he pulled the paper out and saw the other drawing underneath of a winged creation he realized what he was looking at. America hurried around the side of the desk again to get a closer look at the whole parchment.
"This is a copy of some drawings done by a Leonardo da Vinci, he was from Florence," England said reaching over to look through the other parchments looking for the other pieces he knew where in there. "He lived in the 1400's and was quite a good artist...among other things," he made a noise of triumph as he located the papers and brought them over so that America could look through them as well. America's eyes were wide and curious as he looked at them. If he'd known that America would be so interested in art he would have brought other copies with him that would be far more interesting than these strange sketches.
"What are they?" America asked gesturing at the drawings. "What do they do?"
"They're flying machines," England said with a disinterested shrug of his shoulders, already turning back to his other papers.
"Flying machines?" America echoed in confusion then his eyes opened in wonder. "You mean you can fly with these...like the birds?"
"Yes...well..." England said picking up his quill to get back to his work. "That's the theory at any rate."
"They didn't work then?" America asked with frown.
The First Flight of an American Ace -- Part 1b
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(Anonymous) - 2009-12-14 14:59 (UTC) - ExpandUnder The Starry Skies
(Anonymous) 2009-12-14 02:23 pm (UTC)(link)Relena, the G-boys, etc
Under The Starry Skies - Part 1
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(Anonymous) - 2009-12-14 14:33 (UTC) - ExpandUnder The Starry Skies : Notes
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(Anonymous) - 2009-12-16 13:22 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 1/?
(Anonymous) 2009-12-20 11:05 pm (UTC)(link)It hurt seeing Koenigsberg like this. Prussia remembered past moment of awesomeness and saw a city that didn't look like his at all. He also remembered the city falling, his people trying to run. That memory hurt even worse.
The cathedral had been rebuilt, strange, it didn't seem like something Russia would do. Prussia decided the new one wasn't nearly as good at it used to be. He felt like a ghost walking through the streets that used to be his but he could no longer recognize.
He went to Koenigsberg to feel better but ended up worse. The last thing he needed was to be reminded of what he used to have and lost.
It didn't take him long to find a bar where he began to order vodka. Because nations were hopelessly drawn to each other he walked right into the same bar as Russia. Prussia didn't even bother to count the glasses of vodka he downed as he stared at Russia across the room. Russia didn't look back and didn't even bother with glasses when he drank his vodka.
“Hey, Russia,” Prussia called out across the room. He had started to become more comfortable after that last glass. “What exactly would become one with Russia mean?”
“To be mine of course,” Russia said, not at all surprised. Perhaps he was not as unaware as he appeared. He moved to Prussia's side with unexpected speed, almost breathing down his neck. “Everyone should be one with me so I can take care of them, make the decisions and create a better world. It will be nice, da?”
“I want you to be really, really specific,” Prussia said, pointing unsteadily at Russia. “Can I have Koenigsberg back? Do I have to clean your house in a French maid dress?”
“It is Kaliningrad when it is mine,” Russia said with a very annoying smile. “And if you want it back you have to be mine too. I will be nice to you.”
“I don't like to clean. And I don't play dress-up. And I'm not going to be your sex-slave or some kind of weird shit. But I want my capital back.”
“You are very strange,” Russia said.
“I'm calling your bluff!” Prussia yelled and heads turned as he finished his glass in one grandiose sweep. “Make me one with Russia!”
Prussia woke up in an unknown bed. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence and it didn't bother him. He tried to recall last night. If it was Ukraine's bed it would be awesome. If it was Denmark's it wouldn't be unexpected. He felt a bit sore so Denmark seemed likely, unless Hungary finally given in and decided to top the hell out of him in a way not even his favorite dreams could match. But overall he felt great, better than in a long time. No hangover, instead all tingly with anticipation of something he couldn't name.
“Morning!”
Prussia almost fell off the bed in horror as Russia entered with a tray of small pancakes.
Re: The complications of being one with Russia 1/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-21 00:54 (UTC) - ExpandOP Here!
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-21 05:35 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 2/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-21 21:48 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 3/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-21 22:07 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The complications of being one with Russia 3/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-22 17:37 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-22 17:50 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 4/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-23 19:03 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 5/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-23 19:07 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-24 07:45 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The complications of being one with Russia 5/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-24 13:22 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 6/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-25 17:31 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 7/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-25 17:37 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-26 12:00 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The complications of being one with Russia 7/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-27 21:01 (UTC) - Expand...
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(Anonymous) - 2009-12-30 01:09 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 8/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-28 18:49 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 9/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-28 19:04 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The complications of being one with Russia 9/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-29 02:39 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The complications of being one with Russia 9/?
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-29 20:49 (UTC) - Expand...
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-30 19:21 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-31 16:43 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The complications of being one with Russia 9/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-01 17:32 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 10/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-01 17:00 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 11/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-01 17:12 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The complications of being one with Russia 11/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-01 22:03 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-03 10:18 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The complications of being one with Russia 11/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-03 17:04 (UTC) - Expand...
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-03 22:56 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The complications of being one with Russia 11/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-05 01:12 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 12/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-05 13:15 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 13/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-05 13:19 (UTC) - ExpandSo true.
(Anonymous) - 2017-11-06 22:48 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 14/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-05 13:28 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-05 19:26 (UTC) - Expand...
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-05 20:34 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 15/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-07 15:51 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 16/?
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(Anonymous) - 2010-01-07 16:17 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The complications of being one with Russia 16/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-08 05:42 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-08 06:09 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 17/18
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-09 14:49 (UTC) - ExpandThe complications of being one with Russia 18/18
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-09 14:55 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-09 15:52 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The complications of being one with Russia 18/18
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-10 02:07 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The complications of being one with Russia 18/18
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(Anonymous) - 2010-01-11 20:17 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The complications of being one with Russia 18/18
(Anonymous) - 2010-02-06 05:48 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Anything Goes (As Long As There's Hetalia In There Someplace)
(Anonymous) 2009-12-23 11:29 am (UTC)(link)Basically, an idea for an RPG style game revolving around an alternate future. I wanted to have lots of fun with this, and I'll probably ask for help along the way!
The Heros Are All Dead: PROLOGUE [1a/?]
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-23 11:33 (UTC) - ExpandRe: The Heros Are All Dead: PROLOGUE [1b/?]
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-23 11:34 (UTC) - Expand...
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-23 15:55 (UTC) - Expand...
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-23 17:28 (UTC) - ExpandThe Heros Are All Dead: MISSION 1 [2a/?]
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-01 10:59 (UTC) - ExpandThe Heros Are All Dead: MISSION 1 [2b/?]
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(Anonymous) - 2010-01-04 11:48 (UTC) - ExpandNotes From the Author!Anon
(Anonymous) - 2010-02-02 11:15 (UTC) - ExpandAnd A Merry Christmas To You All
(Anonymous) 2009-12-25 01:08 pm (UTC)(link)Feliciano grinned, holding out a large basket of Panettone.
Ludwig, on the other hand, was very carefully checking out the temperature gauge of his state-of-the-art oven.
"Merry Christmas, Feliciano. - Please wait a moment, the Stollen will be ready in...7 more minutes, perhaps?"
" - Hmph." Lovino muttered, swiping a chicken-bit off the table. "As if that - that monstrity made of too many candied fruits could ever even compete with a proper Panettone. It's barely a cake any more, much less a bread, there's so much marzipan and fruits and nuts in it..."
" - What did you say about Stollen?" Gilbert mumbled drunkenly, grabbing Lovino from behind.
"Stollen is famous around the world now, y'know that? Even Kiku's place has them! Right, Kiku?"
"Well, yes, they have become quite popular recently - Many bakeries seem to make them around Christmas." Kiku smiled at both of them.
"I believe that, ahh, Panettones are quite popular too, around the world? Alfred-san said that his supermarkets stock them now, too - Alongside the Stollens and gingerbread, that is."
" - T'ch."
"Humph!"
Kiku smiled softly as Lovino and Gilbert continued bickering drunkenly about the pros and cons of their various Christmas traditions.
This probably wasn't the time to mention that he'd tried making both Panettones and Stollens from the exact same batch of dough, and had pretty much succeeded at making pretty good versions of both...
"Is everybody ready?"
Kiku nodded - He'd sent over most his presents beforehand, of course, it's not like he could carry all of them by himself. Gilbert took one last swig out of his bottle, while Lovino 't'ch'ed again.
Feliciano laughed, balancing his basket on his head while Ludwig just looked at him. Ludwig's Stollens were very prudently packed into large boxes, of course.
"All right, then - Let's go!"
And A Merry Christmas To You All : Notes
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-25 13:17 (UTC) - ExpandRe: And A Merry Christmas To You All : Notes
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-26 20:17 (UTC) - Expand...
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-27 07:24 (UTC) - ExpandFive Days of Winter 1/3 (Sweden/Norway)
(Anonymous) 2009-12-28 12:34 am (UTC)(link)and maybe, just maybe, like it even a little bit.Five Days of Winter
i. The First Winter
"'tis cold t'day."
Norway shows no signs of having heard his words. His fingers are cupped tightly around the mug of hot coffee, his eyes gazing into the swirls of steam.
"'m goin' out." Sweden turns and leaves the room. A few seconds later, Norway hears the sharp click of the front door closing.
It is his first winter under this roof. They rarely speak to each other or stay in the same room, yet Norway feels as though the four walls are closing in on him. He is constantly aware of the other's presence, too close to him, the house too unfamiliar to him, reminding him every waking moment that he is still ruled by a stronger power.
On the streets outside and in the houses other than this one people are preparing for the Feast of Saint Lucia, but this house, the house he shares with the other one, remains as quiet as it has been since the day he moved in.
Norway downs the dregs of his coffee and longs for the icy fjords and rough, open seas of his homeland.
ii. One Step Closer
It is late. The darkness all around is the darkness of empty streets and deep slumber. Norway parts the heavy curtains of his room slightly with his fingers. Outside, fat, heavy flakes are falling slowly towards the ground. He touches the glass and feels the cold seep into his body through his fingertips.
The events of the day scrolls through his head. Walking along the snowy paths with him, hovering around the stove - stirring, mixing and tasting, sharing a meal, sharing warmth and companionship. They had not spoken much, there was no need to, Norway thinks. He does not remember when he grew to be fond of him and much as it makes his days more pleasant, he fears what it means to him as a nation.
He turns his head sharply as he hears a soft creak outside the door of the room. He lets the curtains fall back into place and waits in the darkness - for a knock? An invitation? Chiding himself in his head, he walks across the room, taking extra care to be silent and opens the door.
The hallway outside is empty. A box sits on the floor right before him, a dark forest green box tied neatly with a wide silver ribbon. Norway glances down the hallway once more, then picks up the box and pushes the door shut behind him.
He turns on the night lamp on his bedside table and carefully unties the ribbon before lifting the lid off the box. A long and thick knitted scarf lies folded neatly inside, deep wine red in colour. Norway lifts the scarf out of the box, his fingers sinking into the soft, warm wool. There was no note in the box but he knows instinctively whose hands had knitted it and placed the box outside his door.
He lays the gift down on the bed next to him. He thinks he will wear it when dawn comes, just for him.
Five Days of Winter 2/3 (Sweden/Norway)
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-28 00:44 (UTC) - ExpandFive Days of Winter 3/3 (Sweden/Norway)
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-28 00:49 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Five Days of Winter 3/3 (Sweden/Norway)
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(Anonymous) - 2010-01-18 16:33 (UTC) - ExpandAsh (1/1)
(Anonymous) 2009-12-28 02:22 am (UTC)(link)-
His world was on fire.
Every breath that shivered through him was dry with the heat, dust coating the rawness of his throat - he was drowning in it. Dimly he was aware of his own body, felt himself stretching outward, past the buildings, past the men being dragged into the street like so much cattle. He could feel Poland - feel himself - all the way to his borders. The land screamed to him and he had no air to give it voice. He wished for the rain to fall, to cool him but the clouds overhead were black and they were smoke and he was burning.
Germany's hand had him by the nape, a warning squeeze that wasn't needed. He'd already tried to fight - his uprising had failed... the Allies had left him to fight this battle alone, despite their assurances of support. And he had fought. He'd fought until the Allies had given him up, left him for lost. They'd said nothing, but he knew they'd regarded their pact as less than useless.
But even so...
"Please, Germany," His voice was foreign to his own ears. "I've already surrendered. This isn't necessary..." Not this... never this. Warsaw... his Warsaw...
The grip was merciless, dragging him to his feet. He stumbled, pitched forward, held from falling by the unrelenting hand. His limbs failed him, clothing tearing as Germany lost patience trying to guide him and chose to simply drag him instead. Poland barely noticed the fingers around his throat cutting off his air - he couldn't breathe anyway.
He was flung to the ground, a broken doll, shivering, panting. He pressed his cheek to the road and felt the welcome coolness of begin to seep into his hot skin.
"The city must completely disappear from the surface of the earth." Germany's words ripped through him, shock seeping from his veins like blood. There was no anger in the other nation's voice, only a cold distance. This meant nothing to him. "No stone can remain standing. Every building must be razed to its foundation."
Palms flat against the ground, muscles aching as he pushed himself up. He did not want to see, but he had to know.
Not her. Not Zaluski...
A wealth of knowledge - precious Zaluski - he'd helped lay her foundation with his own hands. In so many ways her worth was greater than his own. Within her walls lay one of the greatest collection of books in all of Europe... How he'd struggled to put her back together in the years after the partition of his country.
"Please..." One hand caught at the edge of Germany's sleeve, words torn from the raw hollow of his throat. "Please no..." He could muster no eloquence for her, not for the books, the manuscripts, the maps. All that he had was his agony of his plea - he would have begged for her if he could have.
In the end, his words made no difference. A hand lashed out, dashing him to the ground. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, vision blurring in and out, but it could not stop him from seeing the tide of soldiers with their torches. The flames rose up into the night, fed by Zaluski's insides - ashes and bits of burning paper on the wind as he doubled up around himself - his screams silent. Poland burned.
He screamed and he burned and the rain did not come.
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Zaluski Library was the oldest library in Poland - and considered by some to be the first. It was also one of the most extensive libraries in all of Europe. It was burned by Nazi forces after the Warsaw uprising.
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ReCaptcha: Campus Rome (High School AU?)
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D'oh! I totally misfired and posted this somewhere else. Um... I wrote a misfire fill for it myself, so here's the link, so all of you anons can laugh too.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/11411.html?thread=26441107#t26441107
OP!
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-28 13:22 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Ash (1/1)
(Anonymous) - 2011-11-14 06:27 (UTC) - ExpandMilou [1/3]
(Anonymous) 2009-12-31 07:50 am (UTC)(link)This little AU features stuck-in-a-rut-both-professionally-and-emotionally Belgium as an out of work chocolatier and very-recently-widowed England as a mourning writer. Like with the name Anaïs, most of Belgium's personality or tone is entirely my fabrication since she has yet to be featured in the webcomics. Abuse of artistic license I call it.
Also, this is unforgivably confusing and depressing.
To be honest nothing romantic happened, not in the least. But we were both too desperate to notice or care, too busy being wrapped in our own respective deaths-- you over the only person who ever really loved you and me over myself. Like the ice-encrusted glass in the left corner of my decrepit apartment. Cracking at the edges. I think once, when you were sober but just barely, you mentioned that you'd fix that for me. “I’m alright, but it’s too bloody chilly for a lady.”
You never seemed to mind my apartment, or maybe it was because you were always drunk-- I'll always remember you as a drunk, for all your redeeming intelligence-- when you visited so that the dust gathering on the floors or the paint cracking at the edges were all a heavy blur to your spinning, alcoholic world. Even as we rolled on it you never seemed to mind or notice and just went on your merry way strolling down the narrow lane on my collar bone with your dry lips pressed on my shivering skin-- it was always so cold in there, do you remember?-- as if we were making love on a five-star hotel bed, or even just a normal one.
Laughing when you heard about the fate of my poor bed, you held me close. Ale was in your very soul. You mentioned that you liked it bitter now-- “Funny because I like my tea sweet”-- as you sampled my leftover chocolates. You lingered over the truffles but didn’t dare touch them: always the bittersweets.
"What are you doing here?" I think I asked you the first time, and after the first time I only asked "Why are you here?" though maybe that was a more important question. Licking cocoa off my fingers, you'd answer the same way the entire time "Why did you let me in, Anne?" like you were trying to be sober-- you were in no way sober, because you were either drowning in alcohol or drowning in your own sorrow. I never answered you because I didn't really know myself: I wanted you to think I'd picked up promiscuity from 'that damned frog' so that you wouldn't think of me as the 'good woman' from year ago when everything went wrong. You wouldn’t regret anything from back then, nothing from now.
I remember years ago I was the catch you missed. You were too busy pouring over the words of dead poets to hold me, and I didn’t care for the words of dead men. I wanted life and good food; you wanted elegiac fancies for your four walls. “I think you’re mistaken,” but I don’t think I was. Tragedies were fascinating because you were happy than, or as happy as a lonely genius could be. You lived in a terrible warped fantasy. Even frogs knew more on love than you.
“Sempiternal,” you’d told me, cigarette dangling from your writer’s hands. “She is eternal.” And I didn’t question it. Love made you say silly things, no matter how late you discovered it. Silly things in purple prose. “I love her.” I agreed, you must have. She loved you too, I could see it-- your lucid eyes still searching for her light. “She loves me. Loved.” You took a drag on the cigarette, holding your breath ‘til your eyes watered. I pretended not to know that they were there even before the smoke began to burn your lungs-- emotion was one thing you couldn’t do, even if your writing cried you would not have a single tear in your eye but waste inside instead. “She wasn’t supposed to die.” I agreed to this too, because my heart was not supposed to die either.
Milou [2/3]
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-31 07:52 (UTC) - ExpandMilou [3/3]
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-31 07:53 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
(Anonymous) - 2009-12-31 16:52 (UTC) - ExpandThe Bargain
(Anonymous) 2010-01-03 12:49 pm (UTC)(link)This was inspired by this request 'Prussia sells his soul'
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10530.html?thread=16926242#t16926242
but it didn't quite fit the request entirely, so I posted it here.
The Bargain - Part 1
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(Anonymous) - 2010-01-03 12:57 (UTC) - ExpandThe Bargain - Part 3
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-03 13:02 (UTC) - ExpandThe Bargain - Part 4
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-03 13:08 (UTC) - ExpandThe Bargain : Notes
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(Anonymous) - 2010-01-04 14:56 (UTC) - ExpandThe End
(Anonymous) 2010-01-04 02:39 pm (UTC)(link)A German Brothers story with a twist.
The End - Part 1
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(Anonymous) - 2010-01-04 14:43 (UTC) - ExpandThe End - Part 3
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(Anonymous) - 2010-01-04 14:50 (UTC) - ExpandZion
(Anonymous) 2010-01-14 10:41 am (UTC)(link)Prussia, Other.
This is based on several theories I developed about the Matrix-verse, by the way.
Zion (A Matrix Fusion)
(Anonymous) - 2010-01-14 10:47 (UTC) - ExpandHomeward Bound (Russia/America)
(Anonymous) 2010-01-29 03:08 am (UTC)(link)Summary: Slice of life at the end of the world.
Warning: Sci-Fi Apocalypse (Not AU), Mentions of a specific character death others implied.
Characters/Pairings: Russia/America. If you squint you might be able to see implied USUK if you want it to be there. But I had a familial role only in my head when I was writing it.
Notes: This got considerably more shippy then I had originally anticipated it being (Russia is a brat) but I'm happy with how it turned out.
Homeward Bound -- Part 1a
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(Anonymous) - 2010-01-29 17:34 (UTC) - Expand(US/UK) Hunted [1/1]
(Anonymous) 2010-03-09 11:43 am (UTC)(link)"Why do you try to run, Arthur? All I want is for you to be with me after all~" In all actuality, he don't know how this 'game' started at the first place. He didn't know why everything is happening. He wished for this to stop because he can't stand it anymore. But, he can't run away as his feet felt like it's rooted to the spot.
Warm breath ghosted over his ear. "You can't run Arthur... Because I finally got you and you are mine. Forever and ever." He whispered, holding his hand in possessive manner. He don't have any time to think however, the other already claimed his lips in bruising and dominating manner. He let out a small gasp when he can feel the other bit his lips. "N-No!" He wanted to move, he really do, but his body just won't obey his mind anymore.
Tongue go into his mouth and explored inside it, no matter how much he wanted to push the other away, he can't, and he felt like every second passed like it's torture. His chaser, no, no longer chaser, he's his master now because it's the rule of the 'game'. The 'game' that every nations participated in because they will become the world's strongest nation if they got him. But he knew that his current 'master' wants to get him not only because he will become the strongest nation but he also want to be able to possess him.
How he knew that? It's easy. The other always, and always be paranoid. Afraid that the person he hold dear will gone. Will go away from him. "Ssh... You don't need to worry anymore, Arthur. I will take care of everything... Nobody will ever take you from me, you hear? Nobody. I will make sure of that." He whispered to him, and Arthur can feel the thinking sink to his mind too because that's what his master wish...
"Y-Yes... Master..." Arthur whispered, his mouth moving on it's own accord. Or maybe that's what Arthur trying to think. Because he didn't want to think, that... his master is... the person he love. He didn't want this. He never want this. That's what he wanted to scream but instead, he can feel that thought of his started to wilt because there's more than what he wished is at work here.
Magic is the one at work and he now can actually think that... Alfred is his master. He can see the satisfied smile the other gave him when he called him 'Master'. "Good boy..." Alfred whispered, caressing his cheek in what people can say... kind. But Arthur's real thinking is no longer on that, what passed in his thought is whether on how he can please his master...
I hope someone is able to feel happy from this... Despite some of it's contents. *Shifty eyes*
Re: (US/UK) Hunted [1/1]
(Anonymous) - 2010-03-09 12:20 (UTC) - ExpandRe: (US/UK) Hunted [1/1]
(Anonymous) - 2010-03-09 14:32 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
(Anonymous) - 2010-05-15 14:28 (UTC) - ExpandJillian (1/2)
(Anonymous) 2010-03-30 04:08 am (UTC)(link)Jillian
~
A/N: This was actually written initially for a request for China/America in the random!song-meme on my LJ. The song was #400 on my playlist, which was "Jillian" by Within Temptation - it was oddly fitting. I've noticed a bit more requests for China/America here, so I thought the meme folks might appreciate it.
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China knows this is a bad idea the very first time their eyes meet. He knows when he finds himself drawn into the stunning blue of America's gaze - so vital, so raw... so achingly new. The young nation drips with inexperience, a boy in a man's body - still trying to get steady on his long, wobbly limbs. China can see this. He turns America's heat and hunger aside, shaping them into something different.
He soon learns that America takes well to excess, though the boy never reaches the levels of hedonism to be found in Europe. His tastes are different - lavish. He shows China his creations - dens as grand as those back in Asia. Draped across a chair, the expensive silk sliding down one bare shoulder as smoke rolls from his lips, America is no less compelling than he was that first day. There is a demon trapped beneath his pale, perfect skin, it calls to China - a siren's song. Lips against the smooth expanse of America's throat, a fleeting touch, but beneath the sweet smoke and the rich fabric, there is still a boy in those eyes.
Mewling protest follows China as he pulls away. He has taught America well, but the wrong lesson, it seems...
It is not the last time America offers. It feels like that demon is always there, haunting China. He teaches America - trying to pull something constructive from the need he has created. America absorbs his lessons so quickly, changes them around to suit his needs. What he shows China upon his return is not what China has taught him.
America is nothing like the others China has mentored. His willful behaviour and stubbornness are failings that can be assets if bent to the right purpose. China pushes and finds that America balks at being treated in such a manner. Even when China is delicate about it, the reaction remains, instilled too deep for China to move. England has given America this core of hurt, and the boy guards it jealously, unwilling to relinquish it. It is not the first time that China has cause to be bitter toward England - as England has been, and continues to be a source of strife for China's people - but it is the first time that China is aware of how badly England has ruined this boy...
Even a hard stone will crumble if the water wears it down enough. The haunted look in America's eyes as San Francisco burns will stay with China forever. It is the first time China yields to America's needs - and to his own. In the midst of silk, and sweat, and the sweetness of bare skin beneath his tongue, China already knows this is folly, at best. America's legs wrap around China's middle, drawing him in. Before he can think better of it, he is held to America, in America.
It's afterward, with America crooning, spooned up against his side in a nakedness that is unashamed without being vulgar, that China is aware of how badly he has ruined this boy.
It's an addiction. For himself as well as for America. America is free with his money - free in borrowing money. He binds himself to China with his debt and his body and that brilliant smile and China does not care that this is madness. It's all consuming.
He chooses not to think about the future they weave into place. America settles after the depression, after the wars, their relationship eases into something a bit less heated, a bit more relaxed. The nebulousness China saw in the beginning has coalesced into something solid. America has built himself up, layer upon layer. He doesn't seem aware that he doesn't need China anymore.
But he will be, China knows. America will realize this eventually.
China carves America's name somewhere small and hidden away - preemptive. America is not the first - not by a long shot - and China senses that he will not be the last either. China has already seen the rise and fall of many nations stronger than America is now. Those nations are gone, and China is still here. It's a cold truth.
Jillian (2/2)
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(Anonymous) - 2010-04-15 01:26 (UTC) - ExpandOP!
(Anonymous) - 2010-05-15 14:29 (UTC) - ExpandInvasion (Russia/America) 1/11
(Anonymous) 2010-05-13 05:36 am (UTC)(link)Summary: Alfred struggles to find solace after civilization crumbles in a post-apocalyptic world. My take on the classic “Aliens invade planet earth” set up.
A/n: Was afraid to post this up on the main comm & the Russia/America comm., So I decided to test it out here. My first time writing Russia/America. Part of a one-shot 20 theme challenge I'm doing.
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Why am I still alive?
It was a question he asked himself every morning since the day of the flash.
I shouldn’t be here.
It happened after a long day of meetings with his boss and the cabinet. He drove home in his truck, thinking only of crawling under the cotton sheets and resting his head upon the goose-down pillows. He might have been hungry, but mental exhaustion and tunnel vision over-ruled. Car’s flew past him on the lonely two-lane highway, acres of private land on either side of the road. Beside him on the passenger seat lay his cell phone. It trilled shortly, signaling a new text message he’d received. Stealing a glance, he found it to be from Russia, whom he’d been messaging back and forth for the past several hours. Turning onto an ancient gravel road, his old Virginia home finally came into view. He sloppily parked his truck in the street and stumbled across the lawn to his front door in a haze.
Sleep first… I’ll call him later.
Tony failed to greet him at the door. In hindsight, he should’ve been more concerned with this, as his alien friend always, without fail, met him at the door. It was a mannerism of Tony’s at first that soon grew into a silent ritual. However, America found himself too focused on the soft mattress and pillows upstairs to care. Throwing everything to the floor, he shuffled up the stairs, into his room and promptly collapsed into his bed.
How is this even possible?
Sometime later, he felt a tiny hand clutching his shoulders. Groaning unintelligently, America twisted away. The grip suddenly grew painful as he was drug from the bed.
“Ow- hey-!”
America’s head hit the floor first.
“What the hell-??”
Tony had both his hands in a bruising grip.
“Tony, what-?”
The grip on his wrists grew unbearably painful as he was thrown into a small enclosure. Tony jumped in after him, his movement’s jerky and almost panicked. America turned to the smaller creature, trying to pick himself off the floor.
“What the hell is going on?” America glared at his old, alien friend. “What-“
Tony grasped the side of the enclosure, tugging a sliding metal sheet across when the flash happened.
Invasion (Russia/America) 2/11
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(Anonymous) - 2010-07-05 18:12 (UTC) - ExpandInvasion - Author-Anon
(Anonymous) - 2010-07-06 08:00 (UTC) - ExpandNothing Hurts Like... [1/2]
(Anonymous) 2010-06-18 12:31 am (UTC)(link)Written to the song Mouth by Bush.
(I am proud to tell all of my friends that I have finally posted something here)
---------------
Francis tugged at his bonds experimentally, testing the quality and strength of his captor’s cords. He tilted his head, feeling his long hair slide against his cheek and neck, brushing past his shoulder as he slowly moved, trying to feel out the floor with his knees. His hands flexed open and closed at the small of his back, but the movement only cramped muscles in his shoulders and didn’t seem likely to release him.
If he stared hard enough, he could see vague shapes through the soft cloth covering his eyes, brushing against his eyelashes. Unlike the cord around his wrists, the blindfold was soft, sweet, not crushing or holding. It was probably meant to slip off if he moved too much, which, of course, he would. In time.
Out of the silence came a sound, repetitive, jarring, perfect.
Clop, clop, clop.
The sound of lightly heeled boots strolling confidently towards him, walking with an air of importance and grace. No hurry, just an eloquent expression of the wearer’s intention.
A door slammed open somewhere, making Francis start despite his determination to remain unmoved by the dramatic entrance. He tried to turn his head toward the sound of approaching feet, tilting his whole body so as to present a pleasant image. He was, after all, very concerned with how he looked, whether or not he could visually assess himself. He smiled, strong white teeth standing out against his bruised lip.
The Frenchman waited for something to happen, tilting his head, questioning. He could feel his captor there, standing just before him, probably seething at the pleasant smile fixed on his handsome face. The heat gave him away. Where the stone room, and Francis, were delightfully cool, the man before him radiated heat like the very sun.
“Bon soir, Moussieur. Or is it morning now? I really have no idea, you see.” He let the words flow out of his mouth, voice deep and seductive. A moment of nothing passed and he felt movement. A strong hand slapped across his face, a fierce backhanded throw that was made slightly more bearable by the soft glove on that cruel hand. The blindfolded man only smiled again, spitting out what was probably blood and ran his tongue over his lip. He could taste it there, warm, coppery. He made a show of swallowing it up, licking it and enjoying the abuse.
Nothing Hurts Like... [2/2]
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(Anonymous) - 2010-07-03 09:55 (UTC) - ExpandThe Prologue [1/?]
(Anonymous) 2010-06-22 01:44 am (UTC)(link)England wakes to a gun pointing at his forehead. He follows it to a leather-clad arm to the slant of a smiling chin to a boy’s eyes.
He closes his eyes for two seconds and opens them. The barrel is still there, and he thinks, perhaps inappropriately, that the morning sunlight surrounding it makes it look almost holy.
England inhales very deeply before saying, “Good morning, America.”
“Hey, England,” says America. “Did you know that you sleep really soundly? I mean, I’ve been sitting here for the past half hour waiting for you to wake up and I think I have a cramp in my thigh, you know, how does that even work?”
“It’s because you’re leaning,” England tells the ceiling, although it’s hard because the gun is sort of blocking his view. “You’re putting all your weight on that arm and leaning to one side, so obviously you’re going to get some twists there.”
The gun touches his forehead. It’s a cool contrast to the muggy summer of the room.
“Right as usual, England,” says America sunnily. He’s always been a morning person, England remembers. Although he may be remembering wrong, since no one’s seen America for half a year. Which really wasn’t that long of a time, but when you’re talking about America even half a week was eternity.
“Not, apparently, about some things.” This time England talks to the gun tip.
“Like what?” The barrel is digging into his skin, and he honestly wonders why America is bothering with it, because it isn’t going to kill him. Sure, it’ll blast most of his brains out for a good day or two and during that time he’d be as responsive as Ireland after that first loss against France, but after that there’d be nothing but a faint scar, more likely from the indenting America’s doing than the actual wound.
Unless it’s decoration for the whole thing, and if it really is then he really can’t say anything. America has always had that touch for dramatics and Hollywood, always been pining for the ‘real deal’—whatever that was—and England blames it all on France.
As he does for, well, everything. Except maybe this. Never in a thousand years (and England’s seen one or two) this.
“Like you showing up at my house with a gun in my face,” England grits out.
“Oh! Yeah, surprise, huh?” America beams. “I didn’t really know how to go about doing this, and I really wanted to ask you guys since you do know, but obviously I couldn’t, so I pretty much winged the whole thing. Did a damn good job though, I think—you should see Toronto, England, last night it looked like an apocalypse movie—“
“What?”
“Like an apocalypse movie, you know, like The Day After Tomorrow or something, except this is way more awesome—“
England can handle guns. He’s woken up to scores of them over the centuries, and knows how to deal with them. And he can handle countries with personalities that flip inside-out overnight too (and numbs himself from thinking this is America, America—), and it probably isn’t true anyway, but this is. This Is.
He surges up against the pistol, something metallic on his tongue, and America immediately throws him into the headboard.
It cracks.
His sheets are tangled all around his legs now and so is the front of his undershirt in America’s left hand, and he tries to talk but only garbles come out. It’s his head. His head made the headboard crack when it slammed against it.
“Careful, England,” comes America’s voice from somewhere to the right of him. “You wouldn’t want to impale yourself on a bullet or two.”
America’s villain lines need polishing, he thinks as the room fades, swirling around him with sunlight everywhere. They’re too overdone—it’s Hollywood again, definitely, and France.
There’s sunlight everywhere and it’s ridiculous. Maybe if he closed his eyes things would be less hot.
2.
America’s house has never seemed so large, so glossy, so empty.
The second time England wakes up it’s in the kitchen, sitting upright at one of the silver island counters. A glass of orange juice clinks gently onto it. He looks up.
America’s there again—bloody hell, he can never get tired of seeing the boy’s face—and smiling again. “You okay, Art? Made you some orange juice to keep up the whole damsel in distress thing.”
The Prologue [2/?]
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