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USUK, FrUK, AmeCan - Cheated-on ends up with brother of his cuckolder
(Anonymous) 2013-02-25 02:04 pm (UTC)(link)Alfred and Arthur used to be a couple, but broke up when Arthur cheated on him with Francis.
Years later, Francis and Arthur are shocked when the man Francis's son/baby brother, Matthew, is head-over-heels for and cheated on HIS boyfriend with, is Alfred. Whether or not Alfred knew who Matthew was related to is up to the writer!
I'm imagining Alfred being younger than Arthur, Arthur younger than Francis, and Francis having fathered Matthew very early on in life to make the age differences not so dramatic. If not a son, then a younger brother, but either way please make Francis very overprotective.
Also, whether or not Alfred was intending to use Matthew to hurt Francis, please make Alfred fall/be truly in love with Matthew, and Matthew desperately in love with him the whole time, no matter what Francis says.
Bonus 1: When Francis confronts Matthew on why he cheated on his boyfriend, Matthew says the same things that Francis used to justify his stealing Arthur from Alfred.
Bonus 2: Alfred is much more mature and successful than he was when with Arthur - much more than either Francis or Arthur ever thought he'd be.
Bonus 3:
Years later, Francis and Arthur are shocked when the man Francis's son/baby brother, Matthew, is head-over-heels for and cheated on HIS boyfriend with, is Alfred. Whether or not Alfred knew who Matthew was related to is up to the writer!
I'm imagining Alfred being younger than Arthur, Arthur younger than Francis, and Francis having fathered Matthew very early on in life to make the age differences not so dramatic. If not a son, then a younger brother, but either way please make Francis very overprotective.
Also, whether or not Alfred was intending to use Matthew to hurt Francis, please make Alfred fall/be truly in love with Matthew, and Matthew desperately in love with him the whole time, no matter what Francis says.
Bonus 1: When Francis confronts Matthew on why he cheated on his boyfriend, Matthew says the same things that Francis used to justify his stealing Arthur from Alfred.
Bonus 2: Alfred is much more mature and successful than he was when with Arthur - much more than either Francis or Arthur ever thought he'd be.
Bonus 3:
What it says on the tin. No horror or dark.
I regret somethings.
I regret somethings.
wow allot slave request lately
Question for OP do you want this human AU or nation?
Either really. But if I want to be picky, Nation
Either, though nation preffered
Author's Notes - I'm sorry if this turns out darker than intended.
Quyễn Nguyễn = Viet Nam
Mr. Zheng = Macau
---------
Quyễn exhaled slowly, ribbons of smoke escaping her lips in delicate twists and loops. Today was like any other day; guests checked in and checked out, tourists meddled around in the gift shop, the restaurant was full of wealthy patrons, and as usual, another high profile celebrity reserved the penthouse. The only thing that struck out different was the weather. Instead of sunshine and clouds, it was a steady downpour of rain. And by the looks of it, rain dominated the forecast this week and possibly the week next over.
She took another drag of her cigarette and pulled up her sleeve to check her watch. Five more minutes until her break ended. Quyễn grumbled lowly before she tapped the ashes off into the nearby ashtray. Yes, five more minutes of peace and thought, before heading back into an office full of reports, complaints, and general chaos. The Vietnamese rubbed her temples soothingly, trying to ease the pounding in her head. To manage a stressful, hectic job like this, she'd needed more than five minutes.
“Stressful day?”
Quyễn looked up to see Mr. Zheng, the general manager, standing over her with a smile. Startled by his appearance, the woman quickly snuffed out her cigarette.
“S-Sir…!” she stammered.
“It’s alright, Ms. Nguyễn,” the older Chinese gentleman chuckled in reassurance. “Just next time, why don’t you try something less… uh, hazardous?”
“I’m sorry,” Quyễn twiddled her fingers. “A cigarette was something I needed after a day like this.”
“I see,” Mr. Zheng took the seat next to her. “What happened?”
“Oh the usual; cancelled reservations, the restaurant losing another server, guests complaining, staff fighting with each other, the pool system needs an upgrade,” the Vietnamese listed off.
“… Another trashed suite, courtesy of that lovely American band.”
“Look, I don’t care if you can play the drums, that’s no excuse for that kind of mayhem.” Quyễn snapped.
“Remind me to impose a stricter policy regarding musical groups and their entourages.” Mr. Zheng added.
The woman buried her face into her hands and groaned. She pulled her hands away slowly; “Sometimes I wonder if it’s really worth it… you know?”
“Yes, yes – front office does have its cons to go along with its pros…” the Chinese man adjusted his glasses.
“But I’m sure you’re capable of handling affairs. You’re the strongest person I know.” Mr. Zheng placed a hand on her shoulder in comfort, “It just takes one step at a time...”
“Maybe you’re right.” Quyễn sighed.
A receptionist came running into the room, her heels clicking loudly against the tile floor with each step. She ran over to Mr. Zheng and bent down to whisper something in his ear. Quyễn couldn’t hear what the receptionist had to say, but judging from how the other’s face had suddenly grown solemn, it wasn’t very good news.
“… I see, thank you.” the receptionist nodded and quickly parted.
“Well, that was some interesting news.” Mr. Zheng said.
“What was it?” the Vietnamese asked.
“Apparently, that was Mr. Wang.”
--------
Author's Notes - I'm sorry, I'll leave it here for now. I feel really self-conscious right now. Feedback?
Quyễn Nguyễn = Viet Nam
Mr. Zheng = Macau
---------
Quyễn exhaled slowly, ribbons of smoke escaping her lips in delicate twists and loops. Today was like any other day; guests checked in and checked out, tourists meddled around in the gift shop, the restaurant was full of wealthy patrons, and as usual, another high profile celebrity reserved the penthouse. The only thing that struck out different was the weather. Instead of sunshine and clouds, it was a steady downpour of rain. And by the looks of it, rain dominated the forecast this week and possibly the week next over.
She took another drag of her cigarette and pulled up her sleeve to check her watch. Five more minutes until her break ended. Quyễn grumbled lowly before she tapped the ashes off into the nearby ashtray. Yes, five more minutes of peace and thought, before heading back into an office full of reports, complaints, and general chaos. The Vietnamese rubbed her temples soothingly, trying to ease the pounding in her head. To manage a stressful, hectic job like this, she'd needed more than five minutes.
“Stressful day?”
Quyễn looked up to see Mr. Zheng, the general manager, standing over her with a smile. Startled by his appearance, the woman quickly snuffed out her cigarette.
“S-Sir…!” she stammered.
“It’s alright, Ms. Nguyễn,” the older Chinese gentleman chuckled in reassurance. “Just next time, why don’t you try something less… uh, hazardous?”
“I’m sorry,” Quyễn twiddled her fingers. “A cigarette was something I needed after a day like this.”
“I see,” Mr. Zheng took the seat next to her. “What happened?”
“Oh the usual; cancelled reservations, the restaurant losing another server, guests complaining, staff fighting with each other, the pool system needs an upgrade,” the Vietnamese listed off.
“… Another trashed suite, courtesy of that lovely American band.”
“Look, I don’t care if you can play the drums, that’s no excuse for that kind of mayhem.” Quyễn snapped.
“Remind me to impose a stricter policy regarding musical groups and their entourages.” Mr. Zheng added.
The woman buried her face into her hands and groaned. She pulled her hands away slowly; “Sometimes I wonder if it’s really worth it… you know?”
“Yes, yes – front office does have its cons to go along with its pros…” the Chinese man adjusted his glasses.
“But I’m sure you’re capable of handling affairs. You’re the strongest person I know.” Mr. Zheng placed a hand on her shoulder in comfort, “It just takes one step at a time...”
“Maybe you’re right.” Quyễn sighed.
A receptionist came running into the room, her heels clicking loudly against the tile floor with each step. She ran over to Mr. Zheng and bent down to whisper something in his ear. Quyễn couldn’t hear what the receptionist had to say, but judging from how the other’s face had suddenly grown solemn, it wasn’t very good news.
“… I see, thank you.” the receptionist nodded and quickly parted.
“Well, that was some interesting news.” Mr. Zheng said.
“What was it?” the Vietnamese asked.
“Apparently, that was Mr. Wang.”
--------
Author's Notes - I'm sorry, I'll leave it here for now. I feel really self-conscious right now. Feedback?
Interesting! I'd like to see more!
Interesting and unexpected. We need to go deeper.
Please do continue!
Please do continue!
I thought it was interesting! It has a good setup so far, and flows well.
Author's Notes - For the record, I'm not the same anon who asked OP about the AU thing. I'm an entirely different person.
Mr. Wang = China
--------
“Mr. Wang?” Quyễn raised an eyebrow.
His name wasn’t foreign to her. He’d booked several suites before and was pretty well known by most of the hotel. It also helped that Mr. Wang was a prominent businessman, whose wealth subsidised many local projects around the city. A member of China’s elite class, he was a frequent talk in the social circles of Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Guangzhou. Rumour has it that Mr. Wang even had connections to Beijing’s Communist Party.
What made her raise an eyebrow was the call. Mr. Wang wasn’t the type to make personal calls like this. Usually, it would be a young, preppy voice calling in to make a reservation, or a stale, monotone voice that made the Vietnamese question whether she was talking to the auto-messenger or an actual human being. A personal call like that must mean this was something important. One could only guess.
“—on the seventieth floor.” she was so engrossed in thought, she forgot that Mr. Zheng was talking to her.
“Excuse me?” Quyễn asked dumbly.
“I said, that was Mr. Wang calling to inform us that his guest will be arriving shortly. We should have a spare suite available on the seventieth floor.” Mr. Zheng repeated.
“I see.” she noticed how he paused for a second before saying, ‘guest’.
“I’ll go inform housekeeping right away.”
The Vietnamese stood up from her chair and began to walk toward the door. She stopped at the doorway leading back into the hotel’s administration offices, and turned back to Mr. Zheng. The man simply smiled in return, flicking his wrist in a silent ‘goodbye’. Her nostrils flared to her surprise at the gesture, and Quyễn quickly left the room without another word. Her glossy black heels clicked loudly against the tiled floor.
That smile was a little off in her opinion.
--------
Author's Notes - Honestly, I'm sorry for the absence, been busy with school and moving into a new apartment. Anyway I'm surprised by the positive feedback. Comments about the plot so far?
Mr. Wang = China
--------
“Mr. Wang?” Quyễn raised an eyebrow.
His name wasn’t foreign to her. He’d booked several suites before and was pretty well known by most of the hotel. It also helped that Mr. Wang was a prominent businessman, whose wealth subsidised many local projects around the city. A member of China’s elite class, he was a frequent talk in the social circles of Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Guangzhou. Rumour has it that Mr. Wang even had connections to Beijing’s Communist Party.
What made her raise an eyebrow was the call. Mr. Wang wasn’t the type to make personal calls like this. Usually, it would be a young, preppy voice calling in to make a reservation, or a stale, monotone voice that made the Vietnamese question whether she was talking to the auto-messenger or an actual human being. A personal call like that must mean this was something important. One could only guess.
“—on the seventieth floor.” she was so engrossed in thought, she forgot that Mr. Zheng was talking to her.
“Excuse me?” Quyễn asked dumbly.
“I said, that was Mr. Wang calling to inform us that his guest will be arriving shortly. We should have a spare suite available on the seventieth floor.” Mr. Zheng repeated.
“I see.” she noticed how he paused for a second before saying, ‘guest’.
“I’ll go inform housekeeping right away.”
The Vietnamese stood up from her chair and began to walk toward the door. She stopped at the doorway leading back into the hotel’s administration offices, and turned back to Mr. Zheng. The man simply smiled in return, flicking his wrist in a silent ‘goodbye’. Her nostrils flared to her surprise at the gesture, and Quyễn quickly left the room without another word. Her glossy black heels clicked loudly against the tiled floor.
That smile was a little off in her opinion.
--------
Author's Notes - Honestly, I'm sorry for the absence, been busy with school and moving into a new apartment. Anyway I'm surprised by the positive feedback. Comments about the plot so far?
Ahh, going the shadier route, nice.
Great work so far! Keep it up!
Great work so far! Keep it up!
Ah, the plot thickens! Can't wait to meet Australia.
Author's Notes - Sorry! I am not dead and I am NOT abandoning this story!
------
When he came too, he noticed three distinct things. One, he couldn’t open his left eye that well. Two, it was pitch black. And finally three, he heard the steady whirring of a vehicle engine.
They were moving.
He was moving.
Blinking his good right eye, he tried to move but gasped at the pain that bloomed in his ribs. It was a vicious, searing pain and he wondered if any bones were actually broken. When the flare subsided he tried to move a hand down to inspect himself, but realise he couldn’t. Both his hands were bound, tied back with rope that dug irritably into his skin. Surprisingly, he found himself not groaning from the pain or frustration, but at his sheer stupidity.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid…!”
In hindsight, it wasn’t exactly the best-formulated escape plan. He figure with his size and build, he could easily overpower them. He failed to take note of their determination… and as well as that damn fucking shovel. Well, it was no use getting upset now. He sighed in regret, and curled into ball.
“I don’t believe this…” he muttered lowly.
------
Author's Notes - Again sorry! Sorry for the short fill!
------
When he came too, he noticed three distinct things. One, he couldn’t open his left eye that well. Two, it was pitch black. And finally three, he heard the steady whirring of a vehicle engine.
They were moving.
He was moving.
Blinking his good right eye, he tried to move but gasped at the pain that bloomed in his ribs. It was a vicious, searing pain and he wondered if any bones were actually broken. When the flare subsided he tried to move a hand down to inspect himself, but realise he couldn’t. Both his hands were bound, tied back with rope that dug irritably into his skin. Surprisingly, he found himself not groaning from the pain or frustration, but at his sheer stupidity.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid…!”
In hindsight, it wasn’t exactly the best-formulated escape plan. He figure with his size and build, he could easily overpower them. He failed to take note of their determination… and as well as that damn fucking shovel. Well, it was no use getting upset now. He sighed in regret, and curled into ball.
“I don’t believe this…” he muttered lowly.
------
Author's Notes - Again sorry! Sorry for the short fill!
Woo! You're still kicking!
Oho, Australia's in trouble.
Please do keep the story going!
Oho, Australia's in trouble.
Please do keep the story going!
The update said 'whole fill'? I hope this isn't the end..:(
Probably meant "all of fill so far".
Author's Notes - OH MY GOD LIFE COULD WE NOT? Sorry! I'm so sorry!
------
Mr. Zheng paused from his writing and checked his watch. It was almost a quarter ‘til four.
Delivery time.
He stood up from his posh chair and strolled out from his tastefully decorated office. Waving a quick hello to his personal secretary, the Chinese man sauntered down past several offices, including the often-hectic administration boardroom before turning down the hallway that led back into the lobby. Walking across the vast room, Mr. Zheng was stopped several times by guests with complaints, including one woman who cried that a thief stole her purse. In a calm, firm authoritative voice, he took each guest’s complaint with consideration, and personally told the woman that he himself would apprehend the thief in question. Issues temporarily solved, the general manager continued down across the lobby and slipped past staff-only doors.
The corridors here were keener on spartan design than that of the elegant crown molding, chic light fixtures, and carefully selected paintings lining the walls found in the lobby or the hotel’s guest corridors. Mr. Zheng past several busboys loitering near the vending machines, some of them smoking cigarettes as they chatted. He wiggled his nose in detest of this, because he could have sworn there was an age policy when regarding smoking. Oh well, the Chinese man didn’t have the time to stop and lecture them. Mr. Zheng strolled past them and turned the corner that to one of the service entries.
He checked his watch again; it was ten past four.
Dammit… all that commotion in the lobby had made him late. Mr. Zheng kicked his heels into a quicker pace and focused on reaching the service entry, not stopping to help a good employee or scold a bad one. He mustn’t be late for the delivery… no, he mustn’t be late for the 'arrival' of Mr. Wang’s 'guest'. Yes, yes, that was more appropriate. The Chinese man chuckled at the use of the word, 'guest'.
Yes, they were all 'guests' at his hotel. He could still recall the evening when the 'guests' were booked a room. That night the hotel’s 'Imperial Lounge' was closed for a private gathering. It was a bodacious gala, with an ensemble fraction of the world’s rich and elite. Men in black suits and women in stylish dresses all conjugated in an atmosphere of power, wealth, prestige, and scandalous gossip.
------
Author's Notes - I'd like to blame my incredibly slow updates on school and life. Hey, a guy's gotta make it into college right? Hahahaha I'm so sorry ; ; /rolls away again
------
Mr. Zheng paused from his writing and checked his watch. It was almost a quarter ‘til four.
Delivery time.
He stood up from his posh chair and strolled out from his tastefully decorated office. Waving a quick hello to his personal secretary, the Chinese man sauntered down past several offices, including the often-hectic administration boardroom before turning down the hallway that led back into the lobby. Walking across the vast room, Mr. Zheng was stopped several times by guests with complaints, including one woman who cried that a thief stole her purse. In a calm, firm authoritative voice, he took each guest’s complaint with consideration, and personally told the woman that he himself would apprehend the thief in question. Issues temporarily solved, the general manager continued down across the lobby and slipped past staff-only doors.
The corridors here were keener on spartan design than that of the elegant crown molding, chic light fixtures, and carefully selected paintings lining the walls found in the lobby or the hotel’s guest corridors. Mr. Zheng past several busboys loitering near the vending machines, some of them smoking cigarettes as they chatted. He wiggled his nose in detest of this, because he could have sworn there was an age policy when regarding smoking. Oh well, the Chinese man didn’t have the time to stop and lecture them. Mr. Zheng strolled past them and turned the corner that to one of the service entries.
He checked his watch again; it was ten past four.
Dammit… all that commotion in the lobby had made him late. Mr. Zheng kicked his heels into a quicker pace and focused on reaching the service entry, not stopping to help a good employee or scold a bad one. He mustn’t be late for the delivery… no, he mustn’t be late for the 'arrival' of Mr. Wang’s 'guest'. Yes, yes, that was more appropriate. The Chinese man chuckled at the use of the word, 'guest'.
Yes, they were all 'guests' at his hotel. He could still recall the evening when the 'guests' were booked a room. That night the hotel’s 'Imperial Lounge' was closed for a private gathering. It was a bodacious gala, with an ensemble fraction of the world’s rich and elite. Men in black suits and women in stylish dresses all conjugated in an atmosphere of power, wealth, prestige, and scandalous gossip.
------
Author's Notes - I'd like to blame my incredibly slow updates on school and life. Hey, a guy's gotta make it into college right? Hahahaha I'm so sorry ; ; /rolls away again
Heh Heh, You forgot to add this to the filled section!
Very interesting, I might know where you're getting at this but I woint spoil it for myself.
Heres to hoping you're still working on it. Keep it up!
Very interesting, I might know where you're getting at this but I woint spoil it for myself.
Heres to hoping you're still working on it. Keep it up!
Well then, if you know where this is going, then I should stop writing since you obviously know how this is going to end.
//done
//done
Ach! Don't even think about it!
Besides, I've been wrong several times before.
//not done
Besides, I've been wrong several times before.
//not done
This is a fairly free-for-all idea; just an AU where slavery is normal, at least in the area/country/whatever that the characters live in.
You can make this as dark or light as you like; you can have sexual slavery or whatever.
I just request no shota.
bonus: rarepair
bonus 2: Romano
You can make this as dark or light as you like; you can have sexual slavery or whatever.
I just request no shota.
bonus: rarepair
bonus 2: Romano
Jake/Jacob = Molossia
Jacob never let his mask down. It was a scowl, a look far too sharp and angry for his soft brown eyes. As the other slaves moved about their business, he moved about his, determined to stick to himself and get his own jobs done without a fuss.
He worked in the garden. He liked that well enough; it was nice being able to breathe, and he loved plants. Something about digging in the dirt faintly revived a happier time in his mind.
Of course, he hadn’t always been a slave; or at least, he hadn’t always felt like a slave. Technically, he’d been owned from day one of his life, but his master had treated him like one of his own children; he’d been allowed to read and write, he’d been allowed to have friends and eat good food and just generally be happy.
That had ended when the good master had died. That was when his numerous affairs came to light, and his wife was put into a state of great grief; she decided on selling everything, and starting anew somewhere else.
His master’s children had begged to keep him, to at least keep ‘poor Jacob’ with them, but the wife had snarled something about him being ‘one of his damn bastards’ and he’d never seen them again.
When he was sold to a new master, that was when the mask came on.
Jacob had been a nice, kind person before coming to this place. He’d been the sort of person who would offer compliments and talk if a person looked lonely.
Now he knew better. He kept his mouth shut, except to curse out anyone who got too close, and to answer with ‘Yes sir’ and ‘Yes ma’am.’ He didn’t dare to hope that he would go from the menial labor in the garden back to his good life; he was smart enough to know that was long gone.
Today, he was weeding around the topiary bushes near the front of the house. It was hot, and he was sweating significantly; he focused solely on clearing the patch, however, to the point that he barely noticed the shadow that fell over him.
“Hi.”
“Fucking hell!” Jacob started, looking sharply behind him. He put on a huge scowl when he saw who it was; he may not have recognized him, but anyone who looked that happy deserved a scowl.
The golden-haired man laughed, tilting his hat back on his head. “You must startle easily, sorry. Um, I was just assigned to work the gardens; mind showing me where to start?”
“Yes, I fucking do.” Jacob gave him the middle finger and turned back to his weeding. Let him figure it out on his own; it wasn’t his job to babysit.
“I don’t think you get it; I’m new here. Just won from a card game, apparently.” There was silence for a moment. “My name’s Alfred. I just need a little bit of help; just point me in the direction of the shed, and I’m sure I’ll know what to do!”
Jacob pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “It’s there. Now fucking leave me alone!”
A hand landed on his shoulder. Jacob froze, breath trapped in his lungs, eyes wide, though Alfred couldn’t see that.
“Thanks, bud!” And the hand was gone, as quickly as it had been there.
Jacob cursed under his breath, and swiped at his eyes, though he told himself it was because sweat was getting in them. He knew the real reason, and he hated Alfred all the more for piercing his personal bubble.
Everyone else knew not to touch him. No one else wanted to.
But god, of course the new guy would want to put his hands all over him. Jacob was no longer sweating, a chill in his stomach.
Just focus, he told himself. Just get that weed, and then the next one, and then the next…
It worked until he ran out of weeds.
Jacob never let his mask down. It was a scowl, a look far too sharp and angry for his soft brown eyes. As the other slaves moved about their business, he moved about his, determined to stick to himself and get his own jobs done without a fuss.
He worked in the garden. He liked that well enough; it was nice being able to breathe, and he loved plants. Something about digging in the dirt faintly revived a happier time in his mind.
Of course, he hadn’t always been a slave; or at least, he hadn’t always felt like a slave. Technically, he’d been owned from day one of his life, but his master had treated him like one of his own children; he’d been allowed to read and write, he’d been allowed to have friends and eat good food and just generally be happy.
That had ended when the good master had died. That was when his numerous affairs came to light, and his wife was put into a state of great grief; she decided on selling everything, and starting anew somewhere else.
His master’s children had begged to keep him, to at least keep ‘poor Jacob’ with them, but the wife had snarled something about him being ‘one of his damn bastards’ and he’d never seen them again.
When he was sold to a new master, that was when the mask came on.
Jacob had been a nice, kind person before coming to this place. He’d been the sort of person who would offer compliments and talk if a person looked lonely.
Now he knew better. He kept his mouth shut, except to curse out anyone who got too close, and to answer with ‘Yes sir’ and ‘Yes ma’am.’ He didn’t dare to hope that he would go from the menial labor in the garden back to his good life; he was smart enough to know that was long gone.
Today, he was weeding around the topiary bushes near the front of the house. It was hot, and he was sweating significantly; he focused solely on clearing the patch, however, to the point that he barely noticed the shadow that fell over him.
“Hi.”
“Fucking hell!” Jacob started, looking sharply behind him. He put on a huge scowl when he saw who it was; he may not have recognized him, but anyone who looked that happy deserved a scowl.
The golden-haired man laughed, tilting his hat back on his head. “You must startle easily, sorry. Um, I was just assigned to work the gardens; mind showing me where to start?”
“Yes, I fucking do.” Jacob gave him the middle finger and turned back to his weeding. Let him figure it out on his own; it wasn’t his job to babysit.
“I don’t think you get it; I’m new here. Just won from a card game, apparently.” There was silence for a moment. “My name’s Alfred. I just need a little bit of help; just point me in the direction of the shed, and I’m sure I’ll know what to do!”
Jacob pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “It’s there. Now fucking leave me alone!”
A hand landed on his shoulder. Jacob froze, breath trapped in his lungs, eyes wide, though Alfred couldn’t see that.
“Thanks, bud!” And the hand was gone, as quickly as it had been there.
Jacob cursed under his breath, and swiped at his eyes, though he told himself it was because sweat was getting in them. He knew the real reason, and he hated Alfred all the more for piercing his personal bubble.
Everyone else knew not to touch him. No one else wanted to.
But god, of course the new guy would want to put his hands all over him. Jacob was no longer sweating, a chill in his stomach.
Just focus, he told himself. Just get that weed, and then the next one, and then the next…
It worked until he ran out of weeds.
Anon, this looks really good! I like how you've used Molossia's canon personality -- nice until he's around other people -- and adapted it into this AU.
This is fantastic so far! I love the way you write Jacob. He seems perfectly in tune with canon. I love this!
I would have never seen this pairing coming! This means, of course, that I am delighted. I can't wait to see more, A!Anon! Molossia's actually one of my favorite characters, and you characterize him so nicely!
I can't wait to see what his issue is. :)
I can't wait to see what his issue is. :)
wow, this is a really interesting setup, a!a. I like the little tidbits about Molossia's personality, and the little cliffhanger you left us on!
Jacob had avoided Alfred successfully for most of the day. Even when it was time for dinner, he’d managed to sit far away from him.
But it was that night, when he entered his sleeping quarters, that he discovered an awful truth: he had a roommate.
“Hey, the master said we could share your bed. Says it’s sort of big anyway, since, you know, it’s a castoff and all…” Alfred had at least the decency to look a little embarrassed. That quickly faded, though, as he said, “Don’t worry, I’m not handsy!”
Sharing a bed. A shiver went down Jacob’s spine, and he felt already vulnerable sleeping clothes. He threw himself on the bed, turning away towards the wall. “See if I fucking care.”
Just lie down a minute. Share the bed with me.
His eyes flew open, as he realized, no, that was the wrong side to present to Alfred! He tried to turn over, but the bed dipped down next to him and Alfred was there, altogether too close and too smiling, as he said,
“Well, it’s a tight fit, but it’ll be fine! I don’t sprawl or anything! Do you snore?”
He could practically feel his breath on him. And god, he was breaking out in a sweat. He’d barely managed to flip onto his back, but he still felt horribly exposed, like he’d stripped himself naked and offered himself to his fellow slave. “Move the fuck over! Don’t they have personal space where you come from?!
“Um, I’ll fall off the bed. I’m serious, I will.” Alfred turned his baby blues on him, as though he could somehow make his warm eyes cause everything to be better.
He was going to hyperventilate, and then everyone would know, Alfred would tell everyone. Jacob shut his eyes tightly, praying that there would be an end to it.
He nearly screamed when Alfred’s arm fell across him as the other shuffled a bit in bed. “Sorry. Just trying to get comfortable.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Jacob said, sitting up and trying to navigate his way out of the bed without climbing on top of Alfred. That was just an invitation for something, and Jacob was far too wary to take the chance.
“Oh. Okay. You can climb over me, I’m fine,” Alfred said, turning over so he was sprawled on his stomach.
Jacob managed to take a blanket and a pillow with him, gingerly easing his way over Alfred and managing just barely not to touch him. He curled up on the hard floor; it was the servants’ quarters, after all, and not somewhere that deserved a rug. He had no talent to make a rug, nor the good grace to ask someone to make one for him.
He could feel Alfred’s eyes on him, as he tried not to feel the solid surface pressing hard against his back.
“You’re awful young to be giving up the bed, you know… You can’t be more than fifteen.”
You’re so young; you can’t be more than fifteen.
Jacob shuddered, and snarled back, “I’ll give up the bed if I want to! I’m not that young! Shut up!”
Alfred was quiet after that, and soon enough, the room was filled with the sound of his snores.
Jacob shivered, the chill of the floor emanating through him, though it was hardly the only thing keeping him from sleeping. He shut his eyes tightly, and eventually unconsciousness took him.
But it was that night, when he entered his sleeping quarters, that he discovered an awful truth: he had a roommate.
“Hey, the master said we could share your bed. Says it’s sort of big anyway, since, you know, it’s a castoff and all…” Alfred had at least the decency to look a little embarrassed. That quickly faded, though, as he said, “Don’t worry, I’m not handsy!”
Sharing a bed. A shiver went down Jacob’s spine, and he felt already vulnerable sleeping clothes. He threw himself on the bed, turning away towards the wall. “See if I fucking care.”
Just lie down a minute. Share the bed with me.
His eyes flew open, as he realized, no, that was the wrong side to present to Alfred! He tried to turn over, but the bed dipped down next to him and Alfred was there, altogether too close and too smiling, as he said,
“Well, it’s a tight fit, but it’ll be fine! I don’t sprawl or anything! Do you snore?”
He could practically feel his breath on him. And god, he was breaking out in a sweat. He’d barely managed to flip onto his back, but he still felt horribly exposed, like he’d stripped himself naked and offered himself to his fellow slave. “Move the fuck over! Don’t they have personal space where you come from?!
“Um, I’ll fall off the bed. I’m serious, I will.” Alfred turned his baby blues on him, as though he could somehow make his warm eyes cause everything to be better.
He was going to hyperventilate, and then everyone would know, Alfred would tell everyone. Jacob shut his eyes tightly, praying that there would be an end to it.
He nearly screamed when Alfred’s arm fell across him as the other shuffled a bit in bed. “Sorry. Just trying to get comfortable.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Jacob said, sitting up and trying to navigate his way out of the bed without climbing on top of Alfred. That was just an invitation for something, and Jacob was far too wary to take the chance.
“Oh. Okay. You can climb over me, I’m fine,” Alfred said, turning over so he was sprawled on his stomach.
Jacob managed to take a blanket and a pillow with him, gingerly easing his way over Alfred and managing just barely not to touch him. He curled up on the hard floor; it was the servants’ quarters, after all, and not somewhere that deserved a rug. He had no talent to make a rug, nor the good grace to ask someone to make one for him.
He could feel Alfred’s eyes on him, as he tried not to feel the solid surface pressing hard against his back.
“You’re awful young to be giving up the bed, you know… You can’t be more than fifteen.”
You’re so young; you can’t be more than fifteen.
Jacob shuddered, and snarled back, “I’ll give up the bed if I want to! I’m not that young! Shut up!”
Alfred was quiet after that, and soon enough, the room was filled with the sound of his snores.
Jacob shivered, the chill of the floor emanating through him, though it was hardly the only thing keeping him from sleeping. He shut his eyes tightly, and eventually unconsciousness took him.
Still loving this, anon.
Oh, poor Molossia...
Oh, poor Molossia...
*shivers* Anon, this is getting really interesting, I love that Jacob's underlying past abuse(/problems) is fairly subtle, and how Jacob deals with it... ;_;
Oh, poor Molossia! I feel so bad for him! But it's certainly true that slavery throughout the centuries has led to owners taking advantage of their slaves sexually, from the Romans to the Americans in recorded history.
I can't wait to read more! And don't worry, I suck at HTML too. :)
I can't wait to read more! And don't worry, I suck at HTML too. :)
ffff am I doing the thing with the exclamation points right?
Soooo... I've heard pretty much everywhere that the Finns are, um, not exactly happy with the Swedes. Not blaming the Finns of course--they have good reasons--but for this request, I'd like Finland to be really resentful...
...and to make fun of Sweden being gay, because male Finns are constantly doing that, apparently (there's even a joke in Finland that Swedish women only get pregnant because the Finns help out, so there). And there's also this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pw3e64sosEg which, even though it cracks me up, is pretty awful considering the political subtext and all
The basics: Sweden is incredibly smitten with Finland since forever, and Finland is being a homophobic dick in denial, but eventually gets drunk or inspired or something more original and they end up together.
Bonus 1: Happy or angsty smut :D
Bonus 2: Sweden tops. Also, if Finland still makes fun of Sweden's sexual orientation while bottoming, I think that would make the entire thing a bit less awful somehow. Ignore this if you think the other way fits better, though!
NOT ALL FINNS ARE LIKE THAT--I just would like to see this aspect of SOME Finns explored. They actually mean it as jokes and nothing more, but heck, this should be all about exaggerating.
Soooo... I've heard pretty much everywhere that the Finns are, um, not exactly happy with the Swedes. Not blaming the Finns of course--they have good reasons--but for this request, I'd like Finland to be really resentful...
...and to make fun of Sweden being gay, because male Finns are constantly doing that, apparently (there's even a joke in Finland that Swedish women only get pregnant because the Finns help out, so there). And there's also this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pw3e64sosEg which, even though it cracks me up, is pretty awful considering the political subtext and all
The basics: Sweden is incredibly smitten with Finland since forever, and Finland is being a homophobic dick in denial, but eventually gets drunk or inspired or something more original and they end up together.
Bonus 1: Happy or angsty smut :D
Bonus 2: Sweden tops. Also, if Finland still makes fun of Sweden's sexual orientation while bottoming, I think that would make the entire thing a bit less awful somehow. Ignore this if you think the other way fits better, though!
NOT ALL FINNS ARE LIKE THAT--I just would like to see this aspect of SOME Finns explored. They actually mean it as jokes and nothing more, but heck, this should be all about exaggerating.
This prompt is fucking awesome. Second. So hard
We never see female on male taken seriously. I would like to see that happen; you don't even have to show the act. Aftermath is fine.
Bonus: Historical setting, such as one of the world wars
Bonus two: if he does tell someone, he gets the 'lol dude, you got lucky!' reaction
Bonus three: he does eventually find someone who is empathetic
Bonus: Historical setting, such as one of the world wars
Bonus two: if he does tell someone, he gets the 'lol dude, you got lucky!' reaction
Bonus three: he does eventually find someone who is empathetic
Second!
A question, should it be PIV only?
A question, should it be PIV only?
"...and that's all," Romania conlcludes. He shifts his gaze away from the broom handle and back to Moldova's face.
Which ... isn't what he's been expecting. Moldova had looked sympathetic when Romania said that he had to tell him something, and worried when he'd said that Hungary had hurt him, but while Romania's eyes were fixed to the broom handle the little nation's expression changed to something ... admiring?
"You slept with Hungary?" Moldova says eagerly, and Romania's gut roils because Moldova says it as if -- "Lucky you!"
"I didn't want it!" Romania snaps, his hands tightening on the worn handle until splinters pierce his palms. As if he could ever want to go to bed with that woman, as if he could ever want her hands on him -- as if they hadn't fought when she slipped into his room with that smile on her face...
And even with his peripheral vision he can tell that Moldova's looking at him as though he's worried for Romania's sanity. "But you got to sleep with her," his friend says patiently, and no, no he didn't, she left as soon as she was done, thank the night. "I know you don't like her, but -- what did she look like naked?"
"The ugliest thing you ever saw," Romania spits, and summons a swarm of ants out of Moldova's broom with a twist of his fingers before he stalks away.
**
He doesn't actually know what she looks like naked. She kept her shirt on. He told Moldova that, along with the bit about how she slipped into his room, and the first thing he did was to lash out with his magic, and the first thing she did was to bare her teeth and laugh and lunge in to grapple with him.
He's offended that Moldova would think he wanted to bed Hungary, especially with the bruise she left under his eye. Romania has standards.
And now Moldova, the incessant blabbermouth, will make sure the story is all over the house by suppertime.
Romania rides the frustration and anger through the rest of the day. It makes it much easier to avoid the shame that keeps trying to break in.
**
"Moldova says you got to screw Hungary," Prussia mentions idly over dinner. Romania gags on his borscht, and Prussia grins. "Way to go! I'm surprised you managed it, under Russia's nose."
Romania chews his bread grimly, and tries not to think of her hand on him -- her arm around his neck -- 'I'll shout' -- 'No you won't, Russia will come, and what do you think he'll do then?' -- 'I'd rather let Russia see us and shovel snow for a month with a broken arm than have you touch me!'
It felt good. Like she wasn't his enemy. Like she didn't have a hand on his throat the whole time.
Like he'd wanted it...
I didn't. She just won the fight, that's all.
That's all.
Which ... isn't what he's been expecting. Moldova had looked sympathetic when Romania said that he had to tell him something, and worried when he'd said that Hungary had hurt him, but while Romania's eyes were fixed to the broom handle the little nation's expression changed to something ... admiring?
"You slept with Hungary?" Moldova says eagerly, and Romania's gut roils because Moldova says it as if -- "Lucky you!"
"I didn't want it!" Romania snaps, his hands tightening on the worn handle until splinters pierce his palms. As if he could ever want to go to bed with that woman, as if he could ever want her hands on him -- as if they hadn't fought when she slipped into his room with that smile on her face...
And even with his peripheral vision he can tell that Moldova's looking at him as though he's worried for Romania's sanity. "But you got to sleep with her," his friend says patiently, and no, no he didn't, she left as soon as she was done, thank the night. "I know you don't like her, but -- what did she look like naked?"
"The ugliest thing you ever saw," Romania spits, and summons a swarm of ants out of Moldova's broom with a twist of his fingers before he stalks away.
**
He doesn't actually know what she looks like naked. She kept her shirt on. He told Moldova that, along with the bit about how she slipped into his room, and the first thing he did was to lash out with his magic, and the first thing she did was to bare her teeth and laugh and lunge in to grapple with him.
He's offended that Moldova would think he wanted to bed Hungary, especially with the bruise she left under his eye. Romania has standards.
And now Moldova, the incessant blabbermouth, will make sure the story is all over the house by suppertime.
Romania rides the frustration and anger through the rest of the day. It makes it much easier to avoid the shame that keeps trying to break in.
**
"Moldova says you got to screw Hungary," Prussia mentions idly over dinner. Romania gags on his borscht, and Prussia grins. "Way to go! I'm surprised you managed it, under Russia's nose."
Romania chews his bread grimly, and tries not to think of her hand on him -- her arm around his neck -- 'I'll shout' -- 'No you won't, Russia will come, and what do you think he'll do then?' -- 'I'd rather let Russia see us and shovel snow for a month with a broken arm than have you touch me!'
It felt good. Like she wasn't his enemy. Like she didn't have a hand on his throat the whole time.
Like he'd wanted it...
I didn't. She just won the fight, that's all.
That's all.
Oh anon, my heart. I feel so much empathy for what Romania went through and how no one believes or cares that he didn't want it. This was really well written.
Thank you. I'm glad it resonated!
Wooooow, anon. This was so powerful but not in the usual way you expect with angst. It was sort of a quiet resolved anger. And you just broke my heart with the last two lines.
I love how ... idk, realistic Romania's narration feels. I hope that's the right word. You have an excellent handle on his voice.
Very well done, and so brief and to the point and every bit as punchy. <33
I love how ... idk, realistic Romania's narration feels. I hope that's the right word. You have an excellent handle on his voice.
Very well done, and so brief and to the point and every bit as punchy. <33
Thanks! I was pretty nervous about my grasp of his character, so I'm glad his voice sounded right. And I'm glad that the anger worked for you.
This is very powerful. I like your Romania voice, his restrained anger, and how he seems to be minimizing what happened to himself in order to cope.
Thank you! I'm glad you liked his voice.
You know, I didn't really want to read this because there were a ton of ways in which this could go wrong, but then I read the title while scrolling and got curious...
I'm glad I did. This is very good. Your take on Romania is interesting and his voice is filled with this anger and frustration that I feel are a very realistic and powerful reaction. The last few lines were especially powerful.
I'm glad I did. This is very good. Your take on Romania is interesting and his voice is filled with this anger and frustration that I feel are a very realistic and powerful reaction. The last few lines were especially powerful.
It took me reading the OP's comment to make me realise what you meant with 'a ton of ways this could go wrong'. That said, I'm very glad you thought it went right. Thank you!
So sorry I didn't comment sooner; internet was being a bitch.
This is story was everything I wanted it to be. You didn't make him feel it was wrong because he was gay or asexual, and that won big points with me. You treated it very seriously. And oh, Prussia, Moldova, no... I could feel Romania's pain.
Very concise, very powerful story. And the last lines were just heartbreaking.
Thank you so much for the fill! You have my sincerest gratitude.
This is story was everything I wanted it to be. You didn't make him feel it was wrong because he was gay or asexual, and that won big points with me. You treated it very seriously. And oh, Prussia, Moldova, no... I could feel Romania's pain.
Very concise, very powerful story. And the last lines were just heartbreaking.
Thank you so much for the fill! You have my sincerest gratitude.
Hey, it's not a problem. *Grin.*
Thank you! I'm glad you liked it. (And 'wrong because he was gay or asexual' -- there are people who think that? Brr.)
Thank you! I'm glad you liked it. (And 'wrong because he was gay or asexual' -- there are people who think that? Brr.)
Wow, anon, this was great! I'm a huge fan of any kind of RomHun, so I really enjoyed the way this was written out.
You always see male-on-female rape in the media, so seeing it reversed was a rather new experience for me. (I'm not marginalizing it or anything, but the fact is that the media would have us believe all rapists are male.) A different viewpoint, a different thought process, was interesting to read.
You always see male-on-female rape in the media, so seeing it reversed was a rather new experience for me. (I'm not marginalizing it or anything, but the fact is that the media would have us believe all rapists are male.) A different viewpoint, a different thought process, was interesting to read.
I love reading stories where Francis and Arthur are frenemies, so looking for a fill where Francis job is like hitch; a professional dating consultan.
His newest client is Arthur. Arthur has a crush on Alfred and needs Francis help.
Bonus: Other pairings are mention, ensemble cast
His newest client is Arthur. Arthur has a crush on Alfred and needs Francis help.
Bonus: Other pairings are mention, ensemble cast
yes yes yes
matchmaker!france is my favourite thing ever ok
matchmaker!france is my favourite thing ever ok
mine too! Long live matchmaker france!
A drunk Poland is rather flirtatious. Liet doesn't know how to deal with it. May or may not end in sex, as author!anon wishes.
I'd just like some straight-up porn between England and fem!US, preferably human AU, being nothing but mammals so they do it like they do on the Discovery Channel.:D
Bonus: Toys - especially if they're things not built to be sex toys, but used for that purpose anyway.
Bonus 2: At one point, they just dry-hump and grind to orgasm.
Bonus 3: They end with slow, tender lovemaking.
Bonus: Toys - especially if they're things not built to be sex toys, but used for that purpose anyway.
Bonus 2: At one point, they just dry-hump and grind to orgasm.
Bonus 3: They end with slow, tender lovemaking.
Spain/Chibimano - Romano's first sexual feelings, Consequences
(Anonymous) 2013-02-25 05:41 pm (UTC)(link)Based on this strip:
http://www.hetarchive.net/scanlations/files/jrs1.gif
http://www.hetarchive.net/scanlations/files/jrs2.gif
http://www.hetarchive.net/scanlations/files/jrs3.gif
Young Romano decides to tell Spain about how he felt when Spain played with his curl.
-How does Romano approach him from then on, after experiencing such things for the very first time? Does he get curious of his own body? Does he mistake these emotions for love?
-How does Spain react? How does he feel for being the unintentional cause of something like that to a child, who is under his power and practically his little brother?
Moreover, they are living together, and I imagine everything would be at least awkward and weird between them afterwards.
Anon can take this to whatever direction they want, but please, no evil Spain.
http://www.hetarchive.net/scanlations/files/jrs1.gif
http://www.hetarchive.net/scanlations/files/jrs2.gif
http://www.hetarchive.net/scanlations/files/jrs3.gif
Young Romano decides to tell Spain about how he felt when Spain played with his curl.
-How does Romano approach him from then on, after experiencing such things for the very first time? Does he get curious of his own body? Does he mistake these emotions for love?
-How does Spain react? How does he feel for being the unintentional cause of something like that to a child, who is under his power and practically his little brother?
Moreover, they are living together, and I imagine everything would be at least awkward and weird between them afterwards.
Anon can take this to whatever direction they want, but please, no evil Spain.
Re: Spain/Chibimano - Romano's first sexual feelings, Consequences
(Anonymous) 2013-04-07 01:36 pm (UTC)(link)Yes. This prompt. I second everything
Nation A is in love with nation B. However, B is in love with C and goes to B for advice on what to do. I'd like a premise in which A at least tries to ignore his or her own feelings and help B get C. How it goes from there is entirely up to a!a, so it can end up as A/B, A/C, A/B/C or even without any couples if that's what you want.
Any characters are okay for any roles, including nyotalia.
Any characters are okay for any roles, including nyotalia.
"Thanks Aya I owe you," Sadik grinned as his Egyptian friend helped pick out some jewelry for Sadik's girlfriend Helena. Aya just nods her head. It pained her to actually be there. She was in love with Sadik but he was already in a relationship with their Greek friend. As if it couldn't get any worse he was planing to propose to her. Aya was helping him pick out the engagement ring. They browsed around until Sadik found a ring perfect for the Greek. "What ya think?" He asked as he displayed the golden ring with a beautiful gems all around it, like a wave in diamonds.
"She'll love it," Aya mused. She didn't want to hinder their love. After all, she was friend's with both of them. As a friend she has to wish them the best. For a moment her mind morphed the words out of Sadik's mouth to say that he loved her instead. "I'm sorry I didn't catch that last part," she said numbly. Sadik just frowned and repeated himself.
"You know I was wondering how should I propose? And are you alright you seem distant," Sadik stated. He eyed the Egyptian woman until she responded. In all honesty Aya didn't understand why the two fell in love. Their dynamics were horribly off, love is apparently forgetful.
"How about you propose near the ocean she loves the sea," Aya quickly suggested. Anything to keep his mind off of her attitude. Was she being mean? She hoped not. Leaders and other great people of the world put their companions and people first not their own desires. Aya would simply suck it up and move on. It killed her though. Sadik's nature was kind of flirty, constantly teasing Aya. Leading her on. She knew better though. Aya looked over Sadik. Her mind wasn't processing anything he said but the way he looked she could tell that he was going on about the perfect moment to propose. The only thing she understood that he wanted to propose to Helena in two languages. Greek and Turkish. Well she knew her place. The friend. Once the ring shopping was over with Aya went to meet up with her two closest friends besides Sadik and Helena, Emmanuel and Michelle. The Cameroonian man and the girl who hails from Seychelles. They were like Aya's family. They originated form the same continent which allowed people to call them the African trio. They didnt mind.
"So how was telling the man of your dreams to marry your friend?" Emmanuel asked. He had tried convincing Aya to confess her love just to get it off her chest but Aya violently refused.
"Please tell me at least you picked out an ugly ring," Michelle pleaded. Aya shook her head and showed them the picture. Both of them stared in awe at the beautiful ring.
"You pretty much signed your own death warrant," Michelle sighed, "you don't always have to be a good person." Emmanuel bought coffee for the three of them and pondered the love story that was unfolding right before their eyes.
"Have you at least found someone remotely attracting?" Emmanuel asked. Aya shook her head no and downed the entire cup of coffee. She looked at her watch and gasped.
"I have to go Sadik wants me to be there when he proposes," she gathered her items and ran.
"So soon?" Emmanuel called out. Aya just ran. Sadik wanted to propose immediately and display his 'eternal love' to Helena. Aya had to be happy. All their friends where going to be there awaiting Helena's response. She couldn't see straight and nausea threatened to take over, at the very least it would never be as bad as what she saw next. Helena had said yes, a kiss to seal the deal even. Friends cheered the happy couple as it was now official. Aya walked over to them, she was like a sister to Helena and now time to congratulate them both.
"I'm so happy for you two," Aya whimpered as she hugged Helena. The Grecian didn't notice her friends look of remorse and started to gush about the wedding.
"Thank you Aya! Hey listen I want you to be my maid of honor! What do you say?" Helena squealed. The look of pure ecstasy covered her smile enhancing it. Aya couldn't say no. Great now she had to watch up close her love being married to someone else.
"I'm honored to be your brides maid," Aya sighed, bracing herself from another scream of joy. Helena kissed Sadik and that's when Aya left. She walked home in tears.
"She'll love it," Aya mused. She didn't want to hinder their love. After all, she was friend's with both of them. As a friend she has to wish them the best. For a moment her mind morphed the words out of Sadik's mouth to say that he loved her instead. "I'm sorry I didn't catch that last part," she said numbly. Sadik just frowned and repeated himself.
"You know I was wondering how should I propose? And are you alright you seem distant," Sadik stated. He eyed the Egyptian woman until she responded. In all honesty Aya didn't understand why the two fell in love. Their dynamics were horribly off, love is apparently forgetful.
"How about you propose near the ocean she loves the sea," Aya quickly suggested. Anything to keep his mind off of her attitude. Was she being mean? She hoped not. Leaders and other great people of the world put their companions and people first not their own desires. Aya would simply suck it up and move on. It killed her though. Sadik's nature was kind of flirty, constantly teasing Aya. Leading her on. She knew better though. Aya looked over Sadik. Her mind wasn't processing anything he said but the way he looked she could tell that he was going on about the perfect moment to propose. The only thing she understood that he wanted to propose to Helena in two languages. Greek and Turkish. Well she knew her place. The friend. Once the ring shopping was over with Aya went to meet up with her two closest friends besides Sadik and Helena, Emmanuel and Michelle. The Cameroonian man and the girl who hails from Seychelles. They were like Aya's family. They originated form the same continent which allowed people to call them the African trio. They didnt mind.
"So how was telling the man of your dreams to marry your friend?" Emmanuel asked. He had tried convincing Aya to confess her love just to get it off her chest but Aya violently refused.
"Please tell me at least you picked out an ugly ring," Michelle pleaded. Aya shook her head and showed them the picture. Both of them stared in awe at the beautiful ring.
"You pretty much signed your own death warrant," Michelle sighed, "you don't always have to be a good person." Emmanuel bought coffee for the three of them and pondered the love story that was unfolding right before their eyes.
"Have you at least found someone remotely attracting?" Emmanuel asked. Aya shook her head no and downed the entire cup of coffee. She looked at her watch and gasped.
"I have to go Sadik wants me to be there when he proposes," she gathered her items and ran.
"So soon?" Emmanuel called out. Aya just ran. Sadik wanted to propose immediately and display his 'eternal love' to Helena. Aya had to be happy. All their friends where going to be there awaiting Helena's response. She couldn't see straight and nausea threatened to take over, at the very least it would never be as bad as what she saw next. Helena had said yes, a kiss to seal the deal even. Friends cheered the happy couple as it was now official. Aya walked over to them, she was like a sister to Helena and now time to congratulate them both.
"I'm so happy for you two," Aya whimpered as she hugged Helena. The Grecian didn't notice her friends look of remorse and started to gush about the wedding.
"Thank you Aya! Hey listen I want you to be my maid of honor! What do you say?" Helena squealed. The look of pure ecstasy covered her smile enhancing it. Aya couldn't say no. Great now she had to watch up close her love being married to someone else.
"I'm honored to be your brides maid," Aya sighed, bracing herself from another scream of joy. Helena kissed Sadik and that's when Aya left. She walked home in tears.
The walk home seemed to be less than relaxing as tears streamed down her face. The wedding would happen as quickly as possible and Helena had informed her that they wanted the wedding to happen as soon as possible. Great. Months flew by and the talk of the wedding became louder and louder. Over 600 people invited and Aya had to help make the wedding happen. Help plan. Help shop. Everything she had devoted herself to this. Of course Helena and Sadik did most of it but Aya was always there ready to help. Helena went to pick out wedding dresses and of course she wanted Aya and her friend Kiku and Francis to accompany them as well.
"What ya think?" Helena asked as she waltzed towards them in an elegant white mermaid type dress, it bellowed out from the waist slightly to extenuate her curves, she was gorgeous. Aya had bit back any bad comments and gushed about her friends beauty. After a brief talk convincing Helena that she didnt look like a whale Francis turned to aya.
"You are truly a great friend some women get nasty and try to out stage and belittle the bride," Francis scrunched his nose as if the thought had any horrid flavor.
"I'm her friend and I want what's best for her," Aya said calmly, more assuring herself than anything. Francis had smiled greatly upon hearing this and kiku himself had commented in how good of a friend Aya was. She sat there numbly accepting their complements. Helena appeared again but this time with a veil and her hair done up nicely, she now had jewelry to match the dress.
"This is to see how it's going to look when I'm all pretty what do you think?" She spun around showing her beauty to them. For a minuet Aya loved it. The thought of Sadik left her mind as she saw how happy Helena was. If Helena was happy, why should Aya ruin it?
"Gorgeous mon ami!"
"Hai you look great Helena chan."
It was Aya's turn to complement. She got up and stood next to her friend. "You look truly amazing but the veil is tilted to the right it should be centered," Aya remarked as she fixed the veil. Helena laughed and thanked her.
Time practically ran as the wedding was only days away. Helena was getting so stressed and Aya had to her. Aya also needed some help, Emmanuel and Michelle had been there for her. Both of them helping her over this heart break. Aya was slowly starting to move on. It only pained her, not as bad as before which Emmanuel would remind her that she could pull through. Once the day of the wedding arrived Aya was hysterical. Helping the somewhat demonic bride as they got dressed and got their make up down Aya couldn't help but to feel a mixture of bitterness and awe. She was glad her friends found love but at times she wished it wasn't so soon. 5 months of intensive planing the wedding and a crush that lasted a year. Aya knew she was supposed to get over it but hey. Love is cruel.
"What ya think?" Helena asked as she waltzed towards them in an elegant white mermaid type dress, it bellowed out from the waist slightly to extenuate her curves, she was gorgeous. Aya had bit back any bad comments and gushed about her friends beauty. After a brief talk convincing Helena that she didnt look like a whale Francis turned to aya.
"You are truly a great friend some women get nasty and try to out stage and belittle the bride," Francis scrunched his nose as if the thought had any horrid flavor.
"I'm her friend and I want what's best for her," Aya said calmly, more assuring herself than anything. Francis had smiled greatly upon hearing this and kiku himself had commented in how good of a friend Aya was. She sat there numbly accepting their complements. Helena appeared again but this time with a veil and her hair done up nicely, she now had jewelry to match the dress.
"This is to see how it's going to look when I'm all pretty what do you think?" She spun around showing her beauty to them. For a minuet Aya loved it. The thought of Sadik left her mind as she saw how happy Helena was. If Helena was happy, why should Aya ruin it?
"Gorgeous mon ami!"
"Hai you look great Helena chan."
It was Aya's turn to complement. She got up and stood next to her friend. "You look truly amazing but the veil is tilted to the right it should be centered," Aya remarked as she fixed the veil. Helena laughed and thanked her.
Time practically ran as the wedding was only days away. Helena was getting so stressed and Aya had to her. Aya also needed some help, Emmanuel and Michelle had been there for her. Both of them helping her over this heart break. Aya was slowly starting to move on. It only pained her, not as bad as before which Emmanuel would remind her that she could pull through. Once the day of the wedding arrived Aya was hysterical. Helping the somewhat demonic bride as they got dressed and got their make up down Aya couldn't help but to feel a mixture of bitterness and awe. She was glad her friends found love but at times she wished it wasn't so soon. 5 months of intensive planing the wedding and a crush that lasted a year. Aya knew she was supposed to get over it but hey. Love is cruel.
"Do you Sadik Adnan take Helena karpusi to be your lawfully wedded wife?" The priest declared.
"I do," Sadik sighed as he held his soon to be wife's hands. A gentle squeeze and she returned it. Bliss overcame both of them. Helena's turn to say I do came. She did. Now was the time the priest asked a question Michelle and Emmanuel were waiting for.
"Does anyone here object?" He asked. Both of Aya's friends gestured that she should speak up. Aya didn't. Her body froze as the vows were sealed with a kiss. Husband and wife. It was official. Aya just smiled and watched the night slip away.
Ever since the wedding Helena and Sadik haven't had any time to hang out with their Egyptian friend. Occasionally they would talk but the couple got busy with a family and adjusting to being parents. Aya babysat on rare occasions. But love never seemed away from reach, Aya finally met a man she truly could love with out ruining a relationship. He was an Indian man. Rajesh stole Aya's heart. They would meet up and talk but for now it wasn't to be very serious about. Maybe it would work out.
The first time Aya met Rajesh he was flirting with her. "I have never seen a goddess in person until now," he purred. Helena blushed and held up her wedding ring.
"I'm married," she declared. Rajesh just side stepped her and went towards Aya. Kissing her hand lightly.
"I was talking to you," he murmured against her skin. Rajesh then straightened himself up and introduced himself. They would meet up again, this time Aya was alone and Rajesh couldn't keep his eyes off of her. They chatted and Rajesh would continue to flirt with Aya. Their relationship soon became official as he dates continued. They eventually got hitched and moved to India. Aya had looked over her photo albums only to remember her lost love. Sadik. She was married now but the memory of the heart brake over filled her. Sadik will forever be a what if.
"I do," Sadik sighed as he held his soon to be wife's hands. A gentle squeeze and she returned it. Bliss overcame both of them. Helena's turn to say I do came. She did. Now was the time the priest asked a question Michelle and Emmanuel were waiting for.
"Does anyone here object?" He asked. Both of Aya's friends gestured that she should speak up. Aya didn't. Her body froze as the vows were sealed with a kiss. Husband and wife. It was official. Aya just smiled and watched the night slip away.
Ever since the wedding Helena and Sadik haven't had any time to hang out with their Egyptian friend. Occasionally they would talk but the couple got busy with a family and adjusting to being parents. Aya babysat on rare occasions. But love never seemed away from reach, Aya finally met a man she truly could love with out ruining a relationship. He was an Indian man. Rajesh stole Aya's heart. They would meet up and talk but for now it wasn't to be very serious about. Maybe it would work out.
The first time Aya met Rajesh he was flirting with her. "I have never seen a goddess in person until now," he purred. Helena blushed and held up her wedding ring.
"I'm married," she declared. Rajesh just side stepped her and went towards Aya. Kissing her hand lightly.
"I was talking to you," he murmured against her skin. Rajesh then straightened himself up and introduced himself. They would meet up again, this time Aya was alone and Rajesh couldn't keep his eyes off of her. They chatted and Rajesh would continue to flirt with Aya. Their relationship soon became official as he dates continued. They eventually got hitched and moved to India. Aya had looked over her photo albums only to remember her lost love. Sadik. She was married now but the memory of the heart brake over filled her. Sadik will forever be a what if.
I love this story. Its hard to find a story like this! Ilobe the pairing in the end.
Sweet but sad story. I liked it. I liked the pairings you chose as well.
It's nice to see the Mediterranean nations show up in a story now and then. Thank you for writing it A/A.
It's nice to see the Mediterranean nations show up in a story now and then. Thank you for writing it A/A.
I'm so sorry I didn't comment sooner! Was this posted to the fill list? Because I totally missed this and only saw it by accident while browsing the meme.
This was wonderful, and I love that you chose to use the Mediterranean characters. They don't get nearly enough attention in fics, particularly Egypt. I loved all the little details and how she remained so strong despite the fact that it was so difficult for her. Thank you for writing!
This was wonderful, and I love that you chose to use the Mediterranean characters. They don't get nearly enough attention in fics, particularly Egypt. I loved all the little details and how she remained so strong despite the fact that it was so difficult for her. Thank you for writing!
I didn't see this until now. Thank you so much! It's nice to know its loved. Glad you liked it op.
Estonia-->Finland, SuFin.
Estonia sits on his bed, feet dangling down and pants pooling at the ankles, and he jerks off.
He is precise and systematic; his arm follows a complex yet completely regular pattern of jerks and pulls and touches, he sits in a manner that doesn’t strain his back, and his legs do not once tremble out of position.
He does this regularly. He does this often.
He comes, but the name that’s on his mind isn’t on his lips. He puts a handkerchief on the tip of his penis before the semen spurts out, catches it all, and wipes it clean; he wraps this soiled tissue in another one and throws it away. Then he pulls his pants up, careful that he has removed every stain, and washes his hands.
He goes to bed and falls asleep quickly, and the image he had on his mind as he masturbated is thankfully gone long enough to pretend that it was never there.
But it was.
***
“Estonia… Eduard. I have. Um. I want to talk about something.”
Eduard adjusts his glasses and listens.
Tino doesn’t know what it does to him when he calls him by his human name. It’s private and intimate and he hasn’t heard the Finn call anyone else by their name, and it reminds him how close they are. He loves it.
“Yes, Finland?”
He doesn’t feel ready to return it, though.
“I… ugh, can we get something to drink, please? I’m just… I’m very nervous.”
Estonia’s heart flutters. When Tino gets nervous, his face gets a tiny blush and his shoulders jerk up a bit and his eyes go wide, exposing that gorgeous colour. He takes the strongest vodka he has out of his cabinet and two big jars the Germans would use for beer but Tino and him have used for vodka more than once, and sets it all on the table in front of his friend.
They drink.
Tino gets calmer. He talks better and doesn’t babble when he’s drunk, Estonia knows.
“What did you want to tell me?”
He’s also blunt and straightforward when he’s drunk.
“I’m in love.”
He nods.
It’s okay.
It isn’t as though Eduard jerks himself off almost every night thinking about his face when it blushes or his big purple eyes or his wide smiles, imagining to touch the skin on his chest and pinching his nipples and going down and hearing him moan. It isn’t as though he’s the body he wishes he could be thrusting in when he masturbates, or the one he wishes would fuck him out of his first time, already.
It isn’t as though it’s been this way for two millennia.
“Congratulations” he says, and if it’s a bit dry, it’s just the vodka. It has nothing to do with emotions or habits. He drinks more and adds, “Who is she?”
Tino lets out a small chuckle, but Eduard can’t tell if it’s amused or ironic.
The Finn doesn’t answer, though, and serves himself more vodka. When Eduard asks again, he dodges with, “What is this, Russia’s piss? Don’t you have Koskenkorva, or something?”
Eduard stands up to get a bottle of what Tino likes better. He knows the mood and personality swings the other usually has under the influence. He knows everything about him.
The sound of the cabinet being opened nearly drowns Tino’s voice, but he catches it anyway.
“It’s Sweden.”
The Koskenkorva falls to the floor and litters it all in splinters of glass and vodka.
Eduard turns around. His heart feels just as the bottle looks. “What?! ”
Tino downs the rest, drinking straight out of the bottle. “I guess it’s good that it isn’t obvious. I… I’m in love with Sweden.”
Eduard’s head spins. Thoughts run across his brain like bullets on a warfront: Sweden’s face, his ghastly, ugly, fleshy face, cruel and unblinking and staring; Tino at his door, terrified of him but made his slave by force. Other thoughts remind him that he’s thought all his life that Tino liked girls, and that that is one of the reasons why he’s never told Tino what he feels.
What he doesn’t feel. He doesn’t feel this. No. He has to swallow that emotion, or else it’ll kill him.
But now Tino is drunk—and when he’s drunk, he never lies—and tells him that he loves Sweden, and his world comes crashing down.
“Are you… are you sure?” he says, turning around again, gathering another bottle of Koskenkorva, this time Salmiakki flavoured—he has quite the stash—and taking his time so he doesn’t have to face his friend.
Estonia sits on his bed, feet dangling down and pants pooling at the ankles, and he jerks off.
He is precise and systematic; his arm follows a complex yet completely regular pattern of jerks and pulls and touches, he sits in a manner that doesn’t strain his back, and his legs do not once tremble out of position.
He does this regularly. He does this often.
He comes, but the name that’s on his mind isn’t on his lips. He puts a handkerchief on the tip of his penis before the semen spurts out, catches it all, and wipes it clean; he wraps this soiled tissue in another one and throws it away. Then he pulls his pants up, careful that he has removed every stain, and washes his hands.
He goes to bed and falls asleep quickly, and the image he had on his mind as he masturbated is thankfully gone long enough to pretend that it was never there.
But it was.
***
“Estonia… Eduard. I have. Um. I want to talk about something.”
Eduard adjusts his glasses and listens.
Tino doesn’t know what it does to him when he calls him by his human name. It’s private and intimate and he hasn’t heard the Finn call anyone else by their name, and it reminds him how close they are. He loves it.
“Yes, Finland?”
He doesn’t feel ready to return it, though.
“I… ugh, can we get something to drink, please? I’m just… I’m very nervous.”
Estonia’s heart flutters. When Tino gets nervous, his face gets a tiny blush and his shoulders jerk up a bit and his eyes go wide, exposing that gorgeous colour. He takes the strongest vodka he has out of his cabinet and two big jars the Germans would use for beer but Tino and him have used for vodka more than once, and sets it all on the table in front of his friend.
They drink.
Tino gets calmer. He talks better and doesn’t babble when he’s drunk, Estonia knows.
“What did you want to tell me?”
He’s also blunt and straightforward when he’s drunk.
“I’m in love.”
He nods.
It’s okay.
It isn’t as though Eduard jerks himself off almost every night thinking about his face when it blushes or his big purple eyes or his wide smiles, imagining to touch the skin on his chest and pinching his nipples and going down and hearing him moan. It isn’t as though he’s the body he wishes he could be thrusting in when he masturbates, or the one he wishes would fuck him out of his first time, already.
It isn’t as though it’s been this way for two millennia.
“Congratulations” he says, and if it’s a bit dry, it’s just the vodka. It has nothing to do with emotions or habits. He drinks more and adds, “Who is she?”
Tino lets out a small chuckle, but Eduard can’t tell if it’s amused or ironic.
The Finn doesn’t answer, though, and serves himself more vodka. When Eduard asks again, he dodges with, “What is this, Russia’s piss? Don’t you have Koskenkorva, or something?”
Eduard stands up to get a bottle of what Tino likes better. He knows the mood and personality swings the other usually has under the influence. He knows everything about him.
The sound of the cabinet being opened nearly drowns Tino’s voice, but he catches it anyway.
“It’s Sweden.”
The Koskenkorva falls to the floor and litters it all in splinters of glass and vodka.
Eduard turns around. His heart feels just as the bottle looks. “What?! ”
Tino downs the rest, drinking straight out of the bottle. “I guess it’s good that it isn’t obvious. I… I’m in love with Sweden.”
Eduard’s head spins. Thoughts run across his brain like bullets on a warfront: Sweden’s face, his ghastly, ugly, fleshy face, cruel and unblinking and staring; Tino at his door, terrified of him but made his slave by force. Other thoughts remind him that he’s thought all his life that Tino liked girls, and that that is one of the reasons why he’s never told Tino what he feels.
What he doesn’t feel. He doesn’t feel this. No. He has to swallow that emotion, or else it’ll kill him.
But now Tino is drunk—and when he’s drunk, he never lies—and tells him that he loves Sweden, and his world comes crashing down.
“Are you… are you sure?” he says, turning around again, gathering another bottle of Koskenkorva, this time Salmiakki flavoured—he has quite the stash—and taking his time so he doesn’t have to face his friend.
He hears him sigh. “Viro, b-bring that bottle, will you?”
Estonia complies. He tries to will his hands to stop shaking. While Tino drinks, he says, “You told me you hated him”, and it’s true; before the war, before Russia made decisions he still wasn’t sure regretted or not, Tino had cried in Eduard arms and told him he hated the Swede.
Then the war had come, and Tino didn’t have any more tears to shed as he filled his rifle and emptied it and filled it again, and between shot and round he’d told him again how much he despised Sweden, with his glaring eyes and his looming attitude and his complete ineptitude at war.
Tino nods. “I… I know. I’m still a bit angry about the neutrality. But he’s… He’s being nice to me, now. He l-looks at me and it’s how he used to look at me when we were… when he said we were married.”
“You hated that, too. You hated it when he said you were married.” Eduard reminds him. Tino used to come to him and they would drink and Tino would tell him that he wasn’t anyone’s wife, that he hated to be called that.
“Yes… but he cares for me. I know. He kept our dog well fed all this time, kept everything that was mine in a chest, like a treasure. He’s given it back to me and he looked so sad all the time, he… he treated those things very well, Eduard. He cleaned them regularly. They are still in perfect condition.”
He remembers the words of the Finn, “I left something at his house. But let that creep keep it. I don’t want anything he’s had”.
“And he’s apologized, you know? He gave me flowers and stared at me for about half an hour turning red and saying absolutely nothing, but he left a note with the flowers, so I know what they meant.”
“I wouldn’t forgive him, not even if he came crawling and crying. Fuck him and his neutrality. Fuck him and his people. Fuck the entire Nation of Sweden.”
Estonia remembers every word because back in the day they meant a lot.
They meant too much.
They meant Tino wouldn’t come to him anymore telling him how hard it was to live with Sweden, how the man was constantly keeping him locked up and watching him and glaring and forcing him to sleep in the same bed as him.
Estonia never told him, but he knew that Sweden wanted him. As much as Estonia himself. So when Finland renounced Sweden in that manner, he’d felt happy. That’s why he remembers.
Even though Tino doesn’t.
“I have this… when I see him, I have this light feeling in my stomach, and when he looks at me like that I feel that he’ll always be there for me, doing everything I ask of him, that he’ll protect me and be there for me.”
“Except for when you need it, of course. Then he’ll be neutral”, Estonia yearns to say, but that would be unfair and selfish. He would only say it to stop Finland from going to Sweden. He would only say it out of the same impulse that’s made him masturbate alone every night in two thousand years while thinking of Tino, and that’s an impulse he doesn’t want. So he keeps his mouth shut as he has for the last twenty centuries and listens.
“I know what you’re thinking. It’s… it’s not Stockholm syndrome. I think I loved him when I was his territory, too, but now… now it’s something else. I don’t want to be his possession. I want to be his equal. I want him to be mine too, I want to… to touch him, and to feel him, and to hug him when he isn’t feeling good. I want to be there for him and strong for him and protect him when he needs me.”
And he can see it. He can see all Tino is describing vividly before his mind’s eye. He can see them touching and hugging… he can see them kissing and fucking. He can see the image he’s thought of to masturbate—Tino, flushed and panting and needy, spread out before him, inviting him in with a wicked grin—playing out for Sweden, having him between his legs, inviting him in.
Estonia complies. He tries to will his hands to stop shaking. While Tino drinks, he says, “You told me you hated him”, and it’s true; before the war, before Russia made decisions he still wasn’t sure regretted or not, Tino had cried in Eduard arms and told him he hated the Swede.
Then the war had come, and Tino didn’t have any more tears to shed as he filled his rifle and emptied it and filled it again, and between shot and round he’d told him again how much he despised Sweden, with his glaring eyes and his looming attitude and his complete ineptitude at war.
Tino nods. “I… I know. I’m still a bit angry about the neutrality. But he’s… He’s being nice to me, now. He l-looks at me and it’s how he used to look at me when we were… when he said we were married.”
“You hated that, too. You hated it when he said you were married.” Eduard reminds him. Tino used to come to him and they would drink and Tino would tell him that he wasn’t anyone’s wife, that he hated to be called that.
“Yes… but he cares for me. I know. He kept our dog well fed all this time, kept everything that was mine in a chest, like a treasure. He’s given it back to me and he looked so sad all the time, he… he treated those things very well, Eduard. He cleaned them regularly. They are still in perfect condition.”
He remembers the words of the Finn, “I left something at his house. But let that creep keep it. I don’t want anything he’s had”.
“And he’s apologized, you know? He gave me flowers and stared at me for about half an hour turning red and saying absolutely nothing, but he left a note with the flowers, so I know what they meant.”
“I wouldn’t forgive him, not even if he came crawling and crying. Fuck him and his neutrality. Fuck him and his people. Fuck the entire Nation of Sweden.”
Estonia remembers every word because back in the day they meant a lot.
They meant too much.
They meant Tino wouldn’t come to him anymore telling him how hard it was to live with Sweden, how the man was constantly keeping him locked up and watching him and glaring and forcing him to sleep in the same bed as him.
Estonia never told him, but he knew that Sweden wanted him. As much as Estonia himself. So when Finland renounced Sweden in that manner, he’d felt happy. That’s why he remembers.
Even though Tino doesn’t.
“I have this… when I see him, I have this light feeling in my stomach, and when he looks at me like that I feel that he’ll always be there for me, doing everything I ask of him, that he’ll protect me and be there for me.”
“Except for when you need it, of course. Then he’ll be neutral”, Estonia yearns to say, but that would be unfair and selfish. He would only say it to stop Finland from going to Sweden. He would only say it out of the same impulse that’s made him masturbate alone every night in two thousand years while thinking of Tino, and that’s an impulse he doesn’t want. So he keeps his mouth shut as he has for the last twenty centuries and listens.
“I know what you’re thinking. It’s… it’s not Stockholm syndrome. I think I loved him when I was his territory, too, but now… now it’s something else. I don’t want to be his possession. I want to be his equal. I want him to be mine too, I want to… to touch him, and to feel him, and to hug him when he isn’t feeling good. I want to be there for him and strong for him and protect him when he needs me.”
And he can see it. He can see all Tino is describing vividly before his mind’s eye. He can see them touching and hugging… he can see them kissing and fucking. He can see the image he’s thought of to masturbate—Tino, flushed and panting and needy, spread out before him, inviting him in with a wicked grin—playing out for Sweden, having him between his legs, inviting him in.
He wants to cry, but he doesn’t. “Then why don’t you tell him?”
Tino’s blush is as adorable as ever, but this time, it hurts to watch. “I… I can’t. I don’t know if he likes me this way. What if he’s freaked out? What if he thinks I’ve crossed a line?”
He wants you, he thinks, he wants to fuck you, he’s always wanted to fuck you, spread-legged, like a woman; he wanted you to be his wife for a reason. You won’t have crossed the line. He’ll throw you unto the table and fuck you, and you’ll let him. “I don’t think he’ll be freaked out. I think he loves you, too.”
“Y-you do?”
He doesn’t have to think about it. He even smiles when saying it.
“Yes. Go and tell him.”
“But I’m… but I’m drunk!”
“He won’t care. Go.”
Tino’s step sways only slightly—they’ve been getting drunk together for an eternity, after all, and he has developed a big tolerance threshold—and his voice doesn’t quiver. He’s steady and he’s sure.
He’s happy.
He hugs Estonia before he goes, a crushing embrace that knocks his air right out and presses their bodies flush together. Their faces are close when he whispers, “Thank you” and his breath is hot and sweet and holds the smell of the Salmiakki flavoured Koskenkorva. His mouth is a bit sloppy when he kisses his cheek, when he peppers his face with kisses. Eduard could steal one by tilting his head and claim it was an accident and Tino wouldn’t even notice.
But he doesn’t. He says “You’re welcome” and shushes him out.
***
The next day Tino is there again, and Eduard knows where he’s spent the night and what he’s been doing.
The smile on his face is so wide and sincere that Estonia understands that it was all worth it.
That night, after Tino is gone, he masturbates again. The tears mess up his usual rhythm, but he doesn’t stop until he comes.
It will keep being like this forever.
The End
Oh god I'm sorry for the title. This is quite possibly the worst I have ever named anything, but I just spent half an hour staring at the subject line doing nothing so, ungh.
Also, masturbation is fun.
And the Finns and Estonians are older than two millenia (the Fenno-Ugric peoples are total gramps, ffff) but I just wanted that pretty round number. I mean, you say "two thousand" and it rolls off the tongue just fine. Like, "I've been in the friend zone for 2.000 years." I am a horrible person. I hope OP likes :D
Tino’s blush is as adorable as ever, but this time, it hurts to watch. “I… I can’t. I don’t know if he likes me this way. What if he’s freaked out? What if he thinks I’ve crossed a line?”
He wants you, he thinks, he wants to fuck you, he’s always wanted to fuck you, spread-legged, like a woman; he wanted you to be his wife for a reason. You won’t have crossed the line. He’ll throw you unto the table and fuck you, and you’ll let him. “I don’t think he’ll be freaked out. I think he loves you, too.”
“Y-you do?”
He doesn’t have to think about it. He even smiles when saying it.
“Yes. Go and tell him.”
“But I’m… but I’m drunk!”
“He won’t care. Go.”
Tino’s step sways only slightly—they’ve been getting drunk together for an eternity, after all, and he has developed a big tolerance threshold—and his voice doesn’t quiver. He’s steady and he’s sure.
He’s happy.
He hugs Estonia before he goes, a crushing embrace that knocks his air right out and presses their bodies flush together. Their faces are close when he whispers, “Thank you” and his breath is hot and sweet and holds the smell of the Salmiakki flavoured Koskenkorva. His mouth is a bit sloppy when he kisses his cheek, when he peppers his face with kisses. Eduard could steal one by tilting his head and claim it was an accident and Tino wouldn’t even notice.
But he doesn’t. He says “You’re welcome” and shushes him out.
***
The next day Tino is there again, and Eduard knows where he’s spent the night and what he’s been doing.
The smile on his face is so wide and sincere that Estonia understands that it was all worth it.
That night, after Tino is gone, he masturbates again. The tears mess up his usual rhythm, but he doesn’t stop until he comes.
It will keep being like this forever.
The End
Oh god I'm sorry for the title. This is quite possibly the worst I have ever named anything, but I just spent half an hour staring at the subject line doing nothing so, ungh.
Also, masturbation is fun.
And the Finns and Estonians are older than two millenia (the Fenno-Ugric peoples are total gramps, ffff) but I just wanted that pretty round number. I mean, you say "two thousand" and it rolls off the tongue just fine. Like, "I've been in the friend zone for 2.000 years." I am a horrible person. I hope OP likes :D
Ugggggghhh A!A you killed my feels my poor heart ;_; Estonia was so perfect in this, and it was so heartbreakingly real. Brilliant, brilliant fill.
This fill is so wow.
It's probably exactly how Estonia would do it. Masturbating methodically, and then cramming his feelings into a bottle of vodka. Or some equally hard liquor.
Finland's special friendship means that much to him.
;.;
It's probably exactly how Estonia would do it. Masturbating methodically, and then cramming his feelings into a bottle of vodka. Or some equally hard liquor.
Finland's special friendship means that much to him.
;.;
My family is looking at me oddly because I said I feel so bad for Estonia.
OMG, how did you know that Estonia/Finland is one of my favourite pairings, anon? You must be a mind reader! I LOVED this fill and how you made my heart break for Estonia with all the little details. Both he and Finland were so in character and I just adored every word of this. You really made Estonia's POV amazing and sympathetic. Thank you so, so much for writing this!
Yes, I read your mind. Probably. Or, uh, or maybe not xD (I don't know, this request just SCREAMED EstoFin to me D:) And God, thanks for saying they were in character. I battled with myself the entire time, actually, because of this!
I'm looking for someone to rewrite the Star Wars Prequels having Alfred as role of Padmé Amidala character, and Arthur as the role Anakin Skywalker.
Character X is considered dead for some reason and comes back to have a happy reunion with family and other loved ones. I'd like this to be done with anyone except Prussia because there are already stories like that about him. Human AUs are okay.
Second! Make it Italy (not HetaOni related though) because it would just ve soooo awesome! !!!
Fem America enrolls to a all girl college and her new roomate at the college dorm is Alice Kirkland but soon discovers her secret, "Alice" is actually Arthur a sadistic cross-dressing boy.
By sadistic, do you mean Arthur/"Alice" is cruel or into the bdsm scene or mad hatter crazy or just plain mean, punkish or something else altogether? Just curious.
Which ever it is...I wish I could fill this myself, but I have too much on my plate right now. I'm so sorry! I really wish I could fill it for you. But, I definitely second.
Which ever it is...I wish I could fill this myself, but I have too much on my plate right now. I'm so sorry! I really wish I could fill it for you. But, I definitely second.
I was thinking along the lines of being mean, punkish like you said. Also being sarcastic, etc, along those lines...
One character washing/brushing/playing with/pulling another's hair. Fluff or smut or both is fine. Canon or AU doesn't matter. No Wy pairings unless she's aged up, but anyone else is okay.
Japan is turned into a plush Hello Kitty.
He has no mouth to communicate with.
Cue Hello Kitty Japan being exchanged multiple times by nations who would likefight for the toy.
Bonus: other Sanrio characters
He has no mouth to communicate with.
Cue Hello Kitty Japan being exchanged multiple times by nations who would like
Bonus: other Sanrio characters
Improved Turkey needs more love for how hot he is! And basically, Greece recognising that. Maybe a 'wow he grew up to be hot, dammit' kind of thing? Anything is good :)
Rewrite some of the anime stories with the Nyotalia versions.
(I can't stand the look/characterization of fem!America, so preferably scenes that don't include her.)
(I can't stand the look/characterization of fem!America, so preferably scenes that don't include her.)
If an anon wants to try an original character of fem!America that didn't match the canon, OP would be interested.
I'd like to see a fill in which France is Genderfluid, and how others would view their gender identity. Maybe France adopts a more androgynous look, maybe ze has to come up with ways of explaining the spectrum of gender.
I'm not particularly fussed what author!anon does with the fill, so long as the content does not intentionally mock gender variance.
Bonus: Prussia and Romano are key characters in story
I'm not particularly fussed what author!anon does with the fill, so long as the content does not intentionally mock gender variance.
Bonus: Prussia and Romano are key characters in story
Doesn't literally have to be Nazis, but that could be pretty interesting.
The Nations are at a standard UN meeting. Everyone is in session- all the countries are present, things are getting argued as normal, and then suddenly-
Time travel.
There on the floor of the UN are past versions of the Nations themselves (preferably colonization- or WW2-era).
How is the impending international diplomatic crisis averted? Is it averted? Or do the Nations have to cope with their past selves racist, sexist assholes to everyone because it's not considered a bad thing in the period they come from?
The more history the better.
The Nations are at a standard UN meeting. Everyone is in session- all the countries are present, things are getting argued as normal, and then suddenly-
Time travel.
There on the floor of the UN are past versions of the Nations themselves (preferably colonization- or WW2-era).
How is the impending international diplomatic crisis averted? Is it averted? Or do the Nations have to cope with their past selves racist, sexist assholes to everyone because it's not considered a bad thing in the period they come from?
The more history the better.
Basically what it says, just some scenes of domestic life between these two. Doesn't have to be smut but wouldn't exactly mind if there was some (wink wink) only thing is that china is not portrayed as an extreme uke.
HUMAN AU:
So Alfred is a heterosexual male who just so happens to be a Gay porn star. He only has sex with men for money and when he's not acting on camera he's only attracted to women. I would like to see him falling for a female and aiming to have a relationship with her. Hijinks ensue as Alfred tries to hide what he does for a living without overtly lying because lying is bad but he doesn't want to scare her off.
I would prefer using a canon female but genderbends are ok. If you want to write the porn sex scenes, OP is okay with basically anything other then stuff involving vomit.
bonus: She doesn't care when she finds out
bonus: She actually knew the whole entire time.
So Alfred is a heterosexual male who just so happens to be a Gay porn star. He only has sex with men for money and when he's not acting on camera he's only attracted to women. I would like to see him falling for a female and aiming to have a relationship with her. Hijinks ensue as Alfred tries to hide what he does for a living without overtly lying because lying is bad but he doesn't want to scare her off.
I would prefer using a canon female but genderbends are ok. If you want to write the porn sex scenes, OP is okay with basically anything other then stuff involving vomit.
bonus: She doesn't care when she finds out
bonus: She actually knew the whole entire time.
I know. It sounds impossible.
But I've been thinking lately... The basic idea is that He has a terrible reputation as being a whore and slut. So no one ever wants to sleep with him. They figure he has commitment problems STD's etc etc etc... No one realised it. But france has always just been giving 'affection' he's never had anyone touch him before.
And so, enter nation A who. After having a crush on France for a while (perhaps being in denial about it for most of the time) finally gives in and kisses him or something... France completly panics.
I wanna see blushing, flustered, confused France. Not knowing what to do or what to say because /he's never kissed anyone before/.
Bonus: this happens in public. Completly shattering the worlds belief that Francis is experience/a whore. Confusion, denial, and soul searching ensues because EVERYTHING THEY KNOW IS A LIE.
But I've been thinking lately... The basic idea is that He has a terrible reputation as being a whore and slut. So no one ever wants to sleep with him. They figure he has commitment problems STD's etc etc etc... No one realised it. But france has always just been giving 'affection' he's never had anyone touch him before.
And so, enter nation A who. After having a crush on France for a while (perhaps being in denial about it for most of the time) finally gives in and kisses him or something... France completly panics.
I wanna see blushing, flustered, confused France. Not knowing what to do or what to say because /he's never kissed anyone before/.
Bonus: this happens in public. Completly shattering the worlds belief that Francis is experience/a whore. Confusion, denial, and soul searching ensues because EVERYTHING THEY KNOW IS A LIE.
What is the reason for a prompt of this standard to go unnoticed? Second so fucking hard
With Ivan as the one playing the child.
Could be filled with anyonexRussia. But I put RusAme because it's my OTP... And we all know they're debatably one of the kinkiest relationships in the fandom.
Anon will be punching her ticket to hell now.
Could be filled with anyonexRussia. But I put RusAme because it's my OTP... And we all know they're debatably one of the kinkiest relationships in the fandom.
Anon will be punching her ticket to hell now.
I have an idea for this, if I can get it to work out. Would you mind a human AU, or would you prefer canonverse?
Meanwhile, if anyone else wants to fill, please feel free! The more the merrier!
Meanwhile, if anyone else wants to fill, please feel free! The more the merrier!
Humanverse would be wonderful as well anon! :3 I adore all AU's, I hope you fill :3
Chinese propaganda posters for reunification with Taiwan usually focus on family relations, ie. "Taiwan people are siblings with Chinese", etc. On this collection of reunification posters, however, the last one seems to be delving into softcore porn:
http://chineseposters.net/themes/taiwan-reunification.php
I like China to discover that some of his propagandists are going even further with this theme, even to hardcore incest with China turned into a girl for yuri!
Just looking to make fun of this, nothing too serious.
Bonus: Taiwan has found the posters and fantasy fiction and thinks China did it deliberately.
http://chineseposters.net/themes/taiwan-reunification.php
I like China to discover that some of his propagandists are going even further with this theme, even to hardcore incest with China turned into a girl for yuri!
Just looking to make fun of this, nothing too serious.
Bonus: Taiwan has found the posters and fantasy fiction and thinks China did it deliberately.
second
second
yaay
Basically, the red string of fate (invisible string said to link soul mates) works differently for nations than humans. Because they live forever. Let's say it's more... Flexible.
The idea is that France and Jean de Arc are linked by the red string of fate. Arthur, (because of his fairies and such) can see this. And, out of pure anger/hatred for France, kills Jean.
This causes France to suffer extremely, his heart completly ripped apart by it... So someone (god, fairy, etc) is made extremely unhappy by this... They show Arthur Francis deterioration as a result, and it gets to the point where'd Arthur starts to feel unbearable guilt for what he did. The fairy/god gives Arthur a choice... He can let Francis suffer until he fades. And deal with the consequences. Or he can take Jeans place as Francis soul mate.
Whether from guilt, or for some other reason, he does it.
Bonus: Arthur is already connected to someone else when he and Francis become connected. And that person (so that they are not hurt by it) is reconnected to another nation who's soul mate was killed.
This probably butchers the entier idea of soulmates and the red string... I apologies for that :P
The idea is that France and Jean de Arc are linked by the red string of fate. Arthur, (because of his fairies and such) can see this. And, out of pure anger/hatred for France, kills Jean.
This causes France to suffer extremely, his heart completly ripped apart by it... So someone (god, fairy, etc) is made extremely unhappy by this... They show Arthur Francis deterioration as a result, and it gets to the point where'd Arthur starts to feel unbearable guilt for what he did. The fairy/god gives Arthur a choice... He can let Francis suffer until he fades. And deal with the consequences. Or he can take Jeans place as Francis soul mate.
Whether from guilt, or for some other reason, he does it.
Bonus: Arthur is already connected to someone else when he and Francis become connected. And that person (so that they are not hurt by it) is reconnected to another nation who's soul mate was killed.
This probably butchers the entier idea of soulmates and the red string... I apologies for that :P
I need to second this.
Hey how do you feel about AmeCan (perhaps CanAme?) I'm doing a fill and I'd like to know the preference. Also, do you prefer RusAme or AmeCan/CanAme?
He knew the consequences when he decided to do it. He knew that it would be final, absolute. There would be no going back. That's why he decided to do it.
He wouldn't have to fight with France anymore. He saw what happened after Russia lost Prussia. France would probably just become as icy cold as that nation, and it would be no big deal. France wouldn't ever fight with anyone ever again. England could have hegemony without worrying about challenges! He would be free! He would be mighty! He would be everything France wasn't!
England sat outside Jeanne's jail cell with a smirk.
She deserved to die. Wearing men's clothes? Pfft. That was clearly a sin.
There was no spark of defiance in her eyes, but she certainly hadn't given in yet. She just sat there as if she was being dignified by going quietly. She had accepted her fate, so why wasn't she struggling?
England knew a way to fix that.
As he walked out of the room, he whispered to the guard: “You can do as you please with her.”
The guard grinned.
...oOo...
France knelt down in front of him, tears streaming down his previously flawless face.
It was a nice change to see him like this. Kneeling in the dirt, hair matted and dirty, uniform tattered.
“S'il vous plaît, Angleterre... Vous ne pouvez pas le faire... Je vous en supplie...”
England smirked. The nice thing about the French language is that you can tell when someone is speaking to you as if you are superior.
“In English, frog.”
France grabbed for England's hands, desperate, pleading.
“Please, England... You can't do this... I beg you...”
England wrenched his hands away, but then leaned down to France's level.
“Oh, but I can. And I will.”
“Please, don't,” he whispered, “I'll do anything.”
England looked thoughtful for just a fraction of a second. France saw it and continued:
“What do you want? Money? Resources? Part of the harvest yield?”
No, I want your entire country. I wanted you to surrender to me. I wanted you to be mine, and mine alone.
“I want to kill Jean on account of heresy.”
“Non, Dieu cher, non. She has done nothing, she is still a virgin!”
“I don't care,” England whispered.
They both looked over as a horse-drawn cart rolled slowly by. Jeanne was sitting in it with her hands tied behind her back, and a blind-fold over her eyes.
France scrambled to his feet.
“Jeanne!” he shouted, running over to the side of the cart. “Jeanne!”
“Francis?” she looked around, even though the cloth was over her eyes.
England ran after France to stop him before he could untie her. He grabbed France's shoulders and pulled him back, forcing his hands behind him and holding him back.
“I can't stop it, Jeanne!” France shouted, as the cart stopped a short ways from them.
England covered France's mouth hastily.
“I know, Francis!” she shouted back. “It's okay! I'm going with God now. Je reconte Dieu... La monde est bien maintenant...”
France didn't even bother trying to say something. Somehow that made England feel uneasy. The feeling increased slightly when England felt hot tears slide silently over the hand covering France's mouth.
He almost let go.
He almost let France stop the soldiers from tying Jeanne to the pole.
He almost let France pull her from the fire.
He almost felt sorry for what he had done when she called Jesus' name.
He almost told France he was sorry when France went limp in his arms.
He almost let France cry on him.
But England released him, and allowed him to fall to the dirt to sob quietly for his lost lover. He saw the red thread go limp as well, as if what was holding it tight had been cut, and it just needed to be retied.
To keep his mind from his conflicting emotions, he glanced to a spot far off on the horizon. The spot where his own red thread disappeared to. It was taught, so taught. So taught, it was as if it was pulling him to some distant place...
He wouldn't have to fight with France anymore. He saw what happened after Russia lost Prussia. France would probably just become as icy cold as that nation, and it would be no big deal. France wouldn't ever fight with anyone ever again. England could have hegemony without worrying about challenges! He would be free! He would be mighty! He would be everything France wasn't!
England sat outside Jeanne's jail cell with a smirk.
She deserved to die. Wearing men's clothes? Pfft. That was clearly a sin.
There was no spark of defiance in her eyes, but she certainly hadn't given in yet. She just sat there as if she was being dignified by going quietly. She had accepted her fate, so why wasn't she struggling?
England knew a way to fix that.
As he walked out of the room, he whispered to the guard: “You can do as you please with her.”
The guard grinned.
France knelt down in front of him, tears streaming down his previously flawless face.
It was a nice change to see him like this. Kneeling in the dirt, hair matted and dirty, uniform tattered.
“S'il vous plaît, Angleterre... Vous ne pouvez pas le faire... Je vous en supplie...”
England smirked. The nice thing about the French language is that you can tell when someone is speaking to you as if you are superior.
“In English, frog.”
France grabbed for England's hands, desperate, pleading.
“Please, England... You can't do this... I beg you...”
England wrenched his hands away, but then leaned down to France's level.
“Oh, but I can. And I will.”
“Please, don't,” he whispered, “I'll do anything.”
England looked thoughtful for just a fraction of a second. France saw it and continued:
“What do you want? Money? Resources? Part of the harvest yield?”
No, I want your entire country. I wanted you to surrender to me. I wanted you to be mine, and mine alone.
“I want to kill Jean on account of heresy.”
“Non, Dieu cher, non. She has done nothing, she is still a virgin!”
“I don't care,” England whispered.
They both looked over as a horse-drawn cart rolled slowly by. Jeanne was sitting in it with her hands tied behind her back, and a blind-fold over her eyes.
France scrambled to his feet.
“Jeanne!” he shouted, running over to the side of the cart. “Jeanne!”
“Francis?” she looked around, even though the cloth was over her eyes.
England ran after France to stop him before he could untie her. He grabbed France's shoulders and pulled him back, forcing his hands behind him and holding him back.
“I can't stop it, Jeanne!” France shouted, as the cart stopped a short ways from them.
England covered France's mouth hastily.
“I know, Francis!” she shouted back. “It's okay! I'm going with God now. Je reconte Dieu... La monde est bien maintenant...”
France didn't even bother trying to say something. Somehow that made England feel uneasy. The feeling increased slightly when England felt hot tears slide silently over the hand covering France's mouth.
He almost let go.
He almost let France stop the soldiers from tying Jeanne to the pole.
He almost let France pull her from the fire.
He almost felt sorry for what he had done when she called Jesus' name.
He almost told France he was sorry when France went limp in his arms.
He almost let France cry on him.
But England released him, and allowed him to fall to the dirt to sob quietly for his lost lover. He saw the red thread go limp as well, as if what was holding it tight had been cut, and it just needed to be retied.
To keep his mind from his conflicting emotions, he glanced to a spot far off on the horizon. The spot where his own red thread disappeared to. It was taught, so taught. So taught, it was as if it was pulling him to some distant place...
England sipped tea out in his garden. It was those kinds of afternoons he liked best. The menacing quiet of the world just before a rainstorm. He was surrounded by the roses that his country adored so fully, and they cast a delicate fragrance around him. All was well in his little world.
He hadn't thought about France for a long time. Not since the American Revolution. England had once asked France why he was helping America.
France just gave him a calculating look and asked: “All is fair in love and war, non?”
England had realized that France was finally rebelling. Finally paying him back for Jeanne.
And, somehow, that eased his conscience.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of clean air. The faint scent of rain danced on the wind.
When he opened his eyes again, a fairy was sitting with her legs dangling over the table. Her hair was long and red. If she was standing, it would've reached the back of her pink knees. All her skin was pink. Everything on her was pink and red. Except for her eyes. Her eyes were cold, calculating, and as silver as her wings.
“Hello,” England began, “I don't believe we've met.”
She shook her long red hair out, the waning sunlight glaring off of it magnificently.
“No, we haven't.”
Her silver eyes narrowed, in an almost hostile gesture.
England cleared his throat and put his cup of tea down beside the fairy.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
She pulled a leg up onto the table and rested her elbow on her knee.
“No. There's something I can help you with though.”
“Oh?” England asked with a tinge of amusement.
“It's about France.”
“France? Oh... Are you going to help me get America back?”
She looked up at him thoughtfully. She really did look very calculating.
“Perhaps,” she finally replied.
She reached over and twanged the red string on England's pinky. It was still as taught as ever, and England swore he felt the reverberation through his very soul.
He withdrew his hand closer to his chest.
“You can see them?” he asked her.
She nodded solemnly.
England worried at his lip as he continued looking at her. His mind strayed to France and his red string... Watching it go slack. Suddenly he was grateful that his string was so tight. Sometimes he thought it was so tight it hurt, but it couldn't be as bad as having that string dragging behind you for the rest of your life...
“The goddess Yuèlǎo made a mistake.”
“Yuèlǎo?” England asked, taken aback.
The fairy nodded again.
“Yes, she made a terrible mistake with France's thread. She paired him with a human by accident. And after that, there was a whole series of mistakes when she tried to fix it.”
“Well w-what is she going to do about it?”
The fairy shrugged.
“Absolutely nothing. The red thread doesn't make people fall in love of course, it just ties people together. People fall in love entirely of their own accord. And once people fall in love, the thread can't be broken. So, her hands are tied.” She took a moment to giggle at her own pun before continuing, “She can't break the threads she has created. However, she can retie them.”
England listened in silence, but then asked,
“What has that to do with me? My thread is intact.”
The fairy gave him a half-pitying look.
“It doesn't have much to do with you actually. However, you got yourself involved when you decided to sever France's thread.”
“I did no such thing!” England protested, that old guilt flaring up around his conscience.
The fairy fluttered her wings angrily, but her voice was even when she said:
“You did. You knew about the thread, and you knew what would happen if the thread was severed. Furthermore, you knew the effect it would have on France if you killed Jeanne, but you did it anyway. You wanted him to suffer.”
England scoffed.
“He didn't though. That git was completely fine.”
“Really, now? Do you know that for sure? Do you think he would show his face in front of you after he had been crying?” She stood up and pointed a rosy finger at him. “You have no idea. But the Gods and Goddesses do. They saw everything. Freyja wanted to dissolve France's country and take him into Fólkvangr. Aphroditê was about to let her. But Sucellus had a different idea.”
He hadn't thought about France for a long time. Not since the American Revolution. England had once asked France why he was helping America.
France just gave him a calculating look and asked: “All is fair in love and war, non?”
England had realized that France was finally rebelling. Finally paying him back for Jeanne.
And, somehow, that eased his conscience.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of clean air. The faint scent of rain danced on the wind.
When he opened his eyes again, a fairy was sitting with her legs dangling over the table. Her hair was long and red. If she was standing, it would've reached the back of her pink knees. All her skin was pink. Everything on her was pink and red. Except for her eyes. Her eyes were cold, calculating, and as silver as her wings.
“Hello,” England began, “I don't believe we've met.”
She shook her long red hair out, the waning sunlight glaring off of it magnificently.
“No, we haven't.”
Her silver eyes narrowed, in an almost hostile gesture.
England cleared his throat and put his cup of tea down beside the fairy.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
She pulled a leg up onto the table and rested her elbow on her knee.
“No. There's something I can help you with though.”
“Oh?” England asked with a tinge of amusement.
“It's about France.”
“France? Oh... Are you going to help me get America back?”
She looked up at him thoughtfully. She really did look very calculating.
“Perhaps,” she finally replied.
She reached over and twanged the red string on England's pinky. It was still as taught as ever, and England swore he felt the reverberation through his very soul.
He withdrew his hand closer to his chest.
“You can see them?” he asked her.
She nodded solemnly.
England worried at his lip as he continued looking at her. His mind strayed to France and his red string... Watching it go slack. Suddenly he was grateful that his string was so tight. Sometimes he thought it was so tight it hurt, but it couldn't be as bad as having that string dragging behind you for the rest of your life...
“The goddess Yuèlǎo made a mistake.”
“Yuèlǎo?” England asked, taken aback.
The fairy nodded again.
“Yes, she made a terrible mistake with France's thread. She paired him with a human by accident. And after that, there was a whole series of mistakes when she tried to fix it.”
“Well w-what is she going to do about it?”
The fairy shrugged.
“Absolutely nothing. The red thread doesn't make people fall in love of course, it just ties people together. People fall in love entirely of their own accord. And once people fall in love, the thread can't be broken. So, her hands are tied.” She took a moment to giggle at her own pun before continuing, “She can't break the threads she has created. However, she can retie them.”
England listened in silence, but then asked,
“What has that to do with me? My thread is intact.”
The fairy gave him a half-pitying look.
“It doesn't have much to do with you actually. However, you got yourself involved when you decided to sever France's thread.”
“I did no such thing!” England protested, that old guilt flaring up around his conscience.
The fairy fluttered her wings angrily, but her voice was even when she said:
“You did. You knew about the thread, and you knew what would happen if the thread was severed. Furthermore, you knew the effect it would have on France if you killed Jeanne, but you did it anyway. You wanted him to suffer.”
England scoffed.
“He didn't though. That git was completely fine.”
“Really, now? Do you know that for sure? Do you think he would show his face in front of you after he had been crying?” She stood up and pointed a rosy finger at him. “You have no idea. But the Gods and Goddesses do. They saw everything. Freyja wanted to dissolve France's country and take him into Fólkvangr. Aphroditê was about to let her. But Sucellus had a different idea.”
England was growing more and more uneasy with every word. If all three of those Gods were involved and agreeing, this could not be good.
“What did she say?”
The fairy seemed to gather herself together a little, and her anger faded.
“Do you remember France right after you severed his string?”
England nodded with a pained expression.
The fairy held her hand out, silently asking him to take it.
England looked from her hand to her beautifully sculpted face. Then, he offered his index finger hesitantly.
[ Yuèlǎo: Japanese Goddess who weaves the red strings.
Freyja: Norse Goddess of Love and War
Aphroditê: Greek Goddess of Love *coughANDSEXcough*
Sucellus: Celtic God of Love and Time
Fólkvangr: Where warriors go when they die (according to Norse Mythology)
“What did she say?”
The fairy seemed to gather herself together a little, and her anger faded.
“Do you remember France right after you severed his string?”
England nodded with a pained expression.
The fairy held her hand out, silently asking him to take it.
England looked from her hand to her beautifully sculpted face. Then, he offered his index finger hesitantly.
[ Yuèlǎo: Japanese Goddess who weaves the red strings.
Freyja: Norse Goddess of Love and War
Aphroditê: Greek Goddess of Love *coughANDSEXcough*
Sucellus: Celtic God of Love and Time
Fólkvangr: Where warriors go when they die (according to Norse Mythology)
When he opened his eyes he was on a battlefield.
England looked around in alarm, but the fairy settled herself comfortably on England's shoulder and pointed off to the side. He turned to see a whole battalion of soldiers kneeling on the battlefield.
At first he was confused, but then saw a man standing at the head of the congression holding a Bible.
He forgot that Jeanne would have mass on the battlefield.
He spotted France kneeling too. He knelt beside Jeanne, and he repeated what the preacher said with his eyes closed, putting his whole heart into the words. France had a vibrancy that England forgot he had ever possessed. He looked so young and... alive.
The fairy moved some of his hair to whisper in his ear:
“That was when he still believed in God.”
When the mass was over, everyone stood up and France looked at Jeanne with pure admiration.
England looked away. He didn't like seeing that look on France's face.
“You knew he loved her, England. So why did you do it?”
England didn't respond. He just watched his army approach from the distance. France turned to Jeanne and said, “Sois prudent.”
Be careful.
Jeanne smiled and took one of his hands with the quiet, dignified grace that used to irritate England so much.
“Je sera.”
I will.
The red thread was taught between them. Almost as taught as the thread between England and America. He didn't know the mechanics of the thread, but he figured that the thread was taught when some sort of promise for the future existed between the two people it connected. He could almost hear the tension from the thread in the air. England really had heard that tension at some point.
He held his hand up to his shoulder, silently asking the fairy to bring him somewhere else.
...oOo...
When England blinked again, they were on a different battlefield.
He looked around wearily, guilt still heavy on his soul.
He spotted America. He was younger though, he didn't have his glasses yet. He was standing with France on a big open field and they were shaking hands.
“Why are you helping me?” America asked the older man.
France chuckled airily.
“Oh, you could say I have long-standing score to settle with him.”
America raised an eyebrow.
“You two always have a score to settle. Why do you fight so much?”
Francis simply shrugged.
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
When America looked unconvinced, France continued:
“Well, I don't know why we started, at least.”
And the thread at his side swayed in agreement. The vibrancy and life from the past battlefield seemed long since gone. He knew that they indeed were. Guilt continued to boil inside him.
“Yeah, England,” the fairy whispered, “Why did you do it?”
“Why are you asking me these questions?” England asked instead.
“Why aren't you answering them?”
“Are we going anywhere else?”
The fairy sighed and nodded. She pressed her hand to his cheek.
England looked around in alarm, but the fairy settled herself comfortably on England's shoulder and pointed off to the side. He turned to see a whole battalion of soldiers kneeling on the battlefield.
At first he was confused, but then saw a man standing at the head of the congression holding a Bible.
He forgot that Jeanne would have mass on the battlefield.
He spotted France kneeling too. He knelt beside Jeanne, and he repeated what the preacher said with his eyes closed, putting his whole heart into the words. France had a vibrancy that England forgot he had ever possessed. He looked so young and... alive.
The fairy moved some of his hair to whisper in his ear:
“That was when he still believed in God.”
When the mass was over, everyone stood up and France looked at Jeanne with pure admiration.
England looked away. He didn't like seeing that look on France's face.
“You knew he loved her, England. So why did you do it?”
England didn't respond. He just watched his army approach from the distance. France turned to Jeanne and said, “Sois prudent.”
Be careful.
Jeanne smiled and took one of his hands with the quiet, dignified grace that used to irritate England so much.
“Je sera.”
I will.
The red thread was taught between them. Almost as taught as the thread between England and America. He didn't know the mechanics of the thread, but he figured that the thread was taught when some sort of promise for the future existed between the two people it connected. He could almost hear the tension from the thread in the air. England really had heard that tension at some point.
He held his hand up to his shoulder, silently asking the fairy to bring him somewhere else.
When England blinked again, they were on a different battlefield.
He looked around wearily, guilt still heavy on his soul.
He spotted America. He was younger though, he didn't have his glasses yet. He was standing with France on a big open field and they were shaking hands.
“Why are you helping me?” America asked the older man.
France chuckled airily.
“Oh, you could say I have long-standing score to settle with him.”
America raised an eyebrow.
“You two always have a score to settle. Why do you fight so much?”
Francis simply shrugged.
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
When America looked unconvinced, France continued:
“Well, I don't know why we started, at least.”
And the thread at his side swayed in agreement. The vibrancy and life from the past battlefield seemed long since gone. He knew that they indeed were. Guilt continued to boil inside him.
“Yeah, England,” the fairy whispered, “Why did you do it?”
“Why are you asking me these questions?” England asked instead.
“Why aren't you answering them?”
“Are we going anywhere else?”
The fairy sighed and nodded. She pressed her hand to his cheek.
The first thing England saw was a giant pile of wood with a metal pole in the middle. There was a large crowd gathered around to see a cart pulled into the courtyard.
England's heart clenched painfully in his chest.
It was Jeanne.
He watched himself hold France back from saving her. He saw that cruel look of twisted pleasure on his face as he had realized France was crying. And he watched himself drop France and let him cry alone on the ground.
Maybe though, just maybe he was the only one who could see the conflict behind the cold green eyes of his past self.
Some tears came to his own eyes as he watched France sob brokenly on the ground. England knew that he couldn't do anything, but he sat down beside France as he whispered prayers to God in French.
England wasn't sure why he sat down. Maybe he wanted to make up for what he failed to do in the past, or maybe he just wanted to suffer with France now.
The fairy jumped from his shoulder and watched the two nations cry together, yet apart.
“I'm sorry, France,” England whispered, wiping tears from his own cheeks. “I'm so sorry.”
When the past-France was done crying, he looked up at England first with despair, and then with loathing. England was surprised to see such an expression come from that handsome face, and he wondered how on Earth he missed it at the time.
England looked to the face of his past self. His past self was gazing into the horizon, to where his red thread had disappeared.
England thought that he deserved the look France had given him.
“England,” the fairy began, “I need you to come with me.”
He looked at the little pink being, and then looked back to France, who had returned to crying.
“Can't... Can't I stay with him for a moment longer?” he asked with a sniff.
She shook her head sadly, her expression tender, and reached her hand out.
“It's alright,” she said softly, “We're going somewhere else.”
Without standing up, England reached over, and touched her hand.
The fairy brought England to a giant circular room, which they appeared in the middle of.
There were elegant thrones lined up against the walls. Four of them were occupied, and the four people in them straightened upon his arrival. England recognized them. He found himself straightening up in front of them, and trying to get the remnants of the tears off of his face.
Aphroditê looked at him with a slightly haughty expression. Sucellus looked like a father about to scold him. Yuèlǎo gave him a poorly disguised glare. Freyja looked slightly pitying.
It was Sucellus who spoke first.
“I'm glad to see you have brought him in one piece.”
The fairy nodded and curtseyed, then settled herself on England's shoulder once again.
England was suddenly glad for her company in the face of all these deities.
Freyja spoke next.
“We seem to be at a stand-still, England.”
“O-oh?” he stammered, his voice not sounding quite right because his nose was still stuffy.
Aphroditê nodded.
“Yes, little England. Yuèlǎo refuses to amend her mistake properly, so we must go about this the long way.”
“It was not a mistake,” Yuèlǎo hissed.
Aphroditê smirked.
“If it wasn't a mistake, what was it?”
“Stringing people together simply means they are connected. I thought we established that when you got free reign over people's hearts.”
“Ladies!” Sucellus shouted.
The two continued to glare at each other, but they fell silent.
“I think everyone here can agree that the only one who made a mistake was him,” he said, pointing to England.
England shuffled uncomfortably.
“Freyja,” he continued, “Would you like to explain the situation?”
Freyja nodded and turned to England with a kind smile.
“England, there was a turn of events that we did not anticipate happening. France and Jeanne, though connected, were not supposed to fall in love. They were connected because otherwise, France would have been destroyed by you. Though it seems you did a fine job in spite of that.”
England flinched at her words, but he knew they were true.
“However,” she continued, “There is a way to fix this. If we tie you to France instead, he will recover.”
“What?!” England asked.
Yuèlǎo took the opportunity to start yelling at Aphroditê again.
“See! I told you he wouldn't want to do it!”
“Well do you have any better ideas?” Aphroditê spat back.
Freyja sighed and shouted over them.
“That's what we're here to solve, so would you two please calm down?!”
Sucellus rubbed a hand over his face and picked up where Freyja left off.
“Tying you to France won't make the two of you fall in love, it will give you a more prominent role in his life, and the ability to heal him. Do you want that?”
England just nodded, trying to take in what exactly was happening.
“Well, I refuse to tie it,” Yuèlǎo said firmly. “I do not like changing my ties around once I tie them.”
“If she's not tying them, then I'm not making them fall in love,” Aphroditê declared.
“Both of you are being ridiculous!” Freyja shouted.
The three Goddesses started bickering and Sucellus glanced at them, but then walked over to England.
“England, you're here as a tie breaker. But everyone is being rather uncooperative with this. So, here is the deal. The ties are staying put, but you need to step up to the plate and do what you can to fix France. If you don't, he will suffer until his country gives up on him and allows him to fade.”
The three Goddesses stopped arguing and listened in.
“Can you do that, England?”
“I- I think so.”
Sucellus gave him a stern look.
“It was a yes or no question.”
“Y-yes. Yes.... Well, I'll try, at least.”
“Do you really want to?”
“Yes.”
Sucellus seemed satisfied. He nodded and turned back to his three companions.
There were elegant thrones lined up against the walls. Four of them were occupied, and the four people in them straightened upon his arrival. England recognized them. He found himself straightening up in front of them, and trying to get the remnants of the tears off of his face.
Aphroditê looked at him with a slightly haughty expression. Sucellus looked like a father about to scold him. Yuèlǎo gave him a poorly disguised glare. Freyja looked slightly pitying.
It was Sucellus who spoke first.
“I'm glad to see you have brought him in one piece.”
The fairy nodded and curtseyed, then settled herself on England's shoulder once again.
England was suddenly glad for her company in the face of all these deities.
Freyja spoke next.
“We seem to be at a stand-still, England.”
“O-oh?” he stammered, his voice not sounding quite right because his nose was still stuffy.
Aphroditê nodded.
“Yes, little England. Yuèlǎo refuses to amend her mistake properly, so we must go about this the long way.”
“It was not a mistake,” Yuèlǎo hissed.
Aphroditê smirked.
“If it wasn't a mistake, what was it?”
“Stringing people together simply means they are connected. I thought we established that when you got free reign over people's hearts.”
“Ladies!” Sucellus shouted.
The two continued to glare at each other, but they fell silent.
“I think everyone here can agree that the only one who made a mistake was him,” he said, pointing to England.
England shuffled uncomfortably.
“Freyja,” he continued, “Would you like to explain the situation?”
Freyja nodded and turned to England with a kind smile.
“England, there was a turn of events that we did not anticipate happening. France and Jeanne, though connected, were not supposed to fall in love. They were connected because otherwise, France would have been destroyed by you. Though it seems you did a fine job in spite of that.”
England flinched at her words, but he knew they were true.
“However,” she continued, “There is a way to fix this. If we tie you to France instead, he will recover.”
“What?!” England asked.
Yuèlǎo took the opportunity to start yelling at Aphroditê again.
“See! I told you he wouldn't want to do it!”
“Well do you have any better ideas?” Aphroditê spat back.
Freyja sighed and shouted over them.
“That's what we're here to solve, so would you two please calm down?!”
Sucellus rubbed a hand over his face and picked up where Freyja left off.
“Tying you to France won't make the two of you fall in love, it will give you a more prominent role in his life, and the ability to heal him. Do you want that?”
England just nodded, trying to take in what exactly was happening.
“Well, I refuse to tie it,” Yuèlǎo said firmly. “I do not like changing my ties around once I tie them.”
“If she's not tying them, then I'm not making them fall in love,” Aphroditê declared.
“Both of you are being ridiculous!” Freyja shouted.
The three Goddesses started bickering and Sucellus glanced at them, but then walked over to England.
“England, you're here as a tie breaker. But everyone is being rather uncooperative with this. So, here is the deal. The ties are staying put, but you need to step up to the plate and do what you can to fix France. If you don't, he will suffer until his country gives up on him and allows him to fade.”
The three Goddesses stopped arguing and listened in.
“Can you do that, England?”
“I- I think so.”
Sucellus gave him a stern look.
“It was a yes or no question.”
“Y-yes. Yes.... Well, I'll try, at least.”
“Do you really want to?”
“Yes.”
Sucellus seemed satisfied. He nodded and turned back to his three companions.
“He will do it,” the God announced.
Freyja was the first to speak up.
“If I may make a suggestion, we cut England's tie.”
Yuèlǎo looked horrified, and Aphroditê jumped up and down with glee.
“Oooh, yes let's do that. It will be a true tale of romance and sorrow!”
“No! We are not messing around with anymore of my ties!”
England went wide-eyed and held his hand up to his chest, covering it with his other hand, as if that would protect the string from these beings.
“Please, please no!”
Sucellus just looked thoughtful.
“Why do you say that, Freyja?”
She stood up a little straighter as she replied.
“I think it would do England some good to know what it feels like.”
England's heart sped up and he shook his head frantically. No, no, not America. Please, don't separate me from America!
Freyja looked at him as if she knew what he was thinking.
“England, America broke free from you a long time ago. You made him pull himself together as a country, and that's what made him great. That was the role you played in his life. Like we said, the red string doesn't mean you will fall in love.”
Tears came to England's eyes. He knew that this was the last connection he had to America. America didn't want him, he never had. Without this connection, he would be alone. It pulled at his finger as he thought about it, ever-taught.
“P-please, no.”
Another scene flashed through England's mind...
“S'il vous plaît, Angleterre... Vous ne pouvez pas le faire... Je vous en supplie...”
As if seeing his thoughts again, the deities looked at each other slowly and then nodded their agreement with each other, though Yuèlǎo still looked unsure. They glanced at England, who still had tears in his eyes, then they huddled together and whispered for a few minutes.
The fairy on England's shoulder patted his hair soothingly.
“It will be alright,” she whispered.
He just bit his lower lip to keep from crying outright.
Freyja was the first to speak up.
“If I may make a suggestion, we cut England's tie.”
Yuèlǎo looked horrified, and Aphroditê jumped up and down with glee.
“Oooh, yes let's do that. It will be a true tale of romance and sorrow!”
“No! We are not messing around with anymore of my ties!”
England went wide-eyed and held his hand up to his chest, covering it with his other hand, as if that would protect the string from these beings.
“Please, please no!”
Sucellus just looked thoughtful.
“Why do you say that, Freyja?”
She stood up a little straighter as she replied.
“I think it would do England some good to know what it feels like.”
England's heart sped up and he shook his head frantically. No, no, not America. Please, don't separate me from America!
Freyja looked at him as if she knew what he was thinking.
“England, America broke free from you a long time ago. You made him pull himself together as a country, and that's what made him great. That was the role you played in his life. Like we said, the red string doesn't mean you will fall in love.”
Tears came to England's eyes. He knew that this was the last connection he had to America. America didn't want him, he never had. Without this connection, he would be alone. It pulled at his finger as he thought about it, ever-taught.
“P-please, no.”
Another scene flashed through England's mind...
“S'il vous plaît, Angleterre... Vous ne pouvez pas le faire... Je vous en supplie...”
As if seeing his thoughts again, the deities looked at each other slowly and then nodded their agreement with each other, though Yuèlǎo still looked unsure. They glanced at England, who still had tears in his eyes, then they huddled together and whispered for a few minutes.
The fairy on England's shoulder patted his hair soothingly.
“It will be alright,” she whispered.
He just bit his lower lip to keep from crying outright.
The group disbanded and Sucellus turned to face him once again.
“Alright England, here is what we have decided. You are going to take care of France, and your tie to America is going to be severed. Aphroditê has agreed to not influence your feelings toward each other, so you know that what you feel is entirely of your own doing. Yuèlǎo has agreed to sever the tie on the contingency that Aphroditê keeps her half of the promise, and with the assurance that if France decides to let you help him, she gets to tie you two together. Freyja has decided that this is fair, though we are going to decide who America is going to be tied to instead.”
England listened to his speech, his heart pulsing against the tight thread around his finger.
“England, give Yuèlǎo your hand.”
England knew he had to, knew he didn't have a choice, knew they were right about America, but he still clutched his hand to his chest. The tears started streaming down his face.
Yuèlǎo stepped in front of him and held her hand out expectantly.
“Please, no,” he whispered, even as he held his hand out.
Yuèlǎo looked at him coldly and took the string in her hands. She pulled, and it snapped as if it was embroidery floss.
The effect was instantaneous. He felt as if his soul was torn from his body, ripped to pieces, hastily glued back together, shoved back inside his body, and then his entire body was stuck through a blender.
He fell to his knees, gasping. Everything hurt. Touching the ground hurt. Breathing hurt. But breathing was necessary when sobbing. The tears running down his cheeks hurt. He felt as if it was himself falling against the floor instead of his tears.
England forgot about the deities looking at him until he pulled himself together, and the air stopped burning on the way to his lungs.
“W-why?” England gasped.
“I'm sure France asked the same thing,” Sucellus said. “And I don't think he got an answer.”
The floor dissolved from under England and the next thing he knew, he was on his bed. He was hurt, alone, and crying. Just as France was on that fateful day...
[ Okay, so this isn't all I have written so far, but I wanted to get something up. I'm still messing around with how I want events to go and how I want to end this, so if anyone has anything they would like to say, (especially OP) then now would be the time to say so =] Thanks to any who read this, and I hope y'all enjoy <3
reCAPTCHA: from nonsuie
^ Apparently, I am not anon, but nonsuie. ]
“Alright England, here is what we have decided. You are going to take care of France, and your tie to America is going to be severed. Aphroditê has agreed to not influence your feelings toward each other, so you know that what you feel is entirely of your own doing. Yuèlǎo has agreed to sever the tie on the contingency that Aphroditê keeps her half of the promise, and with the assurance that if France decides to let you help him, she gets to tie you two together. Freyja has decided that this is fair, though we are going to decide who America is going to be tied to instead.”
England listened to his speech, his heart pulsing against the tight thread around his finger.
“England, give Yuèlǎo your hand.”
England knew he had to, knew he didn't have a choice, knew they were right about America, but he still clutched his hand to his chest. The tears started streaming down his face.
Yuèlǎo stepped in front of him and held her hand out expectantly.
“Please, no,” he whispered, even as he held his hand out.
Yuèlǎo looked at him coldly and took the string in her hands. She pulled, and it snapped as if it was embroidery floss.
The effect was instantaneous. He felt as if his soul was torn from his body, ripped to pieces, hastily glued back together, shoved back inside his body, and then his entire body was stuck through a blender.
He fell to his knees, gasping. Everything hurt. Touching the ground hurt. Breathing hurt. But breathing was necessary when sobbing. The tears running down his cheeks hurt. He felt as if it was himself falling against the floor instead of his tears.
England forgot about the deities looking at him until he pulled himself together, and the air stopped burning on the way to his lungs.
“W-why?” England gasped.
“I'm sure France asked the same thing,” Sucellus said. “And I don't think he got an answer.”
The floor dissolved from under England and the next thing he knew, he was on his bed. He was hurt, alone, and crying. Just as France was on that fateful day...
[ Okay, so this isn't all I have written so far, but I wanted to get something up. I'm still messing around with how I want events to go and how I want to end this, so if anyone has anything they would like to say, (especially OP) then now would be the time to say so =] Thanks to any who read this, and I hope y'all enjoy <3
reCAPTCHA: from nonsuie
^ Apparently, I am not anon, but nonsuie. ]
Anon, this was GORGEOUS! You had me in tears all through the story, and the way you portrayed the characters and their feelings was stunningly good. I can't wait for more! <3
It's "taut", not "taught".
I admire you so much for your ability to portray England as a sympathetic character despite the fact that he did such a horrible thing to France. I am absolutely dying fore more of this, anon! It's a rare day to see such beautiful fills on the meme.
This is amazing anon!
I love the emotion. France's hurt and England's pain after having his thread severed was fenominal. I almost cried for them ;_; and it makes me worry about poor Alfred... I wonder if he felt the same thing Arthur did when the string was severed.
My love for this fill can't be put into words Anon. I'll never be able to describe how wonderful this is :)
I love the emotion. France's hurt and England's pain after having his thread severed was fenominal. I almost cried for them ;_; and it makes me worry about poor Alfred... I wonder if he felt the same thing Arthur did when the string was severed.
My love for this fill can't be put into words Anon. I'll never be able to describe how wonderful this is :)
I'm not sure what a UKUS-shipper is even doing reading this fill, but I was pulled toward it for some reason and I like it. Though, I'm also weeping my eyes sore...for all the nations involved so far.
I am really enjoying this fill (even as a UKUS fangirl). Lately I've been a glutton for fanfiction punishment.
So, since I've shed my tears (though, I'll probably shed more), whatever happens, I'm looking forward to reading what it will be.
I am really enjoying this fill (even as a UKUS fangirl). Lately I've been a glutton for fanfiction punishment.
So, since I've shed my tears (though, I'll probably shed more), whatever happens, I'm looking forward to reading what it will be.
[ Oh my goodness... Your compliments... T_T I really don't know what to say. You all are absolutely fabulous, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for being so kind. I am so glad you are enjoying it, and thank you so much for continuing to read.
Thanks to that one anon for correcting my spelling. Heh heh... Whoops ^^; ]
England awoke with a start. He regretted sitting up so fast when his head throbbed in protest to the movement. He felt like it had been cleaved in two and duct taped back together.
When he rubbed a hand over his face, he noticed his pinky. The string was slack.
He stared at it for a minute, just watching it dangle to and fro. The end seemed to fray before his eyes. Then he scrambled to look over the side of his bed and see where it ended. It ended just over the edge of his comforter. No...
His lungs felt constricted, and it was a battle to take a deep breath.
The ache of his body and soul hit him at the same time. England's thread dangled, his head throbbed, his soul hurt, the image of France looking up at him with hate haunted his mind. He started crying again. For himself, for America, and for France. He just couldn't stop. That pull against his hand from the tightness of the thread was entirely gone.
Eventually his phone started ringing.
He glared at it blearily, then decided it may be in his best interest to at least answer it.
He reached across the pile of tissues that had accumulated on his bed and grabbed the phone.
“Hello?” he asked shakily.
“Heya England! Are you coming to the meeting today? We're all waiting on ya!” a very loud and obnoxious voice responded.
England stared at the receiver blankly for a moment. Of course it would be him that calls, of all times!
“Yo, England? Are ya there?”
“Umm, yes. Yes, I'm here. But I'm not coming. I'm uhh, sick.”
“Sick? Oh jeez man, d'ya need a hamburger or sumthin'?”
His stomach churned unpleasantly at the very thought. Then it just churned unpleasantly.
England hurriedly leaned over the side of his bed to the trashcan and unleashed the meager contents of his stomach.
Beeping sounded from the phone, signaling that America had hung up.
Well, that solved that problem.
As he hung the phone up, it hit him that America was perfectly fine. Did he not even notice that he and England were separated forever?
England's thoughts wandered to what the fairy said when she came for him in his garden. And once people fall in love, the thread can't be broken. Did that mean America didn't love him? Not at all?
England fought back a fresh round of tears. Ignoring his headache, he forced himself out of bed. He stumbled to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then took a quick shower. He felt marginally better after, but he really didn't want to cook or go out anywhere to eat. For the first time in his life, he ordered pizza.
He sat in his kitchen, waiting for the delivery. His head was still pounding, and breathing was still a struggle. Who thought that it could hurt this much?
France, I'm so sorry...
Thanks to that one anon for correcting my spelling. Heh heh... Whoops ^^; ]
England awoke with a start. He regretted sitting up so fast when his head throbbed in protest to the movement. He felt like it had been cleaved in two and duct taped back together.
When he rubbed a hand over his face, he noticed his pinky. The string was slack.
He stared at it for a minute, just watching it dangle to and fro. The end seemed to fray before his eyes. Then he scrambled to look over the side of his bed and see where it ended. It ended just over the edge of his comforter. No...
His lungs felt constricted, and it was a battle to take a deep breath.
The ache of his body and soul hit him at the same time. England's thread dangled, his head throbbed, his soul hurt, the image of France looking up at him with hate haunted his mind. He started crying again. For himself, for America, and for France. He just couldn't stop. That pull against his hand from the tightness of the thread was entirely gone.
Eventually his phone started ringing.
He glared at it blearily, then decided it may be in his best interest to at least answer it.
He reached across the pile of tissues that had accumulated on his bed and grabbed the phone.
“Hello?” he asked shakily.
“Heya England! Are you coming to the meeting today? We're all waiting on ya!” a very loud and obnoxious voice responded.
England stared at the receiver blankly for a moment. Of course it would be him that calls, of all times!
“Yo, England? Are ya there?”
“Umm, yes. Yes, I'm here. But I'm not coming. I'm uhh, sick.”
“Sick? Oh jeez man, d'ya need a hamburger or sumthin'?”
His stomach churned unpleasantly at the very thought. Then it just churned unpleasantly.
England hurriedly leaned over the side of his bed to the trashcan and unleashed the meager contents of his stomach.
Beeping sounded from the phone, signaling that America had hung up.
Well, that solved that problem.
As he hung the phone up, it hit him that America was perfectly fine. Did he not even notice that he and England were separated forever?
England's thoughts wandered to what the fairy said when she came for him in his garden. And once people fall in love, the thread can't be broken. Did that mean America didn't love him? Not at all?
England fought back a fresh round of tears. Ignoring his headache, he forced himself out of bed. He stumbled to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then took a quick shower. He felt marginally better after, but he really didn't want to cook or go out anywhere to eat. For the first time in his life, he ordered pizza.
He sat in his kitchen, waiting for the delivery. His head was still pounding, and breathing was still a struggle. Who thought that it could hurt this much?
France, I'm so sorry...
The next two days were much the same. England certainly wasn't lying when he said that he was sick. Whenever he thought about America, he would cry for himself, and whenever he thought about Jeanne, he would cry for France. Then he would be reminded that he was supposed to be helping France, but he couldn't seem to pull himself together. Just looking at his sad little string would get him worked up all over again.
England took the time he was spending by himself to contemplate the various ways he could disappear. He could lock his door forever and invest in thick curtains, he could convince Germany to lend him one of his gigantic dogs to scare off potential visitors, he could move to Antarctica. Yes, moving to Antarctica was tempting. And he smiled bitterly to himself as he planned the details of his trip and devised suitable names for penguins.
It got even worse when it started snowing. The broadcasting companies took it as an opportunity to play as many sappy love movies as possible, and England couldn't bring himself to shut them off.
He was wrapped up quite snugly in his blanket with a cup of tea when his phone rang. He just gave it an exasperated look and turned the television up. Whoever it was could just call his boss.
Oh jeez... His paperwork would seriously be piling up.
England sighed and continued watching his movies.
Three cups of tea and two hour's worth of commericals later, there was a knock at his door. He braced himself for the wrath of his boss and yelled somewhat scratchily: “Just come in!”
“Oh, Angleterre, I never thought you would say that! I'm touched, vraiment.”
England turned to look at the man who had just entered his kitchen in disbelief. The headache hit him again tenfold, and his stomach turned when he saw the limp string at France's side.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
France flourished his wavy hair with a grin.
“I'm here to check on you, of course. Amérique said you weren't feeling well, and it isn't like you to ignore your phone.”
Just then, there was another knock at the door.
“Could you get that please?” England asked, rubbing the heel of his hand against his throbbing temple.
“I could indeed,” France replied.
England shot him a disparaging look.
France grinned and sauntered back over to the door.
“Pizza?” France asked with a raised eyebrow.
England shrugged helplessly.
France pulled his own wallet out to pay the man before England could object, and then brought the box over to the table.
“... You didn't have to do that,” England said.
France shrugged and eyed the box with distaste.
Grease was leaving little stains on the cardboard.
“Angleterre, I don't think you've ever missed a World Meeting. And if you have resulted to ordering such atrocities, I think my concern was well-placed.”
The fact that France was genuinely concerned about him made him feel so much worse.
“I can take care of myself, you bloody frog!”
France simply smiled and walked toward the stove, rolling his sleeves up.
“Ouais, besides cooking, I'm sure.”
England didn't reply. He couldn't take his eyes off the red thread. And the things the fairy showed him were back with a vengeance. France alive and vibrant on the battlefield, France agonizing over the loss of his beloved Jeanne, France glaring up at him the day he killed her.
Those Frances looked nothing like the one that was in his kitchen, setting water up to boil. He had tied his hair up, and he looked positively domestic.
England quickly shook that thought from his mind.
France hummed some tune or another to himself as he worked. First, he set pasta to boil, then he put a sauce pan on the stove and started crushing tomatoes in it. He made it look so bloody easy.
“Alors, Angleterre. What seems to be your ailment?”
“Just a bloody cold,” England muttered.
“It must be more than a cold, you haven't kicked me out of your house or yelled at me for using your kitchen.”
England just sighed moodily and shrugged.
France gave him a half-concerned and half-amused look before returning his attention to the stove.
“You look like you need a drink,” France mused.
“I agree, even if my stomach doesn't.”
France chuckled, but then fell silent.
Why did you do it?
He pondered the answer to the question as France continued to cook and hum. He allowed England to brood in silence. And if he felt England's gaze boring into him, he didn't mention it.
Why did he do it? Why did he want France to surrender so badly? He knew what it would do to him, so why did he feel bad when it actually happened?
England watched his red string absently. It lied limply on the table, but then it wiggled. It wiggled at the same time France's twitched.
Oh God.
Oh God.
England stood up so suddenly, his chair fell over. France turned around quickly in concern.
“Angleterre?” he asked. “Are you alright?”
“I... Uh... Yes. Just a moment please.”
England rushed out of the kitchen, into his bedroom, locked the door, and slowly slid down against the wood.
“Oh Gods no,” he mumbled to himself.
The faint beating of wings filled the room and he looked up to find the fairy from a few nights ago. She didn't look nearly as calculating as she had, and honestly, she looked much friendlier.
“Wow you figured that out much sooner than we thought,” she commented with a little giggle.
England looked at her dumbly for a moment.
“I thought Aphroditê wasn't going to interfere!”
The fairy giggled again.
“She hasn't. This has been a long time coming.”
England groaned and buried his face in his hands.
“This can't be happening... And what in the bloody name of Sucellus is wrong with him?”
The fairy patted his shoulder comfortingly, but then what he said registered, and she looked at him quizzically.
“What's wrong with him?”
“Yes him! How can our strings possibly be connected when they're not tied?! What's this great role we are supposed to play in each other's lives?”
The fairy looked at him dumbly, so England continued:
“Well, I suppose mine is obvious. But I'm supposed to be helping him, not the other way around!”
At that moment, there was a knock on his bedroom door.
“Angleterre, are you sure you're okay?”
England lifted his head and then stood up slowly. He glanced at his reflection in his mirror in the process and saw how much of a mess he looked. His hair was untidy, his face looked sticky from his earlier tears, and his eyes were still red around the edges. He supposed France had just reason to be so concerned.
“I'm the United bloody Kingdom,” England mumbled to himself.
“What was that?” France asked from the other side of the door.
“I'm just making myself more presentable,” England said.
“If you say so... Call me if you need anything, I'm going back to the kitchen.”
France gave him a half-concerned and half-amused look before returning his attention to the stove.
“You look like you need a drink,” France mused.
“I agree, even if my stomach doesn't.”
France chuckled, but then fell silent.
Why did you do it?
He pondered the answer to the question as France continued to cook and hum. He allowed England to brood in silence. And if he felt England's gaze boring into him, he didn't mention it.
Why did he do it? Why did he want France to surrender so badly? He knew what it would do to him, so why did he feel bad when it actually happened?
England watched his red string absently. It lied limply on the table, but then it wiggled. It wiggled at the same time France's twitched.
Oh God.
Oh God.
England stood up so suddenly, his chair fell over. France turned around quickly in concern.
“Angleterre?” he asked. “Are you alright?”
“I... Uh... Yes. Just a moment please.”
England rushed out of the kitchen, into his bedroom, locked the door, and slowly slid down against the wood.
“Oh Gods no,” he mumbled to himself.
The faint beating of wings filled the room and he looked up to find the fairy from a few nights ago. She didn't look nearly as calculating as she had, and honestly, she looked much friendlier.
“Wow you figured that out much sooner than we thought,” she commented with a little giggle.
England looked at her dumbly for a moment.
“I thought Aphroditê wasn't going to interfere!”
The fairy giggled again.
“She hasn't. This has been a long time coming.”
England groaned and buried his face in his hands.
“This can't be happening... And what in the bloody name of Sucellus is wrong with him?”
The fairy patted his shoulder comfortingly, but then what he said registered, and she looked at him quizzically.
“What's wrong with him?”
“Yes him! How can our strings possibly be connected when they're not tied?! What's this great role we are supposed to play in each other's lives?”
The fairy looked at him dumbly, so England continued:
“Well, I suppose mine is obvious. But I'm supposed to be helping him, not the other way around!”
At that moment, there was a knock on his bedroom door.
“Angleterre, are you sure you're okay?”
England lifted his head and then stood up slowly. He glanced at his reflection in his mirror in the process and saw how much of a mess he looked. His hair was untidy, his face looked sticky from his earlier tears, and his eyes were still red around the edges. He supposed France had just reason to be so concerned.
“I'm the United bloody Kingdom,” England mumbled to himself.
“What was that?” France asked from the other side of the door.
“I'm just making myself more presentable,” England said.
“If you say so... Call me if you need anything, I'm going back to the kitchen.”
England heard fading footsteps, and then he went over to the mirror to straighten his hair. He found it hard to believe that it could get this messy after he showered earlier, but he just shrugged. He really did feel bloody awful. Then he went to the bathroom and washed his face. He clutched either side of the sink with his hands and watched his red string creep across the sink of its own accord, silently straining for the kitchen.
He looked up at his reflection and sighed.
That's it. France needed to get out of his house.
England went back to the kitchen just in time to see France put a plate of spaghetti on the table.
“Ah, Angleterre, it's good to see you still alive and well.”
“Yes quite well, thank you. And now, as I've things to do, I'll ask you to kindly remove yourself from my house.”
France gave England a warming smile.
“I'm glad you're back to your old self.”
Thrown off by the smile, England just cleared his throat and opened the door for him.
“Thank you for lunch France, and I'll pay you back for the pizza.”
France ruffled his tidied hair and leaned on the door frame on his way out.
“There's no need to pay me back. How about you come out drinking with me tomorrow night and we'll call it even.”
Seeing as France made it a habit to invade personal space, he was much too close for England's comfort.
“F-fine. Stupid git,” England said, and pushed France away lightly. Now his stomach churned for an entirely different reason.
France caught the hand England pushed him with and kissed it. England just watched in horror as his red thread curled up to France's cheek almost tenderly...
Chalking it up to France's usual antics, England scowled and slammed the door.
He looked up at his reflection and sighed.
That's it. France needed to get out of his house.
England went back to the kitchen just in time to see France put a plate of spaghetti on the table.
“Ah, Angleterre, it's good to see you still alive and well.”
“Yes quite well, thank you. And now, as I've things to do, I'll ask you to kindly remove yourself from my house.”
France gave England a warming smile.
“I'm glad you're back to your old self.”
Thrown off by the smile, England just cleared his throat and opened the door for him.
“Thank you for lunch France, and I'll pay you back for the pizza.”
France ruffled his tidied hair and leaned on the door frame on his way out.
“There's no need to pay me back. How about you come out drinking with me tomorrow night and we'll call it even.”
Seeing as France made it a habit to invade personal space, he was much too close for England's comfort.
“F-fine. Stupid git,” England said, and pushed France away lightly. Now his stomach churned for an entirely different reason.
France caught the hand England pushed him with and kissed it. England just watched in horror as his red thread curled up to France's cheek almost tenderly...
Chalking it up to France's usual antics, England scowled and slammed the door.
The next evening, England was trying to devise a decent excuse to not go drinking. If he said he was still sick, then France would show up at his house again. He could just say he had a headache, but then France would probably show up at his house with a bottle of wine or something. And if he said he changed his mind, France would come over and drag him out.
England sighed in frustration and once again examined his reflection in his mirror. He looked much better than yesterday, even if he didn't feel much better. His head was still pounding and his chest was still tight. Honestly, he would've preferred to go hide under a rock and stay there until he died. But France and America would go looking for him. His heart still skipped a beat whenever he thought about America. Then he would have to fight tears again.
The fairy just watched his ministrations with amusement.
“You know,” she commented, “This counts as taking care of him. Though you shouldn’t put up such a fuss when he is making your job easier.”
“It isn't my fault that he decided to show up yesterday.”
She sighed and flew over to his shoulder, which seemed to be her favorite spot.
“Well, he wants you to go, so go.”
“I am,” England said as he grabbed his coat. “Are you coming too?”
“After awhile you'll probably start seeing me whether I'm there or not,” she replied with a giggle.
England rolled his eyes and called for a cab.
The fairy giggled the whole way there.
...oOo...
Clubbing with France wasn't nearly as bad as England was anticipating. He was expecting blaring music and lots of girls, but his little group of three just sat in the back, working their way through a bottle of wine, and trying to guess whether the people who walked by were gay or not. It really wasn't so bad. France and Spain flirted with each other shamelessly, and at one point a completely smashed Prussia showed up.
They played a drinking game (which England totally won) and then went out on the dance floor and danced to obnoxiously loud music. Thank goodness England couldn't make the tune or the words out properly, or his night would've been utterly ruined.
“I didn't think you had it in you to dance like this, Angleterre!” France shouted over all the noise.
England just grinned and continued dancing like he was going through his punk phase all over again. The tightness in his chest was gone.
Prussia didn't get up to dance the entire time, he just sat at the table in the back, swirling a martini around in his glass. He looked strangely thoughtful...
The last song of the night was a slow dance. It was slow, yet upbeat. Clearly meant for people who knew their way around the dance floor.
Like Spain, apparently.
He immediately grabbed France's wrist and dragged him onto the floor. France shot England an apologetic smile as he went, and England sat back down at the table with Prussia.
They watched as France and Spain danced around the floor. Almost no one else was dancing to this one, so they had it almost entirely to themselves. They moved sensually against each other, drawing apart, and then together. They danced separately, and yet together, with much twirling and dipping. They seemed to switch off with who led and who followed.
Spain winked at England as they went by.
England sighed in frustration and once again examined his reflection in his mirror. He looked much better than yesterday, even if he didn't feel much better. His head was still pounding and his chest was still tight. Honestly, he would've preferred to go hide under a rock and stay there until he died. But France and America would go looking for him. His heart still skipped a beat whenever he thought about America. Then he would have to fight tears again.
The fairy just watched his ministrations with amusement.
“You know,” she commented, “This counts as taking care of him. Though you shouldn’t put up such a fuss when he is making your job easier.”
“It isn't my fault that he decided to show up yesterday.”
She sighed and flew over to his shoulder, which seemed to be her favorite spot.
“Well, he wants you to go, so go.”
“I am,” England said as he grabbed his coat. “Are you coming too?”
“After awhile you'll probably start seeing me whether I'm there or not,” she replied with a giggle.
England rolled his eyes and called for a cab.
The fairy giggled the whole way there.
Clubbing with France wasn't nearly as bad as England was anticipating. He was expecting blaring music and lots of girls, but his little group of three just sat in the back, working their way through a bottle of wine, and trying to guess whether the people who walked by were gay or not. It really wasn't so bad. France and Spain flirted with each other shamelessly, and at one point a completely smashed Prussia showed up.
They played a drinking game (which England totally won) and then went out on the dance floor and danced to obnoxiously loud music. Thank goodness England couldn't make the tune or the words out properly, or his night would've been utterly ruined.
“I didn't think you had it in you to dance like this, Angleterre!” France shouted over all the noise.
England just grinned and continued dancing like he was going through his punk phase all over again. The tightness in his chest was gone.
Prussia didn't get up to dance the entire time, he just sat at the table in the back, swirling a martini around in his glass. He looked strangely thoughtful...
The last song of the night was a slow dance. It was slow, yet upbeat. Clearly meant for people who knew their way around the dance floor.
Like Spain, apparently.
He immediately grabbed France's wrist and dragged him onto the floor. France shot England an apologetic smile as he went, and England sat back down at the table with Prussia.
They watched as France and Spain danced around the floor. Almost no one else was dancing to this one, so they had it almost entirely to themselves. They moved sensually against each other, drawing apart, and then together. They danced separately, and yet together, with much twirling and dipping. They seemed to switch off with who led and who followed.
Spain winked at England as they went by.
England blinked at him, but any thoughts he was going to have about that was interrupted when a wine cork hit his cheek.
He turned to face a grinning Prussia.
“It's making me sick,” the red-eyed man declared.
“What?” England asked, glancing to the dancing couple. “They're not bad at all.”
“Nein, nein,” Prussia waved him off, “Not them, you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Prussia rolled his eyes.
“If you keep looking at him like that, I am going to puke. And I'll aim for your head.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“... Sure you don't.”
“Are they together?” England asked, ignoring his comment.
“Pfft. Not for centuries. They weren't ever really together though, they just went at it like rabbits for a few decades.”
Somehow that made England's night even better.
France and Spain came back, panting slightly.
“You haven't lost your touch, amigo.”
“Nor have you, cher.”
The two went to sit down again, but France checked his watch.
“Ahh, they're closing in about ten minutes... We should go before the crowd pours out.”
Spain and Prussia nodded, then grinned as France offered England a hand up.
England looked at the hand, then at the face of the man offering it. There was a strangely contented smile on his face.
It made England smile as well when he took the hand. As they went outside, England figured he must be doing something right if France was smiling like that. (His thread twitched in agreement.)
And as the cab was leaving, he heard France call after him:
“I'll call you in the morning, Angleterre!”
High under the influence of alcohol and elation of the evening, England half-dangled out the window to call back-
“I was planning on it, you bloody frog!”
France shook his golden hair, and continued smiling.
[Quick note: if you caught it, please say nothing. I know what I'm doing ;]
If you didn't catch it, good. I don't want you to, please don't go looking. You will understand next update, though you may shoot me in the meantime. *distributes various shooting devices* ]
He turned to face a grinning Prussia.
“It's making me sick,” the red-eyed man declared.
“What?” England asked, glancing to the dancing couple. “They're not bad at all.”
“Nein, nein,” Prussia waved him off, “Not them, you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Prussia rolled his eyes.
“If you keep looking at him like that, I am going to puke. And I'll aim for your head.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“... Sure you don't.”
“Are they together?” England asked, ignoring his comment.
“Pfft. Not for centuries. They weren't ever really together though, they just went at it like rabbits for a few decades.”
Somehow that made England's night even better.
France and Spain came back, panting slightly.
“You haven't lost your touch, amigo.”
“Nor have you, cher.”
The two went to sit down again, but France checked his watch.
“Ahh, they're closing in about ten minutes... We should go before the crowd pours out.”
Spain and Prussia nodded, then grinned as France offered England a hand up.
England looked at the hand, then at the face of the man offering it. There was a strangely contented smile on his face.
It made England smile as well when he took the hand. As they went outside, England figured he must be doing something right if France was smiling like that. (His thread twitched in agreement.)
And as the cab was leaving, he heard France call after him:
“I'll call you in the morning, Angleterre!”
High under the influence of alcohol and elation of the evening, England half-dangled out the window to call back-
“I was planning on it, you bloody frog!”
France shook his golden hair, and continued smiling.
[Quick note: if you caught it, please say nothing. I know what I'm doing ;]
If you didn't catch it, good. I don't want you to, please don't go looking. You will understand next update, though you may shoot me in the meantime. *distributes various shooting devices* ]
This just keeps getting better and better! I adore the way you write England's perspective and keep him so in-character and believable. His thoughts and observations make him such a genuine character, and I love his interaction with France. You're doing a fantastic job!
Did I ever happen to mention that 'Angleterre' means 'England' in French? ^^;
First of all, I got it. Second of all, look what I found!!
http://25.media.tumblr.com/5e987c97d282644bfc711678be79a0fd/tumblr_mjbpiuNEL51ripbrdo1_500.png
http://25.media.tumblr.com/5e987c97d282644bfc711678be79a0fd/tumblr_mjbpiuNEL51ripbrdo1_500.png
I'm stunned that this fill isn't flooded in comments. It's one of the most heartbreakingly beautiful stories there has been on the meme lately, and the characterization is fantastic.
And now that will bother me until you update. I have no idea what you mean. D:
This is very good A!A :) I just adore you France. He's always been one of my favorite characters, and your portrayal of him is beautiful :) though I was a bit confused when you brought Prussia into this... I was under the impression he was dead... But perhaps Russia lost him in some other way, as he wouldn't have been dissolved yet durring Jean d' Arc's death... Either way it's not a pare issue :P
I'm absolutly loving your fill anon! Keep up the good work! And please don't keep us waiting.
This is very good A!A :) I just adore you France. He's always been one of my favorite characters, and your portrayal of him is beautiful :) though I was a bit confused when you brought Prussia into this... I was under the impression he was dead... But perhaps Russia lost him in some other way, as he wouldn't have been dissolved yet durring Jean d' Arc's death... Either way it's not a pare issue :P
I'm absolutly loving your fill anon! Keep up the good work! And please don't keep us waiting.
Baw... I feel so bad for Arthur, honestly. You are being kinda hard on him and all. I mean, okay he murdered an 19-year-old woman but hey, that's war for you... Okay it sounds weird when you say it like that but you know what I mean. Different standards. Oh well. But it is cute anyway when he's so sorry about it and secretly in love.
I have to admit though that I'm not sure if I get how the whole thing works... because France seems to be fine and all even after so long after. Idk. I guess it could be that he doesn't show it but. There's just a pretty big leap from his revenge by helping America and being cold and vengeful to modern day and being very normal canon Francis.
I do like the whole mixing of religions thing you have going on. And the way the strings come into the story is cool. And of course all the FrUK is adorable (and the slight UK>US too, I like how you made England's loss a big part of the story and made it mirror France's (even though obviously America didn't DIE)).
Sorry to be a nitpick but I need to make a few comments about languages. x) Because I'm a language nerd.
Firstly, at the time of the Hundred Years' War, English language also made the same distinction between respectful "you" and familiar "you" which was really "thou". "You" was also plural, for many yous while thou was only used in singular.
(People are probably confused about the use of thou because it's used in the Bible to address God, so you'd think it was respectful, but that's the funny thing about Jesus and this was already in the original Greek and Aramaic versions, I think, that he always addressed God familiarly, showing that he really believed that God was his father and all our father, someone familiar who you could talk with.)
Secondly, Yuèlǎo is Chinese (I think it translates to something like "the elder of the moon" or something). I couldn't even find a Japanese name for her so I don't know if she was even really known in Japan.
Yyeaah, sorry about that. I can't help myself... I'm obsessive-compulsive nitpicker, especially about languages. (Besides I love the history of the English language in particular, it's so interesting and full of weird plot twists.)
I have to admit though that I'm not sure if I get how the whole thing works... because France seems to be fine and all even after so long after. Idk. I guess it could be that he doesn't show it but. There's just a pretty big leap from his revenge by helping America and being cold and vengeful to modern day and being very normal canon Francis.
I do like the whole mixing of religions thing you have going on. And the way the strings come into the story is cool. And of course all the FrUK is adorable (and the slight UK>US too, I like how you made England's loss a big part of the story and made it mirror France's (even though obviously America didn't DIE)).
Sorry to be a nitpick but I need to make a few comments about languages. x) Because I'm a language nerd.
Firstly, at the time of the Hundred Years' War, English language also made the same distinction between respectful "you" and familiar "you" which was really "thou". "You" was also plural, for many yous while thou was only used in singular.
(People are probably confused about the use of thou because it's used in the Bible to address God, so you'd think it was respectful, but that's the funny thing about Jesus and this was already in the original Greek and Aramaic versions, I think, that he always addressed God familiarly, showing that he really believed that God was his father and all our father, someone familiar who you could talk with.)
Secondly, Yuèlǎo is Chinese (I think it translates to something like "the elder of the moon" or something). I couldn't even find a Japanese name for her so I don't know if she was even really known in Japan.
Yyeaah, sorry about that. I can't help myself... I'm obsessive-compulsive nitpicker, especially about languages. (Besides I love the history of the English language in particular, it's so interesting and full of weird plot twists.)
I wouldn't normally reply to comments (I feel like someone will shoot me for taking space up on the meme >.< ) but I'll make an exception.
First and foremost, thank you for taking the time to give me those pointers and telling me what you like. I really appreciate that you've taken the time to explain all of this to me.
When I first started writing this, to be completely honest, I was in an awful mood... And took it out on poor Arthur. I'm actually a hopeless romantic sap, especially with this pairing 'cause I love Francis so darn much ^^
I actually did know that about 'you' and 'thou' but I felt as if it would kind of take away from the point I was trying to make. Had I decided to extend the scene and make a bigger deal about their past, I would've had them speak in old English. (That and whenever I write in old English, I can't help but feel as if I'm going to debauch the language terribly...) And that thing about the bible is really interesting, I never knew that O.O
Oh whoops... I read the Wiki page on Yuelao too quickly... It is a Japanese myth, but it differs slightly from the Chinese. (According to Wiki:) the Chinese myth says the red thread is tied around your ankle and it connects you to someone who will have an impact on your life. In Japanese, the thread is around your pinky and it ties you to your soul mate.
Oh no, don't you worry about being an obsessive nit-picker. Honestly I find it flattering that you pay so close attention ^^
First and foremost, thank you for taking the time to give me those pointers and telling me what you like. I really appreciate that you've taken the time to explain all of this to me.
When I first started writing this, to be completely honest, I was in an awful mood... And took it out on poor Arthur. I'm actually a hopeless romantic sap, especially with this pairing 'cause I love Francis so darn much ^^
I actually did know that about 'you' and 'thou' but I felt as if it would kind of take away from the point I was trying to make. Had I decided to extend the scene and make a bigger deal about their past, I would've had them speak in old English. (That and whenever I write in old English, I can't help but feel as if I'm going to debauch the language terribly...) And that thing about the bible is really interesting, I never knew that O.O
Oh whoops... I read the Wiki page on Yuelao too quickly... It is a Japanese myth, but it differs slightly from the Chinese. (According to Wiki:) the Chinese myth says the red thread is tied around your ankle and it connects you to someone who will have an impact on your life. In Japanese, the thread is around your pinky and it ties you to your soul mate.
Oh no, don't you worry about being an obsessive nit-picker. Honestly I find it flattering that you pay so close attention ^^
So when do you use 'thee'? O_O
You use thee like you'd use "tu" in French: when you're speaking to one person who is either your close friend or lower in social hierarchy than you. Maybe between equals too, to be honest I'm not that sure. So you'd say thou to your family members, friends, children, servants, slaves and enemies. Anyone you wouldn't normally be polite towards. But only if there's only one of them. If there are more, it's "you" again.
Thou fell out of use simply because English speakers were too polite to use it with anyone anymore, so eventually people just forgot about it. xD So if you ever wanted proof that the English are too polite...
Thou fell out of use simply because English speakers were too polite to use it with anyone anymore, so eventually people just forgot about it. xD So if you ever wanted proof that the English are too polite...
Again, your compliments... I just... I can't even... THANK YOU! Thanks so much and you're all... Wundershöner (German word that carries the combined connotation of wonderous and fantastic). I'd love to reply to all of you, but I don't want to take up comment space. Thanks for continuing to read, and I sincerely hope I can continue to satisfy you all.
Psst, OP! You did get it XD
It was the fifth morning in a row that England woke up with a headache and with the familiar tightness in his chest. It was getting old quickly. The fact that he awoke to the feeling of someone looking at him didn't help at all.
England rolled over and put a pillow over his head grumpily.
… Someone looking at him...?
England opened his eyes slowly, almost afraid to look. The first thing he saw was that fairy, sitting right on his chest.
“Bloody hell!” England exclaimed and backpedaled quickly.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” she said hastily. “You just needed to see me first.”
“First?” he asked, his heart still pounding.
She eyed him warily. “Don't freak out.”
She moved aside to reveal someone sitting at the end of his bed.
Prussia waved halfheartedly and said, “Yo.”
England sat up in slow motion and rubbed his eyes.
“P-Prussia? You're...” England trailed off and gestured vaguely at nothing, “Dead”
Prussia broke out into laughter, clutching his stomach. “Y- your face... Your face!” England watched, unamused and just continued rubbing his eyes. Why this week of all weeks does a ghost decide to haunt him? His head throbbed mightily.
“You... Last night... Didn't even realize...” Prussia forced out between giggles.
“I was drunk!” England protested.
Prussia continued laughing to the point where he fell unceremoniously onto the floor.
England smirked as the ghost picked himself up.
“Please tell me that he is not here to haunt me,” he said to the fairy.
Prussia looked at him blankly and then scoffed.
“I am not a fucking ghost!”
“Really now? Well then, what exactly are you?”
“I'm a...” Prussia paused. “Ya know what? Fuck the proper terms. I don't even know. I'm just stuck here because I'm still tied to Ivan. And about that, I need a favor.”
England glanced at the red thread that was indeed still wrapped snuggly around his pinky. Then he raised an eyebrow. Since when did he use Russia's human name? And how could they still be tied?
“And what would that be?”
“It's a message,” Prussia scratched the back of his head and looked away. “A message for Russia.”
When the apparition seemed slightly uncertain and more serious, England became very curious.
“I can give it to him the next world meeting,” England said, trying to sound prompting.
Prussia nodded.
“I just need you to um...” he bit his lip and looked thoughtful. “Just tell Russia to not worry.”
England was itching to ask what that meant, but he felt as if it may be very personal. He knew the relationship they used to have.
“I'll be sure to tell him.”
“And there's one more thing... A message for Ivan.”
“Ivan?”
“Ja. I need you to...” he hesitated, “Tell him that it's okay.”
England's prominent eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“Aren't Ivan and Russia the same person?”
Prussia shook his head and opened his mouth to say something more, but then motioned toward the phone.
It started ringing.
He didn't care who it was, they could call back later or leave a message. He turned back to Prussia, but he was gone. England's head throbbed angrily when the answering machine sounded.
Psst, OP! You did get it XD
It was the fifth morning in a row that England woke up with a headache and with the familiar tightness in his chest. It was getting old quickly. The fact that he awoke to the feeling of someone looking at him didn't help at all.
England rolled over and put a pillow over his head grumpily.
… Someone looking at him...?
England opened his eyes slowly, almost afraid to look. The first thing he saw was that fairy, sitting right on his chest.
“Bloody hell!” England exclaimed and backpedaled quickly.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” she said hastily. “You just needed to see me first.”
“First?” he asked, his heart still pounding.
She eyed him warily. “Don't freak out.”
She moved aside to reveal someone sitting at the end of his bed.
Prussia waved halfheartedly and said, “Yo.”
England sat up in slow motion and rubbed his eyes.
“P-Prussia? You're...” England trailed off and gestured vaguely at nothing, “Dead”
Prussia broke out into laughter, clutching his stomach. “Y- your face... Your face!” England watched, unamused and just continued rubbing his eyes. Why this week of all weeks does a ghost decide to haunt him? His head throbbed mightily.
“You... Last night... Didn't even realize...” Prussia forced out between giggles.
“I was drunk!” England protested.
Prussia continued laughing to the point where he fell unceremoniously onto the floor.
England smirked as the ghost picked himself up.
“Please tell me that he is not here to haunt me,” he said to the fairy.
Prussia looked at him blankly and then scoffed.
“I am not a fucking ghost!”
“Really now? Well then, what exactly are you?”
“I'm a...” Prussia paused. “Ya know what? Fuck the proper terms. I don't even know. I'm just stuck here because I'm still tied to Ivan. And about that, I need a favor.”
England glanced at the red thread that was indeed still wrapped snuggly around his pinky. Then he raised an eyebrow. Since when did he use Russia's human name? And how could they still be tied?
“And what would that be?”
“It's a message,” Prussia scratched the back of his head and looked away. “A message for Russia.”
When the apparition seemed slightly uncertain and more serious, England became very curious.
“I can give it to him the next world meeting,” England said, trying to sound prompting.
Prussia nodded.
“I just need you to um...” he bit his lip and looked thoughtful. “Just tell Russia to not worry.”
England was itching to ask what that meant, but he felt as if it may be very personal. He knew the relationship they used to have.
“I'll be sure to tell him.”
“And there's one more thing... A message for Ivan.”
“Ivan?”
“Ja. I need you to...” he hesitated, “Tell him that it's okay.”
England's prominent eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“Aren't Ivan and Russia the same person?”
Prussia shook his head and opened his mouth to say something more, but then motioned toward the phone.
It started ringing.
He didn't care who it was, they could call back later or leave a message. He turned back to Prussia, but he was gone. England's head throbbed angrily when the answering machine sounded.
“Bon matin, Angleterre~ I promised to call, so here I am. I hope you're feeling alright...” There was a brief pause and England threw the blanket off and nearly fell off the bed in his haste to pick the receiver up.
“France!” he shouted, before really devising anything to say.
“...Well, isn't that just a warm greeting?”
England mentally slapped himself. It wasn't as if he could arbitrarily ask about Prussia.
“What are you calling for?”
“Je n'sais pas. What did you want me to call you for?”
“... Who said I wanted you to call?”
“Toi. Last night. I suppose you were quite drunk. However, you know what they say. Alcohol does not alter one's intentions, it only reveals them.”
“And what sort of dimwit said that?”
“Probably Prussia.”
England froze up a little at the mention of the nation's name, but he still chuckled lightly.
“Seriously though... What did you call for?”
“Well...” France hesitated. “Just to check on you, I suppose.”
“Oh... Thank you.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. A long moment.
“So... Angleterre... You never told me what had you down a few days ago.”
“It was uh... Nothing. It was nothing.”
“Pardon my saying, but that didn't sound very convincing. I think we've put our rivalry behind us, you can tell me what's wrong.”
England wasn't sure whether he wanted to tell him or not. It wasn't as if he could just tell France about the red thread and the Love Gods. He settled for the least incriminating explanation.
“It's... It's about America.”
“I'm sorry to hear that, Angleterre. Did something happen?”
He couldn't believe he was discussing this with that frog.
“I guess I... just realized that we couldn't work out.”
“A doomed love is the best kind, non? I think your cher Shakespeare would agree with me.”
“Maybe for literature, but I'd rather not be the subject of a tragedy.”
France chuckled.
“No star-crossed lover for you?”
“I should certainly think not.”
“Oh but what a romance it would be! Who could resist?”
“Me. Are you quite satisfied now?”
“Hm? Non. Not at all, actually. When one is heartbroken, one needs to get out and do things, live a little. Perhaps enjoy a whore or two. It so happens that Spain and I are going out again tonight. Care to join us?”
“...No.”
“Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Angleterre. Did it sound like a suggestion?”
England sighed, only half out of irritation. The other half out of guilt. France was being so nice, much nicer than he deserved. He was about to refuse, but the fairy appeared on his headboard just to give him a stern look, before she disappeared. Great. Were random beings going to start making a habit of that?
England sighed.
“Where do you want me to meet you?”
“France!” he shouted, before really devising anything to say.
“...Well, isn't that just a warm greeting?”
England mentally slapped himself. It wasn't as if he could arbitrarily ask about Prussia.
“What are you calling for?”
“Je n'sais pas. What did you want me to call you for?”
“... Who said I wanted you to call?”
“Toi. Last night. I suppose you were quite drunk. However, you know what they say. Alcohol does not alter one's intentions, it only reveals them.”
“And what sort of dimwit said that?”
“Probably Prussia.”
England froze up a little at the mention of the nation's name, but he still chuckled lightly.
“Seriously though... What did you call for?”
“Well...” France hesitated. “Just to check on you, I suppose.”
“Oh... Thank you.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. A long moment.
“So... Angleterre... You never told me what had you down a few days ago.”
“It was uh... Nothing. It was nothing.”
“Pardon my saying, but that didn't sound very convincing. I think we've put our rivalry behind us, you can tell me what's wrong.”
England wasn't sure whether he wanted to tell him or not. It wasn't as if he could just tell France about the red thread and the Love Gods. He settled for the least incriminating explanation.
“It's... It's about America.”
“I'm sorry to hear that, Angleterre. Did something happen?”
He couldn't believe he was discussing this with that frog.
“I guess I... just realized that we couldn't work out.”
“A doomed love is the best kind, non? I think your cher Shakespeare would agree with me.”
“Maybe for literature, but I'd rather not be the subject of a tragedy.”
France chuckled.
“No star-crossed lover for you?”
“I should certainly think not.”
“Oh but what a romance it would be! Who could resist?”
“Me. Are you quite satisfied now?”
“Hm? Non. Not at all, actually. When one is heartbroken, one needs to get out and do things, live a little. Perhaps enjoy a whore or two. It so happens that Spain and I are going out again tonight. Care to join us?”
“...No.”
“Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Angleterre. Did it sound like a suggestion?”
England sighed, only half out of irritation. The other half out of guilt. France was being so nice, much nicer than he deserved. He was about to refuse, but the fairy appeared on his headboard just to give him a stern look, before she disappeared. Great. Were random beings going to start making a habit of that?
England sighed.
“Where do you want me to meet you?”
[If it is in ITALIC CAPS it's the music blasting. ]
It was a different club this time and France and Spain were waiting for him outside. It was a small place, but by no means shabby-looking. Even though it wasn't particularly promising to hear music blasting out through the barrier of the closed doors... Especially this particular song.
“France,” England questioned as he approached, “Is this what I think it is?”
Spain started cracking up and just opened the door.
“YOU! I WANNA TAKE YOU TO A GAY BAR~ !”
England shot France an accusing look, and France just chuckled.
“Mon ami, I can explain-”
“I bloody well hope you can.”
“I WANNA TAKE YOU TO A GAY BAR~ ! GAY BAR~ ! GAY BAR~ !”
“Well, the purpose of going out yesterday was so you could pick a girl up to go home with.”
England just crossed his arms and glared at him.
“...Did you think I was kidding when I said 'enjoy a whore or two'?”
“Yes, actually.”
Spain rolled his eyes and motioned toward the open door.
“I'VE GOT SOMETHING TO PUT IN YOU~ !”
England raised an eyebrow at France who was avoiding his gaze and climbed up the steps into the bar.
When England went out last night, this was more along the lines of what he was expecting to experience. People winking suggestively at each other, strippers (male, much to his dismay) dancing around poles, smoke from goodness-knows-what, and darkness with colorful lights that rotated around, giving brief glimpses into things that should remain unseen.
France grabbed his wrist and led him through the crowd of dancing people. England watched the way they were moving with horror. That was not dancing.
The three went to the bar in the back and sat down, England's eyes still trained on the dance floor. Spain laughed and shot France an 'I told you so!' kind of look. France ignored him and said something to the bartender, though he was already making him a drink. As France was talking, the bartender looked with interest toward England, who now had Spain's arm around his shoulder.
“What are you drinking?” England asked, eyeing France's cup of pink liquid with interest.
“Strawberry Daiquiri,” France replied. “Want to try it?”
England tentatively reached for it and took a sip from the side rather than the straw. Spain found this rather amusing, and he laughed before slipping into the crowd of 'dancing' people.
“Not quite your style?” France asked.
England shot him a look.
“What do you think?”
France shrugged. “Well, I thought that you might prefer a girl at first. Might have been easier after... Well, you know. But who am I to deny you your gentlemen?”
It was a different club this time and France and Spain were waiting for him outside. It was a small place, but by no means shabby-looking. Even though it wasn't particularly promising to hear music blasting out through the barrier of the closed doors... Especially this particular song.
“France,” England questioned as he approached, “Is this what I think it is?”
Spain started cracking up and just opened the door.
“YOU! I WANNA TAKE YOU TO A GAY BAR~ !”
England shot France an accusing look, and France just chuckled.
“Mon ami, I can explain-”
“I bloody well hope you can.”
“I WANNA TAKE YOU TO A GAY BAR~ ! GAY BAR~ ! GAY BAR~ !”
“Well, the purpose of going out yesterday was so you could pick a girl up to go home with.”
England just crossed his arms and glared at him.
“...Did you think I was kidding when I said 'enjoy a whore or two'?”
“Yes, actually.”
Spain rolled his eyes and motioned toward the open door.
“I'VE GOT SOMETHING TO PUT IN YOU~ !”
England raised an eyebrow at France who was avoiding his gaze and climbed up the steps into the bar.
When England went out last night, this was more along the lines of what he was expecting to experience. People winking suggestively at each other, strippers (male, much to his dismay) dancing around poles, smoke from goodness-knows-what, and darkness with colorful lights that rotated around, giving brief glimpses into things that should remain unseen.
France grabbed his wrist and led him through the crowd of dancing people. England watched the way they were moving with horror. That was not dancing.
The three went to the bar in the back and sat down, England's eyes still trained on the dance floor. Spain laughed and shot France an 'I told you so!' kind of look. France ignored him and said something to the bartender, though he was already making him a drink. As France was talking, the bartender looked with interest toward England, who now had Spain's arm around his shoulder.
“What are you drinking?” England asked, eyeing France's cup of pink liquid with interest.
“Strawberry Daiquiri,” France replied. “Want to try it?”
England tentatively reached for it and took a sip from the side rather than the straw. Spain found this rather amusing, and he laughed before slipping into the crowd of 'dancing' people.
“Not quite your style?” France asked.
England shot him a look.
“What do you think?”
France shrugged. “Well, I thought that you might prefer a girl at first. Might have been easier after... Well, you know. But who am I to deny you your gentlemen?”
Talking to France about his sexual preference was not first on England's list of things to do that night. Instead, he just shouted to the bartender to get him a strawberry daiquiri, and then sipped it slowly.
France could tell that England was far from in his comfort zone, so he sat with him and talked about politics. Politics of all things to keep England happy. At least until England was drunk enough to go enjoy the strippers with him.
“I don' wan' sex,” England declared.
“Bien, Bien. But you can't live under a rock until you stop hurting. You need to get out, live a little, carry on.”
“I wasn' gon' to live under a rock, I was gon' move t' Antari- Antarcta- Antarsomething.”
France started laughing and grabbed his wrist, leading him over to the strippers. England's red thread twitched hopefully.
England did seem amused by the show, but the amusement turned to horror when he recognized one of the people on the stage. Why was Poland here. Oh God, what if Poland saw him?!
England instantly ducked, as if the edge of the two-foot-high stage would really hide him. The quick action just sent him sprawling at France's feet.
“Are you okay?” he shouted over the noise, offering England a hand up.
England nodded, but didn't reach for the hand.
“Poland,” he shouted back.
“Poland?” France glanced up and examined the stage. “Oh so he's working tonight.”
England pushed himself off the floor and started walking back toward the bar.
What he really wanted was another whiskey. Perhaps if he drank enough, he could claim sickness and leave.
Poland for goodness' sake! What was he doing here!
Well, actually, that was rather obvious...
England sat back down at the bar and ordered a shot. He was surprised when France immediately joined him.
“Mon cher, he won't think the worst of you for being here. Just look at what he's doing.”
“I did, thank you very much,” England said, suddenly feeling more sober than he wanted to be.
“Sorry, Angleterre. I really just did want you to have a good time.”
England shrugged noncommittally and downed his shot, remaining silent.
“I'll find a better place for us to go tomorrow,” France said, also hailing the bartender for another drink.
“Who said I'd want to go anywhere tomorrow?”
“Oh? Would you rather I visit you at your house?”
“... Fine.”
Then they sat in companionable silence, France enjoying his daiquiri and England enjoying his next two whiskeys.
Eventually Spain came back with a face flushed from dancing.
“France! France, I requested our song, amigo,” he said with a wide grin.
England looked between the two of them with an eyebrow raised. Their song? Prussia's assessment of their relationship suddenly seemed a little off.
France just grinned and Spain mock-offered his hand as if asking him to a formal dance. France took it with a fake curtsey and allowed Spain to lead him to the dance floor.
“I'll be right back!” he called behind him.
England waved his acknowledgment.
France could tell that England was far from in his comfort zone, so he sat with him and talked about politics. Politics of all things to keep England happy. At least until England was drunk enough to go enjoy the strippers with him.
“I don' wan' sex,” England declared.
“Bien, Bien. But you can't live under a rock until you stop hurting. You need to get out, live a little, carry on.”
“I wasn' gon' to live under a rock, I was gon' move t' Antari- Antarcta- Antarsomething.”
France started laughing and grabbed his wrist, leading him over to the strippers. England's red thread twitched hopefully.
England did seem amused by the show, but the amusement turned to horror when he recognized one of the people on the stage. Why was Poland here. Oh God, what if Poland saw him?!
England instantly ducked, as if the edge of the two-foot-high stage would really hide him. The quick action just sent him sprawling at France's feet.
“Are you okay?” he shouted over the noise, offering England a hand up.
England nodded, but didn't reach for the hand.
“Poland,” he shouted back.
“Poland?” France glanced up and examined the stage. “Oh so he's working tonight.”
England pushed himself off the floor and started walking back toward the bar.
What he really wanted was another whiskey. Perhaps if he drank enough, he could claim sickness and leave.
Poland for goodness' sake! What was he doing here!
Well, actually, that was rather obvious...
England sat back down at the bar and ordered a shot. He was surprised when France immediately joined him.
“Mon cher, he won't think the worst of you for being here. Just look at what he's doing.”
“I did, thank you very much,” England said, suddenly feeling more sober than he wanted to be.
“Sorry, Angleterre. I really just did want you to have a good time.”
England shrugged noncommittally and downed his shot, remaining silent.
“I'll find a better place for us to go tomorrow,” France said, also hailing the bartender for another drink.
“Who said I'd want to go anywhere tomorrow?”
“Oh? Would you rather I visit you at your house?”
“... Fine.”
Then they sat in companionable silence, France enjoying his daiquiri and England enjoying his next two whiskeys.
Eventually Spain came back with a face flushed from dancing.
“France! France, I requested our song, amigo,” he said with a wide grin.
England looked between the two of them with an eyebrow raised. Their song? Prussia's assessment of their relationship suddenly seemed a little off.
France just grinned and Spain mock-offered his hand as if asking him to a formal dance. France took it with a fake curtsey and allowed Spain to lead him to the dance floor.
“I'll be right back!” he called behind him.
England waved his acknowledgment.
A familiar tune came on. Seriously, this song?
He watched with interest to see how this dance would work. Begrudgingly, England would admit that they danced brilliantly together.
First, Spain just stood and watched as France started dancing slowly against him. Slowly, sensually, and mesmeringly. France's hips just barely grazed Spain's, and Spain's hands settled on France's sides as he continued. Then Spain twirled them around and dipped France down, very low. They stayed like that for a second, and England wondered what they were doing. Spain was saying something, but he couldn't see what. Then he realized Spain was mouthing the lyrics so close to France's lips that they must be at least lightly touching.
Prussia's assessment of their relationship suddenly seemed more than a little off.
France just looked up at Spain with a knowing smile, as if challenging him to do something. Then Spain was the one dancing against France. England had to admit that it was quite the show. Spain draped his arms gracefully around France's neck and practically ground his hips against him. It seemed as if his whole body was moving, his muscles rippled under his skin, and the lights danced off him as he danced against France.
England was getting (maybe just a bit...) jealous until he realized that both of them had their eyes closed. They were both smiling, yet France wasn't smiling with the little smile that England hoped was reserved for him.
They were dancing together for the love of dancing; and dancing together for a partner of equal skill.
England hadn't even noticed when Romano sat next to him.
“If that Spanish bastard didn't love dancing so much, I'd castrate him.”
England glanced at his new bar mate, and then continued watching the show that the friends were putting on.
“They really do love dancing, don't they?”
“They are the nations of love and passion,” Romano said with a sigh, “What can you expect?”
“You sound like you're used to this.”
“Spain wanted me to trust him more... He loves going out and doing things, and being sad doesn't suit him.”
England thought to the sadness that France once faced, and then to the smile that contrasted it so beautifully.
“No,” he agreed. “Not at all.”
Romano looked at England almost searchingly before turning back to his boyfriend.
“You should ask the wine-bastard to dance.”
“I don't dance.”
Romano shrugged.
As Spain and France returned, both grinning happily, Romano ran over to them and hugged Spain tightly; as if silently asking for assurance. Spain looked down in surprise, and then hugged him back, whispering a mix of Spanish and Italian in his ear.
France just sat down beside England and watched his friend happily.
“Quelquefois... I feel like I should apologize to Romano.”
It was probably the alcohol talking but England asked:
“How did you get to be so kind?”
And he truly meant it. England did not deserve any of this kindness. Francis was going to such lengths to make sure he was okay, and doing his best to make sure that he wasn't miserable. All England ever did for France was to do everything in his power to make sure that France was miserable.
“Kind?” France asked.
“Doing all this... For me...”
“Being heartbroken is a terrible thing,” France shrugged. “I wouldn't wish it upon anyone.”
Even the one who wished it upon you?
He watched with interest to see how this dance would work. Begrudgingly, England would admit that they danced brilliantly together.
First, Spain just stood and watched as France started dancing slowly against him. Slowly, sensually, and mesmeringly. France's hips just barely grazed Spain's, and Spain's hands settled on France's sides as he continued. Then Spain twirled them around and dipped France down, very low. They stayed like that for a second, and England wondered what they were doing. Spain was saying something, but he couldn't see what. Then he realized Spain was mouthing the lyrics so close to France's lips that they must be at least lightly touching.
Prussia's assessment of their relationship suddenly seemed more than a little off.
France just looked up at Spain with a knowing smile, as if challenging him to do something. Then Spain was the one dancing against France. England had to admit that it was quite the show. Spain draped his arms gracefully around France's neck and practically ground his hips against him. It seemed as if his whole body was moving, his muscles rippled under his skin, and the lights danced off him as he danced against France.
England was getting (maybe just a bit...) jealous until he realized that both of them had their eyes closed. They were both smiling, yet France wasn't smiling with the little smile that England hoped was reserved for him.
They were dancing together for the love of dancing; and dancing together for a partner of equal skill.
England hadn't even noticed when Romano sat next to him.
“If that Spanish bastard didn't love dancing so much, I'd castrate him.”
England glanced at his new bar mate, and then continued watching the show that the friends were putting on.
“They really do love dancing, don't they?”
“They are the nations of love and passion,” Romano said with a sigh, “What can you expect?”
“You sound like you're used to this.”
“Spain wanted me to trust him more... He loves going out and doing things, and being sad doesn't suit him.”
England thought to the sadness that France once faced, and then to the smile that contrasted it so beautifully.
“No,” he agreed. “Not at all.”
Romano looked at England almost searchingly before turning back to his boyfriend.
“You should ask the wine-bastard to dance.”
“I don't dance.”
Romano shrugged.
As Spain and France returned, both grinning happily, Romano ran over to them and hugged Spain tightly; as if silently asking for assurance. Spain looked down in surprise, and then hugged him back, whispering a mix of Spanish and Italian in his ear.
France just sat down beside England and watched his friend happily.
“Quelquefois... I feel like I should apologize to Romano.”
It was probably the alcohol talking but England asked:
“How did you get to be so kind?”
And he truly meant it. England did not deserve any of this kindness. Francis was going to such lengths to make sure he was okay, and doing his best to make sure that he wasn't miserable. All England ever did for France was to do everything in his power to make sure that France was miserable.
“Kind?” France asked.
“Doing all this... For me...”
“Being heartbroken is a terrible thing,” France shrugged. “I wouldn't wish it upon anyone.”
Even the one who wished it upon you?
England didn't say anything, he just watched with fascination as his thread strained once again to touch France's. France's was doing the same.
France must have seen some semblance of the thought that crossed England's mind, because he touched England's hand gently.
“Hey, it's late. Come on, I'll take you home,” he said, with infinite softness.
Their threads touched. With the force of a butterfly's wings, it hit him like a tidal wave.
And England burst into tears.
...oOo...
”You haven't upheld your end of the deal, Aphroditê,” Freyja said sternly.
“I haven't done anything!”
“Besides making them fall in love, you mean,” Yuelao accused.
“I didn't! Listen, haven't you been watching them? This didn't happen all of a sudden.”
“It isn't as gradual as you're making it out to be, either,” Freyja interrupted.
“Aphroditê is right,” Sucellus sighed. “The kind of love between them is something none of us can create. France has long been healing, and England is starting to. You know what that means.”
Yuelao and Aphroditê nodded begrudgingly. Freyja looked slightly relieved.
“Sucellus,” she began, “I hope you know what you're doing.”
“I know exactly what I'm doing. I just hope that they do.”
If you are curious at any point:
First song: http://zeaoconstantine.tumblr.com/post/45065801631/this-is-the-song-that-was-blasting-when-england
Second song: http://zeaoconstantine.tumblr.com/post/45065505142/this-is-the-song-that-spain-and-france-dance-to-in
Why is that link a tumblr link? Sometimes I feel as if youtube members are like 'wtf' when random fandoms appear in their comments XD
France must have seen some semblance of the thought that crossed England's mind, because he touched England's hand gently.
“Hey, it's late. Come on, I'll take you home,” he said, with infinite softness.
Their threads touched. With the force of a butterfly's wings, it hit him like a tidal wave.
And England burst into tears.
”You haven't upheld your end of the deal, Aphroditê,” Freyja said sternly.
“I haven't done anything!”
“Besides making them fall in love, you mean,” Yuelao accused.
“I didn't! Listen, haven't you been watching them? This didn't happen all of a sudden.”
“It isn't as gradual as you're making it out to be, either,” Freyja interrupted.
“Aphroditê is right,” Sucellus sighed. “The kind of love between them is something none of us can create. France has long been healing, and England is starting to. You know what that means.”
Yuelao and Aphroditê nodded begrudgingly. Freyja looked slightly relieved.
“Sucellus,” she began, “I hope you know what you're doing.”
“I know exactly what I'm doing. I just hope that they do.”
If you are curious at any point:
First song: http://zeaoconstantine.tumblr.com/post/45065801631/this-is-the-song-that-was-blasting-when-england
Second song: http://zeaoconstantine.tumblr.com/post/45065505142/this-is-the-song-that-spain-and-france-dance-to-in
Why is that link a tumblr link? Sometimes I feel as if youtube members are like 'wtf' when random fandoms appear in their comments XD
Wow, thank you for replying, a!a! I'm flattered myself now that you said you don't usually do that.
Yeah, I know how it is when you're writing in a bad mood... I can't judge, I'm the same.
Haha, can't blame you for not writing in era appropriate language either. It'd be way too difficult and people would have a hard time understanding. This wasn't even early modern English (Shakespeare's language) but Middle English which still had cases! Just three of them but still. (and this is when the "children", "oxen", "brethren" type of plural was still commonly used in certain types of words. You'd have to translate it all...
Ooh, that's cool about the differencies between the Chinese and the Japanese tradition! :D I didn't know about that. Have to say I prefer the Japanese. xD The ankle thing sounds kinda silly. And btw, I'm really not that fussy about these things in fics. I just want people to know the facts.
As for the new chapter, I'm so confused about Prussia now! And Russia! Well, I guess we'll find out more as we get further? But I love Spain and France in this, it's a fun little relationship they have going on. And I think the FrUK thing is advancing very naturally, I don't even mind how quick it is because it feels like they're catching up on centuries of development.
Yeah, I know how it is when you're writing in a bad mood... I can't judge, I'm the same.
Haha, can't blame you for not writing in era appropriate language either. It'd be way too difficult and people would have a hard time understanding. This wasn't even early modern English (Shakespeare's language) but Middle English which still had cases! Just three of them but still. (and this is when the "children", "oxen", "brethren" type of plural was still commonly used in certain types of words. You'd have to translate it all...
Ooh, that's cool about the differencies between the Chinese and the Japanese tradition! :D I didn't know about that. Have to say I prefer the Japanese. xD The ankle thing sounds kinda silly. And btw, I'm really not that fussy about these things in fics. I just want people to know the facts.
As for the new chapter, I'm so confused about Prussia now! And Russia! Well, I guess we'll find out more as we get further? But I love Spain and France in this, it's a fun little relationship they have going on. And I think the FrUK thing is advancing very naturally, I don't even mind how quick it is because it feels like they're catching up on centuries of development.
Is that your personal tumblr?
Gah this is.. asdfjk
Have my soul.
P.S. I adore your characterization!
Have my soul.
P.S. I adore your characterization!
Oh goodness oh goodness oh goodness.
I can not express my love for you Anon.
Sereously though, your writing and characterizations are superb. And I wish I could be a good OP and give you tons and tons of feedback and love bu I just can't express the amazingness of this in words.
I can not express my love for you Anon.
Sereously though, your writing and characterizations are superb. And I wish I could be a good OP and give you tons and tons of feedback and love bu I just can't express the amazingness of this in words.
I love you guys so much T_T Like, seriously.
In an effort to not take space on the meme yet still tell you guys how awesome you are, brief responses here.
LongComment!anon: I prefer the Japanese version better too... It's just cuter to me somehow ^^ Oh, don't worry, you're supposed to be confused. Because I am evil. Muahahaha! >=] But I thank you for your kind words once again. I always love the Bad Touch Trio and I love seeing them very close. I'm working on getting it to slow down... Work in progress ^^”
Tumblr!anon: Kind of. I don't post personal stuff, and I'd recommend you not follow me, honestly. I post random crap about everything and everything and I will end up breaking your dashboard. With a chainsaw.
Soul!anon: ...No. Have mine <3
F5!Anon: Hehehe that gave me a laugh. I'm glad you're so eager XD
OP: The fact that you take the time to comment every time I update is enough for me. And honestly, I'm just relieved that you like this fill so much. (I've never written FrUK before, I was nervous as HELL.) By the way, if you think of anything else you would like to see along the way, just say so and I'll work it in. Might even help me out if I'm having a writer's block or something =]
Everyone: Just saying, guys, don't be afraid to criticize me. I appreciate criticism just as much as compliments and I assure you that I'll take it well. And if anyone else has something that they'd like to see in this (scene/situation/something that seems like they'd say) then do pipe up =]
In an effort to not take space on the meme yet still tell you guys how awesome you are, brief responses here.
LongComment!anon: I prefer the Japanese version better too... It's just cuter to me somehow ^^ Oh, don't worry, you're supposed to be confused. Because I am evil. Muahahaha! >=] But I thank you for your kind words once again. I always love the Bad Touch Trio and I love seeing them very close. I'm working on getting it to slow down... Work in progress ^^”
Tumblr!anon: Kind of. I don't post personal stuff, and I'd recommend you not follow me, honestly. I post random crap about everything and everything and I will end up breaking your dashboard. With a chainsaw.
Soul!anon: ...No. Have mine <3
F5!Anon: Hehehe that gave me a laugh. I'm glad you're so eager XD
OP: The fact that you take the time to comment every time I update is enough for me. And honestly, I'm just relieved that you like this fill so much. (I've never written FrUK before, I was nervous as HELL.) By the way, if you think of anything else you would like to see along the way, just say so and I'll work it in. Might even help me out if I'm having a writer's block or something =]
Everyone: Just saying, guys, don't be afraid to criticize me. I appreciate criticism just as much as compliments and I assure you that I'll take it well. And if anyone else has something that they'd like to see in this (scene/situation/something that seems like they'd say) then do pipe up =]
France woke up to his cellphone buzzing in his pocket. He hadn't slept well, and he had been staring out the window for the past few hours in a doze, just watching the sun rise. He wouldn't have answered it, but Spain had his own special ringtone.
France pulled his cellphone out.
“Bonjour, mon ami.”
“Hey amigo, you get home alright?”
“More or less.”
“Oooooh, Spain said suggestively. Did someone get lucky? How is he?”
“Non, I did not... And he isn't up yet.”
“What happened last night?”
“I don't know, actually. I think Angleterre has just been stressed and it's starting to wear him down. Maybe we shouldn't have dragged him out so soon.”
“Well, he seemed to enjoy himself... Until he saw Poland at least.”
“Oh, you saw that?”
“Si... So did Poland.”
They both started cracking up. The next World Meeting would certianly prove to be entertaining.
“Well, amigo, I was just calling to make sure that everyone was okay.”
“I'm touched. What do you really want?”
“What are you going to do?”
“About what?”
“You know what I mean. As if it hasn't been obvious for... The last ninty-nine years or so.”
France looked down at the red string that was tied around his finger; then at the string that attached itself to his own.
“I think I may have a shot, mon ami.”
“Great. Keep me updated, and good luck. Romano is getting up soon, I'm going to make him breakfast~”
France smiled when Spain swooned. Making breakfast was a decent idea. It may soften England's rage when he found France in his house.
“Ciao mon cher.”
“Bye.”
France closed his phone and sighed. After spending so much time away, he was starting to miss his own country. That was alright though; England needed the support. After talking to the fairy, all the stress England was under made sense.
He stood up and stretched, then he made his way to the kitchen to search for something edible.
France pulled his cellphone out.
“Bonjour, mon ami.”
“Hey amigo, you get home alright?”
“More or less.”
“Oooooh, Spain said suggestively. Did someone get lucky? How is he?”
“Non, I did not... And he isn't up yet.”
“What happened last night?”
“I don't know, actually. I think Angleterre has just been stressed and it's starting to wear him down. Maybe we shouldn't have dragged him out so soon.”
“Well, he seemed to enjoy himself... Until he saw Poland at least.”
“Oh, you saw that?”
“Si... So did Poland.”
They both started cracking up. The next World Meeting would certianly prove to be entertaining.
“Well, amigo, I was just calling to make sure that everyone was okay.”
“I'm touched. What do you really want?”
“What are you going to do?”
“About what?”
“You know what I mean. As if it hasn't been obvious for... The last ninty-nine years or so.”
France looked down at the red string that was tied around his finger; then at the string that attached itself to his own.
“I think I may have a shot, mon ami.”
“Great. Keep me updated, and good luck. Romano is getting up soon, I'm going to make him breakfast~”
France smiled when Spain swooned. Making breakfast was a decent idea. It may soften England's rage when he found France in his house.
“Ciao mon cher.”
“Bye.”
France closed his phone and sighed. After spending so much time away, he was starting to miss his own country. That was alright though; England needed the support. After talking to the fairy, all the stress England was under made sense.
He stood up and stretched, then he made his way to the kitchen to search for something edible.
It was the first pleasant thing he had woken up to in awhile. He had a throbbing headache to be sure, and his face felt faintly sticky. Sticky as if tears had been left to dry on his face.
England pulled the covers over his head and silently wished to suffocate himself. Why did he have to break down in the bar, why? And how did he get back to his house and in bed?
France.
England removed the blankets from his face, and that's when the smell hit him.
Eggs. Bacon. Bisquits. Unburned.
He took a deep breath in. He looked around, and then noticed that his red thread was leading out the door.
Oh no...
He warily stood up and followed the trail of string out from his bedroom, down the hall, and into the kitchen.
France was standing at the stove once again, humming some song to himself. He swayed to the rhythm and his tied hair swayed with him.
England took the image in. Domestic, he thought once more. And his eyes wandered to France's side, where his own string swayed happily.
France stopped and turned around.
“Bon matin, Angleterre~” he said with a smile.
“What are you doing in my house? Get out,” England demanded.
“I can't,” he lifted the hand with the strings, “They won't let me.”
“... You can actually see them?”
France nodded and picked them up, bringing them closer to his face to examine. “The fairy explained it to me-”
“Y-you talked to the fairy?!”
“Ouais. I know, it was the oddest thing... Mais aller, come see this.”
His mind was brimming with a million questions, but he stepped forward to look at the string.
The two threads were coiled tightly together. They weren't tied, they were wrapped around each other.
“Watch,” France said.
He tugged his end of it, and the string held fast. If anything, the ends clung more tightly together.
“Bloody...” England muttered.
He grabbed the two ends and tried to pull them apart.
“I tried,” France said.
England halted his attempts and looked up at France suspiciously.
“Where did you sleep last night?”
“Your bed. I'm so glad you didn't notice.”
“What?!”
“I slept on your couch, Angleterre.”
England continued looking at him suspiciously, but France turned to tend to the bacon.
“Breakfast will be done in a moment, just have a seat.”
England sat down and found himself contemplating while gazing at France's back again.
What happened last night? The last thing he remembered was breaking out in tears and their threads touching. Obviously France brought him home. And he seemed to be completely unscathed.
His thoughts were interrupted by the plate placed in front of him.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly.
“De rien,” France replied, sitting down across from him. “Here's a damp cloth for your face.” He leaned across the table to hand it to him.
England took it almost sheepishly and cleaned the remnants of salty tears.
“So... France... What exactly, uhh, happened last night?”
France finished chewing his eggs before replying with a shrug, “You got a little emotional and I brought you home... Actually, Spain brought us here... How much do you remember?”
“Just uh,” he avoided France's gaze, “Being at the bar after you danced with Spain.”
“Ah.”
They ate in a slightly awkward silence. England wanted to ask what happened, but was a little afraid to know.
“Angleterre, I need to ask you a question.”
With the sensation of his heart being thrown off Big Ben while tied to a cinderblock, England nodded for him to continue.
“Last night, after you got upset, you started going on about Jeanne... Where did that come from?”
And his heart splattered on the London pavement, horrifying many citizens.
“What exactly did I say?”
“What do you think you said?”
“Why does that make a difference?”
“Why do you think it does?”
“Now you're just amusing yourself.”
“That's beside the point.
England glared over his plate at France, then he decided to change the subject.
“What did the fairy say to you?”
“What do you think she said?” France asked with a slight smirk.
“This is serious, France! I haven't been following anything that's been going on the past week! First that fairy, then the Gods, and then America, then Jeanne, and then...” at a loss for words, England gestured angrily to the man sitting across from him. “You, and now this.” England clenched his jaw after, willing any tears to remain still, but none arose.
France gave England a strangely apologetic look.
“I'm sorry, Angleterre, Vraiment. All that the fairy told me was about the red string. She told me you were so upset because your tie to America was severed, and that my own tie has been severed for quite some time. I can only see them now because our strings wound up together. She explained a little bit about what the thread means and how it works. After that, what you said about Jeanne made more sense.”
England took it in quietly, pushing food around his plate.
“What did I say?” England asked without looking up.
France hesitated before replying, “You kept apologizing and saying that you knew.”
“Is... Is that it?”
France nodded.
They finally met each other's gaze and a silent agreement passed between them to eat in silence. So they did.
They remained silent until England rolled his sleeves up to start doing dishes. He felt France walk up behind him and stand there for a minute. England ignored him resolutely. A pair of arms wrapped tentatively around England's waist, and he froze. France's forehead was on the back of England's neck. It didn't feel like nuzzling... It felt like settling. Settling against him.
“Je suis désolé aussi,” he whispered. Then his arms tightened around England in a brief hug before the pressure disappeared into the livingroom to watch T.V.
England just stood motionless as the message sunk in.
I'm sorry too.
What on Earth did he have to be sorry for?
England washed a few dishes before he deemed it safe to turn around and look.
Apparently France had the same thought because their eyes met and an almost-hopeful vibration ran through their thread. France smiled slightly and the water became burning hot over England's hands. He turned back around hastily and continued to wash dishes, but he swore he heard France laugh.
He whipped a wet dishtowel at the back of France's head to make himself feel better. And it worked.
“So... France... What exactly, uhh, happened last night?”
France finished chewing his eggs before replying with a shrug, “You got a little emotional and I brought you home... Actually, Spain brought us here... How much do you remember?”
“Just uh,” he avoided France's gaze, “Being at the bar after you danced with Spain.”
“Ah.”
They ate in a slightly awkward silence. England wanted to ask what happened, but was a little afraid to know.
“Angleterre, I need to ask you a question.”
With the sensation of his heart being thrown off Big Ben while tied to a cinderblock, England nodded for him to continue.
“Last night, after you got upset, you started going on about Jeanne... Where did that come from?”
And his heart splattered on the London pavement, horrifying many citizens.
“What exactly did I say?”
“What do you think you said?”
“Why does that make a difference?”
“Why do you think it does?”
“Now you're just amusing yourself.”
“That's beside the point.
England glared over his plate at France, then he decided to change the subject.
“What did the fairy say to you?”
“What do you think she said?” France asked with a slight smirk.
“This is serious, France! I haven't been following anything that's been going on the past week! First that fairy, then the Gods, and then America, then Jeanne, and then...” at a loss for words, England gestured angrily to the man sitting across from him. “You, and now this.” England clenched his jaw after, willing any tears to remain still, but none arose.
France gave England a strangely apologetic look.
“I'm sorry, Angleterre, Vraiment. All that the fairy told me was about the red string. She told me you were so upset because your tie to America was severed, and that my own tie has been severed for quite some time. I can only see them now because our strings wound up together. She explained a little bit about what the thread means and how it works. After that, what you said about Jeanne made more sense.”
England took it in quietly, pushing food around his plate.
“What did I say?” England asked without looking up.
France hesitated before replying, “You kept apologizing and saying that you knew.”
“Is... Is that it?”
France nodded.
They finally met each other's gaze and a silent agreement passed between them to eat in silence. So they did.
They remained silent until England rolled his sleeves up to start doing dishes. He felt France walk up behind him and stand there for a minute. England ignored him resolutely. A pair of arms wrapped tentatively around England's waist, and he froze. France's forehead was on the back of England's neck. It didn't feel like nuzzling... It felt like settling. Settling against him.
“Je suis désolé aussi,” he whispered. Then his arms tightened around England in a brief hug before the pressure disappeared into the livingroom to watch T.V.
England just stood motionless as the message sunk in.
I'm sorry too.
What on Earth did he have to be sorry for?
England washed a few dishes before he deemed it safe to turn around and look.
Apparently France had the same thought because their eyes met and an almost-hopeful vibration ran through their thread. France smiled slightly and the water became burning hot over England's hands. He turned back around hastily and continued to wash dishes, but he swore he heard France laugh.
He whipped a wet dishtowel at the back of France's head to make himself feel better. And it worked.
It was starting to get dark. England stood up from his couch hesitantly.
“France,” he addressed the man on the other side of the couch, “We need to talk.”
“I know, mon cher,” France said, looking over at him. “But I'm sure you need time.”
England smiled slightly and France returned the smile, turning to the T.V once more. They both knew that they couldn't just live like this indefinitely, but the world had been spinning so crazily around England lately that he just needed a moment to breathe. And France readily accepted that. Not that France's presence made it very easy, but it today wasn't as awful as England had imagined. It was kind of nice to have someone around in all honesty...
England walked down the hall to his study. He had some serious paperwork to do.
As he worked he did some thinking. He wondered about his red thread and what on Earth it meant that it tied around France's. Well, he was starting to get an idea, but that was banished to the back of his mind. The thought that France might feel that way was also disregarded. It couldn't be possible. It must be a fluke. Like Russia and Prussia's string remaining intact. Like France being tied to Jeanne. But was that a mistake?
England growled in frustration.
He wished it was easy to apologize. And not knowing how France would react just made it all the worse. Though France has been strangely warm toward him lately. Just where did that come from?
England rubbed his eyes. Focus. He glared down at the piles of papers in front of him. He would be getting a call from his boss any day now...
He took a deep breath in and a deep breath out.
France could wait. It's not like he seemed to mind.
“And what are we going to do about America?” Freyja continued.
“Russia has long been in my care, that means America will be under my jurisdiction too.”
“What about Canada?”
“He is America's brother. He will be happy as long as America is happy.”
“Wait,” Yuelao interrupted, “What about Prussia?”
Prussia sat on the edge of Germany's roof. One leg dangled over the side, and the other was bracing his elbow, which his chin was resting on. Somewhere in the distance, the sun was rising; but he was hardly paying attention to it. His eyes were trained on the house of a country far away. Across Poland, Belarus, and Ukraine, there was the house of the man he had come to love so much. Had come to love so deeply that his soul refused to leave the Earth until Russia- no, Ivan- let him go.
Prussia knew it was time to go. It wasn't that he ever wanted to die, and it wasn't that he wanted to go now. But the world had moved on, and he had too. It was just time to let go and move on, if Russia would let him.
He never got the opportunity to hear it from Russia, or say it to him... But he did love Ivan. Oh so very much. It made his soul ache to think of how much it hurt Russia to be without him.
Prussia sighed and watched Italy skip up the walkway to Germany's house with flowers in hand. Must be the first flowers of the season. He smiled. Somehow, seeing his brother happy made him feel happy too.
When the light from the sunrise finally hit him, he shielded his eyes and turned to look at England's house. How long had it been since France had been in Paris? Prussia hoped he didn't start to get homesick. But Prussia knew France was always happiest wherever England was. Everyone knew that.
Just like everyone knew Prussia was happiest where Russia was.
England... Please don't forget to tell him...
...oOo...
Sometimes England forgot about how lonely his house was. He used to be a huge empire, there was always someone around. Now his house was just... Empty.
“Angleterre~ !”
The operative word being was.
“Angleterre,” France said again, peering into the fridge, “How long has this been sitting in here? No wonder you got sick...”
“Shut it, frog,” England said, turning the page of his newspaper nonchalantly.
Not a word was said about anything. Last night, just before they went to bed, France randomly said:
“You know, if you ever want to talk about America, I'm willing to listen about it... When you're ready to talk.”
“Oh.” England looked at France with surprise. “Well... If you ever want to- you know- talk about Jeanne, I'll listen too... And... Thanks.”
And that seemed to solve any tension about sharing the house. They had shared before; though it was a good deal more peaceful this time and no one was getting bombed, invaded, annexed, or politically uprooted.
France woke up first (he slept on the couch), and started making breakfast. When England woke up, he went outside to get his paper, and sat down at his table to read.
He was interrupted only by France asking him how he took his tea.
“Plain.”
Prussia knew it was time to go. It wasn't that he ever wanted to die, and it wasn't that he wanted to go now. But the world had moved on, and he had too. It was just time to let go and move on, if Russia would let him.
He never got the opportunity to hear it from Russia, or say it to him... But he did love Ivan. Oh so very much. It made his soul ache to think of how much it hurt Russia to be without him.
Prussia sighed and watched Italy skip up the walkway to Germany's house with flowers in hand. Must be the first flowers of the season. He smiled. Somehow, seeing his brother happy made him feel happy too.
When the light from the sunrise finally hit him, he shielded his eyes and turned to look at England's house. How long had it been since France had been in Paris? Prussia hoped he didn't start to get homesick. But Prussia knew France was always happiest wherever England was. Everyone knew that.
Just like everyone knew Prussia was happiest where Russia was.
England... Please don't forget to tell him...
Sometimes England forgot about how lonely his house was. He used to be a huge empire, there was always someone around. Now his house was just... Empty.
“Angleterre~ !”
The operative word being was.
“Angleterre,” France said again, peering into the fridge, “How long has this been sitting in here? No wonder you got sick...”
“Shut it, frog,” England said, turning the page of his newspaper nonchalantly.
Not a word was said about anything. Last night, just before they went to bed, France randomly said:
“You know, if you ever want to talk about America, I'm willing to listen about it... When you're ready to talk.”
“Oh.” England looked at France with surprise. “Well... If you ever want to- you know- talk about Jeanne, I'll listen too... And... Thanks.”
And that seemed to solve any tension about sharing the house. They had shared before; though it was a good deal more peaceful this time and no one was getting bombed, invaded, annexed, or politically uprooted.
France woke up first (he slept on the couch), and started making breakfast. When England woke up, he went outside to get his paper, and sat down at his table to read.
He was interrupted only by France asking him how he took his tea.
“Plain.”
And hence they had an unspoken agreement to share the house and not pry into the other's thoughts.
England got the feeling that France understood that he just needed the company. And so their agreement went smoothly. Minus the difficulties of not being able to be more than a room away from each other at any given time. England took a shower while France settled himself at England's desk to do some paperwork. It was nice to know that England wasn't the only one who was behind. And then they switched off so England could finish catching up.
Which would have been easier if the fairy didn't randomly appear again.
“You two seem to be getting close.”
England just shrugged and said, “I suppose. What did you tell him the other night?”
“You should ask him.”
England was a little fed up with all the trouble that had befallen him lately. “You should go away.”
“You know,” she began, “I'm here to tell it to you like it is. Before you get too comfy with France, you need to ask yourself something.”
He took his glasses off irritably and leaned back in his chair.
“What would that be?”
“Were you ever truly in love with America?”
“Of course I was,” England retorted indignantly. “Why else would it hurt so much when Yuèlǎo cut my string?”
The fairy's calculating gaze was back.
“Of course you loved America, I'm not doubting that. I asked if you were ever in love with him.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes, and then she vanished.
“W-ait... Great. Just bloody great.”
Fairies had such a dramatic flair.
He put his glasses back on and took a deep breath. He really needed to think. He needed to figure some things out before even considering talking to France.
Thanks to the fairy, her old question came back to haunt him.
Why did you do it?
England signed some sort of document that he didn't read very thoroughly.
It wasn't because he was mad at her. He had nothing against her. She just... Stood in his way. Though that was no excuse for wanting to kill her, and it was no excuse for hurting France so badly. He knew it would hurt France. It was France he was trying to hurt. But why?
He filed the signed document.
Maybe he was mad at France for ever having loved her. Loved her over him.
Yeah, that was it.
England sighed and started reordering some files that he had shoved in hastily yesterday.
Do I love France?
His fingers hesitated over the folders of papers.
That wasn't a thought he wanted to consider at the moment.
England got the feeling that France understood that he just needed the company. And so their agreement went smoothly. Minus the difficulties of not being able to be more than a room away from each other at any given time. England took a shower while France settled himself at England's desk to do some paperwork. It was nice to know that England wasn't the only one who was behind. And then they switched off so England could finish catching up.
Which would have been easier if the fairy didn't randomly appear again.
“You two seem to be getting close.”
England just shrugged and said, “I suppose. What did you tell him the other night?”
“You should ask him.”
England was a little fed up with all the trouble that had befallen him lately. “You should go away.”
“You know,” she began, “I'm here to tell it to you like it is. Before you get too comfy with France, you need to ask yourself something.”
He took his glasses off irritably and leaned back in his chair.
“What would that be?”
“Were you ever truly in love with America?”
“Of course I was,” England retorted indignantly. “Why else would it hurt so much when Yuèlǎo cut my string?”
The fairy's calculating gaze was back.
“Of course you loved America, I'm not doubting that. I asked if you were ever in love with him.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes, and then she vanished.
“W-ait... Great. Just bloody great.”
Fairies had such a dramatic flair.
He put his glasses back on and took a deep breath. He really needed to think. He needed to figure some things out before even considering talking to France.
Thanks to the fairy, her old question came back to haunt him.
Why did you do it?
England signed some sort of document that he didn't read very thoroughly.
It wasn't because he was mad at her. He had nothing against her. She just... Stood in his way. Though that was no excuse for wanting to kill her, and it was no excuse for hurting France so badly. He knew it would hurt France. It was France he was trying to hurt. But why?
He filed the signed document.
Maybe he was mad at France for ever having loved her. Loved her over him.
Yeah, that was it.
England sighed and started reordering some files that he had shoved in hastily yesterday.
Do I love France?
His fingers hesitated over the folders of papers.
That wasn't a thought he wanted to consider at the moment.
The tightness in his chest that seemed to appear periodically since his red thread was cut was eased whenever he was around France. Increasingly so since their threads tied themselves. What did that even mean? Whenever France smiled, he smiled. Whenever France laughed, he laughed. He found himself smiling slightly just thinking about it.
Did you ever truly love America?
Yes, he decided. But not romantically. America was just... Very important to him. England had been so strong, only to come crumbling down in front of the entire world. America was someone he had come to depend on; a presence he was so used to feeling. America used to be part of him for goodness' sake.
But he was willing to let him go to see him happy, even if it wasn't with him. That certainly wasn't the case with France.
He shut the drawer with a little more force than intended and sent a cascade of papers off his desk.
England ruffled his hair irritably and leaned over to retrieve them.
Why would France be so nice to him? Shouldn't he want England to suffer like he did? That look of hate on France's face after he had killed Jeanne would certainly lead him to think so. Something must have changed.
When England had mentioned Jeanne at the bar the other night, France didn't get angry. But England needed to apologize, and he knew it. The question was how to bring that up. He was supposed to be helping France, even if it didn't exactly turn out that way. Did he have the right to bring it up?
He put the stack of papers on his desk, and then rested his forehead on it.
Even if he didn't have the right to bring it up, France deserved the apology.
That was it then.
As if on cue, France came out of the shower. A towel was draped over his shoulders and he plopped down on England's bed, starting to dry his hair with it.
England swiveled the chair around to look at him. He tapped a pen against the desk awkwardly; waiting for France to finish. He was such a girl about his hair.
And apparently England was a girl about talking about feelings. He turned back around and said, “Don't get my bed wet.”
“Wouldn't dream of it, mon cher,” France said with a chuckle.
“And don't turn that into some sort of innuendo in your perverted head,” England added.
“Oh how you wound me! As if I would do such a thing.”
England shot him a scathing look over his shoulder and then continued working.
Thank goodness that France wouldn't press him to sort things out. He felt like he had a lot of sorting to do. He turned back to his desk to get working on the easiest of the sorting in question.
France got up to retrieve his paperwork from England's desk. He brought it over to England's bed, and they both worked in silence.
...oOo...
“What do you mean, what about Prussia?” Aphroditê snapped. “It's not like he needs the thread anymore.”
“It completely destroys the spirit of the system!” Yuelao shouted.
“Are France and England your special exception or something?” Aphroditê demanded.
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Right, of course you didn't.”
“Can you two stop fighting for one second?” Sucellus admonished. “It doesn't even matter now. What is done is done. You two are going to leave them in peace, I am handling this remember?”
“It doesn't even matter,” Freyja said, “No matter who intervenes at this point, people have a way of worming their way through our hands.”
“They aren't people though,” Yuelao said.
“Part of them is,” Sucellus said. “And like I said, relax. I'm handling this. They're doing fine. Leave them be... Just leave them be...
Did you ever truly love America?
Yes, he decided. But not romantically. America was just... Very important to him. England had been so strong, only to come crumbling down in front of the entire world. America was someone he had come to depend on; a presence he was so used to feeling. America used to be part of him for goodness' sake.
But he was willing to let him go to see him happy, even if it wasn't with him. That certainly wasn't the case with France.
He shut the drawer with a little more force than intended and sent a cascade of papers off his desk.
England ruffled his hair irritably and leaned over to retrieve them.
Why would France be so nice to him? Shouldn't he want England to suffer like he did? That look of hate on France's face after he had killed Jeanne would certainly lead him to think so. Something must have changed.
When England had mentioned Jeanne at the bar the other night, France didn't get angry. But England needed to apologize, and he knew it. The question was how to bring that up. He was supposed to be helping France, even if it didn't exactly turn out that way. Did he have the right to bring it up?
He put the stack of papers on his desk, and then rested his forehead on it.
Even if he didn't have the right to bring it up, France deserved the apology.
That was it then.
As if on cue, France came out of the shower. A towel was draped over his shoulders and he plopped down on England's bed, starting to dry his hair with it.
England swiveled the chair around to look at him. He tapped a pen against the desk awkwardly; waiting for France to finish. He was such a girl about his hair.
And apparently England was a girl about talking about feelings. He turned back around and said, “Don't get my bed wet.”
“Wouldn't dream of it, mon cher,” France said with a chuckle.
“And don't turn that into some sort of innuendo in your perverted head,” England added.
“Oh how you wound me! As if I would do such a thing.”
England shot him a scathing look over his shoulder and then continued working.
Thank goodness that France wouldn't press him to sort things out. He felt like he had a lot of sorting to do. He turned back to his desk to get working on the easiest of the sorting in question.
France got up to retrieve his paperwork from England's desk. He brought it over to England's bed, and they both worked in silence.
“What do you mean, what about Prussia?” Aphroditê snapped. “It's not like he needs the thread anymore.”
“It completely destroys the spirit of the system!” Yuelao shouted.
“Are France and England your special exception or something?” Aphroditê demanded.
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Right, of course you didn't.”
“Can you two stop fighting for one second?” Sucellus admonished. “It doesn't even matter now. What is done is done. You two are going to leave them in peace, I am handling this remember?”
“It doesn't even matter,” Freyja said, “No matter who intervenes at this point, people have a way of worming their way through our hands.”
“They aren't people though,” Yuelao said.
“Part of them is,” Sucellus said. “And like I said, relax. I'm handling this. They're doing fine. Leave them be... Just leave them be...
I find it hard to believe that you've never written FrUK before, I love your france :)
[ Kind of short update, but I wanted to post something because chances are, I'll be busy this week... Forgive me T_T ]
Canada sat in the big cushy chair by his fire. He had a cup of maple coffee in hand, and a little pile of wood next to his fireplace to keep it going. The snow was starting to melt on the ground, but it was always a little on the chilly side this far up north. Canada didn't mind though, it meant his brother could visit him more easily.
He looked out the window almost expectantly. No sign of America yet, but a nasty blizzard was raging outside.
Canada sighed and stood up reluctantly. He threw a few logs on the fire before going into the kitchen to make something for America when he arrived. He should be there soon, he was only just coming from Alaska. Well, Russia then Alaska. But it still wasn't that far. Unless he was caught in the storm.
He started worrying himself as he shaped meat into patties and put them in a pan. Thank goodness he took after France in the cooking department. America couldn't cook to save his life.
As if on cue, Canada's door opened and slammed shut.
“You won't even believe how windy it is out there!” America said, starting to struggle with his boot laces in the doorway.
“Don't get water everywhere,” Canada warned.
“Jeez have a bit of faith.” Canada could tell that he was rolling his eyes.
“How was Russia's?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Not too bad actually,” America said, shaking his coat out before hanging it up, “I don't even know what he wanted.”
“Oh?”
America shrugged and walked over to the stove to see what was cooking.
“Hamburgers?! Thanks bro!”
“No problem,” Canada said with a smile.
The brothers hugged and Canada sent America to sit by the fire and warm up. A few minutes later he returned to the livingroom with the hamburgers. The plate was set on a table between two cushy chairs and they faced the fire, eating until they were full.
America was strangely quiet.
Even after two cups of coffee he was strangely quiet.
Canada got marshmellows and toasting sticks and got his brother out of his contemplation. They sat by the fire eating marshmellows, and Canada wondered what could possibly be on America's mind. It was probably Russia.
The thought made him a little sad. Sure, America lived right next door to him, and sure they visited each other at least once a week, but that could change. So much could change, everything could change. And it wouldn't be fair of Canada to ask him to stay...
“Al, I-” he stopped as he realized he didn't know what to say. He looked over at his brother and started to fix a smile to his face and repair his blunder, but America was asleep.
Canada looked at him for a moment, but then smiled genuinely and shook his head. Hopefully things like this would never change and Canada would still be able to see it. See the little things like his brother falling asleep in front of the fireplace during a blizzard.
He didn't have the heart to wake him, so he draped a blanket over him instead.
“Please don't you forget about me, Al,” he whispered, before going into his own room and shutting out the light.
Canada sat in the big cushy chair by his fire. He had a cup of maple coffee in hand, and a little pile of wood next to his fireplace to keep it going. The snow was starting to melt on the ground, but it was always a little on the chilly side this far up north. Canada didn't mind though, it meant his brother could visit him more easily.
He looked out the window almost expectantly. No sign of America yet, but a nasty blizzard was raging outside.
Canada sighed and stood up reluctantly. He threw a few logs on the fire before going into the kitchen to make something for America when he arrived. He should be there soon, he was only just coming from Alaska. Well, Russia then Alaska. But it still wasn't that far. Unless he was caught in the storm.
He started worrying himself as he shaped meat into patties and put them in a pan. Thank goodness he took after France in the cooking department. America couldn't cook to save his life.
As if on cue, Canada's door opened and slammed shut.
“You won't even believe how windy it is out there!” America said, starting to struggle with his boot laces in the doorway.
“Don't get water everywhere,” Canada warned.
“Jeez have a bit of faith.” Canada could tell that he was rolling his eyes.
“How was Russia's?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Not too bad actually,” America said, shaking his coat out before hanging it up, “I don't even know what he wanted.”
“Oh?”
America shrugged and walked over to the stove to see what was cooking.
“Hamburgers?! Thanks bro!”
“No problem,” Canada said with a smile.
The brothers hugged and Canada sent America to sit by the fire and warm up. A few minutes later he returned to the livingroom with the hamburgers. The plate was set on a table between two cushy chairs and they faced the fire, eating until they were full.
America was strangely quiet.
Even after two cups of coffee he was strangely quiet.
Canada got marshmellows and toasting sticks and got his brother out of his contemplation. They sat by the fire eating marshmellows, and Canada wondered what could possibly be on America's mind. It was probably Russia.
The thought made him a little sad. Sure, America lived right next door to him, and sure they visited each other at least once a week, but that could change. So much could change, everything could change. And it wouldn't be fair of Canada to ask him to stay...
“Al, I-” he stopped as he realized he didn't know what to say. He looked over at his brother and started to fix a smile to his face and repair his blunder, but America was asleep.
Canada looked at him for a moment, but then smiled genuinely and shook his head. Hopefully things like this would never change and Canada would still be able to see it. See the little things like his brother falling asleep in front of the fireplace during a blizzard.
He didn't have the heart to wake him, so he draped a blanket over him instead.
“Please don't you forget about me, Al,” he whispered, before going into his own room and shutting out the light.
England didn't think it was possible for him to love France. It shouldn't be. It couldn't be. And yet it was. It was something that is. From France's smiles and laughter, to his teasing and rolling his eyes. It didn't feel very unnatural to wake up to France cooking in his kitchen every morning, or to have France's paperwork piled on his desk every day. He didn't think anything of him answering his phone with a cheery 'bonjour'. His boss did, but that was another matter.
And France understood without words exactly what England needed. No pressure for now; just someone to stop him from moving to Antarctica.
They went to the grocery store together even though France was the one to pick everything. They had Spain, Romano, Italy, and Germany over for supper one night. That was a little chaotic, but it was worth it. Even if Spain was shooting France meaningful looks the entire time that both England and France chose to ignore. They switched off between watching French and English T.V. Sometimes they would slip into entire conversations in French, as if it was nothing. And for them, it just was.
England could say that his life was returning to normal; no fairies, no ghosts, no drama. But it wasn't normal, it was so much better than normal.
And there was one problem with this. The deeper he fell for France, the harder it was to talk to him. He knew France was waiting for it, and knew he would listen, so he didn't know why it was so difficult.
What if he doesn't accept your apology? The nagging doubt in the back of his mind would ask. What if he is just being nice because he knows what your pain felt like? What if you bugger this completely? He started wishing that France would nag him because that would mean something beyond friends...
France seemed to know whenever he was having those thoughts. England's string would cling more tightly to France's, and France would make him a cup of tea and leave him alone to contemplate. And his contemplating had led him to the conclusion that he needed needed to ask France a few questions.
England stood in front of his cabinet and took a wine glass out. He may have developed the habit of bringing France wine while he was working. Even though it was his bedroom, he knocked on the door before he entered.
“I'm on the phone, but come in,” France called.
England watched as France's hand lowered from the receiver and he continued speaking in rapid French to someone on the other line. It was funny to watch, France made faces and spoke with his hands even when on the phone. And there was just something so utterly normal about it. France was sitting indian-style on his bed with his shoes off and hair in a small braid, probably speaking to his boss using England's home phone. He just sat there, perfectly at home, like it was nothing.
It reminded him of WWII again. His heart skipped a beat with the recollection of how close France had come to failing. He's okay now, he's safe... England told himself.
England then ran a hand through his hair in irritation. These kinds of thoughts seemed to haunt him a lot.
France smiled and hung the phone up.
“That was my boss,” he began, undoing the ribbon in his hair to tie it back up more neatly, “He wants me back in my country after the next meeting.”
“Oh... Well, I suppose it would be nice to spend some time in Paris again. It's been awhile, hasn't it?”
France looked at England for a moment and then asked: “Are you really going? To the meeting, I mean.”
“Why wouldn't I go?”
“Well,” France began hesitantly, “America is hosting.”
“Oh...”
“I can call out so you don't have to go, if that would be easiest.”
“No, no,” England said, shaking his head, “I'll go... I need to pull myself together at some point anyway. And err, speaking of that... I need to ask you something.”
Suddenly much more serious, France neatly put the papers scattered on the bed into a pile and sat up straighter.
“Go ahead,” he said.
What England wanted to ask was 'do you still love Jeanne?' but instead what came out was: “How do you know if you're in love with someone?”
“In love with someone?” France asked, only slightly taken aback.
England just nodded and clutched the glass he had forgotten about.
“Hmm,” France planted his hands behind him on the bed and propped himself up. “It's hard to explain... But I'd say one loves when one cannot be separated from that person anymore. When one wants that person to be happy, yet only wants that person to find happiness in no other. And if that thought wracks you with guilt, but you can't bring yourself to regret it... Then I think one is in love.”
England just stood at the end of the bed, not knowing what to say. France must have said all that on purpose... He must know. But how could he know? What on Earth did he say that night he was drunk?
The glass in his hand broke. He looked down at it; feeling as if it wasn't his hand that wine was dripping down, and not feeling overly concerned about the faint sting of the alcohol against new cuts.
“Angleterre!” France yelled with concern, and reached across the bed to pull the intact glass from England's hands.
That snapped him back to reality and he pulled his injured hands in to his torso. “Bloody hell!” he yelled.
“Angleterre, are you okay?” France asked, grabbing England's wrists to examine his hands.
“Y-yes, I'm fine...” England said automatically, but as he looked at his hands, he realized that some tweezers may be in order. “Excuse me...”
He practically ran out of the room to get to the bathroom. He locked the door and stood with one hand on each side of the sink.
“Angleterre!” France called, knocking on the door.
“Go away!” England called back.
“I don't know what I said, but you will need help getting the glass out.”
What does he mean 'I don't know what I said'?! He bloody well knows what he said.
“I'm fine, go away!”
There was a silence in which England thought that France did actually leave. He exhaled shakily and opened a drawer to rummage around for the tweezers. But England should've known that it wouldn't be so easy.
“Is this about Jeanne?” France asked.
Yes.
“What would give you that bloody idea?” England called back. He went to sit down on the toilet, but then opted to sit with his back to the door.
“I know you, Angleterre. I know you've been trying to ask, and I wanted to give you the time to ask yourself, but it's just been eating away at you,” he stopped, as if picking his next words carefully, “The longer we wait, the harder this is going to be.”
“I know,” England snapped, “But it isn't as bloody easy as you make it out to be!”
“I'm not saying it's easy. We just have to do this at some point. So, what were you really going to ask?”
England took his time pulling shards out. It stung, but it wasn't that bad. He rolled his sleeves up so they wouldn't get stained.
The door dividing the two nations should make this conversation easier, but the string on England's finger made it difficult. And it was tugging at him lightly, as if the person on the other end was toying with it nervously. Not that France would have anything to be nervous about, but the thought that he might be made England feel better.
“I- I...” he cleared his throat and then asked in a rush, “Ijustneedtoknowwhyyouarebeingsonicetome.”
“What?” France asked.
England took a deep steadying breath before repeating: “I just need to know why you are being so nice to me.”
“In love with someone?” France asked, only slightly taken aback.
England just nodded and clutched the glass he had forgotten about.
“Hmm,” France planted his hands behind him on the bed and propped himself up. “It's hard to explain... But I'd say one loves when one cannot be separated from that person anymore. When one wants that person to be happy, yet only wants that person to find happiness in no other. And if that thought wracks you with guilt, but you can't bring yourself to regret it... Then I think one is in love.”
England just stood at the end of the bed, not knowing what to say. France must have said all that on purpose... He must know. But how could he know? What on Earth did he say that night he was drunk?
The glass in his hand broke. He looked down at it; feeling as if it wasn't his hand that wine was dripping down, and not feeling overly concerned about the faint sting of the alcohol against new cuts.
“Angleterre!” France yelled with concern, and reached across the bed to pull the intact glass from England's hands.
That snapped him back to reality and he pulled his injured hands in to his torso. “Bloody hell!” he yelled.
“Angleterre, are you okay?” France asked, grabbing England's wrists to examine his hands.
“Y-yes, I'm fine...” England said automatically, but as he looked at his hands, he realized that some tweezers may be in order. “Excuse me...”
He practically ran out of the room to get to the bathroom. He locked the door and stood with one hand on each side of the sink.
“Angleterre!” France called, knocking on the door.
“Go away!” England called back.
“I don't know what I said, but you will need help getting the glass out.”
What does he mean 'I don't know what I said'?! He bloody well knows what he said.
“I'm fine, go away!”
There was a silence in which England thought that France did actually leave. He exhaled shakily and opened a drawer to rummage around for the tweezers. But England should've known that it wouldn't be so easy.
“Is this about Jeanne?” France asked.
Yes.
“What would give you that bloody idea?” England called back. He went to sit down on the toilet, but then opted to sit with his back to the door.
“I know you, Angleterre. I know you've been trying to ask, and I wanted to give you the time to ask yourself, but it's just been eating away at you,” he stopped, as if picking his next words carefully, “The longer we wait, the harder this is going to be.”
“I know,” England snapped, “But it isn't as bloody easy as you make it out to be!”
“I'm not saying it's easy. We just have to do this at some point. So, what were you really going to ask?”
England took his time pulling shards out. It stung, but it wasn't that bad. He rolled his sleeves up so they wouldn't get stained.
The door dividing the two nations should make this conversation easier, but the string on England's finger made it difficult. And it was tugging at him lightly, as if the person on the other end was toying with it nervously. Not that France would have anything to be nervous about, but the thought that he might be made England feel better.
“I- I...” he cleared his throat and then asked in a rush, “Ijustneedtoknowwhyyouarebeingsonicetome.”
“What?” France asked.
England took a deep steadying breath before repeating: “I just need to know why you are being so nice to me.”
He heard France sigh.
“Angleterre, I know what heartache feels like. That isn't something anyone should have to go through.”
“I know you know what heartache feels like!” England shouted. “It's because of me that you know what it feels like! So why are you being so nice to me?!”
“So this is about Jeanne?”
England chose to remain silent this time, picking the last of the glass from his hands and standing up again. He went over to the sink to rinse his hands.
“Angleterre, I know you don't want to talk, so just listen to me. I am sorry. We probably wouldn't be in this situation right now if I didn't help Amèrique gain independence.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” he demanded at the locked door.
“Everything,” France said. “Just listen. After you killed Jeanne-” England flinched, “-I was heartbroken. I spent a lot of time after that resenting you, I won't lie. I knew how you felt about Amèrique. So when he wanted independence, I was more than willing to help him. I did it just to spite you... That's why I'm sorry.”
England walked back over to the door and leaned his forehead against it. “You are being nice just because you feel responsible?”
“... Open the door, Angleterre.”
England found himself tearing up. So, that's all there was to it. He shook his head, even though France couldn't see him.
“Open the door, please,” France said, a little more gently.
England touched the doorknob, not sure whether he really wanted to or not. He would have to eventually. He fought his tears, grit his teeth, and hesitantly turned the doorknob.
The moment the door was open, he found himself in France's arms. England just stood there, not knowing what to do. That was just about the last thing he expected. It wasn't a particularly tight embrace, nor a particularly comforting embrace, it was a simple hug.
“Angleterre, this isn't about Jeanne or Amèrique,” France said softly.
England hesitantly brought his arms up to return the hug, and France took that as an invitation to hug him tighter.
“I'm here because I want to be, d'accord? I was trying to help you even before I knew about him, I didn't want to see you hurting.”
England buried his face in France's shoulder. The tears were back, but they were tears of relief this time. France was going out of his way to be nice just because he could. He actually wanted to. France didn't hate him after all...
“W-why?” England choked out.
His question went unanswered, but France stroked his hair soothingly.
They stood there like that for a long time. France stroking England's hair, and England crying silently into his shoulder. By the time they separated, they both knew the answer to the question. But England couldn't bring himself to ask if he still loved Jeanne.
“You know,” France said after, helping England get the worst of the stain off the carpet, “I never would've guessed that you owned a pair of tweezers.”
England looked up at him in confusion, but then glowered and retorted: “Shut it, frog.”
“Angleterre, I know what heartache feels like. That isn't something anyone should have to go through.”
“I know you know what heartache feels like!” England shouted. “It's because of me that you know what it feels like! So why are you being so nice to me?!”
“So this is about Jeanne?”
England chose to remain silent this time, picking the last of the glass from his hands and standing up again. He went over to the sink to rinse his hands.
“Angleterre, I know you don't want to talk, so just listen to me. I am sorry. We probably wouldn't be in this situation right now if I didn't help Amèrique gain independence.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” he demanded at the locked door.
“Everything,” France said. “Just listen. After you killed Jeanne-” England flinched, “-I was heartbroken. I spent a lot of time after that resenting you, I won't lie. I knew how you felt about Amèrique. So when he wanted independence, I was more than willing to help him. I did it just to spite you... That's why I'm sorry.”
England walked back over to the door and leaned his forehead against it. “You are being nice just because you feel responsible?”
“... Open the door, Angleterre.”
England found himself tearing up. So, that's all there was to it. He shook his head, even though France couldn't see him.
“Open the door, please,” France said, a little more gently.
England touched the doorknob, not sure whether he really wanted to or not. He would have to eventually. He fought his tears, grit his teeth, and hesitantly turned the doorknob.
The moment the door was open, he found himself in France's arms. England just stood there, not knowing what to do. That was just about the last thing he expected. It wasn't a particularly tight embrace, nor a particularly comforting embrace, it was a simple hug.
“Angleterre, this isn't about Jeanne or Amèrique,” France said softly.
England hesitantly brought his arms up to return the hug, and France took that as an invitation to hug him tighter.
“I'm here because I want to be, d'accord? I was trying to help you even before I knew about him, I didn't want to see you hurting.”
England buried his face in France's shoulder. The tears were back, but they were tears of relief this time. France was going out of his way to be nice just because he could. He actually wanted to. France didn't hate him after all...
“W-why?” England choked out.
His question went unanswered, but France stroked his hair soothingly.
They stood there like that for a long time. France stroking England's hair, and England crying silently into his shoulder. By the time they separated, they both knew the answer to the question. But England couldn't bring himself to ask if he still loved Jeanne.
“You know,” France said after, helping England get the worst of the stain off the carpet, “I never would've guessed that you owned a pair of tweezers.”
England looked up at him in confusion, but then glowered and retorted: “Shut it, frog.”
England wasn't quite sure what he was expecting. It wasn't as if last night called for some sort of huge revelation that would change everything, but it did kind of change everything for him. France was here just because he wanted to be. Not because he wanted to make it up to England or anything like that. And it really shouldn't have made him feel better that France had intentionally sabotaged his relationship with America, but it did. So much better. And he wasn't sorry.
When he realized that fact, he nearly dropped the glass he was washing.
He didn't want France to be happy with anyone except him, and he wasn't sorry for killing Jeanne. Well, he was. Immensely sorry, in fact; however, he was no longer sorry for France. That didn't make any sense though. Because he was sorry for France. Maybe he was sorry for what it did to France's country, but not France himself? Was there a distinction between the countries and their personifications?
England sighed and just continued washing dishes. He missed the good ol' days when he could just go around demanding anything he wanted and no one would oppose him. Those were the simple days, those were the good days.
He thought it was his imagination, but he thought he heard a song playing in the background. He paused to listen and found he recognized the tune...
“You're a falling star, you're the get away car.
You're the line in the sand when I go too far.”
Somewhere along the lines he started singing to himself.
“You're the swimming pool, on an August day.
And you're the perfect thing to say.”
And somewhere along the line, France must have come back into the room, because he was sitting at the table listening to England as if there was nothing he would rather be doing. England only noticed his presence when he started singing the next part.
“And you play it coy but it's kinda cute.
Ah, when you smile at me you know exactly what you do.”
England turned around, his hands still wet with soapy water to ask France why he suddenly decided to play the radio. And France was approaching him with that look on his face that appeared when he thought of something.
“What are you-” England started, but was cut off when France grabbed his arms and placed them around his neck.
“Baby don't pretend that you don't know it's true.
'cause you can see it when I look at you.”
France was smiling the way he was when he was dancing with Spain, but with a hint of that smile that was reserved for England as he started leading him around the kitchen
“I can't dance,” England immediately objected, but was drowned out by France continuing to sing and spinning him around gracefully, a trace of laughter gracing his lips.
“And in this crazy life, and through these crazy times
It's you, it's you, you make me sing.”
England found himself caught up in the dance in spite of himself. France finished by dipping him down and looking deep into his sea-green eyes.
You're every line, you're every word, you're everything.
The song continued on in the background, but France stopped singing and moving. They stood like that, with France's hands on England's waist and England's arms around France's neck, still bent over in that dip.
When he realized that fact, he nearly dropped the glass he was washing.
He didn't want France to be happy with anyone except him, and he wasn't sorry for killing Jeanne. Well, he was. Immensely sorry, in fact; however, he was no longer sorry for France. That didn't make any sense though. Because he was sorry for France. Maybe he was sorry for what it did to France's country, but not France himself? Was there a distinction between the countries and their personifications?
England sighed and just continued washing dishes. He missed the good ol' days when he could just go around demanding anything he wanted and no one would oppose him. Those were the simple days, those were the good days.
He thought it was his imagination, but he thought he heard a song playing in the background. He paused to listen and found he recognized the tune...
“You're a falling star, you're the get away car.
You're the line in the sand when I go too far.”
Somewhere along the lines he started singing to himself.
“You're the swimming pool, on an August day.
And you're the perfect thing to say.”
And somewhere along the line, France must have come back into the room, because he was sitting at the table listening to England as if there was nothing he would rather be doing. England only noticed his presence when he started singing the next part.
“And you play it coy but it's kinda cute.
Ah, when you smile at me you know exactly what you do.”
England turned around, his hands still wet with soapy water to ask France why he suddenly decided to play the radio. And France was approaching him with that look on his face that appeared when he thought of something.
“What are you-” England started, but was cut off when France grabbed his arms and placed them around his neck.
“Baby don't pretend that you don't know it's true.
'cause you can see it when I look at you.”
France was smiling the way he was when he was dancing with Spain, but with a hint of that smile that was reserved for England as he started leading him around the kitchen
“I can't dance,” England immediately objected, but was drowned out by France continuing to sing and spinning him around gracefully, a trace of laughter gracing his lips.
“And in this crazy life, and through these crazy times
It's you, it's you, you make me sing.”
England found himself caught up in the dance in spite of himself. France finished by dipping him down and looking deep into his sea-green eyes.
You're every line, you're every word, you're everything.
The song continued on in the background, but France stopped singing and moving. They stood like that, with France's hands on England's waist and England's arms around France's neck, still bent over in that dip.
England looked up into sky-blue eyes, and France continued gazing into his. They both drew a little closer, and then both froze. England knew what that was; France was about to kiss him.
England turned pink and straightened himself out rapidly.
“I-I need to call... uhh... Canada,” he said. Canada was the first nation that came to mind because of that stupid song...
“Mon p'tit?” France asked.
“Uh- erm, yes. Canada. Right then,” England replied, moving closer and closer to the entrance to the living room. France watched him go with an eyebrow quirked, as if in faint amusement, but he shrugged and rolled his sleeves up to continue doing the dishes that England had abandoned.
England sat down on his couch awkwardly, trying to find a reason to call Canada.Well, England reasoned, he was my colony at one point, it shouldn't be too strange for me to call just because I can.
As France washed dishes, he started humming that song again. It was the same song he always hummed when he was absent-mindedly doing something. It always lagged at the back of England's mind that he knew it from somewhere. It was that dumb song all along. Opting to not read too much into it, he picked up the phone and dialed Canada's number.
“Hi, England,” Canada said when he picked up, his voice sounding a little scratchy.
“Morning Canada... Are you alright?” he asked, with genuine concern. He hadn't seen Canada cry since 1812.
“Yes, I'm alright,” he said in his soft voice, “I was worried about something, but everything is fine now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I was being silly... But I was actually about to call you to tell you something.”
England furrowed his eyebrows.
“What would that be?”
“I just wanted to say thanks... For taking care of Papa.”
Oh yeah... He almost forgot about promising to take care of him.
“What do you mean?”
“He's been a lot happier lately. And I know he's been in your country for at least a week, so I thought that you must be spending a lot of time together. That's always made him happy, so thanks for looking after him.”
“...Oh...” England glanced into the kitchen at France, who was starting to dry the dishes. “It's no trouble at all.”
“I'm sorry to go so soon, but I have some trees to tap. I'll see you at the World Meeting.”
“Alright. It was nice hearing from you Canada... When is that meeting?”
“Some time next week, I think.”
“Well, I suppose I'll see you then... Oh, Canada, wait!”
“Eh?”
“Um, take care of your brother, will you?”
There was a moment of silence.
“I always do, eh? See you next week.”
And they both hung up.
England turned the T.V on, though the melody of that tune was still buzzing around in the back of his mind. It was nice to think that he might be taking care of France as much as France was taking care of him.
...oOo...
Later that night, England got up to get a drink. He paused in the doorway of the livingroom when he saw France kneeling by the couch. He was about to ask what he was doing, but then England heard what he was saying.
“Merci, cher Dieu... Merci.”
Thank you, dear God... Thank you.
Feeling as if he was intruding on something very personal, he retreated quietly into his room again.
Something about that warned his heart though. It seemed like so long ago that the fairy had whispered the words: That was when he still believed in God...
England wondered why he suddenly regained his faith.
[ The Song That They Danced To: http://zeaoconstantine.tumblr.com/post/45732257209/this-is-the-song-that-france-and-england-dance-to
England turned pink and straightened himself out rapidly.
“I-I need to call... uhh... Canada,” he said. Canada was the first nation that came to mind because of that stupid song...
“Mon p'tit?” France asked.
“Uh- erm, yes. Canada. Right then,” England replied, moving closer and closer to the entrance to the living room. France watched him go with an eyebrow quirked, as if in faint amusement, but he shrugged and rolled his sleeves up to continue doing the dishes that England had abandoned.
England sat down on his couch awkwardly, trying to find a reason to call Canada.Well, England reasoned, he was my colony at one point, it shouldn't be too strange for me to call just because I can.
As France washed dishes, he started humming that song again. It was the same song he always hummed when he was absent-mindedly doing something. It always lagged at the back of England's mind that he knew it from somewhere. It was that dumb song all along. Opting to not read too much into it, he picked up the phone and dialed Canada's number.
“Hi, England,” Canada said when he picked up, his voice sounding a little scratchy.
“Morning Canada... Are you alright?” he asked, with genuine concern. He hadn't seen Canada cry since 1812.
“Yes, I'm alright,” he said in his soft voice, “I was worried about something, but everything is fine now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I was being silly... But I was actually about to call you to tell you something.”
England furrowed his eyebrows.
“What would that be?”
“I just wanted to say thanks... For taking care of Papa.”
Oh yeah... He almost forgot about promising to take care of him.
“What do you mean?”
“He's been a lot happier lately. And I know he's been in your country for at least a week, so I thought that you must be spending a lot of time together. That's always made him happy, so thanks for looking after him.”
“...Oh...” England glanced into the kitchen at France, who was starting to dry the dishes. “It's no trouble at all.”
“I'm sorry to go so soon, but I have some trees to tap. I'll see you at the World Meeting.”
“Alright. It was nice hearing from you Canada... When is that meeting?”
“Some time next week, I think.”
“Well, I suppose I'll see you then... Oh, Canada, wait!”
“Eh?”
“Um, take care of your brother, will you?”
There was a moment of silence.
“I always do, eh? See you next week.”
And they both hung up.
England turned the T.V on, though the melody of that tune was still buzzing around in the back of his mind. It was nice to think that he might be taking care of France as much as France was taking care of him.
Later that night, England got up to get a drink. He paused in the doorway of the livingroom when he saw France kneeling by the couch. He was about to ask what he was doing, but then England heard what he was saying.
“Merci, cher Dieu... Merci.”
Thank you, dear God... Thank you.
Feeling as if he was intruding on something very personal, he retreated quietly into his room again.
Something about that warned his heart though. It seemed like so long ago that the fairy had whispered the words: That was when he still believed in God...
England wondered why he suddenly regained his faith.
[ The Song That They Danced To: http://zeaoconstantine.tumblr.com/post/45732257209/this-is-the-song-that-france-and-england-dance-to
OMG THAT SONG WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY EMOTIONS ;o;
Ugggggggghhh this is really brilliant I love this fill so much! I am officially one of your dedicated followers, so keep being awesome A!A! :D
Ugggggggghhh this is really brilliant I love this fill so much! I am officially one of your dedicated followers, so keep being awesome A!A! :D
Oh anon this
I'm smiling like a damn fool right now, oh how I wish I got on sooner to see your updates... This is jus beautiful anon, beyond words. I can't even-
*sens Tenthousand hugograms*
I'm smiling like a damn fool right now, oh how I wish I got on sooner to see your updates... This is jus beautiful anon, beyond words. I can't even-
*sens Tenthousand hugograms*
[I'd like to say now that I am not particularly religious myself. I mean no insult to anyone. Religion was and still is a huge part of French culture. And for Francis as an individual I think regaining that kind of faith means he is moving forward. Again, I do not mean anyone any offense.
Also, if anyone reading this was hoping for some sort of smut at any point... You will be horribly disappointed, I'm far too much of a sap to write such things... Sadly.
P.S for OP: *returns ten-thousand hugograms* I'm just really glad you like this. Like, seriously.
P.S for Follower!anon: First off, I love you. (<3) Second off, glad you're enjoying. Third of all, if you happen to be waiting on a continuation of A Fine Line, I will get to it, don't worry. I want that one to be kept light-hearted, so I'll get back to that once all this heartache is out. If you have no idea as to what I'm talking about, nevermind ^^; ]
Prussia sat outside of Canada and America's house. The springtime was making their nation come to life. Birds were chirping in the briskness of the early morning and forests of maple trees stood silently, as their sap was siphoned off into buckets. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled.
It was easy to forget what it was like to live in a land where there were more trees than people. He found himself smiling contentedly, even though Canada was rather distraught at his kitchen table inside.
America didn't know what to do when Canada started crying. He was too dense to catch on that it happened every time he mentioned Russia. Though, this time, Canada was crying because America was leaving later that afternoon.
The fairy at his side nudged him.
“What should they do about Canada?” she asked.
“Like I fucking know...” he replied, putting on a greater show of indifference than what he actually felt.
The fairy shot him a disparaging look.
Prussia rolled his eyes. “Look,” he began, “If you want to do something for Canada, then make sure that America won't forget about him once he's tied to Russia.”
“How did you know that he is going to be tied to Russia?” she asked.
He rolled his eyes again. “I'm not a genius or the romantic mushy gushy sort, but it's pretty fucking obvious.”
“You swear a lot.”
“I sure fucking do.”
The fairy nearly grimmaced in her distaste. “I don't particularly like you.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
They sat in companiable silence for a moment before she asked him: “What are you doing here?”
“I was at Ivan's first,” he explained, “But then I came over here... I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to see the person who would be taking my place.” He stopped as he continued his contemplation of the rising sun.
“I'm not sure that he sees it that way,” the replied with the same sort of tenderness she had once consoled England with when he had faced the Gods alone.
Prussia shrugged. “Well, that's what it is.”
The fairy remained silent this time. She watched through the window as Canada started pouring flour into a bowl to make pancakes for he and his brother. He looked as if his mind was far off in another place.
“You know,” the fairy began, “He loved you... That's why it won't break.”
Prussia sighed. “Ja... I loved him too... I wish I had the chance to tell him.”
They fell back into silence once more. Now it was her mind that was in a far off place.
Also, if anyone reading this was hoping for some sort of smut at any point... You will be horribly disappointed, I'm far too much of a sap to write such things... Sadly.
P.S for OP: *returns ten-thousand hugograms* I'm just really glad you like this. Like, seriously.
P.S for Follower!anon: First off, I love you. (<3) Second off, glad you're enjoying. Third of all, if you happen to be waiting on a continuation of A Fine Line, I will get to it, don't worry. I want that one to be kept light-hearted, so I'll get back to that once all this heartache is out. If you have no idea as to what I'm talking about, nevermind ^^; ]
Prussia sat outside of Canada and America's house. The springtime was making their nation come to life. Birds were chirping in the briskness of the early morning and forests of maple trees stood silently, as their sap was siphoned off into buckets. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled.
It was easy to forget what it was like to live in a land where there were more trees than people. He found himself smiling contentedly, even though Canada was rather distraught at his kitchen table inside.
America didn't know what to do when Canada started crying. He was too dense to catch on that it happened every time he mentioned Russia. Though, this time, Canada was crying because America was leaving later that afternoon.
The fairy at his side nudged him.
“What should they do about Canada?” she asked.
“Like I fucking know...” he replied, putting on a greater show of indifference than what he actually felt.
The fairy shot him a disparaging look.
Prussia rolled his eyes. “Look,” he began, “If you want to do something for Canada, then make sure that America won't forget about him once he's tied to Russia.”
“How did you know that he is going to be tied to Russia?” she asked.
He rolled his eyes again. “I'm not a genius or the romantic mushy gushy sort, but it's pretty fucking obvious.”
“You swear a lot.”
“I sure fucking do.”
The fairy nearly grimmaced in her distaste. “I don't particularly like you.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
They sat in companiable silence for a moment before she asked him: “What are you doing here?”
“I was at Ivan's first,” he explained, “But then I came over here... I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to see the person who would be taking my place.” He stopped as he continued his contemplation of the rising sun.
“I'm not sure that he sees it that way,” the replied with the same sort of tenderness she had once consoled England with when he had faced the Gods alone.
Prussia shrugged. “Well, that's what it is.”
The fairy remained silent this time. She watched through the window as Canada started pouring flour into a bowl to make pancakes for he and his brother. He looked as if his mind was far off in another place.
“You know,” the fairy began, “He loved you... That's why it won't break.”
Prussia sighed. “Ja... I loved him too... I wish I had the chance to tell him.”
They fell back into silence once more. Now it was her mind that was in a far off place.
“Angleterre,” France whispered, shaking England gently. “Angleterre, leves-toi.”
England rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head. “Pourquoi?” he asked groggily, automatically slipping into french.
France stifled a grin. England didn't even catch himself when he spoke french anymore, so France continued in his mother language: “Quick, get up before the sun rises!”
England rolled over again and looked up at France blearily. “What time is it?”
“Five-thirty or so.”
“Bloody- Why do you want me up at this hour?”
“To go for a walk. Now hurry up, or we'll miss the sunrise.”
“You can't be serious”
“Please? We haven't been out for awhile.”
It was only the fact that England had the option of saying no that made him get up. If France had strutted into his room and demanded that he get up, England would've told him exactly where he could shove that suggestion. That, and France was indeed correct; they had not been out for awhile. In the limited hindsight that the morning would allow, England was actually impressed that France hadn't been driving himself crazy cooped up inside.
So, England got up slowly and allowed himself to be led to the kitchen where a cup of Earl Grey sat on the table, waiting for him. A splash of milk, no sugar. France had finally perfected the art of making England tea (which, by the way, he was quite proud of, considering how picky England is).
France put his own coat on and tied his hair up with easy grace, then sat across from England while he waited semi-patiently for him to finish.
“Why this morning of all mornings?” England grumbled, still not awake enough for the French to register in his mind.
“It's the first day of spring. I always go out to see the sunrise,” he replied.
England stood up to find his coat, but France pointed to where it hung from the back of the chair.
“Somebody is eager,” England said, half to himself and half to the nation across the table.
“Yes, yes, yes. Now let's go.”
They both pulled their boots on and braced themselves for the wind when the door was opened. It wasn't that cold, all things considered. Some snow was falling. They were the giant puffy flakes that were sure to accumulate later. England almost preferred the rain, but the snow was a nice change. It called for hot tea and long days on the sofa under a blanket. Though France had been using it as an excuse to say that the phone wasn't working so he wouldn't have to contact his boss.
They stepped out into the crisp snow. England shivered slightly, the fact that he was still in his pajamas only hitting him just then.
“Sorry,” France said, slipping back into English, “It's just this once.”
England pulled his jacket tighter around him and nodded. He allowed France to lead the way. England lived in a decently sized flat in the middle of the city; he didn't know exactly what France was looking for, but if he was hoping for scenery, he was probably out of luck. England didn't care how sorry he felt for France, he was not walking all the way to the countryside.
They walked down the small pathway and then walked along the side of the unplowed street. It was still dark, and the lamps lighting the road were still on; casting a glowing light across the snow that seemed to extend down the entire street in a golden haze. England nearly stopped to appreciate it further. He may have been up and about at this hour on occasion, but never outside to admire the snow.
“We don't get this much snow in France,” France began conversationally, “So I want to take the opportunity while it's here.”
“'In France'?” England asked. It was strange to hear a nation talking as if they were a citizen of their own country.
“Hm? Oh... I seem to be doing that a lot lately... I think that's why my boss wants me back after the meeting.”
England wasn't sure how the whole 'going to Paris with France' thing was going to work out. And frankly, he didn't want to think about it this early in the morning, so he changed the subject. “I don't know how the Nordics do it.”
“Practice, I suppose,” France said with a shrug.
“Yes... Practice does make perfect.”
They continued walking down the road with the sort of practiced grace that comes only from having to be in close proximity all the time. England still wasn't sure where they were going. They were just walking aimlessly down the street; the first to leave footprints. He thought of how America would be running up and down the road in circles to make a loopy pattern in the snow. Somehow, thinking of America didn't depress him.
“Hey, France, where exactly are we going?”
“I've no idea. I just want to see the sunrise while taking a walk.”
“Oh... There's a bench around here somewhere,” he said, stifling a yawn.
They walked along silently, side by side. Their thread swinging happily between them and standing clearly out against the snow. England mused to himself how easy it was for France to take everything in. Life had slowed down a great deal though. Now it would be weirder to be away from France than to live with him. He wondered if France felt the same way...
They approached the bench at the top of the street. England brushed the snow off and they both sat down. France started playing with their string; a habit he seemed to resort to whenever he was nervous. England watched France's face for any indication as to what was bothering him.
“About yesterday,” France said, not looking at England, “If I was actually sorry, I'd apologize. But I'm not sorry. I really would have, you know... If you hadn't pulled away.” He finally met England's gaze.
England looked away and scratched the back of his neck. He wasn't sorry either, now that he thought about it.
“It's alright,” England said awkwardly. This really wasn't a conversation he wanted to have this early in the morning.
France shifted beside him and England looked over at him again. France put an arm over his shoulder and pulled him closer. England automatically went to pull away, but France held firm. After a moment, England relaxed into his grip and allowed himself to settle against France's shoulder. It was like the tension drained out of France completely, and he rested his cheek against England's hair.
England blushed furiously, and he was immediately grateful that France couldn't see him. He relaxed as well after a moment.
“Angleterre?” France asked softly.
“Hm?”
“Did you ever really truly hate me?”
England tensed up again, but replied, “No.”
France nuzzled into his hair slightly and pressed England closer to his side.
“Why don't you hate me... For Jeanne?”
France's heart skipped a beat. England started to pull away, trying to stand up.
“N-nevermind,” England said, looking up the street, back to his house.
France reached for England's wrist. “Non, non. Angleterre-”
“Nevermind,” England repeated, pulling his wrist from France's grasp. He started to walk back and silently prayed that Frace would follow.
“She was a martyr,” France said quickly.
England clenched his teeth. “You think I don't know that?”
“You made her a Saint...”
England stopped walking and turned back around. “What does that have to do with anything?”
France took a breath before speaking. “All she ever wanted was God's approval. No one could guarantee that she got that, war hero or not. But you gave her the Church's approval,” he stood up and put his hands on England's shoulders, “You gave her the entire world's approval. Children pray to her, mothers look up to her, she remains in the heart and mind of France. Her sacrifice wasn't in vain because of you... Angleterre, how could I hate you?”
England looked up into his eyes as he spoke. He honestly didn't know what to make of that. It didn't seem like he was lying, but-
“You- you still love her.”
“Hey, France, where exactly are we going?”
“I've no idea. I just want to see the sunrise while taking a walk.”
“Oh... There's a bench around here somewhere,” he said, stifling a yawn.
They walked along silently, side by side. Their thread swinging happily between them and standing clearly out against the snow. England mused to himself how easy it was for France to take everything in. Life had slowed down a great deal though. Now it would be weirder to be away from France than to live with him. He wondered if France felt the same way...
They approached the bench at the top of the street. England brushed the snow off and they both sat down. France started playing with their string; a habit he seemed to resort to whenever he was nervous. England watched France's face for any indication as to what was bothering him.
“About yesterday,” France said, not looking at England, “If I was actually sorry, I'd apologize. But I'm not sorry. I really would have, you know... If you hadn't pulled away.” He finally met England's gaze.
England looked away and scratched the back of his neck. He wasn't sorry either, now that he thought about it.
“It's alright,” England said awkwardly. This really wasn't a conversation he wanted to have this early in the morning.
France shifted beside him and England looked over at him again. France put an arm over his shoulder and pulled him closer. England automatically went to pull away, but France held firm. After a moment, England relaxed into his grip and allowed himself to settle against France's shoulder. It was like the tension drained out of France completely, and he rested his cheek against England's hair.
England blushed furiously, and he was immediately grateful that France couldn't see him. He relaxed as well after a moment.
“Angleterre?” France asked softly.
“Hm?”
“Did you ever really truly hate me?”
England tensed up again, but replied, “No.”
France nuzzled into his hair slightly and pressed England closer to his side.
“Why don't you hate me... For Jeanne?”
France's heart skipped a beat. England started to pull away, trying to stand up.
“N-nevermind,” England said, looking up the street, back to his house.
France reached for England's wrist. “Non, non. Angleterre-”
“Nevermind,” England repeated, pulling his wrist from France's grasp. He started to walk back and silently prayed that Frace would follow.
“She was a martyr,” France said quickly.
England clenched his teeth. “You think I don't know that?”
“You made her a Saint...”
England stopped walking and turned back around. “What does that have to do with anything?”
France took a breath before speaking. “All she ever wanted was God's approval. No one could guarantee that she got that, war hero or not. But you gave her the Church's approval,” he stood up and put his hands on England's shoulders, “You gave her the entire world's approval. Children pray to her, mothers look up to her, she remains in the heart and mind of France. Her sacrifice wasn't in vain because of you... Angleterre, how could I hate you?”
England looked up into his eyes as he spoke. He honestly didn't know what to make of that. It didn't seem like he was lying, but-
“You- you still love her.”
France's hands slipped from his shoulders. He sighed and looked at England with resignation plain on his face.
“I know you're not going to believe me, but I'll tell you anyway... I did love Jeanne once, and I loved her very much... I was devastated when she died. I couldn't do anything for weeks. Eventually Spain and Prussia found out, and you know how they are... Prussia put me over his shoulder and they forced me out of my house. The three of us spent every night for at least a month completely smashed. I don't know what I would've done if it wasn't for them. But I survived, and France recovered.”
There it was again. Referring to himself in the third person.
“And when Amèrique wanted his freedom from you, I helped him. I'm sorry that it has turned out the way it has, but at the time I figured it was only fair. The one you loved for the one I loved,” France absently played with the string, “So, I didn't feel sorry about it. I didn't actually feel sorry about it until that day you weren't at the conference. Then I called you and I figured getting out would do you some good. And now, here we are,” he finished, gesturing around them half-heartedly.
The sky was a faint pink around the trees and the tops of buildings far off in the distance.
“I'm sorry about what happened with Prussia,” England said eventually.
France chuckled darkly. “After all of that, that's all you have to say?”
“Well what do you want me to say?” England asked indignantly.
“Hm... A gushing love confession would be nice.”
“...Bloody frog.”
They were silent for a moment.
“Do you believe me?” France asked.
England swallowed thickly, and ignored the question. He didn't know whether he did or not. Things had seemed so simple, but now they were falling down all at the same time again. He knew he didn't love America, and they he did love France, but he wasn't quite ready to accept that France could love him. Not after everything he has put France through.
They fell silent. France sighed and sat back down. England remained standing awkwardly for a moment, but then sat down beside him. They watched the rest of the sunrise in peace. They stayed sitting there long after the sun rose, neither knowing what to say, so both staying silent. France only stood up when he noticed Engand's breathing becoming just a bit too even. He gently shook England awake, and offered him a hand up.
...oOo...
France set about making another cup of tea, while England waited for the morning news to air on the couch. When he sat down on his side and went to hand England his cup of tea, he realized that England had fallen asleep.
France smiled and set the teacup down on the coffee table in front of the couch. He leaned back and watched the morning news for awhile, half expecting England to wake up. Only once it was late into the morning did France get up. He had to call his boss. He should probably call Spain while he was at it.
He ran his hands through England's hair on the way by, and then he paused. He kept his hand on the top of his head for a moment and then allowed the hand to slip down to his cheek. He braced his hand against the arm of the couch and leaned in hesitantly. His lips were only a centimeter away from England's...
England would kill him.
France chuckled lightly and kissed England's cheek instead.
Waiting for England would be awful. But he hadn't pushed him away yet. As long as he only pushed lightly, England would give. And it would be worth it.
France went into England's bedroom and sat down at the desk. It was still early in the morning, but he wanted to get as much work done as possible so that he could spend the rest of the day cooking. With any luck, Spain would be over for supper later. England already said he could. Well, to be precise, England said that France was living here too, so he may as well act like it.
France looked behind him to see if England was still asleep, then he sunk to the floor on his knees, clasped his hands, and closed his eyes.
“I know you're not going to believe me, but I'll tell you anyway... I did love Jeanne once, and I loved her very much... I was devastated when she died. I couldn't do anything for weeks. Eventually Spain and Prussia found out, and you know how they are... Prussia put me over his shoulder and they forced me out of my house. The three of us spent every night for at least a month completely smashed. I don't know what I would've done if it wasn't for them. But I survived, and France recovered.”
There it was again. Referring to himself in the third person.
“And when Amèrique wanted his freedom from you, I helped him. I'm sorry that it has turned out the way it has, but at the time I figured it was only fair. The one you loved for the one I loved,” France absently played with the string, “So, I didn't feel sorry about it. I didn't actually feel sorry about it until that day you weren't at the conference. Then I called you and I figured getting out would do you some good. And now, here we are,” he finished, gesturing around them half-heartedly.
The sky was a faint pink around the trees and the tops of buildings far off in the distance.
“I'm sorry about what happened with Prussia,” England said eventually.
France chuckled darkly. “After all of that, that's all you have to say?”
“Well what do you want me to say?” England asked indignantly.
“Hm... A gushing love confession would be nice.”
“...Bloody frog.”
They were silent for a moment.
“Do you believe me?” France asked.
England swallowed thickly, and ignored the question. He didn't know whether he did or not. Things had seemed so simple, but now they were falling down all at the same time again. He knew he didn't love America, and they he did love France, but he wasn't quite ready to accept that France could love him. Not after everything he has put France through.
They fell silent. France sighed and sat back down. England remained standing awkwardly for a moment, but then sat down beside him. They watched the rest of the sunrise in peace. They stayed sitting there long after the sun rose, neither knowing what to say, so both staying silent. France only stood up when he noticed Engand's breathing becoming just a bit too even. He gently shook England awake, and offered him a hand up.
France set about making another cup of tea, while England waited for the morning news to air on the couch. When he sat down on his side and went to hand England his cup of tea, he realized that England had fallen asleep.
France smiled and set the teacup down on the coffee table in front of the couch. He leaned back and watched the morning news for awhile, half expecting England to wake up. Only once it was late into the morning did France get up. He had to call his boss. He should probably call Spain while he was at it.
He ran his hands through England's hair on the way by, and then he paused. He kept his hand on the top of his head for a moment and then allowed the hand to slip down to his cheek. He braced his hand against the arm of the couch and leaned in hesitantly. His lips were only a centimeter away from England's...
England would kill him.
France chuckled lightly and kissed England's cheek instead.
Waiting for England would be awful. But he hadn't pushed him away yet. As long as he only pushed lightly, England would give. And it would be worth it.
France went into England's bedroom and sat down at the desk. It was still early in the morning, but he wanted to get as much work done as possible so that he could spend the rest of the day cooking. With any luck, Spain would be over for supper later. England already said he could. Well, to be precise, England said that France was living here too, so he may as well act like it.
France looked behind him to see if England was still asleep, then he sunk to the floor on his knees, clasped his hands, and closed his eyes.
Hello God... It's been awhile since I've prayed properly. I'm sorry. I'm feeling better now than I have in a long time and I just wanted to thank you. Thank you for Arthur and thank you for Jeanne... Please take care of Jeanne, and please don't take Arthur from me... Please...
“How are they doing?” Freyja asked, coming up behind Sucellus.
“Better than I could've hoped,” Sucellus replied.
Freyja nodded and sat down beside him, observing the nations of the world quietly. America and Russia was planting sunflowers, America was walking at a determined pace, Canada was reading, France was on the phone with Spain, England was doing paperwork, and Prussia was sitting in Russia's flower garden with him.
“What are we going to do from here?” Freyja asked.
“That's up to them, isn't it?”
When Freyja raised an eyebrow, Sucellus laughed. “Oh come now. You can't really expect that we wield any truly considerable influence over these people.”
Freyja shrugged and stood up again. “Prussia needs to be set free, Sucellus. What are you going to do about that?”
“You overestimate me, Freyja. I can do nothing about that. It's a matter between you and Yuelao alone, I can intervene only after.”
“Yes, but we don't want to mess anything up and you're the expert on healing. So, in your opinion, what should we do?”
“Hmm...” Sucellus trailed off watching America, Canada, Russia, and Prussia. “Is Prussia really ready to go?”
Freyja nodded. “Yes, he has been ready for a long time. Prussia isn't the problem. The problem is Russia and Canada.”
“I know, I know... I honestly can't say what's best for him. How about we ask someone who does?”
“Do you mean Prussia?”
“No, I mean Gilbert.”
Freyja smiled with approval. “Should I get him now?”
Sucellus nodded.
...oOo...
Canada was completely prepared to spend another day alone. America had already been gone for nearly a week, and he had always been separated from the rest of Europe. What can one expect, living literally a world away from them? That was part of the reason why his revolution had been so taxing on Matthew as a person, yet so easy as a country. It was either a blessing or a curse, but either way, it was in disguise.
There was always one thing that Canada could depend on though: America. They had always been there for each other. They lived together, ate together, shared customs, family, people, culture, food, television, radio, language, religion, and the same landmass. They were two parts of the same whole. If they were people, they would be twins. And they were indeed twins; so they must be people. That's why Canada was so afraid of losing his brother.
Canada was not afraid of losing America. Oooh no. Losing America was impossible. Canada was afraid of losing his brother. Matthew didn't want to lose Alfred. Especially not to Russia; especially not to Ivan.
“Better than I could've hoped,” Sucellus replied.
Freyja nodded and sat down beside him, observing the nations of the world quietly. America and Russia was planting sunflowers, America was walking at a determined pace, Canada was reading, France was on the phone with Spain, England was doing paperwork, and Prussia was sitting in Russia's flower garden with him.
“What are we going to do from here?” Freyja asked.
“That's up to them, isn't it?”
When Freyja raised an eyebrow, Sucellus laughed. “Oh come now. You can't really expect that we wield any truly considerable influence over these people.”
Freyja shrugged and stood up again. “Prussia needs to be set free, Sucellus. What are you going to do about that?”
“You overestimate me, Freyja. I can do nothing about that. It's a matter between you and Yuelao alone, I can intervene only after.”
“Yes, but we don't want to mess anything up and you're the expert on healing. So, in your opinion, what should we do?”
“Hmm...” Sucellus trailed off watching America, Canada, Russia, and Prussia. “Is Prussia really ready to go?”
Freyja nodded. “Yes, he has been ready for a long time. Prussia isn't the problem. The problem is Russia and Canada.”
“I know, I know... I honestly can't say what's best for him. How about we ask someone who does?”
“Do you mean Prussia?”
“No, I mean Gilbert.”
Freyja smiled with approval. “Should I get him now?”
Sucellus nodded.
Canada was completely prepared to spend another day alone. America had already been gone for nearly a week, and he had always been separated from the rest of Europe. What can one expect, living literally a world away from them? That was part of the reason why his revolution had been so taxing on Matthew as a person, yet so easy as a country. It was either a blessing or a curse, but either way, it was in disguise.
There was always one thing that Canada could depend on though: America. They had always been there for each other. They lived together, ate together, shared customs, family, people, culture, food, television, radio, language, religion, and the same landmass. They were two parts of the same whole. If they were people, they would be twins. And they were indeed twins; so they must be people. That's why Canada was so afraid of losing his brother.
Canada was not afraid of losing America. Oooh no. Losing America was impossible. Canada was afraid of losing his brother. Matthew didn't want to lose Alfred. Especially not to Russia; especially not to Ivan.
He wasn't blind, he noticed when his brother was absently daydreaming and when he took a random liking to Vodka. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going to happen.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his door. He sighed when he realized that he was reading the same paragraph over again for at least the past ten minutes. He marked his page and detangled himself from his blanket.
“Al?” Canada asked, opening the door.
“Heya Mattie,” America said, smiling a little sheepishly. “Do you... Do you mind if I come in?”
“Of course not,” Canada said, taken slightly aback.
He opened the door wider and beckoned for America to come in. This was honestly a bit concerning. The last time America acted like this, it was because he had to explain to his brother that he was about to attempt annexing him. Canada quickly shook those kinds of thoughts from his mind. America had changed since then.
“Do you need something? Did something happen?” Canada asked anxiously.
America nodded, but didn't meet Canada's eyes.
Canada was now seriously alarmed. “Al, what's going on? Are you okay? Is your country okay?”
“M-Mattie... I-” he cut himself off when he pressed the sleeve of his bomber jacket to his tearing eyes.
Canada put a hand on his shoulder and gently steered him to the couch. Canada hastily pulled his blanket from his comfy chair on the way there and offered it to America; who wrapped himself in it and curled up on the corner of Canada's couch.
Canada sat beside him and stroked his hair soothingly.
“Al, it can't be that bad,” Canada reasoned, half trying to convince himself as well.
“P-promise you won't laugh at me?”
Canada was about to say 'as long as it has nothing to do with the existence of aliens', but once he saw the pleading look on America's face, the comment died promptly.
“Of course, Al. What's wrong.”
America buried his face in the blanket. “I thnk 'm 'y.”
“What?”
It took a moment, but he uncovered his face long enough to say, “I think I'm gay.”
Canada nearly smacked his own forehead. Of all the things... Seriously? Canada totally thought he knew. He didn't think he knew a single nation that was straight. Not even Russia! Oh... Russia.
“It's okay to be gay Al, really.”
“You have to say that though! Gay marriage is legal in your country!”
“Just because it's legal in my country doesn't mean that I have to be okay with it as a person. You know that.”
“S-so you don't care?”
“Not one bit.”
“D' you mean it?”
“Of course I do Al... I'm not straight either.”
“You're not?!” America bolted upright, nearly gaping at Canada, which made him a little self-conscious.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his door. He sighed when he realized that he was reading the same paragraph over again for at least the past ten minutes. He marked his page and detangled himself from his blanket.
“Al?” Canada asked, opening the door.
“Heya Mattie,” America said, smiling a little sheepishly. “Do you... Do you mind if I come in?”
“Of course not,” Canada said, taken slightly aback.
He opened the door wider and beckoned for America to come in. This was honestly a bit concerning. The last time America acted like this, it was because he had to explain to his brother that he was about to attempt annexing him. Canada quickly shook those kinds of thoughts from his mind. America had changed since then.
“Do you need something? Did something happen?” Canada asked anxiously.
America nodded, but didn't meet Canada's eyes.
Canada was now seriously alarmed. “Al, what's going on? Are you okay? Is your country okay?”
“M-Mattie... I-” he cut himself off when he pressed the sleeve of his bomber jacket to his tearing eyes.
Canada put a hand on his shoulder and gently steered him to the couch. Canada hastily pulled his blanket from his comfy chair on the way there and offered it to America; who wrapped himself in it and curled up on the corner of Canada's couch.
Canada sat beside him and stroked his hair soothingly.
“Al, it can't be that bad,” Canada reasoned, half trying to convince himself as well.
“P-promise you won't laugh at me?”
Canada was about to say 'as long as it has nothing to do with the existence of aliens', but once he saw the pleading look on America's face, the comment died promptly.
“Of course, Al. What's wrong.”
America buried his face in the blanket. “I thnk 'm 'y.”
“What?”
It took a moment, but he uncovered his face long enough to say, “I think I'm gay.”
Canada nearly smacked his own forehead. Of all the things... Seriously? Canada totally thought he knew. He didn't think he knew a single nation that was straight. Not even Russia! Oh... Russia.
“It's okay to be gay Al, really.”
“You have to say that though! Gay marriage is legal in your country!”
“Just because it's legal in my country doesn't mean that I have to be okay with it as a person. You know that.”
“S-so you don't care?”
“Not one bit.”
“D' you mean it?”
“Of course I do Al... I'm not straight either.”
“You're not?!” America bolted upright, nearly gaping at Canada, which made him a little self-conscious.
“It really shouldn't be such a surprise...”
“I know, I'm sorry, it's just... I- I might be...” he trailed off and Canada patted his arm sympathetically. “Oh God, what if everyone knows? What if China knows? What if Japan knows?!”
Canada couldn't believe he was having this conversation with his brother. He silently condemned France and England for this.
“Al, if they are your friends, they won't care. I'm not just going to support you because I'm the same way or that's my country's policy. I'm supporting you because you're my brother, okay?”
“T-thanks, Mattie,” America said, sniffing loudly and reaching for a tissue on the side table.
Canada nodded. “Do you want some coffee Al?”
“With maple syrup?” he asked, his blue puppy-eyes looking up at him pleadingly.
“Can't drink the stuff any other way,” he replied with a smile.
Canada made a mental note to call his Papa and demand why on Earth he- of all the nations, and being the one to populate half of America!- didn't have some sort of talk with America about this.
...oOo...
Prussia sat a little off to the side while Aphroditê received a lecture from Freyja. He wasn't sure what exactly was going on, but that scene on the couch was just plain funny. It wasn't surprising to him to hear that it took America so long to figure it out; he was founded by Puritans after all.
“You know his values!” Freyja yelled. “Why would you do that to him?!”
“What do his values have to do with this?!” Aphroditê yelled back.
“They have everything to do with this! You could mess everything up for everyone! Everything we've been working for!”
“Working for? You mean, everything Yuelao has been pouting over, what you've been stressing about, and what Sucellus has been giggling like a little schoolgirl for.”
“And what you have been working to uproot. Yes, that's exactly what I mean.”
“I haven't uprooted everything! You are all so ready to blame me! This is all Yuelao's fault in the first place! If she hadn't tied France to Jeanne, everything would be fine right now!”
Sucellus and Yuelao entered the room, looking just as prepared to fight as the first two Goddesses.
Prussia cleared his throat nervously. “Um, could I just say something?”
“What?” Freyja snapped.
“No one regrets anything that happened,” Prussia said with quiet defiance.
“What are you talking about?” both Goddesses asked at the same time.
“Well,” Prussia began, “If Yuelao never tied France to Jeanne, then he would've been tied to England, right? That means England would never have been tied to America. So America probably would've been tied to Russia to begin with... I never would've been connected to Russia.”
The Goddesses looked at each other and then back to Prussia.
“You don't wish it could've happened differently?” Aphroditê asked.
Prussia shook his head. “Nein. Honestly, if I could be with Ivan, I'd start World War Two all over again. My only regret is ever having fought with Russia. But I don't regret anything that happened.”
When Yuelao looked at Aphroditê smugly, Prussia continued, “That's not what I meant... Fuck. I meant that all the shit we did in the past makes us who we are today, right? And we can't regret who we are, so we have to accept what happened and move forward. I'm ready to move forward, and I want Ivan to move forward. I can't explain this. Ask Francis, he'll tell you.”
The Gods all looked at eachother.
“I think,” Freyja began slowly, “That in all our dealings with Mortals, we have yet to properly understand them.”
Prussia shrugged.
“We need to ask him what we originally called him for,” Yuelao interjected. Aphroditê rolled her eyes, but Freyja and Sucellus nodded.
“Prussia-”
“Gilbert,” Prussia interrupted. “My name is Gilbert.”
“Gilbert,” Yuelao began again, with a small smile of approval, “You have proven yourself to truly want what is best for Ivan. And as your understanding of Mortals is better than ours, what do you think should be done with Russia?”
“Tie him to America,” Prussia said without hesitation.
Sucellus put a hand on his shoulder and nodded his approval.
“But what about Canada?” Aphroditê asked.
“Canada isn't the problem. Matthew is the problem. And actually... I think I can take care of him.”
“I know, I'm sorry, it's just... I- I might be...” he trailed off and Canada patted his arm sympathetically. “Oh God, what if everyone knows? What if China knows? What if Japan knows?!”
Canada couldn't believe he was having this conversation with his brother. He silently condemned France and England for this.
“Al, if they are your friends, they won't care. I'm not just going to support you because I'm the same way or that's my country's policy. I'm supporting you because you're my brother, okay?”
“T-thanks, Mattie,” America said, sniffing loudly and reaching for a tissue on the side table.
Canada nodded. “Do you want some coffee Al?”
“With maple syrup?” he asked, his blue puppy-eyes looking up at him pleadingly.
“Can't drink the stuff any other way,” he replied with a smile.
Canada made a mental note to call his Papa and demand why on Earth he- of all the nations, and being the one to populate half of America!- didn't have some sort of talk with America about this.
Prussia sat a little off to the side while Aphroditê received a lecture from Freyja. He wasn't sure what exactly was going on, but that scene on the couch was just plain funny. It wasn't surprising to him to hear that it took America so long to figure it out; he was founded by Puritans after all.
“You know his values!” Freyja yelled. “Why would you do that to him?!”
“What do his values have to do with this?!” Aphroditê yelled back.
“They have everything to do with this! You could mess everything up for everyone! Everything we've been working for!”
“Working for? You mean, everything Yuelao has been pouting over, what you've been stressing about, and what Sucellus has been giggling like a little schoolgirl for.”
“And what you have been working to uproot. Yes, that's exactly what I mean.”
“I haven't uprooted everything! You are all so ready to blame me! This is all Yuelao's fault in the first place! If she hadn't tied France to Jeanne, everything would be fine right now!”
Sucellus and Yuelao entered the room, looking just as prepared to fight as the first two Goddesses.
Prussia cleared his throat nervously. “Um, could I just say something?”
“What?” Freyja snapped.
“No one regrets anything that happened,” Prussia said with quiet defiance.
“What are you talking about?” both Goddesses asked at the same time.
“Well,” Prussia began, “If Yuelao never tied France to Jeanne, then he would've been tied to England, right? That means England would never have been tied to America. So America probably would've been tied to Russia to begin with... I never would've been connected to Russia.”
The Goddesses looked at each other and then back to Prussia.
“You don't wish it could've happened differently?” Aphroditê asked.
Prussia shook his head. “Nein. Honestly, if I could be with Ivan, I'd start World War Two all over again. My only regret is ever having fought with Russia. But I don't regret anything that happened.”
When Yuelao looked at Aphroditê smugly, Prussia continued, “That's not what I meant... Fuck. I meant that all the shit we did in the past makes us who we are today, right? And we can't regret who we are, so we have to accept what happened and move forward. I'm ready to move forward, and I want Ivan to move forward. I can't explain this. Ask Francis, he'll tell you.”
The Gods all looked at eachother.
“I think,” Freyja began slowly, “That in all our dealings with Mortals, we have yet to properly understand them.”
Prussia shrugged.
“We need to ask him what we originally called him for,” Yuelao interjected. Aphroditê rolled her eyes, but Freyja and Sucellus nodded.
“Prussia-”
“Gilbert,” Prussia interrupted. “My name is Gilbert.”
“Gilbert,” Yuelao began again, with a small smile of approval, “You have proven yourself to truly want what is best for Ivan. And as your understanding of Mortals is better than ours, what do you think should be done with Russia?”
“Tie him to America,” Prussia said without hesitation.
Sucellus put a hand on his shoulder and nodded his approval.
“But what about Canada?” Aphroditê asked.
“Canada isn't the problem. Matthew is the problem. And actually... I think I can take care of him.”
England woke up slowly. He hovered between a state of sleep and awake, thinking of what France said. He considered getting up just so he would stop thinking of what France said. It wasn't a question of whether he believed France, he did believe France; that was the problem. He didn't understand how France could love him after all that. It just didn't make any sense.
France was typing away on his laptop in another room. It was creating a steady stream of calming background noise. He almost didn't notice when the other side of the couch dipped, and there was the sound of feet being placed on England's coffee table.
England opened his eyes to see Prussia on the end of his couch, reading one of France's books. He really shouldn't be surprised anymore, but he jumped all the same.
“P-Prussia?” England asked, rubbing his eyes.
“Mmhmm,” he replied nonchalantly, turning a page.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting to scare the fuck out of Francis.”
“... Oh.”
England sat up and passed a hand over his forehead. Sometimes he felt as if he was sharing his house with the world at large.
He stretched and stood up, going to make himself a bowl of cereal or something.
“Oh and Prussia, get your feet off the table,” England said as he walked out.
They both paused to listen to the sound of the typing from the other room to see if France had heard, but the clacking continued, so Prussia continued reading and England continued his trip to the kitchen.
England sat down and poured some cereal into a bowl. The typing stopped.
“Angleterre, are you awake?”
“Yes, I'm in the kitchen!” England called back.
There was the sound of a chair pushing out from a desk, and England couldn't help but stop to listen with anticipation.
“Your boss called-”
“Hi Francis.”
“AUGH! What?!”
Prussia laughed uproariously and England started snickering. Oh finally. Finally, finally, finally someone would understand how much of a pain it is to have random beings appearing out of nowhere when you least expect them to.
France walked into the kitchen, looking slightly dazed. “Umm, Angleterre... Prusse is on your couch.”
“Yes, he does that,” England replied, pouring cereal into his bowl.
France glanced at Prussia who was still sitting on the couch as if it was the most natural thing in the world, then back to England who was completely unconcerned.
“Hei, Francis, I need to talk to you!” Prussia called.
France turned and walked slowly to the couch, not believing what he was seeing. He stood in front of the still-sitting Prussia and tried to take him in.
“I thought you were dead, mon Prusse,” France half-whispered.
“I am,” Prussia said with a sigh, “But I can't leave just yet. There is something I need to do. And don't call me 'Prusse' or 'Prussia'. My name is Gilbert, Francis. Gilbert.”
“W-what is it?”
“I told England to tell Ivan that it would be okay, but that won't do enough. I'll need to contact him, but he can't see me. So we will have to do the next best thing. That would be contact through other means.”
France was typing away on his laptop in another room. It was creating a steady stream of calming background noise. He almost didn't notice when the other side of the couch dipped, and there was the sound of feet being placed on England's coffee table.
England opened his eyes to see Prussia on the end of his couch, reading one of France's books. He really shouldn't be surprised anymore, but he jumped all the same.
“P-Prussia?” England asked, rubbing his eyes.
“Mmhmm,” he replied nonchalantly, turning a page.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting to scare the fuck out of Francis.”
“... Oh.”
England sat up and passed a hand over his forehead. Sometimes he felt as if he was sharing his house with the world at large.
He stretched and stood up, going to make himself a bowl of cereal or something.
“Oh and Prussia, get your feet off the table,” England said as he walked out.
They both paused to listen to the sound of the typing from the other room to see if France had heard, but the clacking continued, so Prussia continued reading and England continued his trip to the kitchen.
England sat down and poured some cereal into a bowl. The typing stopped.
“Angleterre, are you awake?”
“Yes, I'm in the kitchen!” England called back.
There was the sound of a chair pushing out from a desk, and England couldn't help but stop to listen with anticipation.
“Your boss called-”
“Hi Francis.”
“AUGH! What?!”
Prussia laughed uproariously and England started snickering. Oh finally. Finally, finally, finally someone would understand how much of a pain it is to have random beings appearing out of nowhere when you least expect them to.
France walked into the kitchen, looking slightly dazed. “Umm, Angleterre... Prusse is on your couch.”
“Yes, he does that,” England replied, pouring cereal into his bowl.
France glanced at Prussia who was still sitting on the couch as if it was the most natural thing in the world, then back to England who was completely unconcerned.
“Hei, Francis, I need to talk to you!” Prussia called.
France turned and walked slowly to the couch, not believing what he was seeing. He stood in front of the still-sitting Prussia and tried to take him in.
“I thought you were dead, mon Prusse,” France half-whispered.
“I am,” Prussia said with a sigh, “But I can't leave just yet. There is something I need to do. And don't call me 'Prusse' or 'Prussia'. My name is Gilbert, Francis. Gilbert.”
“W-what is it?”
“I told England to tell Ivan that it would be okay, but that won't do enough. I'll need to contact him, but he can't see me. So we will have to do the next best thing. That would be contact through other means.”
“What does that mean?” France asked.
“It means you and Arthur will have to tell him for me. But it isn't that simple. I was hoping you would be willing to help me.”
“Of course, mon cher. What do you need me to do?”
“You and Arthur actually, so- Oi! Arthur! You get in here too!” Prussia demanded.
England sighed and joined the two nations in the living room. There was almost a sort of tension between them. Similar to the tension that England had been feeling between himself and France; like there was something that needed to be said but neither of them were saying it.
“What do you want us to do?” England asked, once he was standing beside France.
“I've never been good with this shit, so bear with me. Okay... Russia feels bad because he still loves me, but he isn't in love with me anymore. But since he hasn't let go of me, and we're tied, I can't go yet.”
“Why doesn't Yuelao just break your string? She broke mine,” England said.
“Oh, I thought they told you,” Prussia began. “They can't break your string unless you're not in love with the person.”
“But you said Ivan isn't in love with you anymore,” France said.
“Like I said, I've never been good at this romantic shit, but it still can't happen... He still loves me to some degree and I- I... Ja.” Prussia looked down at his hands and grit his teeth.
“It's okay, Gilbert,” France said hastily, “Just tell us what you need us to do.”
“I need you to convince him that I want him to move on.”
“Do you?” England asked.
Prussia looked up at England levelly. “Ja. Ja I do.”
England and France nodded.
“Danke,” Prussia said softly. “I need to go... Take care of each other.”
Before they could say another word, his consciousness faded away.
“Does anyone else do that?” France asked after a moment.
“Come and go like that, or is anyone else lagging behind?”
“Either.”
“Just Prussia and that fairy,” England replied, returning to the kitchen to finish his breakfast.
France returned to England's bedroom to continue working.
I wonder who sent that fairy anyway, England wondered idly.
...oOo...
Canada shifted sleepily on the couch. Never again, he vowed to himself.
He and America watched Brokeback Mountain that afternoon. America cried and insisted on watching it two more times, shouting at the screen for them to not leave each other every single time.
America had finally accepted that he was gay, but he wasn't ready to face the rest of the world yet. So, he refused to leave the refuge of Canada's house. If America had put up more of a fuss while coming to terms with it, Canada would've taken the next flight to England and dragged France and England back over here by force. As it was, Canada would just wait until tomorrow to have France and England explain that it wasn't a big deal.
He sighed and flicked through the news stations, absently patting his brother's back as he did. (America may have fallen asleep on him, and he might not have had the heart to move from the couch). He missed the days when their two countries didn't have a border. They didn't have much of one even now, but he missed being one and the same.
Maybe he could convince America to just stay here forever with him. That would be nice.
America shifted in his sleep and started muttering. “'M srry Rssia... 'M brthr... 'E nees m'...”
Canada looked down at America with surprise. Then he smiled tenderly and pulled his brother's glasses off before he hurt himself. Maybe he wasn't the only one that was concerned after all.
With that comforting thought, he shut the T.V off and curled up on the couch next to his brother. America automatically shifted to accommodate him, and they fell asleep plastered to each other and the couch, with no barriers between them, just like when they were kids.
“It means you and Arthur will have to tell him for me. But it isn't that simple. I was hoping you would be willing to help me.”
“Of course, mon cher. What do you need me to do?”
“You and Arthur actually, so- Oi! Arthur! You get in here too!” Prussia demanded.
England sighed and joined the two nations in the living room. There was almost a sort of tension between them. Similar to the tension that England had been feeling between himself and France; like there was something that needed to be said but neither of them were saying it.
“What do you want us to do?” England asked, once he was standing beside France.
“I've never been good with this shit, so bear with me. Okay... Russia feels bad because he still loves me, but he isn't in love with me anymore. But since he hasn't let go of me, and we're tied, I can't go yet.”
“Why doesn't Yuelao just break your string? She broke mine,” England said.
“Oh, I thought they told you,” Prussia began. “They can't break your string unless you're not in love with the person.”
“But you said Ivan isn't in love with you anymore,” France said.
“Like I said, I've never been good at this romantic shit, but it still can't happen... He still loves me to some degree and I- I... Ja.” Prussia looked down at his hands and grit his teeth.
“It's okay, Gilbert,” France said hastily, “Just tell us what you need us to do.”
“I need you to convince him that I want him to move on.”
“Do you?” England asked.
Prussia looked up at England levelly. “Ja. Ja I do.”
England and France nodded.
“Danke,” Prussia said softly. “I need to go... Take care of each other.”
Before they could say another word, his consciousness faded away.
“Does anyone else do that?” France asked after a moment.
“Come and go like that, or is anyone else lagging behind?”
“Either.”
“Just Prussia and that fairy,” England replied, returning to the kitchen to finish his breakfast.
France returned to England's bedroom to continue working.
I wonder who sent that fairy anyway, England wondered idly.
Canada shifted sleepily on the couch. Never again, he vowed to himself.
He and America watched Brokeback Mountain that afternoon. America cried and insisted on watching it two more times, shouting at the screen for them to not leave each other every single time.
America had finally accepted that he was gay, but he wasn't ready to face the rest of the world yet. So, he refused to leave the refuge of Canada's house. If America had put up more of a fuss while coming to terms with it, Canada would've taken the next flight to England and dragged France and England back over here by force. As it was, Canada would just wait until tomorrow to have France and England explain that it wasn't a big deal.
He sighed and flicked through the news stations, absently patting his brother's back as he did. (America may have fallen asleep on him, and he might not have had the heart to move from the couch). He missed the days when their two countries didn't have a border. They didn't have much of one even now, but he missed being one and the same.
Maybe he could convince America to just stay here forever with him. That would be nice.
America shifted in his sleep and started muttering. “'M srry Rssia... 'M brthr... 'E nees m'...”
Canada looked down at America with surprise. Then he smiled tenderly and pulled his brother's glasses off before he hurt himself. Maybe he wasn't the only one that was concerned after all.
With that comforting thought, he shut the T.V off and curled up on the couch next to his brother. America automatically shifted to accommodate him, and they fell asleep plastered to each other and the couch, with no barriers between them, just like when they were kids.
Anon, I'll be honest with you, but only because you welcomed criticism. You have promise, but your ideas are scattered and it almost seems like you're playing this entirely by ear. I'd recommend working on your style a bit. And I'd also suggest taking the time to write a few chapters in advance so you can go back and restructure things as you need to. It is worth the longer wait for an update if it's in the name of writing for better quality. I can't be the only one who thinks this, and I'm saying this only because I see that you have the potential to improve.
I would like to echo the thoughts of the anon above me. You have some good concepts that you're playing with here, but that's just the thing, it doesn't seem to be very structured. It also seems like you have changed direction a couple times. Sorry if that's not actually the case, but that's how it seems to be me. Please don't let my comment (or that of the previous anon) discourage you in anyway. You have quite the fun imagination and good descriptions.
Yes, I have changed direction a few times. The thing that kinda sucks about the kink meme is that you can't go back and edit things once you post them. I've really enjoyed writing this so far, so what I think I'm going to do is step back from it for a bit, and revise the whole thing, and then I'll have the mods delete what's here so I can repost the finished and revised version.
For anyone who's reading this... I shall be back *swishes cape dramatically*
For anyone who's reading this... I shall be back *swishes cape dramatically*
Sorry I'm late anon!
This is just beautiful! I love Prussia (his character just seems so spot on to me!) and Alfred's reaction to figuring out his sexuality (only took him a couple hundred years) was just perfect. Slightly!Homophobic!Alfred has been a head cannon of mine for god knows how long... I'm so worried about poor Matthew as well... Even though you're hinting at a happy arrangement :P
As a side note I was following the other fill you mentioned 'A fine line' and I really do hope you continue it :3 all of your writing is just fenominal, and I'm really cureous about /everything/.
This is just beautiful! I love Prussia (his character just seems so spot on to me!) and Alfred's reaction to figuring out his sexuality (only took him a couple hundred years) was just perfect. Slightly!Homophobic!Alfred has been a head cannon of mine for god knows how long... I'm so worried about poor Matthew as well... Even though you're hinting at a happy arrangement :P
As a side note I was following the other fill you mentioned 'A fine line' and I really do hope you continue it :3 all of your writing is just fenominal, and I'm really cureous about /everything/.
Author!Anon are you continuing this? I just found this little gem and I noticed it wasn't finished and I'm not gonna lie I ma have cried a little inside because of that. :(
Anyway just wanted to say this is amazing and the characterization is just beautiful. Your Prussia is literally my favorite characterization of him so far. How he can be his usual arrogant fun self but at the same time have so much maturity especially when talking about his feelings for Russia.
The FEELINGS are so beautifully described between all the couples that stopped multiple times just to give myself a moment to take it all in. Arthur's reluctance to accept that France has forgiven him, France patience and understanding.
Ps. The mental image of Spain and France dancing will not leave my mind and I really wish I could have at least a bit of talent when it comes to drawing.
Anyway just wanted to say this is amazing and the characterization is just beautiful. Your Prussia is literally my favorite characterization of him so far. How he can be his usual arrogant fun self but at the same time have so much maturity especially when talking about his feelings for Russia.
The FEELINGS are so beautifully described between all the couples that stopped multiple times just to give myself a moment to take it all in. Arthur's reluctance to accept that France has forgiven him, France patience and understanding.
Ps. The mental image of Spain and France dancing will not leave my mind and I really wish I could have at least a bit of talent when it comes to drawing.
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