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This continues to be absolutely beautiful and hot! This is the best kind of GerIta where they're sort of awkward around each other, but it's clear how much they love each other at the same time and want to do everything right. I love this!
Also, you should post a notice about your update on the fills list because otherwise a lot of people will miss it.
Also, you should post a notice about your update on the fills list because otherwise a lot of people will miss it.
The other ladies trickled into the suite in clumps of twos and threes, along with pitched giggles and the scent of grass. The air became thinner; Marie glanced over to the window, near where Elise sat on a stool, placed in such a way that her silhouette blended into the sunset. She lit the last torch, slipped the tinderbox back into her pocket. The ladies fluttered about the room, still high from spending an entire afternoon in the gardens, not paying attention to the queen they were bound to serve. Elise was a blotch: an irritating speck that marred an otherwise beautiful painting, but could be overlooked for the time being.
Usually, Marie would have called them to attention with a single clap of her hands, already prepared with the list of duties that needed to be carried out. Today, she felt worn. Wisps of hair had escaped her braid and plastered on her neck, and her dress would need to be washed at least twice, once for removing traces of dirt and the second for scrubbing away lingering sweat. The others would not have paid attention, not this time around; they needed to be graced with a poised presence, not a frazzled-looking woman.
She scanned the room for someone else to carry out the orders. A Third of Diamonds was spinning towards her direction. Marie caught her by the arm mid-twirl and quietly asked her to take responsibility for that night.
The Third panted her affirmative, her face still flushed.
“Someone needs to change the sheets on Her Majesty's bed,” said Marie. “She can't stand the crimson color; bring something softer, like a light blue. And later bring up the hot water for a bath. There isn't much else to do; the Queen will probably want to spend some time alone anyways.”
“Right, of course,” the Third said. She shifted from one foot to another, still reeling from the spin. “Where are the sheets?”
“There should be some clean ones in the laundry room. Check there.”
“Laundry room.” The girl blinked stupidly.
Marie bit back an insult that danced on the tip of her tongue, and said, “Third floor, straight down the hall, turn two lefts.”
“And the hot water?”
Marie stared at her in disbelief. “Were you asleep for the past week?”
The girl scoffed. “Of course not. I didn't need to do all those things; they handled it. Them.” She gestured to a group of Elevens and Twelves, who hovered apart from the rest. She tossed her hand in their direction like one would swat a fly.
“Can you at least make sure Her Majesty's meals are sent up?”
“Why? It's not like she eats anything.” The girl flicked her eyes towards the table, where a plate of food gleamed slick with oil, the salmon split apart from its neat slices and the lettuce torn to shreds, rearranged in such a way as to create a half-hearted illusion of consumption.
Marie wondered how the girl's cheek would feel against the smack of her palm. She grabbed the plate and shoved it towards her. The white sauce curved down the rim and specked the girl's dress, resulting in a screech that nearly broke Marie's eardrums.
“This dress was new!”
“Pity,” Marie said coldly. “Maybe if you had paid attention a couple days ago on how to remove stains from dresses, you'd know how to fix that.”
She turned away, ignoring the girl's snarl. She strode over to the window, her shoes tapping loudly on the floor, so Elise would have some warning before she approached.
“Your Majesty?”
No response.
Marie raised a hand, and then remembering how Elise had upset a cup of water yesterday when one of the ladies tapped her on the shoulder, lowered it again. She couldn't clear her throat either; the noise would cut too sharply through the background.
She stepped in front of Elise. She waited.
As Elise looked up, the dying sunlight bled over her eyes. They bulged, as if they'd been shocked out of their sockets. She had laid in bed like a corpse last night, shrouded by the extra blankets Marie had brought up. The morning found her the same: there was nothing in her body position, the blanket creases, or the dents in her pillows to suggest she had tossed around, or shifted even slightly. Her glazed eyes anchored to the canopy, her hands overlapped over one another below her chest, a final touch to a body about to be buried.
Usually, Marie would have called them to attention with a single clap of her hands, already prepared with the list of duties that needed to be carried out. Today, she felt worn. Wisps of hair had escaped her braid and plastered on her neck, and her dress would need to be washed at least twice, once for removing traces of dirt and the second for scrubbing away lingering sweat. The others would not have paid attention, not this time around; they needed to be graced with a poised presence, not a frazzled-looking woman.
She scanned the room for someone else to carry out the orders. A Third of Diamonds was spinning towards her direction. Marie caught her by the arm mid-twirl and quietly asked her to take responsibility for that night.
The Third panted her affirmative, her face still flushed.
“Someone needs to change the sheets on Her Majesty's bed,” said Marie. “She can't stand the crimson color; bring something softer, like a light blue. And later bring up the hot water for a bath. There isn't much else to do; the Queen will probably want to spend some time alone anyways.”
“Right, of course,” the Third said. She shifted from one foot to another, still reeling from the spin. “Where are the sheets?”
“There should be some clean ones in the laundry room. Check there.”
“Laundry room.” The girl blinked stupidly.
Marie bit back an insult that danced on the tip of her tongue, and said, “Third floor, straight down the hall, turn two lefts.”
“And the hot water?”
Marie stared at her in disbelief. “Were you asleep for the past week?”
The girl scoffed. “Of course not. I didn't need to do all those things; they handled it. Them.” She gestured to a group of Elevens and Twelves, who hovered apart from the rest. She tossed her hand in their direction like one would swat a fly.
“Can you at least make sure Her Majesty's meals are sent up?”
“Why? It's not like she eats anything.” The girl flicked her eyes towards the table, where a plate of food gleamed slick with oil, the salmon split apart from its neat slices and the lettuce torn to shreds, rearranged in such a way as to create a half-hearted illusion of consumption.
Marie wondered how the girl's cheek would feel against the smack of her palm. She grabbed the plate and shoved it towards her. The white sauce curved down the rim and specked the girl's dress, resulting in a screech that nearly broke Marie's eardrums.
“This dress was new!”
“Pity,” Marie said coldly. “Maybe if you had paid attention a couple days ago on how to remove stains from dresses, you'd know how to fix that.”
She turned away, ignoring the girl's snarl. She strode over to the window, her shoes tapping loudly on the floor, so Elise would have some warning before she approached.
“Your Majesty?”
No response.
Marie raised a hand, and then remembering how Elise had upset a cup of water yesterday when one of the ladies tapped her on the shoulder, lowered it again. She couldn't clear her throat either; the noise would cut too sharply through the background.
She stepped in front of Elise. She waited.
As Elise looked up, the dying sunlight bled over her eyes. They bulged, as if they'd been shocked out of their sockets. She had laid in bed like a corpse last night, shrouded by the extra blankets Marie had brought up. The morning found her the same: there was nothing in her body position, the blanket creases, or the dents in her pillows to suggest she had tossed around, or shifted even slightly. Her glazed eyes anchored to the canopy, her hands overlapped over one another below her chest, a final touch to a body about to be buried.
Elise got up; the stool made no scrape of sound. She seemed to float inside her clothes as she made her way to the bedchamber, without a rustle or a tell-tale squeak of her shoes. She passed into the room like a wraith, came to a still at the foot of the bed. Marie quietly closed the doors, trapping the chatter and singing and laughter outside.
Musk and cedar wood tainted the air. “Shall I open the window, Your Majesty?” She walked over to the window and cranked the handle; the breeze swept in and stole away some of the heat.
“What would you like to do, Your Majesty?” Marie picked up a book of poetry, worn and cracked down the spine. She had read some of her favorite poems to Elise the night before, after she had ignored the embroidery and the board games and a deck of cards Marie had brought.
It was tiring, really, to maintain spirits when her mistress was so detached, so dull, so blank, as if all her memories had crumbled to nothing inside her and left a puppet in its wake. Someone had to prompt her, manipulate the strings: place the spoon in her hands, steer her around, slip clothes off her limp form. Other times, she disappeared into abandoned wings of the Palace, dark corners of the gardens, as if she were searching for something.
People talked, like they always did. Something had happened that day, that was for sure, though very few people had actually seen the queen in her terrible state. The king tried to keep everything hushed; and that, primarily, was his mistake. The court thrived on speculation; the longer the secret was kept, the faster the story spun on its own, weaving a tangle of knots that was wretched and ugly but so, so intriguing.
A couple days before, the royal couple had a tumble in the woods. Then, a day after: the queen is not speaking, not eating, drifts about like a ghost, did you know? It's possible the act could have shocked her, the poor thing, still too naïve for Francis's tricks. But no, even he's avoiding her; what do you make of that? Clearly—she's embarrassed, he's embarrassed. Please, the king has had his whores serve him under the dining table, gasping and moaning in front of everyone. Well, what do you suppose happened? I'll tell you—I think the queen had a good lay, but not with him. No. It makes sense—no, really, think about it! She looks scared, like she's been caught doing something bad. I suppose the king's still thinking whether to keep her or fling her to the crows. That slut; I knew there was something off about that goody-goody Miss-I'm-so-frugal-I've-never-had-more-than-two-pairs-of-shoes. Perhaps he'll lock her up in one of the towers. Or maybe he'll sell her to the whorehouse—I doubt it, the treaty's too valuable for that. That morning: did you hear, did you hear? Heaven's sake, what now? The laundress just let slip that the queen's dress from that day was drenched in blood. Her own or someone else's? That's for you to decide. What if the queen's mad, and the king is trying to hide it? It's plausible...She did have a darty look about her! Don't tell me I've been serving under a mad woman all this time...
Marie had said, when they pestered her every time she took a step: It's not my place to say, but I think they were attacked by bandits.
They'd become quiet, underwhelmed by the utter banality of that statement: I'm pretty sure much more is going on. Marie's suggestion came and went like a wink.
She placed a hand on Elise's shoulder, sat her down on the bed. Marie pulled up a chair beside her and flicked to the page she had bookmarked, a funny poem about three drunk fools.
She was about to read when doors flung open with a bang.
Elise twitched like a rabbit caught in a snare. Marie shot a glare at the intruder, the one she reserved for any unfortunate person who disturbed her nap, ready to fling the book at the twit for breaking the calm that had just settled, when she saw it was the king and had to morph her snarl into something more respectful, tucking in the corners of her mouth and eyebrows, fling aside her book, and leap from her bed to curtsey.
Musk and cedar wood tainted the air. “Shall I open the window, Your Majesty?” She walked over to the window and cranked the handle; the breeze swept in and stole away some of the heat.
“What would you like to do, Your Majesty?” Marie picked up a book of poetry, worn and cracked down the spine. She had read some of her favorite poems to Elise the night before, after she had ignored the embroidery and the board games and a deck of cards Marie had brought.
It was tiring, really, to maintain spirits when her mistress was so detached, so dull, so blank, as if all her memories had crumbled to nothing inside her and left a puppet in its wake. Someone had to prompt her, manipulate the strings: place the spoon in her hands, steer her around, slip clothes off her limp form. Other times, she disappeared into abandoned wings of the Palace, dark corners of the gardens, as if she were searching for something.
People talked, like they always did. Something had happened that day, that was for sure, though very few people had actually seen the queen in her terrible state. The king tried to keep everything hushed; and that, primarily, was his mistake. The court thrived on speculation; the longer the secret was kept, the faster the story spun on its own, weaving a tangle of knots that was wretched and ugly but so, so intriguing.
A couple days before, the royal couple had a tumble in the woods. Then, a day after: the queen is not speaking, not eating, drifts about like a ghost, did you know? It's possible the act could have shocked her, the poor thing, still too naïve for Francis's tricks. But no, even he's avoiding her; what do you make of that? Clearly—she's embarrassed, he's embarrassed. Please, the king has had his whores serve him under the dining table, gasping and moaning in front of everyone. Well, what do you suppose happened? I'll tell you—I think the queen had a good lay, but not with him. No. It makes sense—no, really, think about it! She looks scared, like she's been caught doing something bad. I suppose the king's still thinking whether to keep her or fling her to the crows. That slut; I knew there was something off about that goody-goody Miss-I'm-so-frugal-I've-never-had-more-than-two-pairs-of-shoes. Perhaps he'll lock her up in one of the towers. Or maybe he'll sell her to the whorehouse—I doubt it, the treaty's too valuable for that. That morning: did you hear, did you hear? Heaven's sake, what now? The laundress just let slip that the queen's dress from that day was drenched in blood. Her own or someone else's? That's for you to decide. What if the queen's mad, and the king is trying to hide it? It's plausible...She did have a darty look about her! Don't tell me I've been serving under a mad woman all this time...
Marie had said, when they pestered her every time she took a step: It's not my place to say, but I think they were attacked by bandits.
They'd become quiet, underwhelmed by the utter banality of that statement: I'm pretty sure much more is going on. Marie's suggestion came and went like a wink.
She placed a hand on Elise's shoulder, sat her down on the bed. Marie pulled up a chair beside her and flicked to the page she had bookmarked, a funny poem about three drunk fools.
She was about to read when doors flung open with a bang.
Elise twitched like a rabbit caught in a snare. Marie shot a glare at the intruder, the one she reserved for any unfortunate person who disturbed her nap, ready to fling the book at the twit for breaking the calm that had just settled, when she saw it was the king and had to morph her snarl into something more respectful, tucking in the corners of her mouth and eyebrows, fling aside her book, and leap from her bed to curtsey.
The king nodded in her direction, then drifted his gaze to Elise, who gripped the bed post as if she were being tossed by a wind. She stood up when he had entered; but she did not curtsey, nor did she say anything. The king sighed, ran his hand through his hair. By the looks of it, he was not faring any better than his wife; his hair lacked the usual luster, and was now more the color of straw than spun gold; his doublet was buttoned wrongly; he had pits beneath his eyes.
“Elise,” he said. He strode over to her and kissed her hand. He dropped it just as immediately. “I hope the day treated you well?”
Elise blinked up at him, nursing the hand he had just kissed.
Francis raised his hand and dangled it near her cheek for five seconds, as if he thought to stroke it, and let it fall. “Lady Marie,” he said. “Might I have a moment?”
“Has she been eating?” he asked as soon as they were outside the bedchamber, a good length away from the other ladies who sat with embroidery on their laps. Even so, Marie felt the pinpricks of their gazes.
“Not much, Your Highness.” She had not eaten at all, actually, as far as Marie was concerned.
“Has she talked?”
“Only to me, sire, and only when we're alone. Even then, she says very little, to ask for water or such.”
“This will not do.” The king rubbed his eyes, puckered them. “She's wasting away. And-and I don't know what to do.”
Some people said that it was a great honor to have a king admit his weakness to you. Marie took this as a sign that she was allowed to advise him: “Your Highness, might I suggest something?”
He gestured to her with his hand, palm-up, silently telling her to proceed. “Maybe a quiet dinner between the two of you might help her? She must be tired, seeing my face day after day.”
Francis smiled thinly. “You're not the first one to suggest so. Will you arrange it, then? I'll be ready in an hour and a half.”
“It'll be done, Your Highness.”
“And perhaps...can you join us?”
A gasp, and a second later a giggle, burst out from the group. Someone had dropped their basket; the muffle of needles and twine dropping on the floor was like a shot straight from the canon.
“Sire?”
“She trusts you,” he said, and again, that feeling of ice in her veins. “If she only talks to you, so far...you can try to pull her out, can't you?”
“I..” She couldn't refuse a king's offer. “I'd be glad to.”
“Elise,” he said. He strode over to her and kissed her hand. He dropped it just as immediately. “I hope the day treated you well?”
Elise blinked up at him, nursing the hand he had just kissed.
Francis raised his hand and dangled it near her cheek for five seconds, as if he thought to stroke it, and let it fall. “Lady Marie,” he said. “Might I have a moment?”
“Has she been eating?” he asked as soon as they were outside the bedchamber, a good length away from the other ladies who sat with embroidery on their laps. Even so, Marie felt the pinpricks of their gazes.
“Not much, Your Highness.” She had not eaten at all, actually, as far as Marie was concerned.
“Has she talked?”
“Only to me, sire, and only when we're alone. Even then, she says very little, to ask for water or such.”
“This will not do.” The king rubbed his eyes, puckered them. “She's wasting away. And-and I don't know what to do.”
Some people said that it was a great honor to have a king admit his weakness to you. Marie took this as a sign that she was allowed to advise him: “Your Highness, might I suggest something?”
He gestured to her with his hand, palm-up, silently telling her to proceed. “Maybe a quiet dinner between the two of you might help her? She must be tired, seeing my face day after day.”
Francis smiled thinly. “You're not the first one to suggest so. Will you arrange it, then? I'll be ready in an hour and a half.”
“It'll be done, Your Highness.”
“And perhaps...can you join us?”
A gasp, and a second later a giggle, burst out from the group. Someone had dropped their basket; the muffle of needles and twine dropping on the floor was like a shot straight from the canon.
“Sire?”
“She trusts you,” he said, and again, that feeling of ice in her veins. “If she only talks to you, so far...you can try to pull her out, can't you?”
“I..” She couldn't refuse a king's offer. “I'd be glad to.”
Brilliant as always, anon! The characters are so real and fascinating and believable. I can't even find a favourite moment in this chapter because there were so many. Elise's reaction to what happened is really well-portrayed, and I just want to punch Francis for being so clumsy at treating her right. He's such a selfish ass sometimes, but I guess that's to be expected from him.
Oh, and poor Gilbird! That was such a cruel ending for a great comrade.
Oh, and poor Gilbird! That was such a cruel ending for a great comrade.
I really think the idea of BDSM for their first time is the best Idea I ever heard and Please do keep the yaoi, I don't get sadistic like this if it was done to another woman
this is...wow. I really love how you describe their relationship, and Italy's approach to kinky stuff<3
They ate Gibird D:
I was so worried something happened to you Anon I was checking this daily hoping to see that you had updated and you did! And oh no poor Elise I wan to ohug her or hell I'll sit next to her and be the husband Francis has resisted being.
I'm more bothered by what the kids saw... seriously dead bodies and children are not a good mixture. I can vouch for that personally and that dead body wasn't all mutalated and stuff... at least now Francis knows not to fuck with Elise.
I was so worried something happened to you Anon I was checking this daily hoping to see that you had updated and you did! And oh no poor Elise I wan to ohug her or hell I'll sit next to her and be the husband Francis has resisted being.
I'm more bothered by what the kids saw... seriously dead bodies and children are not a good mixture. I can vouch for that personally and that dead body wasn't all mutalated and stuff... at least now Francis knows not to fuck with Elise.
So this is still fantastic, and getting better, and have I said already how much I lovelovelove your Italy?
You should probably post an update on the fills list so more people can see the fantastic that is this fill...
You should probably post an update on the fills list so more people can see the fantastic that is this fill...
Feliciano was very little when grandfather's friend came to live with them, at least for a while.
His grandfather had been away on one of his trips on which he never took him or his brother, but that was fine for little Feli, grandpa said that on those tips they had to sleep in tents, on the floor and that the food was terrible, so he preferred to stay in his warm cozy bed and with the kitchen just down the hall. And grandfather claimed that there were no food stalls in the wildnerness where he went, that's why it was the wilderness. No, Feli was quite certain that he never wanted to see that.
While Feli knew that there was something special about his brother, grandfather and himself, he had seldom seen others like himself. He was too young to remember visits from the nice ladies from the East or the men from the South. But he would remember this man.
Feli was sitting in the sun, eating strawberries when he heard metal clanking and steps coming closer. He opened his eyes, then smiled brightly. It was grandfather, returned from his trip. His grandfather had not taken time to change out of his travel clothes. Feli had asked once why they were made of metal - that must be umcomfortable, to wear, no? - but grandfather had only laughed and ruffled his hair, and told him that he'd understand when he was older.
Feli basically flew into his grandfather's arms, and he spun him around, then held him close and peppered his face with kisses.
"My darling boy," grandfather exclaimed, "my beloved Feli, I missed you so much!" His voice was deep and rumbled in his chest.
"I'm so glad you're back. Did you bring me anything?"
His grandfather laughed again. "Just after my heart. I have indeed brought something back, but it's not just for you, it's a surprise."
Feli was delighted! Would it be some of the soft cloth from the desert road? Maybe a new animal to play with? Maybe it was food!
"Go fetch your brother, then meet me in the atrium."
Feli rushed out of the room in search for his brother.
"Romano, Romano, come quick, grandfather has returned. And he brought a surprise!"
He encountered Romano in the kitchen garden. Feli clasped his brother's hand in his and dragged him along. "Come, you have to see what it is!"
Romano let himself be dragged.
"You don't even know what it is," he chided.
"How do you know that?"
"If you knew you would have blabbed about it, you can't keep anything to yourself."
"Can too!"
"Can not!"
"Can too!" Feli protested.
They had reached the atrium when their grandfather entered as well, having changed into a light tunic. Now he looked properly like grandfather again. He smiled broadly and swooped Romano up and kissed him on the forehead.
"You're getting sooo big, you'll be a man in no-time!"
Romano blushed bright red and started to squirm.
"What's the surprise?" Feli asked impatiently. Grandfather took their hands, and led them, one on each side, to the door facing west.
He himself was almost giddy with excitement.
"You'll see, you'll see."
Even Romano was getting infected by the suspense. "Is it a good surprise?"
"The best ever," grandfather promised.
Finally they had stepped outside and saw it.
There, on a big black horse that was dancing impatiently on the street, was a man; he was tall, thin, dressed in clothes Feli had never seen before. And he scowled and almost pierced him with a glare from his blue eyes. And above those was a mane of long, bright hair.
"My grandchildren, that is my friend, and he'll be staying with us for a while."
Both children attempted to hide behind their grandfather's legs.
What sort of surprise was this?
"Get off your horse, greet my kids. And try to smile. I had not thought it possible, but you're frightening the children."
The man did not smile, but at least he got off his horse. But that did not make him less intimidating, Feli thought.
Of course he had seen hair like that before, on a few slaves but mostly on noblewomen who had wigs made from blond or white hair. And he had seen eyes like that before. And by far stranger clothes as well, but there was something unsettling about this man. Oddly enough, Feli was reminded of grandfather and his metal clothes, when he went away for long times and returned with more and more scars. Did he get those from men like him?
"Are you from the wilderness?" Romano asked meekly. He was curious, but only when he was safe behind grandfather.
The man walked closer, oddly silent despite the metal he wore. Up close, Feli could see that he wore some kind of pelt or fur like a cloak.
"I am the wildest of them all," the man said. But the words sounded strange, with a foreign melody and twist to them.
"What's your name?" Feli squeaked, surprised by his own voice.
The man cocked his head. "I am Indomitus."
"Really?" grandfather asked, "must you act so childish?"
Feli didn't understand.
"You leave me little choice, Wolf-Born. That is the name you shall address me by."
Grandfather's eternal smile faltered, and for a second, Feli could see a different man in grandfather's face.
"Is this your last word?"
"Until you say what I want to hear, yes."
The strange man and what he did to grandfather scared Feli, he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. But his brother noticed and acted. Romano tugged at grandfather's tunic. "I think Feli is hungry, and you must be hungry, too."
And grandfather was grandfather again. He stroked over their hair. "Then let's go to the kitchen, I'll have the slaves cook up a feast. There's much to celebrate." Romano and Feli attempted to drag grandfather away, but when grandfather didn't want to be moved, he was like rock.
"Bring you horse to the stables, then join us. I'll have to show you the house and then the whole of Roma."
The man led his horse away, and grandfather finally walked to the kitchen.
The kitchen did make Feli feel instantly better, as did grandfather's smile. The servants had already started to prepare a feast, but neither of them could wait and started to snack on whatever was already available.
It felt just like before, but then Indomitus entered, still with that pelt around his shoulders, he looked like scary stories described wild people, like he climbed out of one and into their home.
Grandfather felt the tension rise.
"I'll have a servant bring you a change of clothes, you must be feeling hot."
"I am as comfortable as I'll ever be."
His grandfather had been away on one of his trips on which he never took him or his brother, but that was fine for little Feli, grandpa said that on those tips they had to sleep in tents, on the floor and that the food was terrible, so he preferred to stay in his warm cozy bed and with the kitchen just down the hall. And grandfather claimed that there were no food stalls in the wildnerness where he went, that's why it was the wilderness. No, Feli was quite certain that he never wanted to see that.
While Feli knew that there was something special about his brother, grandfather and himself, he had seldom seen others like himself. He was too young to remember visits from the nice ladies from the East or the men from the South. But he would remember this man.
Feli was sitting in the sun, eating strawberries when he heard metal clanking and steps coming closer. He opened his eyes, then smiled brightly. It was grandfather, returned from his trip. His grandfather had not taken time to change out of his travel clothes. Feli had asked once why they were made of metal - that must be umcomfortable, to wear, no? - but grandfather had only laughed and ruffled his hair, and told him that he'd understand when he was older.
Feli basically flew into his grandfather's arms, and he spun him around, then held him close and peppered his face with kisses.
"My darling boy," grandfather exclaimed, "my beloved Feli, I missed you so much!" His voice was deep and rumbled in his chest.
"I'm so glad you're back. Did you bring me anything?"
His grandfather laughed again. "Just after my heart. I have indeed brought something back, but it's not just for you, it's a surprise."
Feli was delighted! Would it be some of the soft cloth from the desert road? Maybe a new animal to play with? Maybe it was food!
"Go fetch your brother, then meet me in the atrium."
Feli rushed out of the room in search for his brother.
"Romano, Romano, come quick, grandfather has returned. And he brought a surprise!"
He encountered Romano in the kitchen garden. Feli clasped his brother's hand in his and dragged him along. "Come, you have to see what it is!"
Romano let himself be dragged.
"You don't even know what it is," he chided.
"How do you know that?"
"If you knew you would have blabbed about it, you can't keep anything to yourself."
"Can too!"
"Can not!"
"Can too!" Feli protested.
They had reached the atrium when their grandfather entered as well, having changed into a light tunic. Now he looked properly like grandfather again. He smiled broadly and swooped Romano up and kissed him on the forehead.
"You're getting sooo big, you'll be a man in no-time!"
Romano blushed bright red and started to squirm.
"What's the surprise?" Feli asked impatiently. Grandfather took their hands, and led them, one on each side, to the door facing west.
He himself was almost giddy with excitement.
"You'll see, you'll see."
Even Romano was getting infected by the suspense. "Is it a good surprise?"
"The best ever," grandfather promised.
Finally they had stepped outside and saw it.
There, on a big black horse that was dancing impatiently on the street, was a man; he was tall, thin, dressed in clothes Feli had never seen before. And he scowled and almost pierced him with a glare from his blue eyes. And above those was a mane of long, bright hair.
"My grandchildren, that is my friend, and he'll be staying with us for a while."
Both children attempted to hide behind their grandfather's legs.
What sort of surprise was this?
"Get off your horse, greet my kids. And try to smile. I had not thought it possible, but you're frightening the children."
The man did not smile, but at least he got off his horse. But that did not make him less intimidating, Feli thought.
Of course he had seen hair like that before, on a few slaves but mostly on noblewomen who had wigs made from blond or white hair. And he had seen eyes like that before. And by far stranger clothes as well, but there was something unsettling about this man. Oddly enough, Feli was reminded of grandfather and his metal clothes, when he went away for long times and returned with more and more scars. Did he get those from men like him?
"Are you from the wilderness?" Romano asked meekly. He was curious, but only when he was safe behind grandfather.
The man walked closer, oddly silent despite the metal he wore. Up close, Feli could see that he wore some kind of pelt or fur like a cloak.
"I am the wildest of them all," the man said. But the words sounded strange, with a foreign melody and twist to them.
"What's your name?" Feli squeaked, surprised by his own voice.
The man cocked his head. "I am Indomitus."
"Really?" grandfather asked, "must you act so childish?"
Feli didn't understand.
"You leave me little choice, Wolf-Born. That is the name you shall address me by."
Grandfather's eternal smile faltered, and for a second, Feli could see a different man in grandfather's face.
"Is this your last word?"
"Until you say what I want to hear, yes."
The strange man and what he did to grandfather scared Feli, he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. But his brother noticed and acted. Romano tugged at grandfather's tunic. "I think Feli is hungry, and you must be hungry, too."
And grandfather was grandfather again. He stroked over their hair. "Then let's go to the kitchen, I'll have the slaves cook up a feast. There's much to celebrate." Romano and Feli attempted to drag grandfather away, but when grandfather didn't want to be moved, he was like rock.
"Bring you horse to the stables, then join us. I'll have to show you the house and then the whole of Roma."
The man led his horse away, and grandfather finally walked to the kitchen.
The kitchen did make Feli feel instantly better, as did grandfather's smile. The servants had already started to prepare a feast, but neither of them could wait and started to snack on whatever was already available.
It felt just like before, but then Indomitus entered, still with that pelt around his shoulders, he looked like scary stories described wild people, like he climbed out of one and into their home.
Grandfather felt the tension rise.
"I'll have a servant bring you a change of clothes, you must be feeling hot."
"I am as comfortable as I'll ever be."
Days passed, and neither the man nor his attitude seemed to change. Grandfather had gone on a tour through the city with them, showed him all the great places, but nothing seemed to impress him.
Frequently grandfather would send them out of the room when Indomitus came and they talked. Feli had asked about what once, but grandfather had ruffled his hair and told him that he'd understand when he was older.
Apparently the man never went anywhere without his sword, not like grandfather who only took his on his trips and discarded it as soon as he went home.
Feli had never heard the man speak as much as on his first day again, he was mostly silent.
One night, when he couldn't sleep, Feli decided to walk to grandfather's room and sleep in his bed, that always made the bad dreams go away.
But before he could go inside, he heard voices. His grandfather was still awake and talking to Indomitus.
Silently he sat down next to the wall and listened.
"There was another assassin, trying to hide in one of the apartments."
"Oh gods," grandfather said, sounding tired and small somehow. Grandfather never was small, grandfather was strong, always! Feli didn't know what an assassin was, but it must have been a bad thing.
"Like I said, was."
"That's three this month. I can't - this cannot go on for much longer."
"It won't, I left a message. I don't think they'll try again soon."
"What would I do without you?"
"Lie dead in a ditch somewhere."
"Don't joke at a time like this."
"Since when do I joke? You brought me here to protect you and your offspring, and that is what I am doing."
"And I'm grateful, I really am. Don't you see that I need you here? You need to stay, I cannot do this without you."
There was rustling and what sounded like a chair being dragged.
"I wish I didn't need to stay."
Grandfather then made a sound that was like a laugh that had died.
"I wish I didn't need to keep you. But you're the best and I need you by my side."
"Is that the part where you say that this hurts you more than me?"
"You would never believe me if I did."
"True."
There was a bit of silence. Feli wanted to listen, want to hear what they had to say, but he was getting tired. His eyes fell shut on more than one occassion and he drifted in and out of sleep, never quite sure if what he heard was reality or a dream.
"Do you know what they call you, behind my back, when they think I cannot hear them?"
"Your prisoner?"
"My beast. My wild devil. My monster, even."
"Your monster?"
"Can you blame them after what you did to the traitor and his family?"
"I suppose not."
There was more rustling and footsteps.
"Regardless of the circumstances, I cannot deny that a part of me is delighted that you're here."
"I bet I know which one."
"I do believe that was a joke, old friend. Is Rome finally wearing down your defenses?"
"Never."
"Is nothing here that you enjoy? The plays? The games? The wine? The company?"
"In this swamp of decadence? With assassins, hidden daggers and poison? I prefer my forests."
"They're savage."
"They're simple. I'm not one for politics, I despise this trickery, the lies."
"I do, too. Often I wish that I could go back, when I was young, behind me an army and the world for my taking."
More steps.
"I remember stories they told me, about the Wolf-born, who took over a city and a country by storm. Who was brave and glorious. I wish I knew you then. Knew you as a beast."
"Careful now."
"Sometimes, I think I can see you, on the battlefield, with your armor glistening in the sun, a sword in your hand - seeing you as you were meant to be."
"What do you see now?"
"A grandfather. Someone who's soft, who wears cloth and a paintbrush instead of an armor."
"Oh, my friend, is it a bad thing to wish for a future, for a safe city, for something I can give my children to inherit? Is it bad to want peace?"
"To want it? No. But not to fight for it?"
"I suppose you think that's cowardice. Weakness. Sometimes I forget you're so young, still."
"I am a warrior."
"The fiercest I have ever known. You should have been with me, back when I had Rome and nothing else. We would own the world by now. From the desert to the ice vastness in the north. Alexander's empire would be dwarfed by our own."
"Who is this Alexander?"
"You don't know him?" there was laughter, "you are a wild beast."
"Would you have me any other way?"
"You wouldn't be you if you weren't so stubborn."
"Is life always so complicated here?"
"I wish I could say no."
"I almost wish I could believe that."
"Now, come here, let me tell you about Alexander, Alexander the Great. His empire stretched over half of the world, but then they thought that the world ended at the sea. His story begins...."
Feli found himself in his bed the next morning, not sure if he was awake or dreaming the previous night.
More days passed. Sometimes they stayed home all day, sometimes grandfather sent Indomitus with them to the forum or other places. Sometimes grandfather played with them when Indomitus called for him, then they exchanged a few hushed words, then the tall man left for hours. On one day, they were on their way to the forum, to see grandfather, when Indomitus rushed them to a narrow alleyway and pushed them into the shadows, roughly.
"What is going on?" Romano demanded.
"Shhh," Indomitus said, his face a stone mask. "I need you to stay here, for a bit. Hide here."
"Is this a game?" Feli asked.
"Yes, it's a game we play where I come from. And you win if you're absolutely quiet, when no one knows that you're here."
Romano pouted and Feli clutched at Indomitus' tunic. "But I don't want to be here! It's dark! And scary!"
Indomitus' eyes darted around nervously.
"But it's a fun game," he said, "and - and when you win, you'll get a prize."
"A prize?" Feli's eyes widened.
"The best ever."
"Promise?"
"Yes, I promise, so go be good boys now and hide here. Make no sound."
Feli nodded excitedly. His games may be strange, but he was playing one.
Indomitus looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he closed his mouth and walked away quickly. Feli didn't notice that his hand was tightly clasped around his sword.
The alley was still dark and gross and scary, but he made no sound.
When Indomitus returned, he held two steaming pies.
"Is that all?" Feli asked.
At that, Indomitus actually cracked a smile.
"No, your grandfather has the rest. We'll go see him now, and you can tell him how you're the best at playing games. Be sure to mention the prize to him."
When they met grandfather, he looked worried but soon smiled when he saw them. Feli happily told him all about the game, and how they had to teach Indomitus better games because his ones were boring. And then he demanded his prize. Grandfather looked at Indomitus.
"I thought you didn't like politics."
"But I do like games."
In the end grandfather bought them new toys and promised they'd have a feast tonight.
Frequently grandfather would send them out of the room when Indomitus came and they talked. Feli had asked about what once, but grandfather had ruffled his hair and told him that he'd understand when he was older.
Apparently the man never went anywhere without his sword, not like grandfather who only took his on his trips and discarded it as soon as he went home.
Feli had never heard the man speak as much as on his first day again, he was mostly silent.
One night, when he couldn't sleep, Feli decided to walk to grandfather's room and sleep in his bed, that always made the bad dreams go away.
But before he could go inside, he heard voices. His grandfather was still awake and talking to Indomitus.
Silently he sat down next to the wall and listened.
"There was another assassin, trying to hide in one of the apartments."
"Oh gods," grandfather said, sounding tired and small somehow. Grandfather never was small, grandfather was strong, always! Feli didn't know what an assassin was, but it must have been a bad thing.
"Like I said, was."
"That's three this month. I can't - this cannot go on for much longer."
"It won't, I left a message. I don't think they'll try again soon."
"What would I do without you?"
"Lie dead in a ditch somewhere."
"Don't joke at a time like this."
"Since when do I joke? You brought me here to protect you and your offspring, and that is what I am doing."
"And I'm grateful, I really am. Don't you see that I need you here? You need to stay, I cannot do this without you."
There was rustling and what sounded like a chair being dragged.
"I wish I didn't need to stay."
Grandfather then made a sound that was like a laugh that had died.
"I wish I didn't need to keep you. But you're the best and I need you by my side."
"Is that the part where you say that this hurts you more than me?"
"You would never believe me if I did."
"True."
There was a bit of silence. Feli wanted to listen, want to hear what they had to say, but he was getting tired. His eyes fell shut on more than one occassion and he drifted in and out of sleep, never quite sure if what he heard was reality or a dream.
"Do you know what they call you, behind my back, when they think I cannot hear them?"
"Your prisoner?"
"My beast. My wild devil. My monster, even."
"Your monster?"
"Can you blame them after what you did to the traitor and his family?"
"I suppose not."
There was more rustling and footsteps.
"Regardless of the circumstances, I cannot deny that a part of me is delighted that you're here."
"I bet I know which one."
"I do believe that was a joke, old friend. Is Rome finally wearing down your defenses?"
"Never."
"Is nothing here that you enjoy? The plays? The games? The wine? The company?"
"In this swamp of decadence? With assassins, hidden daggers and poison? I prefer my forests."
"They're savage."
"They're simple. I'm not one for politics, I despise this trickery, the lies."
"I do, too. Often I wish that I could go back, when I was young, behind me an army and the world for my taking."
More steps.
"I remember stories they told me, about the Wolf-born, who took over a city and a country by storm. Who was brave and glorious. I wish I knew you then. Knew you as a beast."
"Careful now."
"Sometimes, I think I can see you, on the battlefield, with your armor glistening in the sun, a sword in your hand - seeing you as you were meant to be."
"What do you see now?"
"A grandfather. Someone who's soft, who wears cloth and a paintbrush instead of an armor."
"Oh, my friend, is it a bad thing to wish for a future, for a safe city, for something I can give my children to inherit? Is it bad to want peace?"
"To want it? No. But not to fight for it?"
"I suppose you think that's cowardice. Weakness. Sometimes I forget you're so young, still."
"I am a warrior."
"The fiercest I have ever known. You should have been with me, back when I had Rome and nothing else. We would own the world by now. From the desert to the ice vastness in the north. Alexander's empire would be dwarfed by our own."
"Who is this Alexander?"
"You don't know him?" there was laughter, "you are a wild beast."
"Would you have me any other way?"
"You wouldn't be you if you weren't so stubborn."
"Is life always so complicated here?"
"I wish I could say no."
"I almost wish I could believe that."
"Now, come here, let me tell you about Alexander, Alexander the Great. His empire stretched over half of the world, but then they thought that the world ended at the sea. His story begins...."
Feli found himself in his bed the next morning, not sure if he was awake or dreaming the previous night.
More days passed. Sometimes they stayed home all day, sometimes grandfather sent Indomitus with them to the forum or other places. Sometimes grandfather played with them when Indomitus called for him, then they exchanged a few hushed words, then the tall man left for hours. On one day, they were on their way to the forum, to see grandfather, when Indomitus rushed them to a narrow alleyway and pushed them into the shadows, roughly.
"What is going on?" Romano demanded.
"Shhh," Indomitus said, his face a stone mask. "I need you to stay here, for a bit. Hide here."
"Is this a game?" Feli asked.
"Yes, it's a game we play where I come from. And you win if you're absolutely quiet, when no one knows that you're here."
Romano pouted and Feli clutched at Indomitus' tunic. "But I don't want to be here! It's dark! And scary!"
Indomitus' eyes darted around nervously.
"But it's a fun game," he said, "and - and when you win, you'll get a prize."
"A prize?" Feli's eyes widened.
"The best ever."
"Promise?"
"Yes, I promise, so go be good boys now and hide here. Make no sound."
Feli nodded excitedly. His games may be strange, but he was playing one.
Indomitus looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he closed his mouth and walked away quickly. Feli didn't notice that his hand was tightly clasped around his sword.
The alley was still dark and gross and scary, but he made no sound.
When Indomitus returned, he held two steaming pies.
"Is that all?" Feli asked.
At that, Indomitus actually cracked a smile.
"No, your grandfather has the rest. We'll go see him now, and you can tell him how you're the best at playing games. Be sure to mention the prize to him."
When they met grandfather, he looked worried but soon smiled when he saw them. Feli happily told him all about the game, and how they had to teach Indomitus better games because his ones were boring. And then he demanded his prize. Grandfather looked at Indomitus.
"I thought you didn't like politics."
"But I do like games."
In the end grandfather bought them new toys and promised they'd have a feast tonight.
That night, Feli couldn't sleep again. He was thirsty, so he went to the kitchen.
He was surprised to see Indomitus there, and out of his metal clothes, in a light tunic like grandfather wore. His back was turned, but the pitter-patter of Feli's feet must have made him alarmed. He turned around suddenly, eyes glaring, until he saw that it was only Feli, then he relaxed.
"What are you doing? It's late, too late for boys."
"I want something to drink, and I can't sleep."
Satisfied with that, Indomitus turned around again. Feli hadn't noticed how his hand had clutched a big knife.
"What are you doing here?" Feli asked after he had drunken something.
"I am older, I can stay awake as long as I please."
"Can I stay awake with you?"
"No, you should go to bed."
"But I don't want to."
Feli stepped closer, hesitantly. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing."
But Feli had seen something. Not the knife, never the knife, but something else.
It was tiny, impossibly tiny and black.
A little ball of fluff and feathers?
"You have a bird?" Feli asked, almost shrieked with happiness. He had never seen one up close.
"Shhh, you'll wake the entire house."
"Can I see? Where did you get it? What's its name? Can I hold it? Can I pet it?"
"No. Be quiet."
"No is not a proper answer."
"Not one you have heard, I bet."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing, go back to bed."
"But you have a bird!"
"So?"
"So let me see!"
"Will it make you shut up?"
"Yes," Feli promised.
Indomitus cradled the tiny bird in his hands and knelt down next to Feli so he could see.
It was a baby bird, with black and grey feathers, a black beak and big round eyes.
"What kind of bird is it?"
"I don't know yet, it's too small to tell."
Feli reached out with his hands.
"Gently," Indomitus said, "or it will pick at your fingers."
Feli was trying to be very gentle and ghosted over the bird's feathers. It felt incredible.
"Where did you get it? Why is it not with its family?"
"I suppose it fell from its nest or maybe a cat took it."
"A cat took it away?"
"Cats do that, took it from its home and now it's stuck on the ground here. It can't fly away, not yet."
"And you take care of it?"
"Yes, until it is big and strong, and can fly."
"Will it fly away then?"
"It's a bird, it can't stay here. Birds don't belong on the ground."
They sat together for a while, with Feli quietly asking questions.
"Now it is getting late, go back to bed."
Feli yawned. "But I'm not tired."
"You are, go to bed."
"Fine."
As Feli left, Indomitus said quickly, almost nervously, "just, don't tell your grandfather. this will be our secret, you understand?"
"A secret!"
"Shhhhh."
"Ok, shhh, I promise."
Indomitus ended up staying with them for years, still being usually quiet, and never smiled. Except sometimes at night when Feli sneaked to the kitchen an saw the bird getting bigger and bigger. Finally it was grown up and then it was gone, from one night to the next. "It needed to fly, it's in his nature" Indomitus said, "it's no life for a bird inside a cage."
Grandfather seemed happy and at the same time sad when Indomitus was around.
And from one night to the next, Imdomitus was gone as well.
"Why did he go, grandfather?" Feli asked once he found out.
"He did what he came here for and I, I guess that it was time. Roma was not his city, never will be."
"He needed to fly?" Feli asked.
Grandfather looked at him, perplexed by the srnge choice of words.
"I guess so. Birds don't belong inside cages, and he never belonged here."
"Do you think we'll see him again?"
Grandfather tried to smile, but it looked very sad.
"Maybe."
Notes:
Not very historically accurate, I know.
Indomitus means untamed in Latin, I chose it because I didn't want to call Germania Germania or by some name I made up, so I'm going with "he chose the name for himself to spite Rome and made him address him with it". Germania was Rome's bodyguard once, so I'm going with it: the main reason however is to protect Feli and Romano from assassins and kidnappers and whatnot, since I think Rome can take care of himself, but the two bosy are obviously his weaknesses.
And about the bird, 1) I guess an affinity with birds runs in the family and 2) symbolism, yay!
and sorry I derailed this a lot, I just have a lot of Germania&Rome feels
also, subtext is subtext
He was surprised to see Indomitus there, and out of his metal clothes, in a light tunic like grandfather wore. His back was turned, but the pitter-patter of Feli's feet must have made him alarmed. He turned around suddenly, eyes glaring, until he saw that it was only Feli, then he relaxed.
"What are you doing? It's late, too late for boys."
"I want something to drink, and I can't sleep."
Satisfied with that, Indomitus turned around again. Feli hadn't noticed how his hand had clutched a big knife.
"What are you doing here?" Feli asked after he had drunken something.
"I am older, I can stay awake as long as I please."
"Can I stay awake with you?"
"No, you should go to bed."
"But I don't want to."
Feli stepped closer, hesitantly. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing."
But Feli had seen something. Not the knife, never the knife, but something else.
It was tiny, impossibly tiny and black.
A little ball of fluff and feathers?
"You have a bird?" Feli asked, almost shrieked with happiness. He had never seen one up close.
"Shhh, you'll wake the entire house."
"Can I see? Where did you get it? What's its name? Can I hold it? Can I pet it?"
"No. Be quiet."
"No is not a proper answer."
"Not one you have heard, I bet."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing, go back to bed."
"But you have a bird!"
"So?"
"So let me see!"
"Will it make you shut up?"
"Yes," Feli promised.
Indomitus cradled the tiny bird in his hands and knelt down next to Feli so he could see.
It was a baby bird, with black and grey feathers, a black beak and big round eyes.
"What kind of bird is it?"
"I don't know yet, it's too small to tell."
Feli reached out with his hands.
"Gently," Indomitus said, "or it will pick at your fingers."
Feli was trying to be very gentle and ghosted over the bird's feathers. It felt incredible.
"Where did you get it? Why is it not with its family?"
"I suppose it fell from its nest or maybe a cat took it."
"A cat took it away?"
"Cats do that, took it from its home and now it's stuck on the ground here. It can't fly away, not yet."
"And you take care of it?"
"Yes, until it is big and strong, and can fly."
"Will it fly away then?"
"It's a bird, it can't stay here. Birds don't belong on the ground."
They sat together for a while, with Feli quietly asking questions.
"Now it is getting late, go back to bed."
Feli yawned. "But I'm not tired."
"You are, go to bed."
"Fine."
As Feli left, Indomitus said quickly, almost nervously, "just, don't tell your grandfather. this will be our secret, you understand?"
"A secret!"
"Shhhhh."
"Ok, shhh, I promise."
Indomitus ended up staying with them for years, still being usually quiet, and never smiled. Except sometimes at night when Feli sneaked to the kitchen an saw the bird getting bigger and bigger. Finally it was grown up and then it was gone, from one night to the next. "It needed to fly, it's in his nature" Indomitus said, "it's no life for a bird inside a cage."
Grandfather seemed happy and at the same time sad when Indomitus was around.
And from one night to the next, Imdomitus was gone as well.
"Why did he go, grandfather?" Feli asked once he found out.
"He did what he came here for and I, I guess that it was time. Roma was not his city, never will be."
"He needed to fly?" Feli asked.
Grandfather looked at him, perplexed by the srnge choice of words.
"I guess so. Birds don't belong inside cages, and he never belonged here."
"Do you think we'll see him again?"
Grandfather tried to smile, but it looked very sad.
"Maybe."
Notes:
Not very historically accurate, I know.
Indomitus means untamed in Latin, I chose it because I didn't want to call Germania Germania or by some name I made up, so I'm going with "he chose the name for himself to spite Rome and made him address him with it". Germania was Rome's bodyguard once, so I'm going with it: the main reason however is to protect Feli and Romano from assassins and kidnappers and whatnot, since I think Rome can take care of himself, but the two bosy are obviously his weaknesses.
And about the bird, 1) I guess an affinity with birds runs in the family and 2) symbolism, yay!
and sorry I derailed this a lot, I just have a lot of Germania&Rome feels
also, subtext is subtext
Not the previous potential filler, but this idea intrigued me.
---
America has always been cheerful, boisterous, (teetering on the edge). He remembers, now, selling Alaska, surrendering the colony and noticing, even then, a hint of something... else.
It is after World War II (Pearl Harbor attacking him attacking his people on his soil and it drives him madmadMAD) and the Cold War is beginning. America calls Russia, asks him to come to Gila River.
The town, if it could be called that, is abandoned.
America is laughing.
It is bright, and cheerful, and echoes through abandoned streets like no cold snicker ever could.
Russia shivers, shrinking into his coat.
America turns, asks pleasantly how he has been, what he thinks of the weather, and Russia tries very hard to suppress his dread because America was always a little off, always a little bit strange, but nothing like this.
It shows in his clothes, unkempt, and his hair, in disarray. It shows in his eyes. They are like looking into a hot spring -- beautiful, but blistering, bottomless, wild.
Distantly, Russia realizes America is threatening him, that there is a knife at his throat, that those eyes are too close, crazed, (forbidden). "And, Russia. We're buddies, right? You wouldn't want to make me mad, right? So, just, between friends." Alfred smiles like the sun, and people forget that it is nearly seven thousand degrees Celsius, even on the surface. "You'll... discourage any nuclear research, right?"
Russia nods, and thinks of cold nights and snow, tries not to turn to ashes in America's fiery corona. His heart beats, not, perhaps, as icy as he had always believed.
He stands there, not frozen, quite; more like petrified, a statue in the face of this devil (angel), rapt. America has turned his attention elsewhere, but Russia can still feel his gaze burning into his skin, the Arizona sun perpetuating the illusion. Ridiculously, somehow, he longs to touch, run his hands over golden skin that he imagines burns like fire, bear the blisters like badges of pride (ownership).
"Did you want something?" America says, not turning. He is examining a building, studying the cracks in the wall (in his psyche).
Russia swallows the truth, does not dare. For all America looks childish, acts, even, he is strong enough to bend Ivan's favored pipe -- a joke, really, that turned out to be an effective weapon -- into a pretzel. "No." He lies, and departs.
~-!-~
It is later, after another World Council Meeting in which America suggests that, instead of bother with all this division nonsense, they simply award all territory up for debate to him. The truth -- of the attraction that smolders in his soul, tamped and banked but apparent, sometimes, in his eyes, flickering with desire -- is revealed, brought out into the sunshine for all who care to look.
It takes only a question, innocent in phrasing and tone, and Russia swallows and America watches it, watches his throat bob in implicit agreement. He decides, then, and lunges, knocks Russia to the floor and suddenly they are kissing in the corner of an abandoned hallway, ice and fire, hissing, steam rising as they meet. Russia's heart races, heat singing in his blood, America's hands singeing his skin if only in his imagination, and America looks at him, feral, whiteblindingbright teeth bared.
Russia imagines them sinking into his skin, blood ruby red spilling across snow fields. He imagines the war, bombs exploding in his head and soldiers rushing off to die. He closes his eyes, and America's parching skin brings him back to the present, pinned to the cold cold linoleum floor by a nation with madness in his eyes, with hair like the sun and eyes the very hottest part of a flame.
That is how it begins, and once it has started it never really stops, perpetual motion, a wildfire crackling on, consuming everything in its path. He is being devoured, caught in the firing range, but he is unable to move, even as the world pleads with him to stop. But it is so warm, here, by the fire, and he almost doesn't care anymore if he is the one cooking. It lasts long past the Cold War, thawing and fading into a scorching summer, and for all his coats and scarves Russia is never warm enough, anymore, without America at his side.
He stares into the fire, and wonders what it would be like to burn, that intensity eating him up.
It started, as all fires must, with oxygen, heat, fuel. A spark, perhaps, of madness.
It ended, as all fires must, in ashes.
---
*Gila River is a Japanese internment camp. After Pearl Harbor, Americans got really mad at the Japanese and, yes, relocated and ruined the lives of many native born American citizens who happened to be of Japanese descent.
Huh. Was not expecting all the heat imagery. Anyway, I hope did okay; this is technically the first Hetalia fic I've written.
---
America has always been cheerful, boisterous, (teetering on the edge). He remembers, now, selling Alaska, surrendering the colony and noticing, even then, a hint of something... else.
It is after World War II (Pearl Harbor attacking him attacking his people on his soil and it drives him madmadMAD) and the Cold War is beginning. America calls Russia, asks him to come to Gila River.
The town, if it could be called that, is abandoned.
America is laughing.
It is bright, and cheerful, and echoes through abandoned streets like no cold snicker ever could.
Russia shivers, shrinking into his coat.
America turns, asks pleasantly how he has been, what he thinks of the weather, and Russia tries very hard to suppress his dread because America was always a little off, always a little bit strange, but nothing like this.
It shows in his clothes, unkempt, and his hair, in disarray. It shows in his eyes. They are like looking into a hot spring -- beautiful, but blistering, bottomless, wild.
Distantly, Russia realizes America is threatening him, that there is a knife at his throat, that those eyes are too close, crazed, (forbidden). "And, Russia. We're buddies, right? You wouldn't want to make me mad, right? So, just, between friends." Alfred smiles like the sun, and people forget that it is nearly seven thousand degrees Celsius, even on the surface. "You'll... discourage any nuclear research, right?"
Russia nods, and thinks of cold nights and snow, tries not to turn to ashes in America's fiery corona. His heart beats, not, perhaps, as icy as he had always believed.
He stands there, not frozen, quite; more like petrified, a statue in the face of this devil (angel), rapt. America has turned his attention elsewhere, but Russia can still feel his gaze burning into his skin, the Arizona sun perpetuating the illusion. Ridiculously, somehow, he longs to touch, run his hands over golden skin that he imagines burns like fire, bear the blisters like badges of pride (ownership).
"Did you want something?" America says, not turning. He is examining a building, studying the cracks in the wall (in his psyche).
Russia swallows the truth, does not dare. For all America looks childish, acts, even, he is strong enough to bend Ivan's favored pipe -- a joke, really, that turned out to be an effective weapon -- into a pretzel. "No." He lies, and departs.
~-!-~
It is later, after another World Council Meeting in which America suggests that, instead of bother with all this division nonsense, they simply award all territory up for debate to him. The truth -- of the attraction that smolders in his soul, tamped and banked but apparent, sometimes, in his eyes, flickering with desire -- is revealed, brought out into the sunshine for all who care to look.
It takes only a question, innocent in phrasing and tone, and Russia swallows and America watches it, watches his throat bob in implicit agreement. He decides, then, and lunges, knocks Russia to the floor and suddenly they are kissing in the corner of an abandoned hallway, ice and fire, hissing, steam rising as they meet. Russia's heart races, heat singing in his blood, America's hands singeing his skin if only in his imagination, and America looks at him, feral, whiteblindingbright teeth bared.
Russia imagines them sinking into his skin, blood ruby red spilling across snow fields. He imagines the war, bombs exploding in his head and soldiers rushing off to die. He closes his eyes, and America's parching skin brings him back to the present, pinned to the cold cold linoleum floor by a nation with madness in his eyes, with hair like the sun and eyes the very hottest part of a flame.
That is how it begins, and once it has started it never really stops, perpetual motion, a wildfire crackling on, consuming everything in its path. He is being devoured, caught in the firing range, but he is unable to move, even as the world pleads with him to stop. But it is so warm, here, by the fire, and he almost doesn't care anymore if he is the one cooking. It lasts long past the Cold War, thawing and fading into a scorching summer, and for all his coats and scarves Russia is never warm enough, anymore, without America at his side.
He stares into the fire, and wonders what it would be like to burn, that intensity eating him up.
It started, as all fires must, with oxygen, heat, fuel. A spark, perhaps, of madness.
It ended, as all fires must, in ashes.
---
*Gila River is a Japanese internment camp. After Pearl Harbor, Americans got really mad at the Japanese and, yes, relocated and ruined the lives of many native born American citizens who happened to be of Japanese descent.
Huh. Was not expecting all the heat imagery. Anyway, I hope did okay; this is technically the first Hetalia fic I've written.
It would seem to Bertil, when he looked back at that summer, that the moment he decided that perhaps having something new in his life wasn't so bad after all, he somehow broke some sort of spell he'd held over his life. Just allowing himself to think the thought was apparently enough to break through the comfortable bubble of isolation he'd fashioned for himself, and life decided to start happening once more. Maybe that was a bit dramatic of him, but the world itself had spared very little drama when it decided to remind him that it still existed.
It was the very day after he had met Teemu and had his world shaken by a friendship that felt as effortless as breathing, and by a smile that touched a part of him which he'd though had died with Irina. He was putting the finishing touches on a table and was already considering what to do next, when Peter and Arvid came running toward him across the lawn. Their faces looked white under the tans they had already acquired, and for a moment he could't make head or tails of what they were saying, since it came in unison bursts of hurried words between gasping breaths. Finally, Arvid managed to get out a proper explanation while Peter leaned against the house and tried to get his breath back. He had a touch of asthma that worried his father, although it sounded like it was in control at the moment.
"It's- It's- There's a boy! In a car! In the ditch!" Arvid's eyes were wide with equal parts horror and excitement. "He must've crashed the car because there's a tree there and he's in the ditch and there was blood! There was blood all over his face!"
"Stay here," was all that Bertil could think to say, but he managed to put enough emphasis in the words that the boys didn't protest, even though they looked a bit put out. The boy in the car was their find, after all. But when Bertil asked where, Peter just pointed mutely, perhaps content in knowing that there would probably be more excitement once he returned.
Somehow he still had the presence of mind to run past the house and get the first aid kit - for all the good that might do - and his cell phone. He almost never used it, and it was constantly plugged in when not used, so at least he didn't have to worry about batteries. And then he was hurtling down the narrow path in the directiom Peter had pointed, his mind blank because he couldn't allow himself to think right now. He hadn't dealt with any kind of crisis in years, his life so blissfully uneventful that most would consider it boring, but now he found that it never went out of you. If you had ever hovered in that heart-pounding space where every decision, every second could mean life or death... you never forgot. And when the next moment like that came, everything inside you froze up, until there was only the purpose and nothing else.
He found the old jeep just around a bend in the path, awkwardly stuck in a ditch and with the cowling bent around a tree trunk. Clearly the impact hadn't been enough to trigger the airbags - that or the vehicle didn't have them - because the rider was slumped over the wheel. He could see that the seat belt hadn't been fastened, and cursed quietly under his breath. Like the boys had said, there was a lot of blood, but from what he could see it all seemed to come from a very wide but shallow-looking cut on the boy's forehead. Because he really was no more than a boy, Bertil thought as he opened the door to get a better look. Fifteen or sixteen perhaps - certainly not eighteen, and therefore had no business driving a car.
He was vaguely aware that he shouldn't move the boy, just in case something had happened to his neck, but he reached out and awkwardly put a hand on his shoulder. It really just looked like a cut and maybe a concussion, so maybe he could wake him up?
"Hey, you?" It was more like a suggestion than anything else. "You alright there?" He gave the boy's shoulder a small squeeze, but nothing happened. Bertil hesitated, but then reached for his phone, because the situation really seemed like it was too much for him to handle, and it was probably better to let professionals deal with it. Even if the thought of riding in another ambulance, staying even briefly at another hospital was downright sickening.
He had gotten as far as dialing 1 and 1 again, fingering hovering over the 2, when the boy groaned softly and tried to push himself upright. Immediately shoving the phone into a pocket, he put a firm hand on his back, stilling his motion. "Easy there. You- How're you feeling?"
A pair of green eyes slowly focused on him in between fluttering lids, although nothing close to words seemed to be forthcoming just yet. Just an indistinct murmur followed by a confused recoil as the insight that there was a person - a stranger - with him sank in.
"Don't move," Bertil said, using the same amount of soothing and authority as he would while removing a splinter from his son's hand. "How're you feeling?" he repeated, since he hadn't gotten an answer.
"I- What? What happened?" he said with an accent that reminded Bertil uncomfortably of Irina's, but he pushed that thought away.
"You drove your car off the road. Should've been wearing a seat belt."
"My... My face feels sticky."
"That's blood. It's just a shallow cut, don't panic. Hold still." There were wet wipes in the first aid box, and he was able to clean away most of the blood, and there were bandages too. His hands always felt too big and clumsy when he did things like this, but if he could put plasters on banged-up knees or change diapers, he could do this too. It wasn't the prettiest job, but at least the bleeding stopped.
The boy was staring down at his hands, looking like he didn't know what to do with them or with himself, and having that distinct look on his face that Peter got when he was waiting for a scolding. Bertil sighed and let his hands fall. "You don't have a licence, do you?"
The teenager looked as if he was considering arguing, but then sighed and reached a slim hand out, his chin rising in a small act of defiance. "Are you going to help me out first, or?"
Bertil didn't reply, feeling oddly chastised for having been picking on a kid sitting in a broken-down car, and focused on getting him out. And once he was out, he felt pretty stupid about the whole thing and couldn't find anything to say. The kid scuffed the dirt by his feet with worn-down sneakers and then glanced at the car. He groaned. "My brother's gonna kill me." Along with the accent which was a bit like Irina's but not quite, he also spoke with a hint of the Stockholm drawl, augmented by every single of those pointless words that young people seemed to add to fill out their sentences, like "asså" and "liksom" and "typ". He looked pretty small where he stood, shoulders hunched and his shirt sticky with blood - in fact, even taking into account that Bertil towered over most people, he was small, stick-thin and short.
"Shouldn't have lent you the car in the first place." Despite himself, the words came out sounding pretty stern. The kid bit his lower lip, and then lifted his chin once more in that defiant manner.
"You know, you're right. This is all his fault. Just 'cuz he was too lazy to drive the stuff up himself, 'Suuure, Feliks, you drive fine, you can do it', no, bullshit." The boy crossed his arms and then looked down at his bloodied shirt in dismay. "Kurwa."
Bertil blinked a bit at the outburst, almost smiling at the put-out look on the boy's face. Instead he held out a hand solemnly for him. "Bertil. How about coffee? And a change. And then calling someone to tow the car."
The boy squinted at him from underneath blond bangs and the lump of the bandage, and then nodded and took his hand and shook it, more forcefully than Bertil had expected. "Feliks. Thanks for all the help and stuff, I guess. I had no idea there was going to be basically, uh, no road, right? Sorry about the trouble."
Bertil started walking toward the cottage, and the boy followed readily enough. After a long and very awkward silence, he added, "You probably wonder what I'm doing up here in the first place."
"...Yes." That was all he could think to say. This was like back in the upper secondary school when someone tried to talk to him all over again.
"Well, my brother wanted me to drive up some stuff to this shed or house or whatever it is they've got up here, so that it'll be here for late summer, that kind of stuff."
"Stuff?"
"You know, big buckets? Stuff for picking berries."
"...Ah." So that was where the accent was from.
The boy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, polish berry pickers, real stereotypical and shit. Gonna cry me a river about how we steal all your Swedish berries even though we're not stealing them any more than you do?"
Bertil raised his eyebrows a bit, but then shook his head. "No. Prefer fishing anyway."
That got a short, light laugh. "Well, good. I mean, I don't do it - can't imagine why you'd spend more time in the forest than you have to, you know? But you do what you can to get by, right? Maybe if it was possible to get a real job in this country even though you've got an accent, maybe so many people wouldn't have to."
And suddenly the topic had veered into politics just like that. How did you deal with that? Not that he didn't agree - Irina had come to Sweden as a teenager and spoke the language perfectly, but a faint accent had still hampered her when looking for jobs. For all that Sweden was supposed to be forward-thinking and prided itself on its freedom - and indeed was seen as a promised land by many who had almost nothing or were on the run from their own countries - there was still so much that could be better. But how did you put that into words, how did you explain when there was so much he didn't know what to say.
So he nodded, looking up and trying to convey that he agreed as much as he could without words. Feliks flinched a bit - Maks claimed that his brother looked like he was glaring when he was being sincere, so maybe that hadn't been such a good idea. But the boy rallied quickly, seeming to accept his quiet assent for absolute agreement. For such a tiny boy, he seemed to make up for it with the kind of confidence that Maks found as easy as breathing, that Bertil never had managed, but that he nonetheless seemed to have fostered in both his sons. "Anyway, he had some date or something, so he got me to do it."
"And you're how old?"
"I'm soon sixteen," he said, which Bertil immediately translated to 'I'm fifteen and a half'. "Anyway, I drive fine when there's a road and not just..." He waved a hand impatiently at the path, and then winced and lifted his hand to his head.
"Careful. Probably concussed."
Feliks tilted his head a bit and stared at him, and then abruptly said, "Wow, you really don't do the words-thing, right?"
"...No." No point in arguing, even if he'd actually been good at that.
"And you live out here? All by yourself?" Strangely enough, there was no judgement there, only a sort of absent-minded fascination, if that even made sense.
"No. Got my kids. They found you."
"Oh, hey, that was nice of them." Feliks darted around a puddle on the path and then stared in fascination at a butterfly twirling past. "So you've got a real house and everything?"
"..." That took a moment while Bertil figured out exactly what a real house was and what, in that context, a house that wasn't real was. Once he had, he wondered if he should point out that there weren't that many apartment blocks in the middle of the forest, but he didn't. Most of the issues he'd had through the years with his brother could be traced back to Bertil loathed being condescended to, and he'd always figured that the same went for kids. "Yes. Over there." They could already see a corner of it around the edge of the trees, and Feliks bounced up on his toes with a small 'oooh' sound, before appearing to promptly lose that thread of thought.
"Shit, I should've locked the car!"
Bertil thought that over. "Probably not going anywhere. It's wrapped around a tree."
"Oh, right. I don't really like coffee, have you got any tea?"
Over the course of an afternoon he called up a total stranger and gave him a stern talking-to for letting a minor drive his car, helped a teenager to the bathroom when the concussion caught up with him and he had to throw up, got the car towed away and paid for a taxi all the way to Stockholm, trying not to think too much about the cost. And just like that, the small crack that Teemu had made in his armor widened a little bit. When it was all over, he felt too exhausted to think, too exhausted to function, and all he wanted to do was sleep. And sleep he did. First, admittedly, he made dinner and praised the boys for being so quick at getting an adult and talked to them about school and explained how concussions worked to the best of his knowledge and helped Arvid with his homework and started watching a movie with them. And fell asleep in the couch.
When he woke up at 3 am, there was a blanket over him and the boys were asleep in his bed, Peter holding a crumpled note in his hand saying "We brushed our teeth!" He stood for a moment and watched them sleep, before shaking his head with a small smile and closing the door once more. He slept that night in Peter's bed.
It was the very day after he had met Teemu and had his world shaken by a friendship that felt as effortless as breathing, and by a smile that touched a part of him which he'd though had died with Irina. He was putting the finishing touches on a table and was already considering what to do next, when Peter and Arvid came running toward him across the lawn. Their faces looked white under the tans they had already acquired, and for a moment he could't make head or tails of what they were saying, since it came in unison bursts of hurried words between gasping breaths. Finally, Arvid managed to get out a proper explanation while Peter leaned against the house and tried to get his breath back. He had a touch of asthma that worried his father, although it sounded like it was in control at the moment.
"It's- It's- There's a boy! In a car! In the ditch!" Arvid's eyes were wide with equal parts horror and excitement. "He must've crashed the car because there's a tree there and he's in the ditch and there was blood! There was blood all over his face!"
"Stay here," was all that Bertil could think to say, but he managed to put enough emphasis in the words that the boys didn't protest, even though they looked a bit put out. The boy in the car was their find, after all. But when Bertil asked where, Peter just pointed mutely, perhaps content in knowing that there would probably be more excitement once he returned.
Somehow he still had the presence of mind to run past the house and get the first aid kit - for all the good that might do - and his cell phone. He almost never used it, and it was constantly plugged in when not used, so at least he didn't have to worry about batteries. And then he was hurtling down the narrow path in the directiom Peter had pointed, his mind blank because he couldn't allow himself to think right now. He hadn't dealt with any kind of crisis in years, his life so blissfully uneventful that most would consider it boring, but now he found that it never went out of you. If you had ever hovered in that heart-pounding space where every decision, every second could mean life or death... you never forgot. And when the next moment like that came, everything inside you froze up, until there was only the purpose and nothing else.
He found the old jeep just around a bend in the path, awkwardly stuck in a ditch and with the cowling bent around a tree trunk. Clearly the impact hadn't been enough to trigger the airbags - that or the vehicle didn't have them - because the rider was slumped over the wheel. He could see that the seat belt hadn't been fastened, and cursed quietly under his breath. Like the boys had said, there was a lot of blood, but from what he could see it all seemed to come from a very wide but shallow-looking cut on the boy's forehead. Because he really was no more than a boy, Bertil thought as he opened the door to get a better look. Fifteen or sixteen perhaps - certainly not eighteen, and therefore had no business driving a car.
He was vaguely aware that he shouldn't move the boy, just in case something had happened to his neck, but he reached out and awkwardly put a hand on his shoulder. It really just looked like a cut and maybe a concussion, so maybe he could wake him up?
"Hey, you?" It was more like a suggestion than anything else. "You alright there?" He gave the boy's shoulder a small squeeze, but nothing happened. Bertil hesitated, but then reached for his phone, because the situation really seemed like it was too much for him to handle, and it was probably better to let professionals deal with it. Even if the thought of riding in another ambulance, staying even briefly at another hospital was downright sickening.
He had gotten as far as dialing 1 and 1 again, fingering hovering over the 2, when the boy groaned softly and tried to push himself upright. Immediately shoving the phone into a pocket, he put a firm hand on his back, stilling his motion. "Easy there. You- How're you feeling?"
A pair of green eyes slowly focused on him in between fluttering lids, although nothing close to words seemed to be forthcoming just yet. Just an indistinct murmur followed by a confused recoil as the insight that there was a person - a stranger - with him sank in.
"Don't move," Bertil said, using the same amount of soothing and authority as he would while removing a splinter from his son's hand. "How're you feeling?" he repeated, since he hadn't gotten an answer.
"I- What? What happened?" he said with an accent that reminded Bertil uncomfortably of Irina's, but he pushed that thought away.
"You drove your car off the road. Should've been wearing a seat belt."
"My... My face feels sticky."
"That's blood. It's just a shallow cut, don't panic. Hold still." There were wet wipes in the first aid box, and he was able to clean away most of the blood, and there were bandages too. His hands always felt too big and clumsy when he did things like this, but if he could put plasters on banged-up knees or change diapers, he could do this too. It wasn't the prettiest job, but at least the bleeding stopped.
The boy was staring down at his hands, looking like he didn't know what to do with them or with himself, and having that distinct look on his face that Peter got when he was waiting for a scolding. Bertil sighed and let his hands fall. "You don't have a licence, do you?"
The teenager looked as if he was considering arguing, but then sighed and reached a slim hand out, his chin rising in a small act of defiance. "Are you going to help me out first, or?"
Bertil didn't reply, feeling oddly chastised for having been picking on a kid sitting in a broken-down car, and focused on getting him out. And once he was out, he felt pretty stupid about the whole thing and couldn't find anything to say. The kid scuffed the dirt by his feet with worn-down sneakers and then glanced at the car. He groaned. "My brother's gonna kill me." Along with the accent which was a bit like Irina's but not quite, he also spoke with a hint of the Stockholm drawl, augmented by every single of those pointless words that young people seemed to add to fill out their sentences, like "asså" and "liksom" and "typ". He looked pretty small where he stood, shoulders hunched and his shirt sticky with blood - in fact, even taking into account that Bertil towered over most people, he was small, stick-thin and short.
"Shouldn't have lent you the car in the first place." Despite himself, the words came out sounding pretty stern. The kid bit his lower lip, and then lifted his chin once more in that defiant manner.
"You know, you're right. This is all his fault. Just 'cuz he was too lazy to drive the stuff up himself, 'Suuure, Feliks, you drive fine, you can do it', no, bullshit." The boy crossed his arms and then looked down at his bloodied shirt in dismay. "Kurwa."
Bertil blinked a bit at the outburst, almost smiling at the put-out look on the boy's face. Instead he held out a hand solemnly for him. "Bertil. How about coffee? And a change. And then calling someone to tow the car."
The boy squinted at him from underneath blond bangs and the lump of the bandage, and then nodded and took his hand and shook it, more forcefully than Bertil had expected. "Feliks. Thanks for all the help and stuff, I guess. I had no idea there was going to be basically, uh, no road, right? Sorry about the trouble."
Bertil started walking toward the cottage, and the boy followed readily enough. After a long and very awkward silence, he added, "You probably wonder what I'm doing up here in the first place."
"...Yes." That was all he could think to say. This was like back in the upper secondary school when someone tried to talk to him all over again.
"Well, my brother wanted me to drive up some stuff to this shed or house or whatever it is they've got up here, so that it'll be here for late summer, that kind of stuff."
"Stuff?"
"You know, big buckets? Stuff for picking berries."
"...Ah." So that was where the accent was from.
The boy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, polish berry pickers, real stereotypical and shit. Gonna cry me a river about how we steal all your Swedish berries even though we're not stealing them any more than you do?"
Bertil raised his eyebrows a bit, but then shook his head. "No. Prefer fishing anyway."
That got a short, light laugh. "Well, good. I mean, I don't do it - can't imagine why you'd spend more time in the forest than you have to, you know? But you do what you can to get by, right? Maybe if it was possible to get a real job in this country even though you've got an accent, maybe so many people wouldn't have to."
And suddenly the topic had veered into politics just like that. How did you deal with that? Not that he didn't agree - Irina had come to Sweden as a teenager and spoke the language perfectly, but a faint accent had still hampered her when looking for jobs. For all that Sweden was supposed to be forward-thinking and prided itself on its freedom - and indeed was seen as a promised land by many who had almost nothing or were on the run from their own countries - there was still so much that could be better. But how did you put that into words, how did you explain when there was so much he didn't know what to say.
So he nodded, looking up and trying to convey that he agreed as much as he could without words. Feliks flinched a bit - Maks claimed that his brother looked like he was glaring when he was being sincere, so maybe that hadn't been such a good idea. But the boy rallied quickly, seeming to accept his quiet assent for absolute agreement. For such a tiny boy, he seemed to make up for it with the kind of confidence that Maks found as easy as breathing, that Bertil never had managed, but that he nonetheless seemed to have fostered in both his sons. "Anyway, he had some date or something, so he got me to do it."
"And you're how old?"
"I'm soon sixteen," he said, which Bertil immediately translated to 'I'm fifteen and a half'. "Anyway, I drive fine when there's a road and not just..." He waved a hand impatiently at the path, and then winced and lifted his hand to his head.
"Careful. Probably concussed."
Feliks tilted his head a bit and stared at him, and then abruptly said, "Wow, you really don't do the words-thing, right?"
"...No." No point in arguing, even if he'd actually been good at that.
"And you live out here? All by yourself?" Strangely enough, there was no judgement there, only a sort of absent-minded fascination, if that even made sense.
"No. Got my kids. They found you."
"Oh, hey, that was nice of them." Feliks darted around a puddle on the path and then stared in fascination at a butterfly twirling past. "So you've got a real house and everything?"
"..." That took a moment while Bertil figured out exactly what a real house was and what, in that context, a house that wasn't real was. Once he had, he wondered if he should point out that there weren't that many apartment blocks in the middle of the forest, but he didn't. Most of the issues he'd had through the years with his brother could be traced back to Bertil loathed being condescended to, and he'd always figured that the same went for kids. "Yes. Over there." They could already see a corner of it around the edge of the trees, and Feliks bounced up on his toes with a small 'oooh' sound, before appearing to promptly lose that thread of thought.
"Shit, I should've locked the car!"
Bertil thought that over. "Probably not going anywhere. It's wrapped around a tree."
"Oh, right. I don't really like coffee, have you got any tea?"
Over the course of an afternoon he called up a total stranger and gave him a stern talking-to for letting a minor drive his car, helped a teenager to the bathroom when the concussion caught up with him and he had to throw up, got the car towed away and paid for a taxi all the way to Stockholm, trying not to think too much about the cost. And just like that, the small crack that Teemu had made in his armor widened a little bit. When it was all over, he felt too exhausted to think, too exhausted to function, and all he wanted to do was sleep. And sleep he did. First, admittedly, he made dinner and praised the boys for being so quick at getting an adult and talked to them about school and explained how concussions worked to the best of his knowledge and helped Arvid with his homework and started watching a movie with them. And fell asleep in the couch.
When he woke up at 3 am, there was a blanket over him and the boys were asleep in his bed, Peter holding a crumpled note in his hand saying "We brushed our teeth!" He stood for a moment and watched them sleep, before shaking his head with a small smile and closing the door once more. He slept that night in Peter's bed.
Hello folks! Sorry that the update is so late, my life has been kicking my ass a little bit, but I hope to be able to keep this up again <3
The words "asså (altså)", "liksom" and "typ" are basically the Swedish approximations of "like" except... a bit different. I am explaining this so well. /headdesk/
Polish berry pickers is indeed a thing here in Sweden, and Swedes sometimes get their knickers in a twist about them, probably because they thought about making a profit of the wealth of completely free berries in our forests before Swedes did.
Also, it shocked me the first time I heard that people in some foreign countries are allowed to drive when they were below eighteen GASP ^^
This part was written after a night of no sleep and an overdose of Swedish romantic comedies, so I apologize for any mistakes made orz
The words "asså (altså)", "liksom" and "typ" are basically the Swedish approximations of "like" except... a bit different. I am explaining this so well. /headdesk/
Polish berry pickers is indeed a thing here in Sweden, and Swedes sometimes get their knickers in a twist about them, probably because they thought about making a profit of the wealth of completely free berries in our forests before Swedes did.
Also, it shocked me the first time I heard that people in some foreign countries are allowed to drive when they were below eighteen GASP ^^
This part was written after a night of no sleep and an overdose of Swedish romantic comedies, so I apologize for any mistakes made orz
This is fantastic! Always wanted someone to fill this request, and would have done it myself if I'd had the slightest idea how to approach it. You're doing a wonderful job. Please update soon!
Fantastic Anon - thanks I'll put the updates on the fill list. I'm new to this, so if I make a mistake with the filling process, let me know.
Dinner was quiet. Italy sipped at his gourmet wine as they ate dinner silently. Germany was a good cook and he loved to cook with pork. It was nice and sweet but warm and hearty. Sometimes Italy liked to have dinner at Germany's place instead of pasta. But only sometimes.
Italy grinned over the lip of his wine when he felt the tip of a shoe try to sneak up the leg of his trousers, trying to text the texture of his leg - skin or silky fabric. Italy shifted away slightly when he felt the intrusion and looked over to his partner - the ever stone-faced German and took a sip of wine.
The shoe disappeared back to its owner and Italy grinned. Germany was killing himself trying to find out if he'd gone through with the kink or not. For Italy, it was delicious psychological foreplay. He wondered if he could get his German so riled up he'd leave the dishes in the sink, dirty and all (he's only been able to get Germany to leave the dishes in the sink once and that had felt like a great victory).
The tip of the shoe touched the tip of Italy's and the Italian looked up to his partner eating silently.
"Stop it."
Germany didn't look up from his dinner. "Stop what?" He looked up then. His eyes were dark.
Italy sighed and leant forward. The table in the kitchen was small. Germany had a larger one in the other room that they usually sat at with Prussia and other guests. This one was small and wooden, so if Italy shuffled forward a little bit and slipped his hand underneath. He slithered it forward and felt the crotch of Germany’s pants where the fabric was tightening. Italy smiled at the passive face of his German, who had gone back to eating his dinner like nothing was going on.
Italy squeezed and Germany twitched.
“You’re excited,” Italy grinned and swirled his wine glass before taking a sip. "Did you wear them?"
Germany swallowed. "Did you?"
“Maybe,” he whispered. “You’ll find out if you’re a good boy.”
Italy rose from his chair when the fork fell from Germany’s hand to the plate with a clatter.
“And if I’m not?”
Italy smiled and ran his fingers through his partner’s hair, stopping to fist his blonde locks at the base.
“Ve, then you’ll be punished, of course.”
Italy then kissed him passionately, hungrily, like he’d been starved for weeks, which indeed he had, for it had been quite a while since they’d done the dirty – and, oh, did Italy need to be done and get dirty. He broke off panting, his grip never slackening on the German’s hair. Germany licked his lips. His eyes looked wild and blue like a frenzied ocean.
“I want you to wreck me,” Italy panted. “I want it all night. I want it everywhere and every way. I want to use safe words.”
Germany swallowed. The room was getting incredibly hot and his clothes were getting incredibly tight. “You want it like that?”
“Yes,” replied the Italian with definite conviction. “I want you to use the safe word. Just for a while. You remember them?”
“Nothing you can do will hurt me,” Germany replied.
Italy frowned. “Did I ask you what you think?”
The German didn’t smile, but Italy could see one being supressed by the way the corners of his lips twitched.
“No,” he said eventually. “You didn’t.”
“Safeword. Tell me it.”
Germany took in a sharp breath. “Kohlensäure.”
Italy sighed and smashed his lips against Germany’s, pulling himself into the man’s lap and forcing his mouth open. Germany moaned deeply, his hands coming up to grip his partner’s back as the chair shuffled and screeched noisily along the kitchen tiles.
“Take me out to the lounge,” Italy demanded. Germany rose with Italy in his arms like he weighed nothing and walked out to the lounge. “Sit. With me on top of you.”
“Yes,” he replied raggedly. Italy attached his mouth to the exposed skin of Germany’s neck and suckled.
He was intent on leaving those bright red marks his partner always complained about in the morning.
Germany sunk into the lounge as Feliciano straddled him.
“Good boy,” he hummed. “Such a good boy. Can I see now? See if you’ve worn them for me?”
Germany nodded. “Of course,” like he really had a choice in the matter.
Italy smiled. “I think I want you naked first,” he said, pulling off Ludwig’s knitted jumper and undershirt. He ran his hands over that chiselled chest, over the nipples and then down his sides (Germany was slightly ticklish there, Italy had found out, much to his delight and the German’s dismay/horror).
“You know…,” Italy hummed as he settled on his knees between Ludwig’s legs. His hands began to undo the fly. “If you didn’t wear them…,” he unzipped the fly and cupped Germany’s erection through the strained fabric of his cotton boxers. “I’ll have to punish you. And I’m going to be upset if you’re not wearing them, so I’ll punish you hard. Very hard. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need to leave? For a second or two to put them on. I’ll let you,” he sighed against Germany’s clothed thigh.
Germany screwed his eyes shut and sighed. Italy couldn’t be sure if it was because he was being turned on by Italy’s kink over his suspenders, or that he was secretly pleased that Italy would find out that he hadn’t worn them and punish him severely. In any case, Germany answered ‘no’, and lifted his hips to push his pants down to his mid-thigh. Italy unlaced his shoes and touched the socks.
The pants came off then and Germany heard Italy give a long hum of appreciation. He flexed his toes a little. Italy kissed his knee.
“You wore them,” he whispered. His fingers touched the leather clasp holding his socks up. “I knew you would. You’re such a good boy. Good boys get rewards. Guess what’s under my clothes. Do you want to find out?”
Germany shivered. His fingers flexed into the cushion of the lounge and his eyes looked to the roof. He would let Italy do as he would, do whatever he wanted to the German's body, just for the moment. Just for now. Italy could do as he pleased, because the German knew his lover's stamina - knew how many rounds he could last before he waved his little while flag to call it a night. Germany suppressed a smirk, but didn't suppress the groan when Italy began his 'reward' on Germany. He'd have his time. All he'd have to do was wait.
And with Italy's skilled mouth running up and down his shaft, Germany certainly would be contented to bide his time.
Dinner was quiet. Italy sipped at his gourmet wine as they ate dinner silently. Germany was a good cook and he loved to cook with pork. It was nice and sweet but warm and hearty. Sometimes Italy liked to have dinner at Germany's place instead of pasta. But only sometimes.
Italy grinned over the lip of his wine when he felt the tip of a shoe try to sneak up the leg of his trousers, trying to text the texture of his leg - skin or silky fabric. Italy shifted away slightly when he felt the intrusion and looked over to his partner - the ever stone-faced German and took a sip of wine.
The shoe disappeared back to its owner and Italy grinned. Germany was killing himself trying to find out if he'd gone through with the kink or not. For Italy, it was delicious psychological foreplay. He wondered if he could get his German so riled up he'd leave the dishes in the sink, dirty and all (he's only been able to get Germany to leave the dishes in the sink once and that had felt like a great victory).
The tip of the shoe touched the tip of Italy's and the Italian looked up to his partner eating silently.
"Stop it."
Germany didn't look up from his dinner. "Stop what?" He looked up then. His eyes were dark.
Italy sighed and leant forward. The table in the kitchen was small. Germany had a larger one in the other room that they usually sat at with Prussia and other guests. This one was small and wooden, so if Italy shuffled forward a little bit and slipped his hand underneath. He slithered it forward and felt the crotch of Germany’s pants where the fabric was tightening. Italy smiled at the passive face of his German, who had gone back to eating his dinner like nothing was going on.
Italy squeezed and Germany twitched.
“You’re excited,” Italy grinned and swirled his wine glass before taking a sip. "Did you wear them?"
Germany swallowed. "Did you?"
“Maybe,” he whispered. “You’ll find out if you’re a good boy.”
Italy rose from his chair when the fork fell from Germany’s hand to the plate with a clatter.
“And if I’m not?”
Italy smiled and ran his fingers through his partner’s hair, stopping to fist his blonde locks at the base.
“Ve, then you’ll be punished, of course.”
Italy then kissed him passionately, hungrily, like he’d been starved for weeks, which indeed he had, for it had been quite a while since they’d done the dirty – and, oh, did Italy need to be done and get dirty. He broke off panting, his grip never slackening on the German’s hair. Germany licked his lips. His eyes looked wild and blue like a frenzied ocean.
“I want you to wreck me,” Italy panted. “I want it all night. I want it everywhere and every way. I want to use safe words.”
Germany swallowed. The room was getting incredibly hot and his clothes were getting incredibly tight. “You want it like that?”
“Yes,” replied the Italian with definite conviction. “I want you to use the safe word. Just for a while. You remember them?”
“Nothing you can do will hurt me,” Germany replied.
Italy frowned. “Did I ask you what you think?”
The German didn’t smile, but Italy could see one being supressed by the way the corners of his lips twitched.
“No,” he said eventually. “You didn’t.”
“Safeword. Tell me it.”
Germany took in a sharp breath. “Kohlensäure.”
Italy sighed and smashed his lips against Germany’s, pulling himself into the man’s lap and forcing his mouth open. Germany moaned deeply, his hands coming up to grip his partner’s back as the chair shuffled and screeched noisily along the kitchen tiles.
“Take me out to the lounge,” Italy demanded. Germany rose with Italy in his arms like he weighed nothing and walked out to the lounge. “Sit. With me on top of you.”
“Yes,” he replied raggedly. Italy attached his mouth to the exposed skin of Germany’s neck and suckled.
He was intent on leaving those bright red marks his partner always complained about in the morning.
Germany sunk into the lounge as Feliciano straddled him.
“Good boy,” he hummed. “Such a good boy. Can I see now? See if you’ve worn them for me?”
Germany nodded. “Of course,” like he really had a choice in the matter.
Italy smiled. “I think I want you naked first,” he said, pulling off Ludwig’s knitted jumper and undershirt. He ran his hands over that chiselled chest, over the nipples and then down his sides (Germany was slightly ticklish there, Italy had found out, much to his delight and the German’s dismay/horror).
“You know…,” Italy hummed as he settled on his knees between Ludwig’s legs. His hands began to undo the fly. “If you didn’t wear them…,” he unzipped the fly and cupped Germany’s erection through the strained fabric of his cotton boxers. “I’ll have to punish you. And I’m going to be upset if you’re not wearing them, so I’ll punish you hard. Very hard. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need to leave? For a second or two to put them on. I’ll let you,” he sighed against Germany’s clothed thigh.
Germany screwed his eyes shut and sighed. Italy couldn’t be sure if it was because he was being turned on by Italy’s kink over his suspenders, or that he was secretly pleased that Italy would find out that he hadn’t worn them and punish him severely. In any case, Germany answered ‘no’, and lifted his hips to push his pants down to his mid-thigh. Italy unlaced his shoes and touched the socks.
The pants came off then and Germany heard Italy give a long hum of appreciation. He flexed his toes a little. Italy kissed his knee.
“You wore them,” he whispered. His fingers touched the leather clasp holding his socks up. “I knew you would. You’re such a good boy. Good boys get rewards. Guess what’s under my clothes. Do you want to find out?”
Germany shivered. His fingers flexed into the cushion of the lounge and his eyes looked to the roof. He would let Italy do as he would, do whatever he wanted to the German's body, just for the moment. Just for now. Italy could do as he pleased, because the German knew his lover's stamina - knew how many rounds he could last before he waved his little while flag to call it a night. Germany suppressed a smirk, but didn't suppress the groan when Italy began his 'reward' on Germany. He'd have his time. All he'd have to do was wait.
And with Italy's skilled mouth running up and down his shaft, Germany certainly would be contented to bide his time.
This is amazingly hot, anon! The characterization is beautiful, and you're writing the kink in an incredibly sensual way. Simply wonderful!
Re: FrUk + America; human AU 15 year old adopted by gay couple
(Anonymous) 2013-07-24 09:53 pm (UTC)(link)This prom has caught my eye, alas I have not seen the movie the OP talks about;I'm wondering if it's okay not to have it based on the film. Also is the inclusion of Canada as a lost brother alright? Considering the Op said the FAE family, but I just got the idea of adding him.
Holy shit anon!
This is- this is beautiful
Words can not express my utter love for this fill... I read it three times before I could even put into words how amazing it was :o
I really love the hot/cold imagery... And the subtle historical references were beautiful as well. Not to heavy to be daunting, but perfect for the situation. For your first Hetalia fill, this is incredible, and I certainly hope you contribute to this kink meme in the future. I'd love to see more from you :)
This is- this is beautiful
Words can not express my utter love for this fill... I read it three times before I could even put into words how amazing it was :o
I really love the hot/cold imagery... And the subtle historical references were beautiful as well. Not to heavy to be daunting, but perfect for the situation. For your first Hetalia fill, this is incredible, and I certainly hope you contribute to this kink meme in the future. I'd love to see more from you :)
Sooo I have a bunch of ideas for this story. However, there's bad news -- A, since this is such a radical AU, it's going to be very hard to keep characters -- especially American characters (Canada, USA, Mexico...) in character and recognizable enough that it's still a fun read, and B, I am going to have to do a *lot* of research. I'm going to try to make this pretty realistic and historically accurate up until things change, so that's going to take forever. So -- don't expect anything soon, but I will be filling.
Also, a taxi from Grisslehamn to Stockholm would probably cost around 300 dollars \o/
Italy, you little vixen. This is hot and beautifully written and perfectly in character.
This fic is so good and I'm really happy you are back to updating.
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