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That evening Aizawa happens to come by his office with the next day's agenda. He thanks her for it, and adds, "Thank you for your discretion about this morning, as well. I don't think most of the Diet would be as, ah, open-minded, as yourself, Aizawa-san."
"Of course, sir." She nods, to take the thanks as the command it is. "If it would not be too rude of me to inquire - "
"Inquire. If it is, I can be forgiving."
"Yes, of course, thank you. I couldn't help wondering. Is this, ah. Will I need to guard the door again when Greece visits? Or any others of your kind?"
He rubs his eyes and stares out the window. The trees aren't blooming, the sky isn't quite at sunset, and he has a lover to go home to. For a few days, at least. "We usually confine ourselves to our houses," he said. "Greece can be adventurous sometimes. But he's the only one. Don't worry. Greece and I - " Why is this difficult to say? Japan is not ashamed of it, and Aizawa will not be annoyed to hear it. "We are very devoted to each other. We have been for most of a century. We don't see each other often, but - it's enough."
"Greece," she repeats with something like amazement.
"Yes. Why are you so suprised? We can fall in love, just like humans do." He shrugs.
Aizawa stiffens her shoulders and straightens her earring one-handed, a little nervous gesture she repeats all the time. "Because you're so far away. I - I have a boyfriend. He's the sweetest man I've ever met, and we grew up three blocks away from each other.I can't imagine loving someone without having them close by. I'd think if you fell in love it would be with, well - I don't know. I guess I can see why it wouldn't be Korea, right? Or Taiwan. Taiwan's nice, but, well, I can see why not."
Japan allows himself a small smile. He loves Taiwan like a little sister, but matters between them are so complicated. "Who would you expect me to love?" Aizawa is smart enough, and he's curious.
She thinks about it for a little while, then suggests, "Thailand. He's close by, and you have a lot in common, and there's no reason you wouldn't. Not like there is with, er."
"Every nation directly across the ocean from me?"
"I was - I was trying not to put it like that. Sir. It's just - Greece? He's not even from the same continent!"
It is a bad idea to think that a clerk is moe and want to ruffle her hair, but she's one of his people, so he supposes the lapse is allowable.
Japan will go home soon enough. There will probably be a cat or two that's wandered in while Greece was there without him. There may be dinner waiting. He may have mysteriously gained a few levels in Final Fantasy. Greece might not even be awake. But awake or asleep, there will certainly be someone who knows the importance of taking time to enjoy life, someone who smiles at him, without reservation or resentment, someone with whom he has no history. No history at all. Just a hundred years of friendship, and an understanding that doesn't require words.
"It works," is all he can say. "We fit together. I know it doesn't make much sense. But since when is love supposed to make sense?"
She doesn't have an answer to that. She keep blushing, and clutches at her folder of papers as if she's trying to hide behind it. Japan nods to her as he gets up, and slips the agenda she brought into his bag, to look over later. "Look at it this way," he suggests over his shoulder. "At least we'll never have an argument over fishing rights."
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"Of course, sir." She nods, to take the thanks as the command it is. "If it would not be too rude of me to inquire - "
"Inquire. If it is, I can be forgiving."
"Yes, of course, thank you. I couldn't help wondering. Is this, ah. Will I need to guard the door again when Greece visits? Or any others of your kind?"
He rubs his eyes and stares out the window. The trees aren't blooming, the sky isn't quite at sunset, and he has a lover to go home to. For a few days, at least. "We usually confine ourselves to our houses," he said. "Greece can be adventurous sometimes. But he's the only one. Don't worry. Greece and I - " Why is this difficult to say? Japan is not ashamed of it, and Aizawa will not be annoyed to hear it. "We are very devoted to each other. We have been for most of a century. We don't see each other often, but - it's enough."
"Greece," she repeats with something like amazement.
"Yes. Why are you so suprised? We can fall in love, just like humans do." He shrugs.
Aizawa stiffens her shoulders and straightens her earring one-handed, a little nervous gesture she repeats all the time. "Because you're so far away. I - I have a boyfriend. He's the sweetest man I've ever met, and we grew up three blocks away from each other.I can't imagine loving someone without having them close by. I'd think if you fell in love it would be with, well - I don't know. I guess I can see why it wouldn't be Korea, right? Or Taiwan. Taiwan's nice, but, well, I can see why not."
Japan allows himself a small smile. He loves Taiwan like a little sister, but matters between them are so complicated. "Who would you expect me to love?" Aizawa is smart enough, and he's curious.
She thinks about it for a little while, then suggests, "Thailand. He's close by, and you have a lot in common, and there's no reason you wouldn't. Not like there is with, er."
"Every nation directly across the ocean from me?"
"I was - I was trying not to put it like that. Sir. It's just - Greece? He's not even from the same continent!"
It is a bad idea to think that a clerk is moe and want to ruffle her hair, but she's one of his people, so he supposes the lapse is allowable.
Japan will go home soon enough. There will probably be a cat or two that's wandered in while Greece was there without him. There may be dinner waiting. He may have mysteriously gained a few levels in Final Fantasy. Greece might not even be awake. But awake or asleep, there will certainly be someone who knows the importance of taking time to enjoy life, someone who smiles at him, without reservation or resentment, someone with whom he has no history. No history at all. Just a hundred years of friendship, and an understanding that doesn't require words.
"It works," is all he can say. "We fit together. I know it doesn't make much sense. But since when is love supposed to make sense?"
She doesn't have an answer to that. She keep blushing, and clutches at her folder of papers as if she's trying to hide behind it. Japan nods to her as he gets up, and slips the agenda she brought into his bag, to look over later. "Look at it this way," he suggests over his shoulder. "At least we'll never have an argument over fishing rights."
--
Ah, I hope OP doesn’t mind my filling this. ;-; I also hope OP doesn’t mind if it’s sorta Can/Am, since that is one of my favorite pairings (Canada topping is geographically correct, y’all!). This of course won’t contain any smut, and won’t focus too much on the romantic relationship (which will be revealed more and more as the story goes along), until perhaps the end, if OP approves, in which case I will try and work my author-magic. This focuses on Canada taking care of child!America.
It’s my first fill, so please forgive me if I screw anything up. >< Also the first time writing Arthur and Matthew, so sorry if I screw them up. And…Alfred, too. ;-; Also, sorry that the beginning has so much Arthur; I could not seem to get rid of him. >< But Matthew does show up at the end.
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“I don’t know why they keep trying to define the universe,” England says, tightening the brooch pinning his cloak together. “Certainly it’s a fruitless task, being that once they know, what good would it do?”
“Don’t be so close-minded! There’s always something good to be found in discovery!” and the way America says it makes Arthur think of darker ages, with wooden boats and blessed beaches, sailors kissing land along the trails of foreign footsteps.
Certainly there is.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. After all, I did find you,” and he hopes the lilt in his voice makes clear to the other that he means it.
Because most certainly, there isn’t.
Alfred ignores him in favor of rolling an empty bottle along the counter, slick glass on slicker tile making for a melodious racket. It’s so much nicer to hear the bang of empty spaces than the simpered regrets of too-full-of-themselves wholes.
“Either way, they never take into account the magic realm! Hardly makes for a plausible theory when they’ve got a huge chunk missing from their silly little equations,” Arthur goes on, hand out and snatching the bottle before Alfred can really register that it’s gone. And maybe a part of him cares that England is elbowing his way into his affairs, but America can’t find it in himself to care.
It’s been this way for a while, the not-caring part. Arthur says it doesn’t suit him; the listlessness, the slumped shoulders, tired eyes, lethargic smiles. Alfred thinks it’s once again the older man nosing his way into his life.
He wonders why. All the nations, so involved in looking out for themselves these days; it’s difficult to believe that there could be anything but hidden, selfish intentions layered behind that false-bottomed concern.
Be that as it may, England promises that he’ll help get him back to his full, invigorated strength. That’s why Arthur’s here now, right? Puttering around his kitchen in a ratty black cloak and a briefcase full of dusty bottles and chalk pieces.
Alfred doesn’t quite know what to make of the spectacle, except that besides the fact that the Briton is loonier than he could have first comprehended, he’s going to be allowing this whack-job to potentially pour down his throat whatever possibly poisonous elixir he’s concocted.
Speaking of the devil, England thrusts a rose-tinted phial into his ex-charge’s face, waiting for the younger to grasp the container. America eyes it suspiciously before grasping the tiny glass, “Still think you’re a fucking lunatic…”
England scowls and smacks him upside the head, turning away to search for some paper and a pen. Rubbing his head, Alfred mutters out a melodramatic ‘ow!’ and then continues on, “Magic! Please! Fairies and unicorns and evil chairs! C’mon, England; you have to admit, it’s all ridiculous in the face of science.”
Arthur tears a square of paper from a magnetized notepad on Alfred’s refrigerator with enough force to send the entire pad careening to the floor, scowl deepening as he squats to pick up the casualty, “Flying mint bunny is not ridiculous!”
“Oh, you’re right. Things that aren’t real can’t be ridiculous,” and before America can continue, England breaks out into a frenzied bout of clapping, face horrorstruck. “…and you call me immature…”
It’s my first fill, so please forgive me if I screw anything up. >< Also the first time writing Arthur and Matthew, so sorry if I screw them up. And…Alfred, too. ;-; Also, sorry that the beginning has so much Arthur; I could not seem to get rid of him. >< But Matthew does show up at the end.
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“I don’t know why they keep trying to define the universe,” England says, tightening the brooch pinning his cloak together. “Certainly it’s a fruitless task, being that once they know, what good would it do?”
“Don’t be so close-minded! There’s always something good to be found in discovery!” and the way America says it makes Arthur think of darker ages, with wooden boats and blessed beaches, sailors kissing land along the trails of foreign footsteps.
Certainly there is.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. After all, I did find you,” and he hopes the lilt in his voice makes clear to the other that he means it.
Because most certainly, there isn’t.
Alfred ignores him in favor of rolling an empty bottle along the counter, slick glass on slicker tile making for a melodious racket. It’s so much nicer to hear the bang of empty spaces than the simpered regrets of too-full-of-themselves wholes.
“Either way, they never take into account the magic realm! Hardly makes for a plausible theory when they’ve got a huge chunk missing from their silly little equations,” Arthur goes on, hand out and snatching the bottle before Alfred can really register that it’s gone. And maybe a part of him cares that England is elbowing his way into his affairs, but America can’t find it in himself to care.
It’s been this way for a while, the not-caring part. Arthur says it doesn’t suit him; the listlessness, the slumped shoulders, tired eyes, lethargic smiles. Alfred thinks it’s once again the older man nosing his way into his life.
He wonders why. All the nations, so involved in looking out for themselves these days; it’s difficult to believe that there could be anything but hidden, selfish intentions layered behind that false-bottomed concern.
Be that as it may, England promises that he’ll help get him back to his full, invigorated strength. That’s why Arthur’s here now, right? Puttering around his kitchen in a ratty black cloak and a briefcase full of dusty bottles and chalk pieces.
Alfred doesn’t quite know what to make of the spectacle, except that besides the fact that the Briton is loonier than he could have first comprehended, he’s going to be allowing this whack-job to potentially pour down his throat whatever possibly poisonous elixir he’s concocted.
Speaking of the devil, England thrusts a rose-tinted phial into his ex-charge’s face, waiting for the younger to grasp the container. America eyes it suspiciously before grasping the tiny glass, “Still think you’re a fucking lunatic…”
England scowls and smacks him upside the head, turning away to search for some paper and a pen. Rubbing his head, Alfred mutters out a melodramatic ‘ow!’ and then continues on, “Magic! Please! Fairies and unicorns and evil chairs! C’mon, England; you have to admit, it’s all ridiculous in the face of science.”
Arthur tears a square of paper from a magnetized notepad on Alfred’s refrigerator with enough force to send the entire pad careening to the floor, scowl deepening as he squats to pick up the casualty, “Flying mint bunny is not ridiculous!”
“Oh, you’re right. Things that aren’t real can’t be ridiculous,” and before America can continue, England breaks out into a frenzied bout of clapping, face horrorstruck. “…and you call me immature…”
The previously fallen notepad finds itself launched at Alfred’s face, clipping his forehead and sending his glasses tumbling onto the counter. Another melodramatic ‘ow!’ tumbles out of the American’s mouth before the kitchen descends into a brooding silence, England huffing as he scribbles crisp instructions onto his paper and America rolls the little glass phial between his fingers.
England can’t help but think that it wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, Alfred smiled, and England smiled, too.
With a sigh, he pulls away from the kitchen’s island, paper loosely grasped before he tucks it into one of Alfred’s hands, closing the fingers and smoothing over the rough knuckles with the pad of his thumb. The other hesitates before opening his hand again and grasping onto Arthur’s thumb, a quiet ‘sorry,’ in the face of nameless emotions.
“Now, all you have to do is drink it,” England says, trying not to let fondness seep into his voice. He can’t help but miss the small embrace as Alfred lets go and moves to pull the stopper from the vial.
America sniffs the contents, choking on a cough as he whips it away from his face, “Damn, England! What the hell is in this? It smells like perfume!” Strong perfume, enough so to make it feel like the interior of his nose and his eyes are burning.
Arthur leans down and clamps a hand on Alfred’s shoulder, face set in a grimace as he too takes in the eye-searing scent, like concentrated spring, with flowers and sunshine and the earthy smell of melting, “Don’t ask.”
Alfred grimaces, “This is going to make me…feel better…right?”
“Of course,” Arthur too readily replies, beaming. “It’s supposed to be a potion to make you feel just as you did as a youth.”
“’Supposed to?’”
“That’s what the book said,” he says, defensive, and a bit offended. Why must they always question him on these matters? “I assume it will make you feel young and energized. Happy, even.”
And heaven knows that’s what the boy needed. Happiness. Or something like it.
Because there seems to be nothing left on this tiny world in an undefined universe that can possibly make Alfred smile and laugh; not the slow return of his friends and family whom had left him in disgust of his government’s policies, his favorite foods, playing video games, or inventing things with Tony. No digging for old, ancient things, or swimming with Mr. Whale, or even star-gazing.
Arthur sighs and moves his hand to Alfred’s face, smoothing aside the choppy bangs and pressing his cheek to the other’s forehead, cold and pale. America tenses underneath him, but relaxes and snorts after a minute of calm silence.
He swallows thickly, fingers pressing into the open phial, “….you promise it’ll work? Prove me wrong about your silly magic?”
England can find it in himself to laugh and shift his face so that his lips meet cool skin, and says, “I promise.”
“Well then,” America pulls away. “Let’s get it over with!”
He takes the bottle and chugs, expecting the acrid taste of perfume, but finds an indescribable flavor; something that he almost wants to call ‘sky’ in his wonder.
He blinks and smacks his lips, England’s expectant face in his peripheral.
“Well?” the Briton urges, taking the phial from the other’s hand and popping the stopper back into place. “How do you feel?”
Alfred tilts his head left and right, glances to the ceiling, then at his fingernails, littered in the scabs of pulled hangnails. He takes a breath, holds it, then releases with a sigh, “Nothing.”
“Ah, I suppose that’s to be expected…,” England turns away to place the phial back into his open briefcase, nestling the vial into a Styrofoam-cushioned indentation. “But it gets worse before it can become better.”
“Eh?” Alfred says, standing from his bar-stool at the counter. “What do you mean?
England can’t help but think that it wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, Alfred smiled, and England smiled, too.
With a sigh, he pulls away from the kitchen’s island, paper loosely grasped before he tucks it into one of Alfred’s hands, closing the fingers and smoothing over the rough knuckles with the pad of his thumb. The other hesitates before opening his hand again and grasping onto Arthur’s thumb, a quiet ‘sorry,’ in the face of nameless emotions.
“Now, all you have to do is drink it,” England says, trying not to let fondness seep into his voice. He can’t help but miss the small embrace as Alfred lets go and moves to pull the stopper from the vial.
America sniffs the contents, choking on a cough as he whips it away from his face, “Damn, England! What the hell is in this? It smells like perfume!” Strong perfume, enough so to make it feel like the interior of his nose and his eyes are burning.
Arthur leans down and clamps a hand on Alfred’s shoulder, face set in a grimace as he too takes in the eye-searing scent, like concentrated spring, with flowers and sunshine and the earthy smell of melting, “Don’t ask.”
Alfred grimaces, “This is going to make me…feel better…right?”
“Of course,” Arthur too readily replies, beaming. “It’s supposed to be a potion to make you feel just as you did as a youth.”
“’Supposed to?’”
“That’s what the book said,” he says, defensive, and a bit offended. Why must they always question him on these matters? “I assume it will make you feel young and energized. Happy, even.”
And heaven knows that’s what the boy needed. Happiness. Or something like it.
Because there seems to be nothing left on this tiny world in an undefined universe that can possibly make Alfred smile and laugh; not the slow return of his friends and family whom had left him in disgust of his government’s policies, his favorite foods, playing video games, or inventing things with Tony. No digging for old, ancient things, or swimming with Mr. Whale, or even star-gazing.
Arthur sighs and moves his hand to Alfred’s face, smoothing aside the choppy bangs and pressing his cheek to the other’s forehead, cold and pale. America tenses underneath him, but relaxes and snorts after a minute of calm silence.
He swallows thickly, fingers pressing into the open phial, “….you promise it’ll work? Prove me wrong about your silly magic?”
England can find it in himself to laugh and shift his face so that his lips meet cool skin, and says, “I promise.”
“Well then,” America pulls away. “Let’s get it over with!”
He takes the bottle and chugs, expecting the acrid taste of perfume, but finds an indescribable flavor; something that he almost wants to call ‘sky’ in his wonder.
He blinks and smacks his lips, England’s expectant face in his peripheral.
“Well?” the Briton urges, taking the phial from the other’s hand and popping the stopper back into place. “How do you feel?”
Alfred tilts his head left and right, glances to the ceiling, then at his fingernails, littered in the scabs of pulled hangnails. He takes a breath, holds it, then releases with a sigh, “Nothing.”
“Ah, I suppose that’s to be expected…,” England turns away to place the phial back into his open briefcase, nestling the vial into a Styrofoam-cushioned indentation. “But it gets worse before it can become better.”
“Eh?” Alfred says, standing from his bar-stool at the counter. “What do you mean?
“The book said you’ll experience feelings of fatigue and extreme exhaustion before the spell takes effect. I suggest just going to lay down somewhere for a while. Oh, and you do have someone coming over, just in case things go wrong? Not that they will, of course.”
Alfred nods, heading to his living room, “Yeah. Mattie’s coming over to stay for the weekend.”
“Who?” England asks, confusion seeping into his tone at the unfamiliar name. “You haven’t invited another neighbor boy over to keep you company, have you?” Alfred gives him an incredulous look. “ You know you can’t expose yourself too much to children, Alfred. They grow older, and you…well, you don’t. They grow fond of you, too. They won’t leave you alone when they realize that you’re a permanent playmate.”
America heaves out a sigh, exasperation lacing his tone, though whether or not it’s from England’s nagging or his complete obliviousness is yet to be seen. “No. No it’s not another kid. I don’t make them come over! They do it on their own. And you really can’t remember who Mattie is?” Dear Mattie, his *blush* brother.
He shoves thoughts of the other away, and focuses on England’s still blank, searching face, “Mattie? …Matthew. Canada. The guy on top of me?”
“…yes,” Arthur says, with a decisive nod.
Alfred heaves another sigh and enters into his living room, the sight of a large, leather couch with a quilt thrown over the back (a Christmas gift from England, fifteen years ago) almost too tempting to pass up. A heavy gravity has encompassed his bones, a condensed veil that weighs him down and makes his eyelids struggle to stay open. He slumps into the cool leather and leans back, neck arching. Arthur sniffs and settles into a near-by recliner.
“You don’t have to stay, y’know. You’ve got that meeting later, then a plane to catch, right?” Alfred says, bleary eyes peering at his companion with a suspicious glint.
“Ah, yes,” Arthur says, gaze shifting over a decorative plant resting on a shelf. “It will be alright to just stay for a little while, though. No reason to go to my hotel when I can just get to the meeting from here.”
“Ah,” Alfred says, small and quiet. Tired. It’s difficult to keep his eyes open, but he doesn’t want to fall asleep, not in front of England.
It’s a losing battle, though. He can feel a murky film descend over his mind, thick and viscous, that drapes itself along his eyes and slides them closed for just a little bit longer at each desperate blink. He sighs again, wondering whether or not Matthew has his own key.
Maybe.
blush
Alfred nods, heading to his living room, “Yeah. Mattie’s coming over to stay for the weekend.”
“Who?” England asks, confusion seeping into his tone at the unfamiliar name. “You haven’t invited another neighbor boy over to keep you company, have you?” Alfred gives him an incredulous look. “ You know you can’t expose yourself too much to children, Alfred. They grow older, and you…well, you don’t. They grow fond of you, too. They won’t leave you alone when they realize that you’re a permanent playmate.”
America heaves out a sigh, exasperation lacing his tone, though whether or not it’s from England’s nagging or his complete obliviousness is yet to be seen. “No. No it’s not another kid. I don’t make them come over! They do it on their own. And you really can’t remember who Mattie is?” Dear Mattie, his *blush* brother.
He shoves thoughts of the other away, and focuses on England’s still blank, searching face, “Mattie? …Matthew. Canada. The guy on top of me?”
“…yes,” Arthur says, with a decisive nod.
Alfred heaves another sigh and enters into his living room, the sight of a large, leather couch with a quilt thrown over the back (a Christmas gift from England, fifteen years ago) almost too tempting to pass up. A heavy gravity has encompassed his bones, a condensed veil that weighs him down and makes his eyelids struggle to stay open. He slumps into the cool leather and leans back, neck arching. Arthur sniffs and settles into a near-by recliner.
“You don’t have to stay, y’know. You’ve got that meeting later, then a plane to catch, right?” Alfred says, bleary eyes peering at his companion with a suspicious glint.
“Ah, yes,” Arthur says, gaze shifting over a decorative plant resting on a shelf. “It will be alright to just stay for a little while, though. No reason to go to my hotel when I can just get to the meeting from here.”
“Ah,” Alfred says, small and quiet. Tired. It’s difficult to keep his eyes open, but he doesn’t want to fall asleep, not in front of England.
It’s a losing battle, though. He can feel a murky film descend over his mind, thick and viscous, that drapes itself along his eyes and slides them closed for just a little bit longer at each desperate blink. He sighs again, wondering whether or not Matthew has his own key.
Maybe.
blush
England can see him struggling, watches as the stiffness in the other’s fingers loosens, and breaths become deeper, “It’s alright to sleep, Alfred. I’ll be okay. I’m perfectly capable of sitting in a house while you doze off.”
America blinks, the words registering slowly, but then nods his head, a tiny shift that crinkles the leather cushion, “……….don’t use the kitchen.”
He can hear Arthur huff before he completely drifts off.
America stills, and England huffs again. The boy honestly can’t take care of himself. Before he even realizes that he’s doing it, he’s gotten up and removed the other’s glasses, setting them aside on the glass-top coffee table. Sliding Alfred’s torso down onto the seating and resting his head on one of the throw pillows, and then hoisting his legs onto the couch as well, England hums in approval. As an afterthought, he pulls the quilt from the back and drapes it over the other, tucking in the edges and insuring to cover Alfred’s bare feet.
Hopefully, this is the sleep of recovery. When those blue eyes once more open, an Alfred as good as new will be sure to greet the world.
England shuts off the lights, locks the doors, and then heads out of the house and to his rental car.
America blinks, the words registering slowly, but then nods his head, a tiny shift that crinkles the leather cushion, “……….don’t use the kitchen.”
He can hear Arthur huff before he completely drifts off.
America stills, and England huffs again. The boy honestly can’t take care of himself. Before he even realizes that he’s doing it, he’s gotten up and removed the other’s glasses, setting them aside on the glass-top coffee table. Sliding Alfred’s torso down onto the seating and resting his head on one of the throw pillows, and then hoisting his legs onto the couch as well, England hums in approval. As an afterthought, he pulls the quilt from the back and drapes it over the other, tucking in the edges and insuring to cover Alfred’s bare feet.
Hopefully, this is the sleep of recovery. When those blue eyes once more open, an Alfred as good as new will be sure to greet the world.
England shuts off the lights, locks the doors, and then heads out of the house and to his rental car.
If there’s one thing that Alfred’s house does, it’s make an impact. From the Olympic size swimming pool in the back to the tall, silvery observation tower sprouting from the west corner of the abode, to the garish American flag painted onto the garage door to the numerous scientific and technological experiments housed inside (a fucking hoverbike for maple’s sake!), his brother’s place of residence never fails to make him understand why it is that all of the neighborhood children think that ‘Alfred F. Jones’ is the greatest person to ever live, and why everyone else avoids the house like a plague.
He unlocks and opens the front door after receiving no answer for his repeated efforts of knocking, only to be greeted by a dark foyer leading into an even darker sitting room. He calls out his brother’s name, the sound reverberating in the still of the air. With a little hesitation, he walks, gripping the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder; enough clothes for the weekend he’d be staying.
Maybe he’s out, Matthew thinks, heading for the guest room he always uses when over at Alfred’s. He sets his luggage aside and continues further in, digging his phone out of his back pocket along the way to call his twin and ask for where he is, though the action turns out to be useless as he enters into the living room and spots a crumpled blanket edge trailing out from the edge of the couch.
Asleep?
He walks over, holding his breath in fear of waking the other. It’s so rare for Alfred to find sleep nowadays. He’s spent too many nights yawning over the phone line as his brother yammers on about new policies or his useless politicians, or even what planets are visible on that certain night and what constellations he can see in the dimmed sky of his current suburban home.
Even before he gets a clear view of the person lying on the sofa, he can feel that something is different. Not wrong, per se, but definitely different.
A tuft of blond hair peeks out from under a quilt, errant Nantucket the most pronounced. But it looks smaller than normal. In the dim of the room, Canada squints and can barely make out the small outline of a body.
Small.
Too small.
With a careful hand, he peels the loose covering away, only to see the familiar visage of his brother.
And that can’t be right. Because his brother’s particular appearance—gangly limbs, a rounded face, delicate fingernails—he hasn’t seen in over two hundred years.
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Ta-da? Hope it wasn’t too bad…>> I’m currently sleep-deprived, and have written late into the night. This also came out much longer than it was supposed to be. Probably very boring. Sorry! Also, sorry for any grammatical errors. Present-tense is tricky to write when tired and distracted, which I definitely was.
More to come, maybe? If people, especially OP, enjoyed it, I’ll write more.
He unlocks and opens the front door after receiving no answer for his repeated efforts of knocking, only to be greeted by a dark foyer leading into an even darker sitting room. He calls out his brother’s name, the sound reverberating in the still of the air. With a little hesitation, he walks, gripping the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder; enough clothes for the weekend he’d be staying.
Maybe he’s out, Matthew thinks, heading for the guest room he always uses when over at Alfred’s. He sets his luggage aside and continues further in, digging his phone out of his back pocket along the way to call his twin and ask for where he is, though the action turns out to be useless as he enters into the living room and spots a crumpled blanket edge trailing out from the edge of the couch.
Asleep?
He walks over, holding his breath in fear of waking the other. It’s so rare for Alfred to find sleep nowadays. He’s spent too many nights yawning over the phone line as his brother yammers on about new policies or his useless politicians, or even what planets are visible on that certain night and what constellations he can see in the dimmed sky of his current suburban home.
Even before he gets a clear view of the person lying on the sofa, he can feel that something is different. Not wrong, per se, but definitely different.
A tuft of blond hair peeks out from under a quilt, errant Nantucket the most pronounced. But it looks smaller than normal. In the dim of the room, Canada squints and can barely make out the small outline of a body.
Small.
Too small.
With a careful hand, he peels the loose covering away, only to see the familiar visage of his brother.
And that can’t be right. Because his brother’s particular appearance—gangly limbs, a rounded face, delicate fingernails—he hasn’t seen in over two hundred years.
-
-
-
Ta-da? Hope it wasn’t too bad…>> I’m currently sleep-deprived, and have written late into the night. This also came out much longer than it was supposed to be. Probably very boring. Sorry! Also, sorry for any grammatical errors. Present-tense is tricky to write when tired and distracted, which I definitely was.
More to come, maybe? If people, especially OP, enjoyed it, I’ll write more.
Aww, this is super cute! I was just thinking it'd been a while since I'd seen this pairing, and poof, cute fic &heats; Aizwawa is an adorable OC who serves her role well without being intrusive. The glimpses of characterization are pitch perfect, and it has a cute use of humor as well. It's a winner ♥
Oh my, this is interesting, Author Anon. <3
Potenial!Anon has returned with a very more than originally planned angsty fic...
Will Contain:
Rape
Child Abuse
Incest
Emotional Trauma
Self Harm
and possibly some other things as the fic progresses...
Will Contain:
Rape
Child Abuse
Incest
Emotional Trauma
Self Harm
and possibly some other things as the fic progresses...
For a brief moment Scotland tried to remember how it had happened.
National Dress Week
One of those silly bonding things that somebody (like Italy probably) had came up with, meaning that he had to go in his kilt. Naturally. He missed most of the first day of meetings due to it not being devolved issues though the silence whenever he came in made it worth it...kinda.
They had all filed into the nearest pub once it was over, most of the regulars knowing to ignore the oddly dressed group. "So Ecosse," France had purred as he slid up beside him, twenty drinks in to the evening, "Are you being a true Scotsman?"
Scotland had smirked, pulling his kilt far enough up to reveal a milky white thigh with a dusting of ginger hairs and freckles before flicking it back down, "As much as your gonna see frog."
Most had laugh though England claimed that what was shown was better than the eyeful he use to get. "He use to fight naked, I prefer this to...that." he explained, giving a mock shudder before returning to his pint.
There was more drink and banter before Scotland eventually called it night, having drank most of the pub's supply of whisky (with a bit of help from Ireland) and promising to meet up with Australia for breakfast. "Proper breakfast," he said, slurring his words as he put an arm around the younger nation's neck, "That means lots of bacon, sausages, black pudding, eggs and it's all fried, even the fucking bread."
Australia had just laughed before pushing him out of the lift and continuing up to his own floor. "Night you bastard!" he had yelled as the doors closed.
That was when it started to go wrong.
He had just gotten his room door unlock when he found himself being pushed inside and onto the bed, banging his head hard against the headboard. Between that and the drink it started to become a bit of a blur.
Hands went under his kilt, "Do you think this is what France meant by 'true Scotsman'?" Someone asked, laughing as they flicked the fabric up before running a finger along Scotland's ass, "No wonder everyone watched him come in during the meeting!"
The finger went in and Scotland yelped, trying to squirm away desperately but he was pinned down to the bed by another nation. "Don't act shy now Scotty." they muttered, petting his hair patronisingly, "You must of wanted it, why else for the no underwear and teasing France?"
The protest that was on Scotland's tongue became a chocked scream as something, much larger than a finger, pushed inside. "He's so tight." one of the assailants groaned against his ear.
The other one laughed, "He heals faster, that's why he's good in a fight according to England but..." hands went on his hips, pushing them down and forcing the cock all the way inside, tearing him painfully before the numbing sensation of his body repairing itself took over. "Don't move, I'll bet he gets tighter."
Scotland's mind started to hide at that point, going back to when he was young, when he had fled Ireland's motherly embrace to prove himself and failed. He never did make out who his attackers were, his mind insisting who it had to of been. It was too much like the past to be anyone else.
"Oh! Is there room for one more?" they laughed as Scotland bucked as a hand wrapped around his cock, while a second pushed inside.
He just managed kept a hold of his senses long enough to bite into one of the assailants shoulder, hard enough to draw blood.
Everything went dark after that.
National Dress Week
One of those silly bonding things that somebody (like Italy probably) had came up with, meaning that he had to go in his kilt. Naturally. He missed most of the first day of meetings due to it not being devolved issues though the silence whenever he came in made it worth it...kinda.
They had all filed into the nearest pub once it was over, most of the regulars knowing to ignore the oddly dressed group. "So Ecosse," France had purred as he slid up beside him, twenty drinks in to the evening, "Are you being a true Scotsman?"
Scotland had smirked, pulling his kilt far enough up to reveal a milky white thigh with a dusting of ginger hairs and freckles before flicking it back down, "As much as your gonna see frog."
Most had laugh though England claimed that what was shown was better than the eyeful he use to get. "He use to fight naked, I prefer this to...that." he explained, giving a mock shudder before returning to his pint.
There was more drink and banter before Scotland eventually called it night, having drank most of the pub's supply of whisky (with a bit of help from Ireland) and promising to meet up with Australia for breakfast. "Proper breakfast," he said, slurring his words as he put an arm around the younger nation's neck, "That means lots of bacon, sausages, black pudding, eggs and it's all fried, even the fucking bread."
Australia had just laughed before pushing him out of the lift and continuing up to his own floor. "Night you bastard!" he had yelled as the doors closed.
That was when it started to go wrong.
He had just gotten his room door unlock when he found himself being pushed inside and onto the bed, banging his head hard against the headboard. Between that and the drink it started to become a bit of a blur.
Hands went under his kilt, "Do you think this is what France meant by 'true Scotsman'?" Someone asked, laughing as they flicked the fabric up before running a finger along Scotland's ass, "No wonder everyone watched him come in during the meeting!"
The finger went in and Scotland yelped, trying to squirm away desperately but he was pinned down to the bed by another nation. "Don't act shy now Scotty." they muttered, petting his hair patronisingly, "You must of wanted it, why else for the no underwear and teasing France?"
The protest that was on Scotland's tongue became a chocked scream as something, much larger than a finger, pushed inside. "He's so tight." one of the assailants groaned against his ear.
The other one laughed, "He heals faster, that's why he's good in a fight according to England but..." hands went on his hips, pushing them down and forcing the cock all the way inside, tearing him painfully before the numbing sensation of his body repairing itself took over. "Don't move, I'll bet he gets tighter."
Scotland's mind started to hide at that point, going back to when he was young, when he had fled Ireland's motherly embrace to prove himself and failed. He never did make out who his attackers were, his mind insisting who it had to of been. It was too much like the past to be anyone else.
"Oh! Is there room for one more?" they laughed as Scotland bucked as a hand wrapped around his cock, while a second pushed inside.
He just managed kept a hold of his senses long enough to bite into one of the assailants shoulder, hard enough to draw blood.
Everything went dark after that.
Tugging on the hem of the tunic that Northumbria had dressed him in, he glanced round the small camp. Most of the men were busy preparing to move so surely no one would see him flee. Ignoring the fairies that pulled on his hair, trying to convince him it would be better to wait until they move to try and escape, he started to creep his way towards a bush, close enough for him to get to but far enough that no one in the camp should get him in time. They were all distracted by whatever Northumbria was barking at them when he chose his moment
Maybe that was why the hand grabbing at a fistful of his hair and lifting him up by it made him scream so loudly that even his fairy fled.
“Northumbria! I thought I told you to stop picking up boys from any villages you pass?” His capturer grunted as Northumbria ran towards them, “It really is a waste if you’re not going to keep them for more than a night.”
The nation simply laughed, taking him from the stranger, “This isn’t just any boy, Picti, he’s my little brother from across the water.” There was something in the grin that covered Picti’s face that made him want to get out of there. All he succeeded in doing was squirming out of the tunic.
“He’s quite a prize,” Came the murmured agreement as Picti grabbed him by the chin to inspect him. “I’m surprised he’s even walking, knowing what you’re like.”
Northumbria continued to laugh, carrying him towards his tent. “Oh he wasn’t, for a while anyway. Brat heals faster than any of us I’ve seen.”
A finger forced its way inside him and he could only squeak in protest as he remember what this lead to the previous night. Picti leered, “Works inside too, tighter than most of your boys.”
“I know and he enjoys it…don’t you Dál Riata?”
He cried in response, shaking his head desperately even as he bucked at the touches of the two older nations.
---
Scotland could still feel them, what they had done to him, as he woke up the following morning. There might be no marks on his skin but he could tell you were they had touched, kiss and bitten him.
He hated that feeling.
He paid little attention to bloodied and cum stained kilt he was wearing, or the other kilts (the tartans belonging to important clans to him) that were scattered around the floor despite still being safely packed away in a suitcase the night before. All that mattered was getting rid of the feeling that no scratching could relive, no matter how hard he tried with his blunt nails. He managed to stumble into the bathroom were he ran a bath of only hot water, striping and plunging into it despite the boiling temperature.
The scolding sensation was good, distracted him from what had happened and how he had…
The hand that held the scrunchie shook for a moment before he begun to scrub desperately at his skin, rubbing it raw then allowing it to heal.
It was getting harder to feel were they touched him now…
Maybe that was why the hand grabbing at a fistful of his hair and lifting him up by it made him scream so loudly that even his fairy fled.
“Northumbria! I thought I told you to stop picking up boys from any villages you pass?” His capturer grunted as Northumbria ran towards them, “It really is a waste if you’re not going to keep them for more than a night.”
The nation simply laughed, taking him from the stranger, “This isn’t just any boy, Picti, he’s my little brother from across the water.” There was something in the grin that covered Picti’s face that made him want to get out of there. All he succeeded in doing was squirming out of the tunic.
“He’s quite a prize,” Came the murmured agreement as Picti grabbed him by the chin to inspect him. “I’m surprised he’s even walking, knowing what you’re like.”
Northumbria continued to laugh, carrying him towards his tent. “Oh he wasn’t, for a while anyway. Brat heals faster than any of us I’ve seen.”
A finger forced its way inside him and he could only squeak in protest as he remember what this lead to the previous night. Picti leered, “Works inside too, tighter than most of your boys.”
“I know and he enjoys it…don’t you Dál Riata?”
He cried in response, shaking his head desperately even as he bucked at the touches of the two older nations.
---
Scotland could still feel them, what they had done to him, as he woke up the following morning. There might be no marks on his skin but he could tell you were they had touched, kiss and bitten him.
He hated that feeling.
He paid little attention to bloodied and cum stained kilt he was wearing, or the other kilts (the tartans belonging to important clans to him) that were scattered around the floor despite still being safely packed away in a suitcase the night before. All that mattered was getting rid of the feeling that no scratching could relive, no matter how hard he tried with his blunt nails. He managed to stumble into the bathroom were he ran a bath of only hot water, striping and plunging into it despite the boiling temperature.
The scolding sensation was good, distracted him from what had happened and how he had…
The hand that held the scrunchie shook for a moment before he begun to scrub desperately at his skin, rubbing it raw then allowing it to heal.
It was getting harder to feel were they touched him now…
Scotland was late.
On most days Australia would think nothing of it. But on most days it was only a couple of minutes, not two hours.
The waiter, who Australia had a good mind to punch, shooed him out in the end. With his nose to the air, he had proclaimed the breakfast buffet closed before heading back in, tutting loudly along the way. Scotland (with a reasonable excuse that didn’t include hangovers) wasn’t waiting there.
An enquiry amongst the nations he could find (as well as a heavy handbag to the head from a Chinese lady) revealed that nobody had seen the Celtic nation since last night. That gave Australia enough reason to go up to Scotland’s hotel room.
Locked and no answer.
Crouching down, he ignored the voice at the back of his head (that sounded a lot like England) chiding for allowing his ‘criminal’ side take over as he managed to unlock the door without the key.
“Scotland? I’m coming in so you better be decent!” The was still no reply as Australia entered, raising an eyebrow at the mess. Scotland was no neat freak but at least it was usually organised into some sort of order.
And considering how much pride he had in his kilts…
A noise that sounded like cursing came from the bathroom, drawing him nearer. “S-Scotland?” for a moment he hesitated before grabbing the handle and opening the door.
Sitting in the bathtub was a shivering Scotland, too busy furiously scrubbing away at himself to notice Australia at first. “What are you doing here?”
The growl caught Australia off guard at first but he eventually frowned in response. “Looking for you mate. We were suppose to be meeting up for breakfast, remember?”
“We were…oh…yeah, I remember.” Scotland muttered, still scrubbing at himself. “Look I’ll just b-”
“It’s already closed.” Australia cut in, taking a step towards Scotland. “How bloody long have you been in there? Yo-”
“Don’t touch me.” Scotland hissed, flinching away from Australia’s outstretched hand. When the younger nation didn’t back down he began to panic. “I said don’t touch me!”
Australia blinked, dazed and wondering how on earth he ended up on his back at the other end of the bathroom. Scotland had simply curled up in the bath, still scrubbing away at himself.
“Listen, I’ll meet up with you for lunch, okay? Now fuck off…please.”
Realising that he wasn’t going to win this argument, Australia relented, biting his lip when he finally noticed the kilt lying beside the tub. Closing the bathroom door behind him, he froze as he finally noticed the state of the sheets on Scotland’s bed.
Just like his kilt…
Making sure that the room was locked Australia ran to the lift, desperately hoped it was the interval for the meeting between the EU nations because he really needed to speak to Ireland. Nobody knew Scotland better than his sister.
Author: First Part Complete...
On most days Australia would think nothing of it. But on most days it was only a couple of minutes, not two hours.
The waiter, who Australia had a good mind to punch, shooed him out in the end. With his nose to the air, he had proclaimed the breakfast buffet closed before heading back in, tutting loudly along the way. Scotland (with a reasonable excuse that didn’t include hangovers) wasn’t waiting there.
An enquiry amongst the nations he could find (as well as a heavy handbag to the head from a Chinese lady) revealed that nobody had seen the Celtic nation since last night. That gave Australia enough reason to go up to Scotland’s hotel room.
Locked and no answer.
Crouching down, he ignored the voice at the back of his head (that sounded a lot like England) chiding for allowing his ‘criminal’ side take over as he managed to unlock the door without the key.
“Scotland? I’m coming in so you better be decent!” The was still no reply as Australia entered, raising an eyebrow at the mess. Scotland was no neat freak but at least it was usually organised into some sort of order.
And considering how much pride he had in his kilts…
A noise that sounded like cursing came from the bathroom, drawing him nearer. “S-Scotland?” for a moment he hesitated before grabbing the handle and opening the door.
Sitting in the bathtub was a shivering Scotland, too busy furiously scrubbing away at himself to notice Australia at first. “What are you doing here?”
The growl caught Australia off guard at first but he eventually frowned in response. “Looking for you mate. We were suppose to be meeting up for breakfast, remember?”
“We were…oh…yeah, I remember.” Scotland muttered, still scrubbing at himself. “Look I’ll just b-”
“It’s already closed.” Australia cut in, taking a step towards Scotland. “How bloody long have you been in there? Yo-”
“Don’t touch me.” Scotland hissed, flinching away from Australia’s outstretched hand. When the younger nation didn’t back down he began to panic. “I said don’t touch me!”
Australia blinked, dazed and wondering how on earth he ended up on his back at the other end of the bathroom. Scotland had simply curled up in the bath, still scrubbing away at himself.
“Listen, I’ll meet up with you for lunch, okay? Now fuck off…please.”
Realising that he wasn’t going to win this argument, Australia relented, biting his lip when he finally noticed the kilt lying beside the tub. Closing the bathroom door behind him, he froze as he finally noticed the state of the sheets on Scotland’s bed.
Just like his kilt…
Making sure that the room was locked Australia ran to the lift, desperately hoped it was the interval for the meeting between the EU nations because he really needed to speak to Ireland. Nobody knew Scotland better than his sister.
Author: First Part Complete...
So not OP, but I love this fill. You just have to continue this author-anon. This fill is too adorable and funny to stop.
Also this: "His brother’s place of residence never fails to make him understand why it is that all of the neighborhood children think that ‘Alfred F. Jones’ is the greatest person to ever live, and why everyone else avoids the house like a plague." So much love. It's so my headcanon that Alfred is great with kids because of his energy, adorkable innocence, humor, awesomeness and now incredibly cool house that wows that kids while scaring the sh*t out of adults.
haha, I really do hope you continue this. <3
Also this: "His brother’s place of residence never fails to make him understand why it is that all of the neighborhood children think that ‘Alfred F. Jones’ is the greatest person to ever live, and why everyone else avoids the house like a plague." So much love. It's so my headcanon that Alfred is great with kids because of his energy, adorkable innocence, humor, awesomeness and now incredibly cool house that wows that kids while scaring the sh*t out of adults.
haha, I really do hope you continue this. <3
AAAAaaahhhhh~
Y-you managed to hit all my moelove plot points writernon!
I-it's a little heartbreaking, but Imma sucker for angsty fics ilke this T_T
Thanks so much for filling it, and I await the next part with great anticipation!
Also, I love you for including Austrlia ._. So.. so much love.
Y-you managed to hit all my moelove plot points writernon!
I-it's a little heartbreaking, but Imma sucker for angsty fics ilke this T_T
Thanks so much for filling it, and I await the next part with great anticipation!
Also, I love you for including Austrlia ._. So.. so much love.
Ooo, I don't think you fail at all. I really like his face in the first picture. and the caption second one kinda made me giggle
Gods, I have such a hard time drawing hands. It think they must have been invented to be the bane of my existence XD
Keep up the good work, artist!anon~!
Gods, I have such a hard time drawing hands. It think they must have been invented to be the bane of my existence XD
Keep up the good work, artist!anon~!
Sorry for the show update this time around...Do enjoy it!
“Well, I’m surprised. I didn’t think you cared to come to me for help anymore.”
The bespectacled man put down his cup of tea and stared at the miserable-looking country on the other side of the table. Spain slumped in his seat, a direct contrast to Austria’s perfect posture. His arm hung in a sling over his stomach as he turned his sulky expression up at his former Hapsburg housemate.
“France wasn’t home when I stopped by…and I was hoping you might be able to give me some advice,” he murmured. “Since, you know, you went to the Well too.”
The Austrian grimaced, not fond of the memory his guest was bringing up. Since the Incident, he hadn’t had one moment alone with Hungary that wasn’t uncomfortably awkward. Spain looked like he was in far worse shape, however. He watched as the other man lifted a teacup to his lips shakily with his nondominant hand and took a half-hearted sip.
“And what kind of advice were you hoping for?”
Spain turned that pitiful green gaze up at the other man, making the Austrian feel a sudden pang of unexpected sympathy. Spain took a moment to answer him as he thought to himself.
“How do you make someone believe you love them?” he asked so quietly that Austria barely heard him.
The aristocratic nation sighed and looked away towards the window. The sun was pouring through it and shining into his elegant sitting room, giving it a warmth that soothed his anxiety, even if it didn’t seem to do much for his guest. Spain looked as gloomy as if it were pouring rain.
“I wouldn’t know,” Austria replied, “seeing as how my own truth hasn’t been resolved.”
Spain looked up at him curiously.
“Then you and Hungary haven’t-”
“I-it’s no concern of yours!” Austria sputtered indignantly, earning a knowing half-smile from the other man. “And no one ever said it was her.”
Spain just stared at him.
“…Who else would it be?”
“Well, I’m surprised. I didn’t think you cared to come to me for help anymore.”
The bespectacled man put down his cup of tea and stared at the miserable-looking country on the other side of the table. Spain slumped in his seat, a direct contrast to Austria’s perfect posture. His arm hung in a sling over his stomach as he turned his sulky expression up at his former Hapsburg housemate.
“France wasn’t home when I stopped by…and I was hoping you might be able to give me some advice,” he murmured. “Since, you know, you went to the Well too.”
The Austrian grimaced, not fond of the memory his guest was bringing up. Since the Incident, he hadn’t had one moment alone with Hungary that wasn’t uncomfortably awkward. Spain looked like he was in far worse shape, however. He watched as the other man lifted a teacup to his lips shakily with his nondominant hand and took a half-hearted sip.
“And what kind of advice were you hoping for?”
Spain turned that pitiful green gaze up at the other man, making the Austrian feel a sudden pang of unexpected sympathy. Spain took a moment to answer him as he thought to himself.
“How do you make someone believe you love them?” he asked so quietly that Austria barely heard him.
The aristocratic nation sighed and looked away towards the window. The sun was pouring through it and shining into his elegant sitting room, giving it a warmth that soothed his anxiety, even if it didn’t seem to do much for his guest. Spain looked as gloomy as if it were pouring rain.
“I wouldn’t know,” Austria replied, “seeing as how my own truth hasn’t been resolved.”
Spain looked up at him curiously.
“Then you and Hungary haven’t-”
“I-it’s no concern of yours!” Austria sputtered indignantly, earning a knowing half-smile from the other man. “And no one ever said it was her.”
Spain just stared at him.
“…Who else would it be?”
Austria grunted, defeated. He could feel his face grow hot just thinking that he was so easy for even someone as oblivious as the other man to read. Spain just shifted in his seat, finally sitting up straighter.
“If you know how you feel about her, you should just tell her,” he said. “It’s obvious that she feels the same for you.”
“T-there’s nothing to say,” the Austrain told him, looking quite flustered.
“What do you have to lose?” Spain asked, his voice dropping low as he looked down at his injured arm. “Love’s not easy, but - it’s something worth fighting for. It would be so much easier for you two…”
“Don’t compare your crumbling relationship to my nonexistent one,” Austria snapped, and felt a stinging shred of guilt as Spain looked at him like a kicked puppy.
“I’m so miserable without him,” Spain murmured. “I’d give anything to have him back. That’s why I can’t give up. And you shouldn’t either! Wouldn’t you regret it if you didn’t even try?”
Austria frowned and furrowed his eyebrows, but before he could reply, there was a servant at the door calling for his attention.
“Herr Österreich, Herr Frankreich is here to see you,” the servant announced.
Austria raised an eyebrow, and Spain managed a small smile.
“Very well. Show him in.”
France entered the room a moment later, a troubled look on his face. Austria rose to greet him, and Spain soon followed, rising slowly and clutching his arm to steady it as he stood behind his host, half hidden from France’s view.
“This is a surprise,” Austria commented. “Two guests on the same day, within the same hour. Were you looking for him?”
He stepped back to give France a better view of Spain.
“No,” the Frenchman replied. “Actually, I came here to ask- Mon Dieu! Espagne! What happened to your arm?!”
“Oh, um,” the Spaniard started, clearing his throat, “bullfight.”
France’s eyes widened in disbelief and shock.
“WHAT?! But mon ami! I thought you said you gave it up!”
“I did,” Spain admitted, “but well, I kind of…staged a fake one to help me win Romano back. I thought if I put myself in danger, he’d get worried about me, and I’d finally be able to get him to listen to me again.”
France stared at him incredulously. His look changed to one of sympathetic pity as he frowned down at his friend.
“Espagne…this whole affair has driven you mad, hasn’t it?”
“I already expressed by disbelief at the idiocy of his theory,” Austria put in, crossing his arms and shaking his head at Spain. “Now look how you’ve ended up.”
Spain’s eyes filled with tears. He sniffled and looked down at his own bandaged limb, feeling pathetic. A tear escaped and ran down his cheek. Immediately, France was at his side, holding his friend in a comforting embrace.
“Don’t cry, Espagne,” he murmured into his ear.
“I was so close,” Spain whimpered. “He was holding me in his arms. He was crying for me. He let me kiss him.”
Even when they had been together, it had been difficult for Spain to get a kiss in public without being pushed away or scolded for it afterwards. He had savored that moment, short as it had been.
“Then what went wrong?” France asked.
“Once he found out I staged the fight, he dropped me in the dirt and left,” Spain sighed miserably. “But there was nothing I could do…They were going to kill Torito.”
France’s face twisted in a puzzled expression, but he just hugged his friend tighter, being careful of his arm.
“Oh, mon ami…You have to know when to quit. If you’ve tried everything so far and he doesn’t show any signs of forgiveness, there’s only one thing left for you to do.”
“What’s that?” Spain asked groggily, unable to think clearly.
“Let him go.”
Spain drew back suddenly, giving France a disbelieving look of shock.
“I-I can’t do that!”
France sighed.
“I know you don’t want to, Espagne…but what other choice do you have? If Romano won’t take you back, you have to move on. To let him move on.”
Spain’s eyebrows furrowed and he stared down at the ground. Was France right? Was he really out of options? He had tried so hard, but all his attempts so far had failed. Would it be kinder to Romano to just get out of his life? He wanted what was best for his little Tomatito, but…Spain snapped out of it, shaking his head stubbornly.
“There’s no way I can let him go,” he insisted. “He means too much to me…I know he still loves me. And I’m not going to give up on him. He’s the only one I want, and I’m not going to stop trying to get him back no matter what it takes.”
“Even if he breaks all the other bones in your body?” France growled, voice suddenly turned aggressive.
Spain looked down at his arm again and nodded.
“Even if it kills me.”
“You really are crazy,” France murmured worriedly, hand on Spain’s shoulder. He slid it up the Spaniard’s neck and cupped his chin, looking into his bright green eyes. “What do I have to do to knock some sense into you?”
“Help me,” Spain pleaded. “Ita-chan’s idea didn’t work. My idea didn’t work. I need a new plan.”
A slight scoff turned his attention back to Austria.
“You want to ask him for help now too? There’s nothing that France can offer you that will make the situation any better. Actually, there’s a far better chance that it will become worse.”
“Hey!” France protested, indignantly. “I resent that cruel remark! It just so happens that I have the perfect plan for Espagne to win back his love. One that is sure not to fail!”
Spain looked at him hopefully.
“Really? Do you think it would work for Austria too? He’s still having problems with Hungary…”
“I did NOT give you permission to speak about that!” Austria burst out, mortified.
France gave him an amused smirk as the other man flushed a deep red. He shook his head at Spain.
“Aw, but L'Autriche has no need of my help, mon ami. With his charming looks and elegant piano playing, he could easily win any woman’s affections! Especially Mademoiselle Hongrie’s.” He turned back to Austria. “All it would take would be a song from your heart.”
Austria cleared his throat and looked away to hide his embarrassment. A song? Well…it was possible, he supposed. Maybe the Frenchman didn’t always have such horrible ideas after all. Only the majority of the time. Truthfully, the aristocrat could think of no better way to express himself than through the medium he loved most. Still…he was worried. Would it be enough?
“It just so happens that I have the perfect opportunity for you. As you surely know, my party is being held this weekend,” France told them. “If you would be so kind, L'Autriche, I need a skilled pianist such as yourself in order to build the right atmosphere.”
Austria raised an eyebrow.
“You’re hosting a party? May I ask the occasion?”
“Oh, mon ami, you wound me! Well, who would blame you for forgetting such a glorious event such as the day of my birth when you have so many…sensitive issues to deal with at the moment.”
The Austrian just glared at him, and Spain chuckled quietly to himself. He had to admit, he too had also almost forgotten about his blonde friend’s birthday in the midst of recent events, but France hadn’t hesitated to remind him constantly. Spain really needed it sometimes, no matter what else was going on around him.
“Of course, I’m expecting quite a large attendance,” the Frenchman continued. “Tomorrow at the World Summit, I shall extend the invite to other nations. What a grand ball it shall be!”
“Hm,” Austria responded, “I suppose if it’s a birthday request, I could be persuaded to come play for you.”
“Wonderful!” France cried, throwing his arms around the other man, much to the Austrian’s discomfort. “I’m so happy to hear it.”
Spain smiled at them.
“Good thing you didn’t come all the way out here for nothing, then, mi amigo!”
France jumped as he suddenly remembered something.
“T-that’s not why I’m here! I came to ask L'Autriche a question,“ he said, looking back towards the bespectacled man. “Have you, by chance, seen Prussia?”
.... Am I the only one here who wants to see the freaky twin sex?
....
...
A raise of hands for freaky twin sex? XD
....
...
A raise of hands for freaky twin sex? XD
“Prussia?” the Austrian repeated, frowning. “Why would I have any idea where that obnoxious ex-country is lurking?”
“He’s missing?” Spain asked with a concerned look on his face.
“No one’s seen him since that day at the Well. I’ve already asked Hungary, and she claims she had nothing to do with it. He was, according to her, still alive when she left.”
Austria twitched slightly at the mention of Hungary’s name, but didn’t say anything. Spain’s eyes widened as he gaped a bit, and he looked just as distressed as France had been upon arriving.
“Germany can’t find him either?”
“We’ve looked everywhere,” France sighed. “My last thought was to come here and see if maybe he’s been around to pester Austria recently.”
“I can assure you he has not,” Austria replied with a frown. “But I’m sure you will find him trying to sneak into the World Summit tomorrow.”
“That’s true,” France sighed. “I only hope he’s okay.”
“So do I,” Spain said worriedly. “I’ll help look for him too.”
France smiled fondly at his Spanish friend and left Austria’s side to come embrace him.
“Thank you, Espagne. I’m sure that, together, we will find him.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t know about it before,” the other man replied guiltily. “I haven’t been much good at keeping up with you two lately.”
“Yes, well,” France said in a low voice as he leaned towards Spain’s ear, “maybe soon, you will be…”
Spain’s face twisted in confusion, but he smiled and hugged his friend back warmly with one arm. France started moving his hands lower along the other man’s back and slipped them under Spain’s shirt as Austria scowled at them from the table.
“If you two are going to get intimate, I request that you leave my presence,” he told them, “and preferably my house as well.”
France laughed as he squeezed Spain closer to him for a moment before letting go.
“As you wish, L'Autriche. We’ll see you at the World Summit.”
“Yes…” Austria replied, trying not to look as annoyed as he felt.
“Good luck with the song, Austria!” Spain said cheerfully as he left. “Adios.”
France wrapped an arm around him as they left, pleased with his friend’s renewed good spirits. The Spaniard seemed too happy to even notice the other’s hands roaming his body. What France didn’t know, though, was that behind that showy smile, Spain was only thinking about Romano. I can’t give up. I have to keep trying until he believes me…No matter how long it takes - or what I have to do. It’s not impossible. Together, France and I’ll come up with something. We have to! Romano…wait just a bit more, please. He wondered what kind of plan France had in store for him. The blonde grinned knowingly to himself, enjoying the way his thoughts were turning more and more as he reached down and gave Spain a good grope. Just you wait till you see what I have in store for you, Espagne.
Austria sighed as the unexpected guests finally left his house. Why had Spain bothered to come to him for help at all? No matter. He had more important things to focus on. He went to his piano and sat down, closing his eyes and concentrating on his own thoughts. Hungary…how do I tell you that I love you? Of course three words are not enough to express everything I need to say. He took another deep breath and tried to clear his mind. He wouldn’t think- he’d just feel. Putting his hands over the keys, he began to play, allowing everything within him to flow out from tips of his fingers - a message anyone could hear, but only he could truly understand.
reCAPTCHA: Latino. Why, yes! Yes I am (half anyway).
Pfft, this chapter is such a tease. It may not be as exciting as the last one, but I hope I`ve managed to build up your suspense! What this- subplots? Well, we shouldn`t leave anyone hanging, right? I`ve finished planning out the major plot points for the rest of the story and can honestly tell you to expect about 4 more updates depending on how things get split up/combined. Now I wonder if Austria`s predictions about France`s plan will come true...
Tell me what you think, yeah? :3
Still don`t know if Austria's song should have lyrics... XD;
Tell me what you think, yeah? :3
Still don`t know if Austria's song should have lyrics... XD;
This was wonderful, anon. I really enjoyed the interaction between Japan and Aizawa . Also:
He may have mysteriously gained a few levels in Final Fantasy.
I... probably shouldn't love this line as much as I do.
He may have mysteriously gained a few levels in Final Fantasy.
I... probably shouldn't love this line as much as I do.
I'm fine with your changes, I'm just happy someone filled my request. I really liked it and I am hoping for more!
I love the darkness in this story, it's so twisted and still fascinatingly hot. Boy, England is such a bastard. I think this fic may introduce modifications to my headcanon, because I now believe the colonial period has left something in the colonies bodies and minds that will always respond to their former masters, in a way. I loved this story, author anon
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