"Two eyes, two suns, two heavenly blinds..."

Hetalia fanfic - Parting is All We Know (Ch. V) - Spain/Romano, Greece/Japan, Turkey, Egypt

Tue, 19 May 2009 17:10:21 GMT

Title: Parting is All We Know (Ch. V)
Author/Artist: Red
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Mainly Canada, France, and England, but featuring ALMOST EVERYBODY | This chapter: Spain/Romano, implied Greece/Japan, Turkey, Egypt (Briefly: TRNC and Mama Egypt)
Rating: R
Warnings: ANGST, violence, character death overall. For this chapter, mostly just language.
Summary: After one of their number kills another in the midst of a psychotic breakdown, and the countries involved seem to remain unaffected, the Nation-tans are forced to question their mortality and the very nature of their existence. The strain of loss and the weight of the questions threatens to tear their delicate community apart at the seams.
A/N: Notes on some unnamed character/OC names I picked out:
Cyprus: Symeon
Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus: Serhan

Also, I'LL BE AT ANIME BOSTON AS BELARUS! I won't be able to make it to the Saturday panel but I can be at the Friday luncheon and photo shoot. ♥

Previous Chapters: I, II, III, IV
***

Chapter V: Death and Dismay are Great

“I do not know what you are for, (I do not know what I am for myself,
nor what any thing is for,)
But I will search carefully for it even in being foil'd,
In defeat, poverty, misconception, imprisonment--for they too are great.

Did we think victory great?
So it is--but now it seems to me, when it cannot be help'd, that
defeat is great,
And that death and dismay are great.”
--Walt Whitman, “To a Foil’d European Revolutionaire”

July 5th, 2009

The morning after the funeral, Antonio woke to his bedroom door opening with a bang. “¿¡Qué demonios!?”

The wiry form of Lovino darkened the doorway, already washed and dressed and nary a glint of contentment on his face. When did he even get up? “I’m going on a hike,” he announced. “And you’re coming with me.”

Antonio sat in bed, tangled in the sheets and blinking sleep out of his eyes. God, he hated it when Lovino was upset.

Lovino had always been the morning person. It was cute when he was little and would jump on Antonio to wake him. It ceased to be cute when Lovino grew up and would insist upon waking his lover in the wee hours with orders and surly, impatient words. It was worst when Lovino was upset. He wasn’t going to admit how upset he was, or why. He would not talk. He’d rather lose sleep, then drag Antonio off on some expedition God had never intended for mornings.

And that was how Antonio wound up hiking through the Pyrenees at eight in the morning. Even this early it was already ungodly hot, although some of that could be chalked up to exertion. Somewhere, deep down, he supposed he deserved this for bossing Lovino around for most of his childhood. Still, sometimes Antonio wished he wasn’t so madly in love with a much younger, much more energetic man. “Lovi,” he whined. “Give an old man a break?” He panted, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “I need water… and I feel like my legs are going to fall off…”

“Dio santo!” Lovino cried, the first words he’d spoken in more than an hour. “Fine, just stop complaining!”

Grateful, Antonio crumpled to his knees and let his backpack fall back off him. “Gracias, Lovi.” He pulled himself up onto a rock to sit, dug around in his bag for the water bottles.

Lovino, for his part, stood rooted to the spot where he’d stopped, arms crossed and back facing Antonio.

Antonio stared up at his young lover’s back in silence. He knew better than to think Lovino was all animosity, wouldn’t love him so if he was. No, for all the fronts he put on, Lovino was still Feliciano’s brother, still the sensitive Italian man through and through. Surely there was something unspoken tearing at him from inside, and Antonio was sick of letting it happen. “Hey, Lovi,” he said, “you wanna let me see your pretty face?”

Lovino glanced back at him over his shoulder and glared. Well, that was a start.

“I need you to talk to me,” Antonio told him. “You’ll make yourself sick, all pent up like this.”

“I’m fine,” Lovino said. He balled up his hands into fists and fixed his gaze on the ground.

“Nobody’s fine,” Antonio said. He pushed himself up onto his aching legs and limped to him. When he came up behind and wrapped his arms around Lovino, he was pleasantly surprised to find he was not pushed back. “Come on now.” He rested his chin upon Lovino’s shoulder. “Tell me anything.”

“Talking won’t help,” Lovino said. He went rigid in Antonio’s grip. “Our whole world is fucked up. Everyone is lost and miserable. You think a few nice words exchanged will fix that?” He scoffed, almost laughed. “I can tell you anything, but a world where Nations can kill Nations with no consequence is still going to be fucked up.”

Antonio’s fingertips dug into his elbows and he held tight to Lovino’s waist. He couldn’t argue with that; the very order of their world was shattered. “But we don’t have to be depressed,” he insisted.

Now Lovino turned in Antonio’s arms to face him, came nose-to-nose with him and met his eyes. “How so?”

“Well,” said Antonio, and did his best to smile for Lovino’s sake, “don’t you think it’s a disservice to the dead to wander around in sadness and anger?”

Lovino’s gaze drifted toward the woods, lost in contemplation. It was cute, really, how sour he looked when forced to rethink something.

Amused, Antonio ran a single finger along Lovino’s cheek. “Alfred was lively; he’d want us to live,” he said. “And rather than focus on what is lost, I’d sooner focus on what I still have.” He leaned his head in close to Lovino’s, whispered into his ear. “And on how much I absolutely lo…”

Breath escaped Antonio as he was shoved back.

“Shut up!” Lovino snapped. His voice struggled to be furious, but his wide eyes and the red tinge of his cheeks betrayed vulnerability. “I don’t need to hear that damn sappy stuff! Not right now.” He was so cute when he was flustered too.

Grinning, Antonio said, “Of course, Lovi.”

“But you’re right,” Lovino forced himself to admit, brushing off Antonio’s self-satisfaction with the flick of a wrist. He began to pace. “You are right. This is all so fucking stupid, this moody preening.” He rolled his hand in the air as though trying to gather up thoughts. “I need to… I need to do something with myself, really do something. No more of this wandering and useless inaction. Yes, yes, we will live for the sake of the living, and I need to…” He halted, mid-step, mid-gesture, and his eyes brightened.

The grin fell off Antonio’s face. This expression… he didn’t know what to think of it. “Lovi… are you okay…?”

And it was Lovino’s turn to grin, bearing all his pearly whites. “I am perfect,” he said. He shouldered his backpack securely and turned, heading straight back where they’d come from. He threw one arm up into the air to usher Antonio along. “Come on! Come on! We’re going home!”

“Already?” Antonio cried, reluctantly gathering up bag and walking stick and lurching on behind. He was mighty sick of all this running around. “Why?”

“Because I’ve got some calls to make,” Lovino said. Looking back as he walked, he gave Antonio a little smirk. “And I have a plan.”
***

Heracles sat perched upon his windowsill, overlooking the shore. He watched the tide dance around the rocks and crash over them, watched the people weaving through the stone pathways below. He steadied himself with one hand while the other attended to his phone. To any onlooker, the position would seem precarious. Heracles was comfortable like this, though. He supposed it must be the feline influence. And he loved to get out and feel the consolation of the sea breeze.

“Heracles-kun, are you there?”

“Hm?” Oh yes. He was on the phone. “Oh, I’m here.” Heracles was glad, at least, that he’d gotten Kiku to graduate from calling him Karupusi-san. Now if only he could just let all the honorifics go, but Kiku was far too formal at heart for that. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to admit to himself how close their relationship was.

“You seem distant today,” Kiku said. “It isn’t usually this hard to get you talking.”

Indeed, Heracles tended to dominate his conversations with Kiku, telling stories and rattling off every train of thought to him. But something felt… off. “I wonder,” he said, “if the days of idle chatter are over with.” The state of the world, being what it was, it seemed wrong to mindlessly prattle on about his day when there was one among them who had no more days to speak of.

“Our conversation needn’t be idle,” Kiku replied. “Is there something on your mind you wish to speak of?”

Heracles felt very strongly that there ought to be, but nothing was surfacing, only a slurry of worries and regrets to wade through. And yet, none of them seemed worth making a big deal about. He wondered what was happening to his mind; once finely honed to sorting out the mysteries of the world, the innards of his head were all a mess. And the rest of what he was thinking, well… Kiku didn’t want to hear about that. “I only hope I’m not keeping you from anything,” he finally said.

“Not at all,” said Kiku. “I prefer to be in solitude and contemplation at times like these.”

“Oh.” Heracles shifted his weight on the windowsill, staring at the ground below. “Am I interrupting that?”

“Don’t worry,” Kiku said, and the tone of his voice never wavered. His thoughts were sometimes hard to fathom, but Heracles could always count on him for consistency. “I know you’re the sort who needs family and friends around you.”

Which begged an answer to why Heracles now squatted here, alone and on the phone with someone thousands of miles from him; he could be seeking out others here in Europe and the Mediterranean. It seemed as though everyone was otherwise occupied, though, and little Symeon, who usually adored him and always looked to him for guidance, was becoming withdrawn from him. Heracles had been expecting it, honestly, the boy had long yearned to be more independent and take on more of his own responsibilities.

There were so many things to let go.

“Thank you, Kiku,” Heracles said. “For being here for me.”

Kiku said something, faintly, but it was broken by a beeping.

Heracles sat up straighter. “Hey, hold on a moment,” he told Kiku. “I’ve got a call on the other line.” Kiku’s quiet gave his compliance, and with a quick flick of the fingers, Heracles switched lines. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Heracles… or… well, I guess it’s afternoon there.”

Heracles blinked at the sound of the voice. “Lovino? I thought you were out with Antonio today.”

“Well, I was,” Lovino said, stilted and short of breath. “But now… I have an idea. And I need you to come over here to discuss it.” Something had to be wrong with him. His voice… it was practically shaking.

“Are you alright?” Heracles said. He pulled himself back off the window ledge and stepped back inside, pacing about his bedroom.

“I am perfect,” Lovino snapped. “I just need you to come over here, as soon as possible.”

“Where is here?” asked Heracles, burying his fingers in his wavy hair. He was growing tired of all this vagueness, all this ambiguity in both conversation and life. For once, he wanted something to be clear. He wanted some god damn answers. “To Spain? Lovino, I can’t just up and fly to Spain on no notice and with no explanation, just because…”

“You will come here,” Lovino said, and all at once his voice straightened out. It was deep, heavy, and for just a split second made Heracles feel like a cornered animal. “We’ve got a job to do, and I’m counting on you to be here tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” Heracles was glad he wasn’t sitting on the windowsill any longer. “I’d have to drive all night!”

“Is it worth the drive to give our people purpose again and protect the ones we love?”

Heracles had been ready and expecting to object, but instead found him standing with his mouth open and nothing to say. A flash of Kiku across his mind, and the night that Kiku was so insistent they had not shared. It meant nothing to Kiku, and surely Kiku believed it meant nothing to Heracles either.

But Heracles longed to have meaning again. “I will see you tomorrow, Lovino.”

“Excellent,” Lovino practically hissed. “We’ll be glad to have you.”

Who was "we"? Well, it was too late now. Heracles was resolved. He flicked back to the other line to say his goodbyes.
***

Since noon, Sadiq had been having a staring match with a plate of baklava, and the baklava was winning. It was a horrifying prospect, really, not having the appetite for one of his favorite desserts, but there was an awful lot on his mind, and it weighed on the stomach. So here he sat, with his elbows and chin on the table, staring over his crossed arms at the pastry and trying to figure out how the world had come to this.

A tug at his sleeve caught his attention. “Huh?” He perked up and turned, staring down into a pair of big hazel eyes.

The child before him hung onto him tight. “Big brother Sadiq,” he said and pointed to the plate on the table with one flinching finger. “May… may I have some, please?”

Sadiq continued to eye his own reflection in the child’s gaze before finally settling into a smile. “Sure thing, kid.” He gave the boy’s dark hair a quick ruffle with his own broad palm before handing the whole plate over. It wasn’t as though he was going to eat it, anyway. “Enjoy.”

And the child stood agape, in awe of the gracious gift bestowed upon him. Breathless, he reached out with trembling hands and took up the plate of desert. “Th-thank you!” he cried and went scrambling back to the corner where he’d been playing.

“Hey! Hey!” Sadiq called after the boy, twisting about in his chair. “If you’re gonna eat, you eat at the table like a respectable young man, you hear?”

The boy skidded to a halt, pulled an about-face, and returned. “Yes, sorry brother.”

Sadiq rested his chin in hand and watched the child pull himself up into a seat and consume the treat with great reverence. Yes, there he was. His Turkish Cyprus. Serhan. His cut of the home of a fight that may well never end. God damn that island. He’d fought, variously, over the years, for right, for pride, for heritage, for resources, for territory and power. At this point he honestly couldn’t give a good god damn about the island itself; his people could do whatever they wanted over there.

Sadiq just wanted Serhan.

In all his years of conquest, Sadiq never made friends or established family like some of the others had. He had… alliances, yes. But not family, not like Ludwig had Gilbert, Vash had Catrin, Francis had Matthew. Sadiq never realized he needed anything of the sort until Serhan came into his life. Seemed strange a territory only he believed in would be given such a charming little heart.

Then again, there was Sealand. And honestly, after what happened to Alfred, Sadiq hadn’t the foggiest idea what they were or where they came from anymore.

And there was the most terrifying thing. What if the void that had so graciously granted him Serhan decided to steal the boy back? Were there even rules for who could be and when? It damn well didn’t seem so to Sadiq. He could lose the kid at any minute, and be back to being all by his lonesome again.

Or, heavens forbid it…

The Greeks could kill Serhan in a bid to reclaim the island as a whole.

“Brother Sadiq?” The kid was staring at him again.

“What?” Sadiq sighed.

“Can I go to my island?” Serhan asked, and there was a glint and a slight dampness in his eyes, but the rest of his face never betrayed an expression. “And can I go visit my brother Symeon?”

Sadiq only wished he could. Instead, he shook his head. “I’m thinkin’ that’s not a good idea, kid. Sorry.”

Serhan hung his head and now he, too, only stared at the baklava. “Okay. I understand.”

A twist in Sadiq’s gut made him wonder if he’d ever be able to eat again. If only there was something he could do, to put his own mind at ease and feel safe to let the kid go outside again.

The phone rang.
***

Nothing in a nation lasts forever. Nothing in a nation comes in an instant, either.

And so it was that Gupta was blessed with a transitional period where he still lived within his mother’s love. He knew it couldn’t last. Only one of them could truly be Egypt.

But he could wait. And he could take care of her. Gupta liked to believe he was a loyal son. Loyal to something, at least. He would look after her. He knew, or he thought he knew, that he would be ready when the time came for him to truly be Egypt.

After the Ottomans came was when she got her weakest. She was becoming obsolete, and the civilization that she had built was rapidly slipping through her fingers. The world they lived in now was becoming more and more foreign to her every day. And where Gupta was young and adaptable, his mother was stubborn and well rooted in her ways.

He knew she wouldn’t last much longer.

“My son,” she called to him one day from her bed. “I want to go home.”

And he understood, fully, what she meant.

He carried her out to the desert, to the place of her temples, of her kings and queens. Much was already lost. Much more would be lost in time. They surveyed the land together and Gupta felt a twist in his heart, but his face would never show it. He was good at keeping what was meant to be inside, inside.

But his mother had a prophetic way about her. Between this , her nurturing ways, and her eternal life, it was no surprise that her people had made a goddess of her. “Do not mourn for the past, Little Gua,” said Hathor.

This drew his amber eyes from the majesty of the sands to her. It had been a long time since he’d heard the name she had given him.

And she smiled, apologetically. “I am sorry,” she said. “They call you Gupta now, do they not?”

“I am Gua to you,” he replied. He did not need for her to try to change for him, because he knew that ultimately she could not.

She ran a hand back over his headdress for want of touching his hair. “But you should not mourn, my son,” she said. “All things must pass, even great kingdoms.”

He nodded, for he knew she was right, but it seemed cruel to him that he should have been taunted with the presence of her love and then lose her, when it was clear her time was long gone. This manner of thing may be common place for human beings, but it was a rare, rare misery for a Nation.

“I want you to promise me,” she whispered to him, and began to trail off.

Gupta leaned in close to spare her breath.

“Egypt need not die with me,” Hathor said, with a desperation in her eyes that Gupta had never before seen. “Promise that when I am gone you will take care of my Egypt.”

“Always,” Gupta said.

By nightfall she was gone.

Gupta made good use of all she had taught him. He made the four earthen pots she needed, all by his own hands. And though he was sure there was now a better way, he used her tools, her hooks and her blades, her oils and salts, and only her linens to prepare her body. He was careful, steady, precise, and he held his head high through all of it because he knew it was what she would want. Only after the whole process was done did he take a moment to go to the bathroom and retch until his stomach was empty.

When his shaking had stilled, he gathered up her body and brought her back to Giza. In the Great Pyramid he chose for her a chamber which modern men had not found, and still had not located to this day. Even with their most sophisticated robots, they had not been able to penetrate the doors and walls that locked her away. After he had laid her to rest, he was sure to wall her up such that even he could not reach her; no museum would ever be able to put her body in some shameful display.

And now here he sat, more than two hundred years later, in what they were now calling the Queen’s Chamber because he felt he needed to be somewhere sacred. He stared up into the long, narrow shaft, into the darkness where his mother was hidden.

She’d been right; Egypt had not died with her. At first this had made Gupta proud. He was fulfilling her last wishes in carrying the country on.

But neither had America died with Alfred, and he had no successor to his name.

Now he didn’t know what he was carrying on and what he was living for.

He supposed he couldn’t say that he hadn’t at least in some way aided the progress of his country. He served every leader, fought in every war, and when he bled or fell ill his bosses knew there was trouble.

No, no. Even if he was not the very lifeblood of the nation as he’d thought, surely they still needed him in some manner. For centuries he had served them well.

All the same, he had been quite glad when the call from Lovino came. A collaborative project would surely help him regain his focus, and then he would see what he could do for his homeland.

He would always be there for Egypt. He had made a promise.
***

Antonio had his doubts about how well this meeting would go over long before he even knew what their purpose was. Part of this stemmed from the fact that, of the many nations they called from all about the Mediterranean, exactly three had agreed to meet with them on such short notice. Furthermore, the three they had called in had… some complicated history together. Heracles and Sadiq in particular, Antonio suspected, would be hard to keep in the same room.

This suspicion was confirmed upon Sadiq’s arrival, the last of them to show. “Am I late?” he called, and strode boldly into Antonio’s dining room where the meeting was being held.

Leave it to Lovino to hold a meeting in a dining room.

At the sight of Sadiq, Heracles sprung to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor. “What the Hell is he doing here!?”

Sadiq halted mid stride, and the grin he had been wearing melted away into a frown. “I was invited.”

“Don’t you look at me like that,” Heracles hissed, his shoulders arched. He tipped his head towards Antonio. “I’m leaving.”

Antonio sighed and hung his head. Of course, Lovino invites rivals over to Antonio’s own house, and then leaves Antonio to deal with it himself. Where the hell had Lovino run off to, anyway?

A sharp, barking laugh from Sadiq preempted any reply Antonio could make. “That’s very mature, Sevgilim Heracles,” he said. “And you call me uncivilized.”

Heracles bristled at the familiarity in Sadiq’s voice and rounded on him. Antonio could practically see the hairs on the back of Heracles’ neck stand up. “If you wanted to see barbarism, I could break your nose right now,” he said. Coyly, he stretched, and his shirt shifted to bare some scars around his midriff that Sadiq ought to find familiar. “But there are some things I am above.”

Sadiq shuddered visibly at the marks he was shown, but he played it down, smirking. “Yes, I see that,” Sadiq said. “And yet… it is not my people that have been rioting in the streets.”

“No,” Heracles scoffed. “You’ve been too busy having an all out political crisis.” He turned and righted his chair but did not sit in it, only leaned against it. “Good luck getting into the EU, incidentally.”

A shadow seemed to fall over Sadiq, and there was a twist in his grin and a clench of his fists. “As though none of you have ever had any unrest. No, I will make it in.”

“But not before my Symeon,” Heracles replied. “He is the darling of the EU right now.”

Antonio felt sick to his stomach; he did not like the direction this conversation was taking. He glanced over to Gupta for support, but Gupta, who was growing increasingly uncomfortable as well, only stared out the window.

“Hey, guys,” Antonio said, vying for their attention.

But he was ignored. Heracles leveled his gaze with Sadiq’s. “And as members of the EU, we have full support in clearing the island of trash.”

“Don’t you talk about my brother that way,” Sadiq snarled. The way he tensed was like a leopard ready to strike.

Antonio, too, tensed, and prepared to flee the room if necessary. He only hoped they did not break too much of his dishware. Lovino was going to get a stern talking to later for calling this together.

“What brother?” Heracles scoffed. “That boy was never supposed to exist.”

A bang echoed across the walls as Sadiq cast aside a chair that stood between him and his opponent. “You come over here and say that!”

“Come and get me!” Heracles shouted, and shoved the chair he leaned against away.

Antonio pulled at his own hair and watched in horror. “Guys, please, my furniture…”

“Everybody shut the fuck up!”

All sound and movement halted, and all attentions turned to the doorway.

Lovino stood poised in the doorway like a shadow. Everything he wore was black, from his slick single-breasted suit to the silk shirt, unbuttoned at the top where a tie might go. Even his belt and socks were black.

Looking at him, Antonio found himself feeling underdressed in his t-shirt and khakis. He hadn’t thought this was such a formal event.

“Gesù Cristo!” he snapped. “We have important business! Can we please be civil about things?” He stalked into the room and circled the dining room table, righting chairs and ushering people into them. “We don’t have time for all your petty bullshit.”

Heracles faltered in horror halfway into his chair. “Petty?”

Across the table and already seated, Sadiq slammed down his hands and cried out, “He threatened my brother!”

“You have no idea what that bastard has put me through!” Heracles cried, still hesitant to sit.

Lovino shoved him down into the chair. “My business with you guys is far more important than anything between you two.”

At the far end of the table, Gupta sat with his hands neatly folded, patiently waiting for everyone to stop arguing. “Explain,” he prompted.

Lovino spread his arms to him. “Thank you,” he said. “Dio.” He shook his head and dropped into a seat at Antonio’s right side. He, too, folded his hands at first, but it was of little use, because he was soon gesticulating again. “My friends,” he said. “Thank you for coming on such short notice and for sitting the fuck down.”

Sadiq and Heracles were still quietly seething in their seats, but both men focused intently on Lovino so they would not have to look at each other.

Antonio took a deep breath to calm himself from the near destruction of his dining room. He’d been waiting since yesterday for Lovino to explain himself, but he’d insisted on not speaking a word of his plans until today. He’d said he needed “everything to be right.” Antonio had no idea what he meant by that.

“To say that our world will never be the same,” Lovino went on. “Would be to state the fucking obvious. But we were stupid to think we were so invincible. We’re not human, but we’re not gods either, and if we can bleed, and if we can bear scars, of course we can die!”

Old wounds along Antonio’s back stung at these words, and he felt a chill well up within him to think that any of these blows could have ended his life. But he swallowed it down; now was not the time.

“In spite of this,” Lovino said, “I will not have us all descend into uselessness and paranoia. I refuse to let us live in a world where we have no purpose, where we constantly live in fear.”

Sadiq leaned back in his chair and kicked up his feet onto the edge of the table. “So what exactly are you going to have us do about that?”

Antonio sighed and buried his face in his hands. “Please get your feet off the table. Dios santo, why must everyone abuse my furniture?”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Lovino told Sadiq, without any regard for Antonio. “I’m getting there.”

With everyone ganging up on him, Sadiq pouted and dropped his feet to the ground, muttering something under his breath about he didn’t come here to get lectured.

And Antonio couldn’t help but notice the subtle little smirk on Heracles’ face.

Gupta, in his eternal patience, said nothing, only sat and waited through the tumult for the meeting to resume.

“We are,” Lovino continued, and he faltered, groping in the air with both hands for a word. “We are special. Think about it, men. We live here at the Mediterranean, the cradle of civilization. We are descended from some of the world’s most ancient cultures. Some of us have even held empire in our very hands.”

“Do not,” Heracles said through his teeth, “remind me.”

Even Lovino could not find it in him to reprimand that interjection. He let it slide and went on further. “By this I mean,” he said, “that in a way we are like stewards of the world. Think of it. There are police, armies, body guards to protect men… but what is there for us? Some Nations’ bosses assign them guards, but there is nothing… organized. There is nothing formal.” Lovino leaned in, his fingers tented against the table, and looked each man deeply in the eyes to drive the point home. “We are not human, but we have as much right to our wellbeing and our lives as human beings do. There is no reason that what happened to Alfred Jones should ever have happened.” When Lovino sat back, he glanced about the table once more to take in the blossoming looks of recognition. “It is time we took our stewardship seriously.”

Heracles scoffed into his hand as he pondered this. “Honestly Lovino,” he said. “Are you suggesting we… police the Nations?”

“Yes,” Lovino said, flat and without hesitation. “In a manner of speaking.”

It did not stun Antonio at first, but the more he thought it over, the more the incomprehensible vastness of the task daunted him. To keep all their people in line, all across the globe… “With only the five of us?” Antonio finished his thought aloud.

“More will join us in time,” Lovino announced, plain as fact. “But, Che Dio lo maledica, it’s only been a few days and I’m already sick to death of feeling my life has lost its meaning. Hell, if anything, we are free now! We will choose our own purpose, and I have chosen this… to protect our kind and our God-given right to be. Now the question is…” He stood, pushed in his chair, and folded his hands behind his back. “Will you join me?”

Antonio was almost breathless with all the implications. He couldn’t help but be a little inspired, but the project was ambitious to say the least. “I don’t know, Lovi. How can we protect the whole world?”

“We will come to where we are called and go to where we know we are needed,” Lovino replied. “Everything else will come with time.” He circled about the table, coming to hover over each of the men. He rounded Antonio and lingered at Heracles’ side. “Tell me, will we continue to leave our friends and lovers unguarded?”

With a shake of his head, Heracles dug his nails into the table. “I will not.”

Lovino grinned. He doubled back to Sadiq and implored him with open arms. “Will we allow our families to be left vulnerable?”

“Hell no,” Sadiq said, and stared Lovino down.

Lovino met his gaze with a nod as he came to the end of the table and Gupta. “And will we leave ourselves open to be robbed of the cultures we have come to represent.”

For the first time all day, Gupta bristled, and the hunching of his shoulders showed that he was in complete agreement.

This should all be very stirring, Antonio was sure. That was why he couldn’t put his finger on why he suddenly felt so afraid.

Apparently, Lovino had no doubts about Antonio’s compliance because he did not target him. “Fellas, our course is clear!” he announced. “We will be the ones to watch over all, to right the wrongs and keep the rights right.” He chuckled a little, and when he flipped back his jacket to place his hands on his hips, Antonio saw, amidst the inky black, the flash of a black gun handle. “And I suggest all of you arm yourselves because we start our first order of business tomorrow.”

The breath stuck in Antonio’s throat. He looked up into Lovino’s face. In all the time he’d known his once charge, now lover, he’d always known he could get confrontational. But now there was a darkness that had fallen about him, and a grizzly drive that seemed foreign in Lovino’s green eyes. It weighed down the fear in the pit of Antonio’s stomach. And when Lovino spoke again, running his thumb along the hilt of that gun, it drove that fear home.

“My friends, mi famiglia,” Lovino said. “We are going to kill Arthur Kirkland.”

I Won't Be Afraid - A Germany/Italy Mix

Sat, 25 Apr 2009 02:47:45 GMT

Medium: Manga
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Subject: Germany/Italy
Title: I Won't Be Afraid
Warnings: None that aren't implied by the canon itself (i.e. dancing around sensitive subject matter, WWII and all). Language in some songs.
Notes: This mix deals very specifically with the end of the war, and how it tries Germany and Italy's relationship. Art for covers by milavalentine.

Download the mix here

1. 'Postcards From Italy' -Beirut
(And the war marches on.)
"The times we had
Oh, when the wind would blow with rain and snow
Were not all bad
We put our feet just where they had, had to go
Never to go"

2. 'Yellow' -Coldplay
(The most beautiful thing in his ravaged life, Germany is always there to protect Italy.)
"Your skin,
Oh yeah your skin and bones,
Turn into something beautiful,
And you know,
For you I'd bleed myself dry"

3. 'It's a Disaster' -OK Go
(But the war effort is quickly falling apart.)
"It's a disaster
It's an incredible mess
But it's all we've got now
Yeah it's all we got
Howling with laughter, panic
alarm, and distress
But it's all we've got now
Yeah it's all we got"

4. 'Maps' -Yeah Yeah Yeahs
(Frightened, hurt, and finally recognizing some terrible wrongs, Italy is forced to turn to the Allies. Germany is left behind.)
"My kind's your kind
I'll stay the same
Pack up
Don't stray
Oh, say say say
Wait! They don't love you like I love you"

5. 'Adia' -Sarah McLachlan
(And Germany, in turn, strain to keep going when he knows his people have turned on and overtaken Italy.)
"Adia, I do believe I failed you
Adia, I know I've let you down
Don't you know I tried so hard
To love you in my way
It's easy, let it go..."

6. 'On My Own' -The Used
(EINSAMKEIT!)
(And without Italy's relentless optimism, Germany is left alone with his regrets and swiftly encroaching failure.)
"I want to hear your voice out loud
Slow it down, slow it down
Without it all
I'm choking on nothing
It's clear in my head
And I'm screaming for something
Knowing nothing is better than knowing it all"

7. 'Forgiven' -Within Temptation
(Even though he knows he should feel betrayed that Italy abandoned him, he cannot blame him, and he cannot find it in him to hate him.)
"You gave up the fight
You left me behind
All that's done's forgiven
You'll always be mine
I know deep inside
All that's done's forgiven"

8. 'Still True' -Feist
(And neither can Italy, even in the face of occupation and a war zone in his home, let go of what he felt for Germany.)
"My love affairs always seem unsteady
And I never go half-way when I weep
Take me anywhere
With you
Take me in your care
With you
Take me anywhere
With you
Take me anywhere
With you
I'm still true"

9. 'Here With Me' -Dido
(In the end, neither of them can go on much longer without the other.)
"Oh I am what I am
I'll do what I want
But I can't hide
I won't go
I won't sleep
I can't breathe
Until you're resting here with me"

10. 'Out Of My Head' -Fastball
(Germany realizes that, as frustrating as Italy could be, he always loved him, and now he needs him back.)
"Was I out of my head? Was I out of my mind?
How could I have ever been so blind?
I was waiting for an indication
It was hard to find
Don't matter what I say only what I do
I never mean to do bad things to you
So quiet but I finally woke up
If you're sad then its time you spoke up too"

11. 'Muscle'n Flo' -Menomena
(While struggling to keep up the war, Germany goes to make his ammends to Italy.)
"Well here I stand
A broken man
If I could I would raise my hands
I come before you humbly
If I could I'd be on my knees"

12. 'Breathless' -Better Than Ezra
(And Italy cannot help but take him back. In the same place where he regains his love, Germany surrenders his war.)
"Lay down your guns
Too weak to run
Nothing can harm you here
Your precious heart
Broken and scarred
Somehow you made it through
I only ask that you won't go again"

13. 'Nearly Lost You' -Screaming Trees
(Certainly, Germany strains to keep it up for a few more months, fueled by reconciliation... but it is a lost cause.)
"Did you hear the distant lie
Calling me back to my sin
Like the one you knew before
Calling me back once again
I nearly lost you there
And its taken us somewhere
I nearly lost you there
Well lets try to sleep now"

14. 'Save Tonight' -Eagle-Eye Cherry
(In time, Germany must face the music and go to accept his sentence. He anticipates his dissolution.)
"We know I'm going away
How I wish it weren't so
Take this wine & drink with me
Let's delay our misery
Save tonight
And fight the break of dawn
Come tomorrow
Tomorrow I'll be gone"

15. 'Stand By Me' -Ben E. King
(But he goes to his fate willingly knowing he has his love.)
"When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we'll see
No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand, stand by me"

16. 'All My Loving' -Jim Sturgess
(In the end, they spare him. His lands will be divided and occupied, and he will be put to work, but he will live. As he leaves to rebuild broken cities, he says his goodbyes.)
"Close your eyes and I'll kiss you
Tomorrow I'll miss you
Remember I'll always be true
And then while I'm away
I'll write home every day
And I'll send all my loving to you"

17. 'Send Me On My Way' -Rusted Root
(Italy knows he has someone who will always support him, no matter how hard it gets, and who has loved him since the 900's.)
"Well pick me up with golden hands
Oh may see you, Oh may tell you to run
You know what they say about the young
Well I would like to hold my little, hand
I will run I will, I will cry I will
Send me on my way"

18. 'Spectacular Views' -Rilo Kiley
(And Germany can accept this defeat with relative grace, because he has someone who has taught him to appreciate everything.)
"We can see the stars from where the birds make their homes
Staring back at us
Indifferent but distanced perfectly
Projected endlessly
It's so fucking beautiful
There are no bad words for the coast today
Then you ask what's a palisade
And if we're too late for happiness?"

Hetalia Kink Meme 4 - "Keeper" - Hungary/Prussia

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 00:42:28 GMT

Title: Keeper
Author/Artist: Red
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Hungary/Prussia, mentions of Austria/Hungary
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con and graphic, graphic sexuality. So graphic.
Summary: When they crush her revolution, Elizaveta loses her mind... one of the last things she had. She needs something that is hers to keep. She decides she will make Gilbert hers.

At first, Elizaveta just sat and watched him sleep. He wouldn’t be awake for a while, she’d knocked him out cold. When she came to Gilbert, it was in tears. He took her in readily and asked no questions; he knew damn well what had just happened.

It was late in the autumn of ’56. She’d had quite enough of living in the shadow of oppression. Her people had tried their hardest, she knew. But the Russians had trampled them, overtaken them, synched this noose about Elizaveta’s neck. The misery of this life made it so hard to breathe. She was so hungry, tired, sick, and scared. The only reason she hadn’t died of loneliness was because of Gilbert. The two of them had been friends since childhood, and though they’d sometimes warred, now they found themselves in very much the same place: trapped, overworked and underfed, torn from the people they loved most—his brother and her dear Roderich.

Roderich, Roderich, Roderich. There was an empty place inside her in his absence. Every day she wondered if he was okay, how he was doing on his own, if he missed her as much as she did. Every single passing moment, the loneliness and desperation and frustration in her mounted. She was a creature all of love and sexuality, stuck in isolation. Each year spent working herself to death drained her, built up more hate and anguish in her.

When she saw her people murdered for seeking a better life, it smothered out what little love still burned inside her.

So when her old friend told her how sorry he was, how he would’ve helped if he could, that she could stay as long as she liked, she heard nothing. With tears scalding her eyes she watched him talk and bustle about his kitchen gathering up what little food he had to spare for the two of them. She devoured the tasteless mush and kept staring. People often said that “misery loves company.” She didn’t just want to be miserable with someone; she wanted someone to be miserable for her. She wanted to see someone more miserable than her. She needed someone to take out her frustration on.

And Gilbert… trusted her. They hadn’t had a real, earnest fight in a long time, only sarcastic quips at best. Gilbert was far from the man he once was, weak and tired as her, and probably lonely too. So it was easy, after they’d cleared their places, for her to grab him by the hand and seize him back from the sink. He spun about and fell easily into her arms and she felt how light he was from starving when she tipped him back and pressed her lips to his. He accepted her kiss, hungry for affection, and buried his fingers in her hair. She had him. She had him. She could almost laugh if her mouth were not occupied.

From a pocket under her apron she retrieved the needle, stuck it in Gilbert’s neck and pushed the plunger down. He froze in her grip and his eyes went wide. Maybe he spoke her name, softly, before going limp, but she’d shut off her mind to his voice.

Now she sat in her basement, waiting for him to wake up. He wouldn’t be much use to her or any fun until he woke up. At her feet sat a box, waiting, some of the few personal possessions she’d been able to hide and save. Most of them were of little use to her in Roderich’s absence.

Until now.

Gilbert stirred, finally. Not much. Elizaveta had bound his wrists to his ankles, such that his ass stuck out like he was presenting to her. The straps were tight—not tight enough to cut off circulation, but just enough such that when Gilbert tugged feebly at his restraints they did not budge in the slightest. “Liza,” he said, voice slurred from the drugs which still addled his mind. “Wha’s happenin’?”

No. She couldn’t listen to his voice, because if she heard him, she’d remember that he was her—

He was her toy, and she shook her head to clear the sounds of his humanity from her ears. Rummaging about in her box, she first drew out a little bottle. No need to break her toy. She slicked her fingers with the bottle’s contents and slid one finger up into him, getting him ready.

Gilbert cried out, and he shouted something at her, but she did not hear him.

Elizaveta cut off his words with the introduction of a second finger, followed shortly by a third.

With a yelp, Gilbert tried to pull away from her. But with his limbs bound to each other, he wouldn’t go far.

Elizaveta withdrew her hand and retreated to her little box for something else. She’d acquired it sometime early in the century during a visit to America’s place. It had always struck her as funny that of all the household appliances to be electrified, this was one of the first. They’d been done away with some decades ago which made Elizaveta all the more glad she’d taken such good care of hers. Vibrator in hand, she crossed the room, and Gilbert’s eyes were so wide she could virtually see her reflection in them from here. Kneeling down behind him, she drove the vibrator inside him and got a genuine scream out of him. She saw his fingers clench like talons and toes all curl up, limbs wrestling in vain. In no way did she acknowledge his desperation and pain. She worked the toy up inside of him with a single-minded persistence, no words, no sounds, no smiles, and no really clear thoughts. She just knew that this is what she must do.

There was one possession she’d been able to acquire for her own while in this miserable Soviet state. It came from one of the farms. She swept over to the corner, then dragged the milking machine back to where Gilbert lay gasping like a caught fish. He was babbling something—“…’Lizaveta, please…”—but she refused to listen. He was a plaything of hers now and there wasn’t anything he could possibly have to say to her. She slid the cup over his currently flaccid length and stepped back a moment to just look down on him.

He looked so pitiful and frightened, half curled on the floor, limbs and genitals trapped. He shook, his eyes were narrowed in hurt, and his mouth constantly running off about something or—

“Please, Elizaveta, stop this. You’ve always been my friend, and I love you. Let me go…”

Elizaveta froze, listening to him. Friend? Yes, friend. He was her friend.

No, no, no. She covered her ears and fled to the box, rummaged about until she found a nice, serviceable gag. Yes, this would quiet him. “No,” she said, and tried to swallow the crack in her voice. “You belong to me.”

“Elizaveta, why?”

She couldn’t stand to hear any more of this. She kicked him in the stomach and he yelped as his breath left him. Before he could speak another word, she shoved the ball of the gag into his mouth, fixed the strap snugly behind his head.

Gilbert panted through his nose and did his best to plead to her with his damp eyes, but it did nothing to soften her resolve. She circled around his helpless body, then flipped on all the machinery. A subtle din of whirring motors filled the room.

First, Gilbert locked up in overstimulation, baring all the whites of his eyes. A sharp whine escaped his throat from behind the gag. His cock sprang to life and his hips began to rock despite himself, even as his face blanched in horror.

Elizaveta stepped back and dropped down into the chair where she’d been waiting. She hooked her thumbs into the elastic of her panties and slid them down. Her right hand slipped up under her skirt, and her middle and forefinger caressed her clit. She pressed down, then ran her fingers back towards her opening. Briefly, she ran her fingertips around it before sliding back towards the clitoris again. While her rubbing sparked life in her tender flesh, what made her wet was the muffled sounds of Gilbert’s moaning and strangled sobs.

Yes, somebody here was still weaker and more miserable than her. She could still be stronger than someone else. No longer did she have to be the downtrodden one, sexually frustrated and completely alone. Now she had someone she could keep forever, who could stimulate her—someone she could keep under her feet.

Gilbert’s body quaked, and he bucked against the pulsing and sucking even as he tried to fight it. Even after Elizaveta’s work to prepare him, a little stream of red ran down his thigh. He whimpered from the agony of it, any of the remaining fragments of his pride completely lost, and writhed on the floor for want of escape.

Gasping, Elizaveta picked up the pace of her strokes. She let her fingers dip into herself just a little and she felt her own warmth. Her legs tensed and clenched in against the sensation. “Oh.” She held the middle finger at the rim of her vagina and slid the forefinger back to her waiting clit. “Oh.”

From on the hard concrete floor, Gilbert watched her. His eyes searched her, reached to her because his hand could not. None of the fire of battle or even the glint of mischief he usually carried was in them; they were dull and glassy, spoke only of anguish.

Something cold wrapped itself around Elizaveta’s heart. Her stroking stilled. That look, more than any word or sound…

With that, Gilbert’s eyes clenched shut, and his whole body seized up. She knew he was coming from the flick of his hips and the way his whole body strained.

Elizaveta removed her hand from herself and returned to her little slave’s side. When he finally fell slack, she turned off all the machines. Gilbert sighed from his nose, and Elizaveta would not allow herself to guess if it was from release or relief.

She was not done with him, though; she’d not yet had her fill. She removed the milking machine and the gag from him, but left him plugged up for now. She separated his wrists from his ankles, though the limbs remained bound to each other, and by the hair she pulled him up onto his knees. “I’ll take it out of you,” she told him, “if you’ll lick me off.”

Looks of disgust, terror, and betrayal all crossed his face, but quickly they all faded into resigned acceptance. He bowed his head, briefly, and when Elizaveta pulled up her skirts and stood spread-legged for him, he dutifully went to work.

Already damp from the show and her own touching, Gilbert’s tongue introduced a fascinating new wetness. The tip of it dipped briefly into her, ran up between her labia and met the clit. The best part was that, hidden under her skirts, Elizaveta could not see his face nor hear anything but his lapping; he really was just a toy for her now.

Along with his tongue, Gilbert now introduced his lips, kissed and suckled at her. With the warmth of pleasure blooming between her legs, Elizaveta flexed her thighs and placed her hands behind Gilbert’s head, holding him close to her. He responded with one, hard lick from vagina to clitoris. She moaned and came, her legs tightening and fingers digging deep into his hair.

Satisfied and panting, she stepped back and went to retrieve her panties. Gilbert said nothing to her, and for this she was grateful. Grateful until she turned back around and saw him. He was doubled over where she left him, his bound hands clinging to each other, sobbing. He did not argue or shout, he had no smartass remarks, no insults, not a word for her. He only wept, and his tears ran freely down his face and dotted the floor.

Elizaveta gaped at him. Had she really broken him so completely already? The sound of his crying made her sick to her stomach. She always hated hearing the sound of a loved one crying. Loved one. Friend.

No, no. She did not love him. He was just her slave, a thing she kept to use as she pleased, and she was glad he was broken. The sooner she broke him in, the easier it would be to get him to please her. For so long as she was trapped in this hellhole, far from her beloved, she would need something to fill the void.

“Stop it,” she ordered him. “Stop crying.”

He did nothing to comply. Only bowed his head down further, sniveling, and cupped his hands to his face.

“I said stop crying!” she shouted and, sick of the sound of him, grabbed his hair and kneed him in the face.

He cried out once at the blow, then hit the floor and did the best to choke off his sobbing and be done.

When he finally quieted up like a good and obedient slave, she finally pulled the vibrator out of him and stowed it away. Before leaving, she paused to softly stroke his silver hair and wipe away the wetness from around his eyes. Even a slave deserved a little affection.

It should be time for bed now. Tomorrow would be another hard day of toil. She retreated from the cellar, made sure to lock the door up on her way out. Tomorrow, when she returned from the field, sore and weary, she could look forward to passing her weariness off on someone else. He wasn’t going anywhere. In a world where nothing was truly hers, she’d finally found something to keep.

Hetalia Kink Meme 3 - "To Forget" - Germany/Prussia, Prussia/Fritz, (Prussia/Hungary)

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 00:33:01 GMT

Title: To Forget
Author/Artist: Red
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Germany/Prussia, Prussia/Fritz, mentions of Prussia/Hungary
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, some violence, character death
Summary: Gilbert's been picking bar fights to ease the pain. When one gets out of hand, Ludwig gets a rare, and very final, glimpse into his brother's heart after his mind is broken.

Gilbert loved to go to the beer hall and forget. Ludwig would never cease to give him a hard time for staggering home wasted in the middle of the night, but Ludwig didn’t understand. Ludwig had been through hell, certainly… but he had not had his homeland torn out from under him. He had not been turned on and left behind by virtually everyone he counted as family or friend. He had not fallen in love twice, only to have his first love marry a man he was at war with and his second grow old, bitter, and die. And Gilbert would grin and laugh it all off, because he was strong, and he liked being alone, it was all of no consequence to him. But sometimes he felt so numb inside the only answer he had was a couple liters and a good solid fight.

Sometimes, if the fight got rough enough, he could pretend he was at war again.

That night, he was sitting at the bar, barely balanced on his stool after having lost track of how much alcohol was coursing his system. They’d tried to refuse him his last one, but after he slammed his euros down on the counter and given the tender one meaningful look, he was served.

A vision of a woman swept into the bar, hanging on the arm of some strapping young lad. She—looked just like Elizaveta—was a graceful young thing with flowing brown hair and flowing curves. She was also clearly spoken for but damned if he’d never seen a woman more worth fighting for. Gilbert chugged down the last dregs of his beer, abandoned his glaskrug and made for her. There was a bit of sway in his step, and the instant the link of the lovers’ arms broke, Gilbert swept her to his side. She shrieked, and her green eyes went wide—and god, he half expected to be hit with a frying pan now because just look at her. Her boyfriend was hollering something at him but he couldn’t even hear him.

“Hey sweetheart,” he slurred into her ear. “How’d you like to come to bed with a real warrior?”

And he did not want her. She was gorgeous, yes, but his real prize came when he was torn from her by the collar by her angry lover. “What the hell do you think you’re doing!?”

“Your girlfriend,” Gilbert replied. He cackled even as the first blow struck him across the face.

And then another to the back of the head.

Oh, so he’d brought friends.

“Hey now,” Gilbert slurred, reeling around and giving the guy standing behind him a nice uppercut to the chin. “No need t’ gang up on me now.”

But he was distracted from the fight when his head was seized back violently, by the hair, so the seething, jealous boyfriend could look Gilbert in the eyes. “Stay away from my girl,” he ordered.

“Sure,” said Gilbert, still smiling coyly even with the rising welt on his cheek. “But I can’t promise she’ll stay away from all this.” He grinned and spread his arms, showing off what a prime specimen of manliness he was.

In response, he was slugged in the gut.

He staggered back, trying to figure out where his breath went so he could get back in the game. His world was swaying. He stumbled forward and took a swing, missing his target entirely. It occurred to him then that maybe he was too drunk for this.

It was as this thought came to him that the stool connected with his head. He was hurled at full force into the wall and collapsed into the corner, where the stool came down over his head once more. Shit. Shit. He hadn’t been ready for this one. He hadn’t…

He was bludgeoned a third time. A fourth. He felt something dislodge in his mouth—a tooth. Fuck. He struggled to get up onto his feet. “Hey wait,” he said, “just give me a….”

A fifth.

For a moment, everything went black.

Somewhere in the distance he heard shouting.

“…you hear me?”

Gilbert blinked rapidly, cracked his eyes open to see the bartender looming over him. “Huh?”

The bartender craned his neck around and called out, “We need to get an ambulance for this guy!”

Ambulance? Please. “I’ve had worse,” Gilbert muttered as he pushed himself off the floor, using the wall for assistance. If he was still conscious, he could walk it off. He spat a mouthful of blood to the side and grimaced. Ignoring the bartender’s protests, Gilbert took a few shaky steps forward and then went stumbling out onto the street. It wasn’t far to Ludwig’s place anyway; his little brother could keep him up all night and then it would all be fine. That’s what you did with concussions, right? Stay awake until they clear up?
***

Ludwig did not hear a knock at his door. He heard, instead, a loud thump and a moan. He stirred from his reading, alarmed, though this would not be the first time his brother came home like this. Sure enough, when Ludwig opened the door, Gilbert went sprawling all over his floor, completely unable to stand under his own power.

“Mh, evenin’ West,” Gilbert greeted. His face was smeared with blood and fresh purple bruises.

Ludwig felt a twist in his chest at the sight of his big brother, but only sighed. He stooped down to pull Gilbert up onto uneasy feet. “Damn it, Gilbert,” he said. “You’ve been picking fights at the beer hall again.”

“Naw,” said Gilbert. “Fights’ve been pickin’ me.” He giggled, then, and something was wrong in the sound of it. Something lilting and off-key.

For now, Ludwig would ignore it. He often seemed a little off when he got into a fight. Taking Gilbert by the hand, Ludwig led him to the kitchen to get him a drink of water and, at least, wash the alcohol out of his system. He hated this, always having to go out of his way to fix his brother up after his little scuffles, but Gilbert would regret putting him through the hassle come morning when he felt like hell. After depositing his brother in one of the kitchen chairs, Ludwig went to the freezer for ice. “So what was the fight over this time?” he asked. He pulled out the ice cube tray and tapped a couple into a glass. “Or does it even matter?”

“It’s none o’yer business ‘s’what it is,” Gilbert grumbles, scowling at the far wall.

Sometimes Ludwig doesn’t even know why he tries. The more he tries to reach out to Gilbert, the further Gilbert pulls away from him. Then all this fighting business started, and now Ludwig didn’t even know what to do with him. He slid the glass of water across the table and watched Gilbert fumble around for it and almost miss his mouth.

The bastard was so drunk he couldn’t even remember how to drink.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you the past few years,” Ludwig said as he swept out of the kitchen a moment to go rummage around in the adjacent bathroom for antiseptics, “but if you don’t talk to me, I can’t help you with anything.” Ludwig stumbled to a halt when he heard his brother sob.

And with a strained voice, he heard Gilbert say, “Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. I always hurt. Always. If I get beaten hard ‘nough, ‘slike it cancels it out. Like a double negative…”

Lingering in the hallway, Ludwig blinks. Gilbert never opens up to him like that, not of his own volition. “Are you okay in there?” What the hell happened tonight?

“’M fine,” Gilbert said, and then he laughed. And then there was a crash.

Ludwig scrambled back to the kitchen to find Gilbert crumpled on the floor, his chair lying beside him and the glass of water shattered by his hand. Peeling him off the floor, Ludwig held his brother back by the shoulders so he could finally get a good look at him. He was roughed up much worse than Ludwig had ever seen him, much worse than he had expected. Gilbert was shaking just a little, twitching—Ludwig could see it in subtle little flicks of his brother’s fingers. He blinked and squinted lot, seemingly constantly trying to clear or refocus his eyes. He swayed in his grip, but Ludwig couldn’t tell if that was from the fight or the alcohol. “Gilbert…” Ludwig muttered, and pulled him closer. When he looked into his brother’s fiery red eyes, he could see that the pupils just didn’t match. Ludwig choked on his own breath. “There’s something really wrong with you.” He put an arm around Gilbert’s shoulder to usher him to another seat. Something closer to a phone. No time to panic now. He couldn’t afford to panic. He had to be efficient, had to act fast. “Come sit down. I’m going to call the hospital.”

But Gilbert thwarted his efforts himself. “Don’ worry’bout it,” he slurred, shoving his brother back. “Said ‘m fine.” But the mere act of shoving was too much for him; he immediately overbalanced and slumped to the floor again.

All this falling and moving couldn’t be good for his damaged system. Ludwig hissed through his teeth and scrambled to help Gilbert up again, help him and get him off his feet and into a chair.

Gilbert lashed out, taking a swing at Ludwig and missing. “Don’t touch me!” he screamed.

Reflexively, Ludwig recoiled.

“’M sorry,” Gilbert said, and stared up at his brother with one eyelid drooping. “Dunno wha’ came o’er me…”

It was Ludwig’s turn to blink. Did Gilbert just apologize to him? Gilbert never apologized, not so directly. “You’re not fine,” Ludwig said. He turned to go, but felt something catch at his pants.

And there was Gilbert, hanging from the leg of his trousers like a frightened child. “Don’ go,” Gilbert whimpered. “Don’ leave me. Ev’ryone’s’always leavin’ me…” The dam had broken, and now all the little things he tried to hide were flooding out. It was no longer clear if the shaking was from the alcohol, the injuries, or the swiftly building emotions that he had pent up so long.

Ludwig felt his heart twist. He wanted to stay and hear him out, but… at this point, he knew a concussion would mean a best case scenario. “I have to go get help,” he explained, and tugged his leg away.

Gilbert drooped and hung his head, dejected. Then, very slowly, he closed his eyes.

“No!” Ludwig screamed. He dropped down to his knees and seized his brother’s head up into his hands, tapped his cheek. “Wake up!” Not yet, not yet, he wasn’t ready to give him up, not yet. Hell, they still hadn’t made up for the time they’d lost when Gilbert was in the Soviet Union. No, not yet. “Wake up! Don’t close your eyes, Gilbert. Come back to me! Come on, wake up…”

One eyelid slid hesitantly open, and the other followed. “Where’m I?” he whispered.

Ludwig now joined Gilbert in shaking. “My house,” he said, and he could hear even his voice trembling. “You came to my house, Gilbert. You got in a fight.”

“Fight?” Gilbert repeated, feeling out the word, trying it on his tongue before finally something alit in his eyes. “Oh yeah.” There was quiet acceptance in this, far from the gloating pride he always carried when he came out of a fight.

Ludwig nipped at his lip and steadied his breath, then gathered Gilbert up into his arms. “Come on then,” he said. “I’m going to find you a place to sit.” Sit. Not lay down. He probably shouldn’t lay down. If he laid down, he might fall asleep. And if he fell asleep…

Gilbert was limp in Ludwig’s arms, and his eyes were distant and wandering. Eventually his gaze fell upon Ludwig, and the corners of his lips twitched, like he wanted to smile but couldn’t remember how. “Ludwig,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I love you, Ludwig.”

Staring down at his brother, Ludwig gulped. He should appreciate hearing that, but he knew. Gilbert never told him that, not in so many words. It was something that was simply understood between them. To actually hear it from him seemed so… final. “I love you too, Gilbert.”

“Kiss me.”

In the doorway to the living room, Ludwig halted. He’d not been expecting that one. “What?”

“I love you,” Gilbert said very slowly. “An’ I want you t’kiss me.”

Shaking his head, Ludwig said, “You don’t know what you’re saying. You hit your head…”

And Gilbert tensed in his arms and began to scream.

At the sound of it, Ludwig ran to set him down in the armchair, straightened him up and caressed his bloodied face in hand. “What is it? What?”

But Gilbert only screamed. He reached up strained and flinching hands and clutched at his head.

Ludwig scrambled across the room to grab the phone. Ambulance. He needed an ambulance, now.

There was a dull thud behind him.

Staggering to a halt, Ludwig turned to see Gilbert toppled out of the chair, his body quaking so hard the floor beneath him seemed to vibrate. Immediately Ludwig returned to his side to sit him back up, and kneeling on the floor below him he looked up into teary, lost red eyes, once so bright and yet seemed to grow dimmer by the moment. “Gilbert,” Ludwig said, “can you hear me?”

It seemed from the jolt that went through Gilbert’s body that he only just remembered existing. “Lemme go,” Gilbert said.

Ludwig shook his head. “Can’t. You’re hurt bad, you might fall again.”

“If’m still talkin’, ‘m fine,” he said. “Need to…” He trailed off, staring past Ludwig and straining to recall what it was he needed. “Need t’get back ou’there.”

“Out where?” Ludwig said. His voice was strained and growing thin. He couldn’t take much more of this, couldn’t stand to sit here and watch his brother, the only family he knew, get lost in his own mind. But every time he went for help, Gilbert fell again, and he couldn’t let him do more damage to himself.

“Gotta,” Gilbert said, then halted to rethink his words. “Back t’the battlefield. Silesia. Fritz needs…”

That was when Ludwig knew his brother was lost to him. He wasn’t just lost in his mind, he was lost in time, and he wouldn’t be coming back. Ludwig clenched his teeth and tried hard not to dissolve into sobbing. “Gilbert…” he tried, making one last effort to bring his brother back to reality. “We’re not at Silesia.”

“Then where’re we!?” Gilbert cried, and strained, feebly, to get out of the chair, and Ludwig couldn’t help but note the way one arm hung limp at his side. “Where’ve I been taken!?” One eye fixed, suspicious, on Ludwig. “Who’re you?”

Who are you? Ludwig mouthed the words and felt a sharp pain in his gut. Just a moment ago, he said he loved him.

He should’ve kissed him. He should’ve…

“We’re… not at Silesia…” Ludwig said, “because… we’ve already beaten the Austrians. Silesia is ours.” He hung his head. If his brother wasn’t coming back to him, he would go to his brother.

“We did?” Gilbert breathed, and a single tear trailed down his cheek. When Ludwig nodded, Gilbert collapsed into his brother’s arms, laughing. For the first time in a very long time, Gilbert smiled a genuine smile—not of smugness, or mischief, or the feigned everything-is-okay smile. No, a smile of genuine happiness. “Yes, yes,” he cackled in his joy. “I knew we’d get it. That’ll show tha’ fucker Roderich… fuckin’ pansy…”

And Ludwig, even now with his world coming apart, couldn’t help but chuckle.

Leaning against Ludwig, Gilbert nestled his head into his shoulder and said, “Oh, Fritz… Fritz is gonna be so proud o’me.”

With shaking fingers, Ludwig stroked Gilbert’s white hair. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I think he will.” Maybe this was for the best, as much as Ludwig didn’t want to think it. Gilbert would be happier going back to his king, much happier than he’d been for the past sixty-some-odd years since they tore his country apart. Maybe it was finally time to let him go.

“Why you cryin’, soldier?”

Ludwig glanced aside and saw Gilbert watching him with his uneven eyes. Swiping at his own eyes with the back of his hand, Ludwig found them damp. “Oh.” He wrapped one arm around Gilbert, and it wasn’t rejected. “I… I think I lost my brother in this battle.”

“’D yer brother love Prussia?”

Ludwig nodded. “With all his heart.”

A lopsided grin passed across Gilbert’s face. “Then rejoice,” he said. “Yer brother’ll’ve died happy for his homeland.”

Now Ludwig could not keep himself from sobbing. He cradled Gilbert’s broken head and glanced longingly to the phone, trying to figure out a way to get to it and not have Gilbert fall again—trying to scrape up one last shred of hope.

Gilbert locked up in Ludwig’s arms once more. Ludwig braced himself for more screaming, but instead heard a voice, hesitant and faint. “…Fritz?”

Ludwig ran his hand up and down Gilbert’s quivering back. “I’m here, my Prussia.”

A pained little whine escaped Gilbert’s throat. Ludwig had never heard a more vulnerable sound, especially not from Gilbert. “’M sorry, Fritz,” he said. “I… think I… I think I screwed m’self up bad…”

Nuzzling up against his face, Ludwig whispered in his brother’s ear, “It’s alright. You’ve made me proud, and I will always adore you.” And he meant every word. He kissed the nape of his neck and held him tight.

“Fritz,” Gilbert said, his voice always growing softer. “I… I fin’ly stopped hurting…” And trailed off, fading.

“What’s that, love?”

Gilbert’s body flinched violently in his arms. When Ludwig leaned back, he saw Gilbert’s eyes rolled all the way back in his head, his body twitching.

“No, please, Gilbert, please,” Ludwig cried. He held him tight like that could still his seizing, but all he could do was do his best to ensure his brother did not choke on his own tongue.

At once, all the tension and the shaking flowed out from Gilbert’s body. He slumped and went still. Ludwig gaped at him in the sudden quiet, waiting for him to wake again, in another time, in another mood, but to spring up again and come back to him all the same. But he did not move. A little stream of red ran down from his ear. With a faltering hand, Ludwig reached to touch his fingers to Gilbert’s neck, but he felt no trace of a beat beneath the skin, no matter how long he waited for one.

Ludwig pulled his older brother’s body close to his chest and wept.
***

When Frederick the Great passed on, his final wish was to be buried at Sanssouci, at his palace, with his dogs. It took years for even the first of his wishes to be granted, and for his grave to be moved to the place he’d intended. The second he’d never expected to come true, because he wasn’t referring only to his greyhounds. It was one last cynical little inside joke between himself and his lover and country. Fritz was the only man ever permitted to call Gilbert his dog.

Ludwig filled in the last shovelful of dirt and swiped the tears from his eyes so he could see clearly again. He’d have them make up a grave-marker soon, something simple to match the plain stone placard of the only man to ever return his brother’s love.

He should’ve kissed him…

There was always going to be something missing, but he tried his hardest to force himself to see it was better this way. The world had moved on without Prussia, and Prussia did not belong it any longer, and Gilbert would never be anything but the alienated heart and soul of Prussia, no matter how hard Ludwig tried to make him part of Germany. Ludwig kept all these things in mind as he retreated from Sanssouci on shaking legs.

But he was happy for Gilbert, he was. He’d left a world that did not care for him and returned to the man who did. And it was just like Gilbert said. He wasn’t hurting anymore.

Hetalia Kink Meme 1 - "Light a Fire in the Sky" - Russia/America

Mon, 13 Apr 2009 23:53:55 GMT

Title: Light a Fire in the Sky
Author/Artist: Red
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia/America (others passingly mentioned)
Rating: R
Warnings: Bloody violence and non-con
Summary: On Mutually Assured Destruction and the passion of hatred.

Alfred does not have a chance to prepare himself. In fact, he is just preparing for bed when the sirens start blaring… blaring too late to make a real difference. When he picks up his head, his body goes down, his right leg giving out from under him. And for a second, white is all he sees and feels, nothing but blankness. It’s not until he hits the floor that the twisting, burning pain starts coursing through him, feels like someone has torn a hole out of his calf. He sees his shadow cast out before him by the distant light and he knows exactly what’s happened.

And he knows that Los Angeles is gone.

“Fuck,” he sobs, clenching his fist so tight his fingernails break the skin. He pushes himself up, shakily gets onto his wounded legs, but another blow, hard, to his cheek (New York… beautiful, bustling, glittering New York) sends him back down onto his knees.

They really did it, then. After this thirty year staring match, the nightmare finally crawled out of their heads and hit the ground with a vengeance.

“Goddamn Ruskie bastard!” Alfred bellowed. He lurched upward, hunched over and stumbling, staggered forward and caught himself on the doorway. On the dresser he kept a remote. He didn’t need it, he always hoped he wouldn’t, knew he wouldn’t because he knew his people would take care of these things. But Alfred wanted it. He wanted the pleasure of feeling that he had struck personally, that he had hit his adversary himself. He flicked off all the little failsafe switches and pounded the button wailing until a blast tore into him right between his shoulder blades—Chicago. Alfred crumpled to the floor, paralyzed with agony. Every wound burned so deep that everything else felt numb. He could see the blood—everyone’s blood—starting to pool on the floor and couldn’t even feel its wetness.

He wasn’t sure he could walk, but he needed to go outside. He needed to see. One hand before the other, knee before knee, he crawled, leaving dashes of blood in a trail behind him like Morse code, an SOS. Kneeling on his stoop he tried to stare, but he had to squint and shield his eyes.

The cloud bloomed over the horizon and the sky was orange like all of Hell descending. And he stood silhouetted against it, towering, his long scarf flapping in the fallout. “I see your early warning systems have failed,” he said. “How are you feeling, my friend?”

Numb. He was numb. He couldn’t feel anything but the pain. He couldn’t even feel the effort of springing to his feet, didn’t feel the scream, primal and guttural, rend forth from his lungs. Everything happened as though he were an outside observer, watching himself break, and even he had to turn away. He didn’t feel it when he hit Ivan with his whole body, hard and fast enough to throw the much larger man down. They hit the ground together with Alfred catching himself on Ivan’s chest.

And Ivan laughed, took Alfred by the shoulders and before he could even think about reacting, flipped him over and pinned him. “How cute,” said Ivan, stooping down to go nose to nose with his prey, “Even though you are already beaten, you still strike at me like a cornered animal.”

“I am not beaten,” Alfred panted. He writhed, desperate to pull free. He could smell the stink of vodka on Ivan’s breath and it was suffocating. “You’re going down with me.”

Ivan smiled at him with patient curiosity. “Oh yes?” And no sooner had he said it than he locked up, the smile dissipating. Blood streamed freely from his nose. He reached up and laid his fingers over his upper lip, pulled them away to scrutinize the red.

A wolf’s grin overtook Alfred’s face. “Say goodbye to Moscow,” he hissed. He waited for Ivan to crumple as he had crumpled.

But Alfred only got a laugh in reply. “Silly little Alfred,” said Ivan. “You don’t go for the capital first. Where is the suspense in that?”

“You sick bastard!” Alfred cried. He hated Ivan, hated Russia, hated his people, but for a split second his heart went out to them. “Millions of your people just died in a flash, and you laugh?”

Ivan flicked a hand back to brush off a tragedy. “Millions is nothing,” he said. “The Motherland is intimately familiar with bloodshed.” He froze again, and at first Alfred thought another bomb had hit, and then the smile began creeping along the length of Ivan’s lips.

Uncertain, Alfred couldn’t help but cringe, and tried once again to pull away, pushing against Ivan’s chest. In the middle of all this, what the hell was that smile for?

“We’re going down together,” Ivan said, running his hands back through Alfred’s hair, giggling at the disgust all over his face. “It’s just as you said. Together in annihilation, now…” He bent down once more to nuzzle him, nose to nose, even as a wellspring of crimson opened up on his left temple, where Leningrad once was. “Don’t you think that’s romantic?”

Alfred squinted as dots of Russian blood spattered onto his glasses. “What?” he choked out. Never did Alfred think he’d even think this, but he supposed that he had underestimated Ivan’s madness. The pain of the three great cities torn from him still left Alfred’s body quaking, but Ivan barely flinched for any of his losses, though his face was now half red with blood. “Don’t you feel it?” Alfred asked. “Don’t you feel them dying?”

“Of course!” cried Ivan, still laughing, a little shriller all the time. “But I am always in pain!” And in one sweeping movement he took Alfred up by his nightshirt and tore it wide open, buttons flying.

“What the fuck are you doing!?” Alfred screamed, grappling with Ivan for what precious little freedom he had left. He caught him by the scarf and nearly gagged him before he was shoved back.

“What about you?” Ivan inquired as he pinned Alfred once more with all his bulk. While Ivan undid his coat, scarf left untouched, he kept Alfred in place with his knees on his chest. “How intimate are you with bloodshed? How familiar are you with pain?” He swept Alfred up in one arm as he sprung to his feet and danced a waltz where Alfred’s feet did not once touch the ground. “Don’t you think it would be a shame,” he went on, swinging Alfred along with his steps, “if you were to die without knowing your limits? And don’t you think that if we are going to destroy each other, we should truly make the most of it?”

As he was slung about, Alfred felt very sure he was going to vomit, and that it had little to do with the dance. “Fuck you!” he screamed, and took a swing at Ivan, though it was deftly caught and twisted. Alfred hissed and tried to retract the fist, but it was too late. He could feel his fingers giving out on him in the other’s grip.

“You are so passionate,” said Ivan, and he dipped his unwilling partner down low and hung over him like the shadow of death. “I have always loved that about you.” He closed the distance between their faces by pressing his lips hard against Alfred’s, breathing him in deep and breathing his drunkenness into him.

At first Alfred only dangled there in shock, but when Ivan’s tongue reached into his mouth, he promptly retaliated by chomping down. Coppery fluid filled his mouth, and when finally set down on his feet, he spat it all aside and announced, “There goes Kazan.”

That falsely innocent smile returned to Ivan’s face, and though a streak of blood trickled from the corners of his lips, the blood of the newly lost city, he looked genuinely pleased. “You know its name.”

Alfred nodded and wiped his own lips clean with the back of his hand. “I take grim satisfaction in knowing what I’m taking from you…” But any satisfaction was lost as his left shoulder split open, and howls of new agony ruptured from his lips.

“You see,” Ivan said, and took the opportunity of Alfred’s anguish to throw him once more to the ground. “Now there goes your District of Columbia.”

“I hate you!” Alfred barked from beneath, digging his nails in and clawing wildly at Ivan’s chest though he knew it was to no avail. He just couldn’t suppress his animalistic need to wound his attacker back with his own hands. “You twisted Commie bastard, I hate you!”

“Hate,” Ivan said, his fingers dancing along Alfred’s sternum and stomach before catching under the waistband of his pajama bottoms, “is not much different from love.” He fiddled with the drawstrings, twisting them, tugging at them. “Love, you see,” and he tugged the pants down just a little further, bared hips, “is a constructive passion for someone, where hate, obviously, is…” He tugged once more, but halted as a pair of veins opened up upon his right arm. Ivan knelt there between Alfred’s legs and assessed the damage. “I see you have taken Novosibirsk and Omsk at once.” A warm little chuckle. “How nice. They will not have to fight any longer.”

With what was left of his strength, Alfred reached up to take the trailing ends of the scarf in his hands, tugged hard and stilled the flow of air from Ivan’s chest. “How could you?” Alfred panted. “Everything that was at stake… I never thought you’d really…” But he couldn’t finish, for his voice was growing thick, too thick to force words out.

Ivan knelt before him with his mouth hanging open for want of air, but was not daunted. He slammed a fist down onto Alfred’s chest, knocking the wind out of him and breaking his grip. Before Alfred could regain composure, Ivan pinned the younger nation’s hands above his head and slipped a dagger from his boot. The hands were pierced right through Philadelphia and Seattle, fixed to the ground, before Alfred could even see the glint of metal. “It is a funny story, actually,” Ivan said over Alfred’s screams. “I fired only because our warning system showed that you had fired. I was retaliating. In the end, the thing which has killed us was our… how shall I say it… paranoia?” He stripped away Alfred’s pants all at once, baring the whole of his bleeding body to the dying world. “Do you not find this funny?”

Alfred had neither the strength nor the presence of mind to answer. He only stared up into the orange sky, screaming the screams of millions of people, of the world that was circling the drain with them. Every part of him felt like it was burning. How did it all come to this? Was it his fault? His fault because he started it, because he was the first? He couldn’t bear the thought, couldn’t consider it for more than a split second. He could only think that Ivan was at the advantage here because Ivan had already lost his mind long ago. The searing torture of it all was too much for him to even notice at first what was transpiring, even as Ivan threw Alfred’s legs up into the air. It wasn’t until Ivan’s broad, calloused hands coiled around his throat that Alfred even noticed he was being fucked. He tried to move his hands up to clasp Ivan’s wrists, to break the suffocating embrace, but the shock that went down his arms reminded him clearly that he was not going anywhere. He was growing dizzy, and he wasn’t sure if he had lost his voice or just grown deaf to his own screams. His face grew flushed for his blood could escape only through the wound on his cheek.

Wasn’t it enough for him? Wasn’t it enough for Ivan that he’d gotten to destroy America? Did he really have to rub it in and degrade Alfred so?

From the frantic, twitching thrusts Ivan makes it is clear he is not bothering to take his time with this. He knows as well as Alfred does that they are not long for this world. “Alfred,” he gasps, even as his prize strains to do the same. “You… I am so glad… it was you. A worthy adversary.” Every time he forces himself in, he sends tremors down Alfred’s spine.

Alfred doesn’t think his aching body can take any more of his degradation. They are all dying, and Alfred will not go out letting his precious body and his beautiful nation be so desecrated. As Ivan tips back his head and bites his lip, so too does Alfred nip at his own. He squints his eyes and begins pushing up against the hilt of the blade with one hand while holding the other down. It is easier than it would otherwise be, he thinks, because he is dizzy from blood loss and lack of breath, because every part of him already hurts so badly. There is a flood of wet into his palm as the blade comes free, and he uses his blood-slicked free hand to clumsily wrench the dagger out of the other. Then, as Ivan still had his head back, releasing into Alfred and savoring his losing victory, Alfred plunged the blade deep into Ivan’s gut, slit down.

Ivan, dazed, halted and practically fell out of Alfred, tumbled back and stared down at the gash.

“Krasnoyarsk,” Alfred wheezed as he cast the knife aside. He’d gotten him back. He was done. He let his arms drop, draping across his chest, and closed his eyes. Distantly, he could feel Ivan’s strong arms wrap around him, pull him up into his lap, but this time Alfred didn’t even care. Reality was waivering.

He wished… he only wished that he could see Arthur and Matthew once more. Tell them he was sorry. Hold them while the planet died. God, and Matthew was probably already all messed up.

But it didn’t matter much now. Everything was slipping. He could feel the people dying, panicking, order and borders breaking.

He thought, if only he had one more chance, he’d…
***

Ivan wanted to stand to truly appreciate the Hell they’d created, but he knew he couldn’t stand. The air was hot, far too hot for this latitude or this time of year, and it was perfect. That beautiful burnished orange was like a fire in the sky that they had lit with their passionate hate. Ivan swore he could feel it burning inside of him… or perhaps that was only the stomach wound.

He became aware, as he soaked in the morbid glory, that Alfred had finally stopped shaking. Ivan smiled down on his former adversary, now broken and limp, smeared all over with his blood, with the blood of his people. “Goodbye, America,” Ivan said, and bent down to kiss him on the cheek. “Goodbye, pretty little Alfred.” He laid him aside and arranged him neatly, laid out flat and arms crossed, posed perfectly like the hero he always pretended to be. Ivan even took care to straighten out Alfred’s mussed golden hair.

Ivan lies down beside him and resists the urge to cradle him again, lest he disturb the delicate arrangement. He wishes Liet were here; Liet would let him hold him… whether he liked it or not. Precious little Lithuania was always good like that. He would be with his brothers now, surely… if Eduard was not already dead, being so close to Leningrad. And neither would Ivan be surprised if his darling little sister Natalia had already flung herself into his ravaged lands to die with him.

And it was strange to think, really. After all his centuries of suffering, he would finally get what he really wanted. Now, everyone would be one with Russia… in death.

The air didn’t feel so hot anymore… only pleasantly warm. It felt hotter inside him, as his own body ate away at itself, but he paid it no mind. He hadn’t felt a warm day in a while. When Ivan closed his eyes for the last time, he pictured himself a field of sunflowers.

Hetalia fanfic - Parting is All We Know (Ch. IV) - France/Prussia, Germany/Italy, Austria/Hungary

Sun, 05 Apr 2009 04:19:47 GMT

Title: Parting is All We Know (Ch. IV)
Author/Artist: Red
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Mainly Canada, France, and England, but featuring ALMOST EVERYBODY | This chapter: Prussia/France, implied France/England, Germany/Italy, HRE/Chibitalia, Austria/Hungary, implied Russia/Prussia
Rating: R
Warnings: ANGST, violence, character death overall. For this chapter, language, almost-non-con, implied past non-con.
Summary: After one of their number kills another in the midst of a psychotic breakdown, and the countries involved seem to remain unaffected, the Nation-tans are forced to question their mortality and the very nature of their existence. The strain of loss and the weight of the questions threatens to tear their delicate community apart at the seams.
A/N: Please correct me on my little foreign language snippets if needed.
Previous Chapters: I, II, III
***

Chapter IV: The World Forgot

“How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"…”
--Alexander Pope, “Eloisa to Abelard”

July 5th, 2009

Everyone has their coping mechanisms, and Francis deals with loss in much the same way that he deals with all other things.

Gilbert moans and stretches out all his limbs as he rolls off of Francis. The both of them are spent and slick with sweat. Gilbert sits perched on the edge of the bed and rolls his neck. “Fuck, Francis,” he says. “People can say what they want about you, but you are a fantastic lay.”

Francis beams. He knew that, but it’s still nice to hear. “Merci.” He props himself up on his elbows and sweeps the glass off the night stand to finish off the last dregs of his wine.

For centuries, Francis and Gilbert had been sleeping together off and on. They’d gone through… a bit of a dry spell during the Franco-Prussian War and for a few decades after Waterloo. And there was, of course, the time Gilbert spent at Russia’s house. This was, in fact, the first time they’d hooked up since he’d gotten back home; Francis regarded this as a personal failing. He’d almost forgotten how good Gilbert felt inside of him, even if Gilbert was a little shaky. He was probably just out of practice. All the same, it was the perfect way to get his mind off things.

When he glances to the bedside, he sees Gilbert standing, tugging his boxers back on. “Leaving so soon?” Francis purrs. “Hasty, hasty.”

Gilbert does not look back at him. “Our business is done here, isn’t it?”

Francis only chuckles in reply, catches Gilbert by arm and pulls him back down to the bed. He is surprised by how easily his sometime-lover falls, used to a little more struggle from him. Then again, they are all weary.

Gilbert lands flat on his back, with his head in Francis’ lap, looking duly unimpressed. “What do you want?” he asks. “To talk?” He spits it out like the punchline of a joke.

“If talking is what you like,” Francis replies, and runs his fingers back through Gilbert’s messy white hair. “I’d only…” He falters, nipping at his lip. “I just don’t want to be alone right now. I wish to be with a loved one.”

Gilbert snorts, and his gaze flicks away from Francis. “I don’t love anybody.”

“Non?” Francis smirks, doubting that quite sincerely. “Not even your brother?”

“I didn’t think you loved anybody either,” Gilbert replies, but does not answer. “I kinda figured you just fucked people.”

“Au contraire!” Francis trills and bends down to kiss Gilbert upon the lips. When he rises, he watches Gilbert’s face twist, as though in disgust, but knows better. If Gilbert were really disgusted he wouldn’t have just slept with him. “I make love! I love everyone!” He heaves a sigh. “But mon Matthieu sent me away, Antonio is with his Lovino, I’ve not seen or heard from Arthur since the funeral…”

Francis would’ve gone on, but he was caught off guard by a sharp laugh from Gilbert. He turned a quizzical look down to the man in his lap.

“Arthur,” Gilbert replies to Francis’ expression. “You’re still even thinking about talking to him?”

By all rights, Francis ought not to be on speaking terms with Arthur. And he had been doing a very good job of keeping that up so far. Arthur had nearly robbed Francis of his son. And while he did not share the same familial relationship with Alfred as Matthew did, Francis had learned to adore the boy after a brief rocky period early on. Matthew was enraged with Arthur. Francis should be enraged, and should find no trouble being enraged at a man he’d never quite gotten along famously with. And yet he was not.

He somehow found himself pitying him.

“So do you think he did it?” Gilbert asked.

Francis found his eyes had wandered, and returned his attention now to his companion. “It’s not a question of if he did it or not,” Francis said. “We all know he did.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Gilbert. He sat himself up and gathered his knees to his chest, leaning in for information like a gossipy schoolgirl. “I mean, do you think he did it on purpose, or just went mad?”

Francis felt his stomach twist and tasted something sour on the back of his tongue. He did not want to be discussing this. “I don’t think…”

But clearly Gilbert was only barely interested in what Francis thought. “Ludwig thinks he’s crazy,” he said, interrupting Francis, “but I think he planned it. I figured he was going to get fed up one of these days anyway.”

Any trace of a smile was gone from Francis’ face. “Arthur adored Alfred,” he said, “in spite of any flaws.” And it was the damn truth. In all the centuries they’d known each other, Francis never saw Arthur as fixated on anyone as he was over Alfred. He was so glad when they finally hooked up after the war; Arthur’s sexual tension made him insufferable, and he utterly refused to let Francis help him with it.

“So you think he’s mad, then?”

Francis drummed his fingers on his knees, then said, “As one of Arthur’s authors put it in his book… we’re all mad here.” He couldn’t help but grin a little feline grin.

Gilbert chuckled. “You’re just in love with him, aren’t you?” He stretched out and moved once more to the edge of the bed. “Poor little Francis and his unrequited love…”

The grin disappeared from Francis’ face... but he did not quite refute. “As I said,” he replied, “I love everybody.” He leaned forward and reached out, caught Gilbert’s hand as he went to retrieve his pants and pulled him back into bed. “But enough of this grimness,” he said as he knelt above his lover. “Are you good for another go, mon loup?”

“You’re insatiable,” Gilbert said. “And I’m going home.” He got his hands underneath him to push himself up.

And Francis pushed him right back down again, threw his leg over to straddle him and pin him down. “Not just yet,” Francis cooed, and bent down to nibble at the nape of his neck. “You’ve spoiled my good mood, mon amour, and I intend to take it back from you.”

“Nein,” Gilbert hissed. “Hör damit auf!” But he did not shove or struggle. He laid very still.

“I love it when you speak German to me,” Francis said. He lightened his nips to kisses, laid them down across Gilbert’s chest and worked his boxers back off. The Nation-tans, over the years, had developed a sort of language of their own, a common language, but there was a tendency amongst them to embellish it with splashes of their own. Francis probably abused this liberty the most, but he loved the sound of exotic tongues. Experimentally, he licked across Gilbert’s nipple to see what he could get out of him.

If anything, Gilbert went more still, practically rigid under Francis’ mouth and hands. “Nein,” he choked out. “Let me go!” But from the way his breathing had accelerated, Francis knew better.

“You say nein,” Francis said, and backed off of Gilbert just long enough to spread his legs and get between them, “but your body says oui!” He giggled and flung Gilbert’s boxers aside, leaned in to bite down on his shoulder and claim him.

“Nein! Nein, bitte!”

Francis faltered just above the skin. Bitte? Was he begging?

A sharp blow to the face ended Francis’ curiosity and sent him toppling to the floor. He laid his fingers lightly under his stinging nose and drew them back to see blood. Before he could process even that, Gilbert descended upon him, striking him across one cheek and then the other.

“I said no!” he screamed. “Never again! Do you hear me!? Never again! Don’t even think about it!” Panting and trembling he stood, hastily went to pull on his pants.

When Francis looked up, he swore he could see tears in Gilbert’s eyes.

He never did get a good look. Once his pants were on, Gilbert delivered one swift kick to Francis’ gut before storming out of the hotel room. Francis doubled up and strained to get his breath back. He could hear the pounding of Gilbert’s footsteps all the way down the hall.

Temper, temper. What had gotten into him?
***

When Gilbert stormed through the house, half dressed and hyperventilating, Ludwig asked him no questions. These things happened sometimes—less lately, thankfully. In fact, at one point he had dared to hope that the panic attacks were over, that Gilbert could stop pretending to be fine and just be fine. It had been, apparently, too much to ask for. It was all much better than the alternative.

In 1945 in Potsdam, Ludwig lost his brother.

Ludwig sat before that tribunal with his head bent low, ready to accept whatever punishments came to him, listened to them tell him how things were going to be. He fully suspected that they would kill him, his country having been the epicenter of two gruesome wars in less than fifty years. He supposed, somewhere in his heart, that he deserved it. He’d allowed despicable things to happen to people on his own soil, he’d hurt Feliciano’s dear heart, he’d used his brother, whose nation barely still existed, to his own ends. All he’d ever wanted was for he and his people to stop starving and suffering; he hadn’t wanted all of this. But he’d let it happen, and he’d gone along with it. He was ready to die.

But they did not kill him. They partitioned his lands and occupied them, laid claims to him, told him he was to be put to work and to pay them. But they assured him the German state would continue to stand.

It was Prussia they destroyed.

It made no sense to Ludwig; Gilbert had only been involved in this mess vicariously through him. He wasn’t the one who deserved to be dissolved.

They gave Gilbert’s lands to Poland and to the Soviet Union, and added the rest to the land that would be Germany’s. Gilbert himself they gave to Ivan.

Ludwig knew it was not his place, as the loser, to argue with their decisions. He could only watch as his elder brother, the only family he’d ever known, was dragged off kicking and screaming by the Russian. And for once, Ivan was not smiling.

Ludwig was sure his brother was murdered that day.

At first it seemed an utter impossibility to him. No nation had died in his lifetime; he’d suspected that perhaps their kind didn’t die at all. Besides that, Gilbert, despite his tempestuous demeanor, had been like the foundation to Ludwig’s whole life. All of Ludwig’s earliest memories—which didn’t go back very far—were of his brother, looking after him after some sort of illness that had clearly purged Ludwig’s mind. Ludwig did not have any fond memories of his ancestor Germania, not like Feliciano had of his grandfather Rome. Ludwig could not even remember ever being a child. He was sure he must have been one at one point, but that part of his life was completely lost to him. Only Gilbert stood as Ludwig’s earliest memory. He’d got him back on his feet and helped him learn to be a country of his own.

For a month, Ludwig kept wandering about near the border, expecting Gilbert to spring out from somewhere cackling and shout, “Got ya!” And Ludwig would punch him in the shoulder and scream at him for making him worry, but then it would all be okay.

But of course, Gilbert never came.

And the whole business made Ludwig sick with rage. It made no sense. He, Ludwig, had initiated these wars. Gilbert had been along for the ride. He did not deserve to be the only one to die; he had a passion for war but surely had caused no more of it than the rest of them. And Hell, he had helped Arthur to subdue a power-mad Francis, and yet Arthur’s hand signed the death warrant. How could he? How could they? Ludwig was almost ready to go to war all over again, all by himself, to avenge his fallen family, but the Allies had left him no military to do this with. He could only work to rebuild others’ broken cities and seethe.

And when he was dismissed from that work, tired and beaten, he knelt beside the wall, with the armed guards and the starving people who had once been his, and who had once been Gilbert’s, and wished he still believed in God. A God who would listen to him, who would take pity on him. A god who would let him show that yes, he could change, and grant him the gift of family, of the loud and brazen man who had taunted him, bulled him, made a mess of his house but who, god damn it, had loved him like a big brother should. Ludwig thought maybe that human beings still had a god watching over them. But he felt in his heart that there was no god for nations.

Ludwig realized it late one night as he woke on the ground, staring up at stars and the stone of that wretched dividing line. This was all part of his punishment. Losing Gilbert was Ludwig’s punishment for destroying the families of so many people. Well, it had worked. There was a hole in Ludwig’s heart that nothing would ever repair. In this way, they had claimed their revenge on him. He finally recognized that there would be no more nights out late at the beer hall, no more sparring on warm summer days, no more trying to one-up each other in every endeavor. And there would never be a reunion with overjoyed laughter and warm embrace.

He went to Feliciano that night weeping, let him hold him and let him tenderly run those delicate Italian fingers through his hair. He was glad at least that the man he loved was still with him, and had come back to him gladly after the war. He supposed that as long as he had Feliciano, he still had family.

In 1989, they told Ludwig they were tearing down the wall. It would only be a matter of time before the East and West would be one again, and for that Ludwig was glad. He wanted his people and his lands back. Perhaps when that wall was gone, he would start to feel whole again.

He came out with the crowds in December as they prepared to reopen the roads and let people through. The chaos of joy surrounded him, the air filled with hollers and cheers and the roar of bulldozers and falling stone. He couldn’t help but tear up a little as the crowds rushed through the broken wall, touching new land, greeting even strangers in warm embrace. Yes, yes it did make him feel a little better.

Then he saw him.

He was lingering at the back of the crowd, eyes low and arms wrapped around himself, long tattered coat whipping in the wind. But Ludwig knew. He would recognize that form, those fiery eyes, that cold white hair from anywhere.

Ludwig’s breath caught in his throat. “Gilbert.” He hadn’t dared to even speak the name in years.

He went barreling through the crowd then, against the current of East Germans pouring into the West. “Gilbert!” he screamed, reaching out as the crowds parted before him, and time slowed.

Gilbert’s head seized up and his eyes widened. “West?” he breathed.

Ludwig stood a moment, the corners of his eyes stinging and overflowing with emotion. His hands were still outstretched before him, and his mouth hung open for want of expression. He wanted to tell Gilbert just how badly he’d missed him, just how much his loss had scarred him, and how certain he’d been that he’d never see him again—even now, he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. But no words would suffice. He could only think to clasp his brother’s shoulders and seize him into embrace to prove to himself that Gilbert was really there.

And Gilbert screamed at the contact, shoved Ludwig away brusquely and recoiled. He returned to his previous stance, wrapped up in his own arms with his head down, and he quivered. For a split second, there had been true terror in his eyes. Now he burned red with blushing and turned away from him.

“Mein Gott,” Ludwig said, lowering his arms. “What did he do to you?”

“Take me home,” Gilbert snapped.

Ludwig had come to understand that the man that came home with him that day was not the same as the brother he’d lost. Certainly, he saw flashes of his Gilbert—thankfully more and more recently—in sarcastic cracks, in arguments with the neighbors, in the rebellious trashing of his room when Ludwig told him to clean it. But this man was too timid and withdrawn to be Gilbert, and for so long had been afraid to even leave Ludwig’s house. Part of Gilbert had, indeed, died in the Soviet Union.

But he was home, god, he was home.

So, when Gilbert locked himself in his room and started screaming, Ludwig did him the dignity of pretending not to hear.
***

Sometimes Germany—and he would always be Germany to Feliciano, because that was just who he was—needed time alone. Germany valued his downtime for rest and relaxation, and Feliciano respected that. He would go off and paint or take a walk or spend some time in the kitchen. He supposed it was good that they had their time apart as well as together. So when Germany said, after the funeral, he needed some time to himself to clear his head, Feliciano had said, “Okay.” He hated to argue with him.

Even if he needed him more than anything right now.

Then again, he couldn’t really talk to him about this. Or wouldn’t. It seemed rude, really, to bring up any of this old business with him. Feliciano loved Germany, adored him, even if he still scared him a little sometimes… but he’d calmed down so much since the war, and he’d come back strong, and Feliciano was proud of him, and was so happy with him.

But sometimes…

No, Austria would understand. Austria had raised him, and Feliciano had always seen him as a father-figure even if he was more like a boss. He was so intelligent and mature, he would surely be able to give Feliciano some good perspective on this situation. And Feliciano needed it, badly, because he was feeling more lost than he had in years.

One of the servants, a pretty young maid with a bright smile, had let Feliciano into Austria’s estate. He liked her, she had a warm face, and he would chat her up but Feliciano tried not to flirt so much now that he was spoken for. Still, the smile on her face had reassured and calmed him for just a moment.

“Feliciano,” Austria greeted as he came down the stairs into the foyer of his home. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Feliciano’s heart sunk as the thoughts and memories that plagued him resurged. He turned his helpless doe eyes on the man who had raised him. “Austria,” he said. “I want to talk.”

Austria faltered, fingers dancing around one of his coat buttons. Then he swept his arm out wide, gesturing to a door. “Why don’t we take this to the drawing room?” As Feliciano swept past him, Austria called to the pretty maid with the warm smile, “Marlaina, could you be a dear and brew us some coffee? Maybe a nice Melange?”

“Yes, sir, Herr Edelstein,” she said. She bowed her head, and Feleciano saw her eyes linger on him a little before departing. He smiled, watching her go. Such a pretty girl…

“Would you like to sit, Feliciano?”

Feliciano perked up, glancing back to Austria who had already taken a seat in a silken blue armchair. “Oh, yes,” he said, slipping into the room and dropping down onto the matching love seat. “Grazie, Austria.” Perhaps coming to Austria’s had been a bad idea. This was not the same house he’d grown up in; that house was long gone. But everywhere he looked were little reminders that jogged more latent memories. A portrait on the wall.

“Italy, I want you to teach me to draw.”

An old, antique piece of furniture, meticulously preserved by its owner.

“Italy, come sit with me.”

A Stradivari violin, one owner since new, which Feliciano had given to Austria as a gift.

“Won’t you come listen to Austria’s violin with me, Italy?”

Feliciano winced.

“You seem troubled,” Austria said, resting his chin in the palm of his hand.

Of course he was troubled. Everyone was troubled lately. Feliciano nodded just the same. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

“About what?”

Feliciano wrung his hands and stared into his lap. Maybe he shouldn’t talk about this. Maybe if he just ignored it, it would go away, and it would all fade to the back of his mind again. Like memories were supposed to. Like old dreams. After all, it was all passed now, and it wasn’t like there was anything he could do. Yes, he should just let it go. He would let it go. “I can’t stop thinking about the Holy Roman Empire,” he said instead.

Austria barely stirred save for the slight raising of one eyebrow. “That was a long time ago,” he said. “I assume this has to do with our… recent loss?”

Helplessly, Feliciano nodded. No, he couldn’t get around this. Sometimes he got sad thinking about the Holy Roman Empire and how much he missed him, but… never since he was small had he been so overwhelmed by it. “Ever since America died, it’s all I can think about. He was the first person I ever loved and… and… he’s been gone so long, and I should be okay… but…” He gulped. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he’d be chided for being silly about this, but still… “Sometimes, I would still hope that maybe he was still around somewhere… that he was alive and okay… that maybe our kind don’t die.” After all, Germany’s brother Prussia came back home alive, even though his country was gone. So why just the Holy Roman Empire? Why just his love?

No, Germany was his love now. Feliciano loved Germany. He loved him very much.

“I’m sorry,” Austria said, and the words sounded flat, but Feliciano still took them to heart. Austria was only ever truly expressive when he was playing music. “It makes sense, though, that your thoughts would linger on your lost loved ones when loss strikes once again. Was not America a friend of yours?”

And Feliciano knew that America should be the reason why he was sad. He was sad about America; they had bonded over food, and he was always so flattered to see how fascinated America was with his culture. He missed the way he would drop by, spontaneously, asking for recipes, even if he couldn’t get them right. “But that’s not why I’m upset,” Feliciano confessed. “I’m upset because…” He choked on his words. Maybe, if he didn’t admit to it, it would make it less true. His cheeks flushed with shame. “…Because it’s gotten so bad that… even when I’m with Germany, all I can think about is the Holy Roman Empire.” And now the tears came, fresh and thick, coursing down his face in rivulets. “They just… look so alike! And I know, Austria, I know you told me it’s just because they were born from the same blood. I know he’s not the same person. But lately when I look at him, I keep seeing the Holy Roman Empire, and then I don’t even know who I’m kissing anymore!” He buried his face in his hands. His people were said to be the world’s best lovers… so what was wrong with him?

There was a pause. “So… do you love Ludwig?”

Feliciano seized his head up. “Yes!” Yes, he knew he loved Germany. Germany was always looking out for him, always doing his best to understand where he was coming from and work with him. He loved Germany. He was sure. Yes, he was sure.

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Austria said. He straightened up in his chair—and for a split second, Feliciano hoped that maybe he would come give him a hug—re-crossed his legs and resettled. “This will pass. We’re all going through a rough patch right now; we’re all confused.”

Feliciano couldn’t help but wonder about Austria’s use of the word “all.” “Then what are you confused about, Austria?”

Austria laid a finger across his lips, as though carefully contemplating even this simple question. Wasn’t Austria always so thoughtful? “I suppose my primary concern is what some of the more… unstable among us will do when they realize we can truly die.”

A shiver ran down Feliciano’s spine. He didn’t think he could deal with anyone else being hurt. “You’ll be careful, won’t you, Austria?”

Austria nodded, and even smiled a little for him. Feliciano loved to see Austria smile, rare and beautiful as a blue moon. Feliciano sincerely believed that Austria ought to smile more. “Yes, Feliciano,” he said. “I promise.”

A sigh escaped Feliciano’s lungs. Well, that was one worry out of the way at least. But still, there was a heavy weight in his chest and it made him hard to breathe. Every time he closed his eyes he saw a little boy with a big black hat and cloak. “Austria,” he said, before he even realized he intended to speak. “Do you think… do you think there’s a Heaven?”

“I think that’s irrelevant,” Austria said. “Whether or not there is a Heaven, I don’t believe we go there. Heaven is for people. We’re ideas, Feliciano. Ideas don’t go to Heaven.”

Feliciano sobbed. Why did Austria always have to be so harsh? “I don’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head fervently. “I believe we are human, we are people.”

“We can’t be humans and countries at the same time, Feliciano,” Austria said.

Feliciano drew his knees up to his chest. Austria was not helping the confusion part. Now Feliciano didn’t know what to believe or how to feel anymore. His hands were shaking.

“Herr Edelstein.” The pretty maid’s voice drifted in from the foyer. “Coffee is brewed. Would you like anything special?”

“Not for myself, thank you,” Austria told her. “Feliciano, do you want extra cream or anything of the sort?”

Feliciano shook his head into his knees. “No. No coffee, thank you.” He unfurled and slipped off his seat, rising unsteady to his feet. “In fact, I think I should go,” he announced. “I should go home to Germany.” He brushed past Austria and the pretty maid without a second look.

“Feliciano?”

“Thank you for the talk, Austria,” he said from the doorway. “Be safe.” With that, he bolted for the door. Out, out, he needed out. This had helped him none.

Maybe when he got home to Germany, and he looked at Germany, he would start seeing Germany in his eyes again.
***

Roderich watched Feliciano sprint out of the house, no pretenses of subtlety. This does not surprise Roderich; not one part of the meeting did. He has been expecting Feliciano to have some manner of breakdown since the funeral, innocent as he was, and expecting the physical similarities between his two loves to get to him for much longer. Roderich had doubted Ludwig’s choice of ally and lover since the war, had watched many anguished, failed initial attempts at a relationship and assumed nothing would ever come of it. But it did, and never once could Roderich fathom it. Feliciano was a silly, flighty thing, so much Ludwig’s opposite, and so much attached to someone who was long, long gone. Really, Roderich worried for Ludwig a bit.

But this was not his primary worry now.

Not to have good coffee go to waste, even in the absence of company Roderich took his cup in the drawing room, savored every last drop and let it warm him. He felt so cold lately. And numb. Well, wouldn’t anyone when forced to reconsider the very nature of their being?

For centuries now, Roderich had felt content in his station in life, safe and secure, and had gone with the flow even in the face of great adversity. He was content to allow things to happen to him, rather than to seek to do much of anything. His wife was the one who did, he was the one who was.

But could he really call her his wife anymore? If not his wife, then what? Their marriage had been one of convenience, initially, tied to each other to make peace between their countries. But he loved her, god, he loved her, the most beautiful, graceful creature he had ever laid eyes on. She had fought for him, protected him, and staunchly held his side. No manner of symphonies he could compose would ever equal all she had done for him. Even Roderich could recognize that he was a proud man, and he knew he was of noble blood and great talent; Elizaveta was the only one on this Earth who had ever made him feel inferior. It fascinated him.

Now their former empire was split. But while they had separate houses now, she still spent more time in his than in her own. So perhaps it was still right to call her his wife.

Coffee finished, Roderich set the cup aside for the maid to clear and retreated from the room. He made his way up the broad and sweeping main stairs to the parlor on the second floor where his piano lived. It stood ready and waiting for him, the gloss of its finish shimmering a little in the late afternoon sun that made the room burn orange. His fingers lingered over the lid a moment before tipping it gently back, revealing the keyboard. A sigh escaped his lips, as though of relief. When he settled down onto the bench, his fingers had already set to moving. Before he had even consciously decided what to play, the familiar old strains of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata washed over him. Oh, yes. He was depressed.

His long fingers drifted across the keys, laying out drawn and somber chords. Every move of his hands flowed naturally from him and permitted him to turn his attentions to the window and watch the sun kneel and die upon the horizon. His lady should be home soon. Oh, he hoped she would be home soon. She’d just gone out for groceries. But she’d been gone so long, so long…

No, Elizaveta could take care of herself. She could more than take care of herself; she’d been taking care of him too for so long. In this predatory new world that had bared its teeth to them and their kind, he was grateful to be the one at her side, and to have her looking after him. Yes, he knew he hadn’t a thing to worry about. If someone were to come after him with a hungry blade, she would be upon them in an instant, have victory in less. She was, after all, his warrior bride.

But…

But, whatever God there might be forbid…

Roderich finally, at this late stage, now resented that he’d never learned to properly fight. He hated the coarseness of the battlefield, and he’d always thought himself above such brutality. But… if someone were to chance to get their hands on his Elizaveta, and if for some reason she could not protect herself…

Neither could Roderich do a thing for her.

And there she was, coming up the long path from the front gate. There was a bounce in her step, a bag of groceries in one arm and her cell phone in the other hand. At the sight of her, Roderich abandoned his piano and fled down the stairs to meet her at once. Lately, he couldn’t bear to be apart from her. He flung the front doors open far before she even reached them.

“…don’t know what’s gotten into you, Gilbert,” she said into her cell phone, “but if you don’t speak sense to me I’m hanging up.” Upon catching her husband in her gaze, however, her green eyes alit, and her phone was immediately snapped shut. “Kedvesem!” she called to him. A smirk crossed her coral lips. “My my, so eager to see me lately. Like a little puppy.”

Roderich went a bit rigid, straining to restore his dignity. She always did this to him. “I only wanted to ensure my lady’s errands went smoothly and that she was properly greeted.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Everything went just fine.” She tucked the phone in her pocket and used her free hand to caress his face. Instantly he softened and was hers to mold. She pulled him in close for a kiss. Her lips lingered upon his, breathing into him, and his eyes fluttered shut.

The contact was broken, then, and he fell back and did his best to straighten back up like he had never melted for her.

But Elizaveta could see right through him and he knew it, and he saw it in her wry little smile and the way her eyes narrowed just a bit to peer through him. “I’m thinking spätzle tonight. What do you think?”

Roderich nodded and stood back to let her pass, did his best to catch his breath. “Yes, that sounds fine, mein Liebling.”

“Perfect,” she said, and tapped him playfully on the nose before making for the kitchen.

He pulled the door shut behind him and watched her go, watched her hips swaying with the confidence of her step, the flow of her body and the drifting of her wavy hair like curtains. She was perfect, his goddess, the best thing to ever happen to him.

And if something happened to her…

…there would be nothing left in this world for him.
***

Gilbert sat upon the edge of his bed, listening to the dial tone long after Elizaveta had hung up on him. Fine. He didn’t need her anyway. If he really needed her, he’d never have allowed that pansy Roderich to take her hand. No, he was fine enough without her.

The coarseness of his breathing must be the sign of a cold.

And he had run off from Francis because he’d been a pushy bastard.

It had absolutely nothing to do with…

“Don’t struggle and it will all be over soon, da?”

Gilbert straightened up in his bed. No, no, no. This hadn’t happened. It was a non-event. No, he was only tense right now because Francis had been, well, himself. Hell, it shouldn’t even bother him by now. Francis always had a way of…

Broad, calloused hands pulled his kicking legs apart, bound them to the bedposts.

He buried his fingers in his hair, bowed his head and hoped these images would fall out. These were just bad dreams. It hadn’t been that bad, not that bad. No. No such thing could ever happen to him, the great and mighty Prussia.

“Bitte! Stop, it fucking hurts!”

And he certainly would not beg.

Lies, lies, lies. Why was even his own head lying to him? He shook his head hard to get the lies out.

His gaze fell upon the portrait that hung over his bed. “Fritz,” he spoke to the portrait, and he certainly heard no trembling in his voice. “What’s wrong with me? What’s happened to me?” He listened desperately to the silence for a sign. “Are you still watching over me, Fritz?” But of course, there was no reply.

Little gruesome pictures flickered along Gilbert’s inner eye and he wanted them gone.

Well… Arthur had done him a great service, hadn’t he? He’d proven that, with one well placed shot Gilbert could clear all those nasty little lies from his head and be with his late king and his lost country. His mouth watered at the very thought. He wouldn’t have to keep dragging himself along as the shell of man and nation anymore. It would all be done.

No, no. He wasn’t such a coward.

And he certainly wasn’t crying.

Gilbert closed his eyes and breathed in deep. He pulled his knees up to his chest, like a snail retreating into its shell, and rocked back and forth. Nothing had happened to him back then. Nothing. He was still fine, still great. “I am still strong,” he told himself, and focused on the broken rhythm of his breathing. He would say it until it was true. “I am still strong. I am still strong. I am still strong…”

Hetalia fanfic - Parting is All We Know (Ch. III) - England, Canada, Russia, Cuba, others

Mon, 16 Mar 2009 04:12:54 GMT

Title: Parting is All We Know (Ch. 3)
Author/Artist: Red
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Mainly Canada, France, and England, but featuring ALMOST EVERYBODY | America/England, Lithuania/Poland, China/Russia, one-sided Belarus->Russia, Germany/N. Italy, Austria/Hungary, Spain/S. Italy, Finland/Sweden, France/Prussia (kind of!) and probably a whole bunch of others if you wear the right goggles.
Rating: R
Warnings: ANGST, violence, character death overall. Some snippets of violence and adult themes this chapter, and the brief appearance of a couple real people.
Summary: After one of their number kills another in the midst of a psychotic breakdown, and the countries involved seem to remain unaffected, the Nation-tans are forced to question their mortality and the very nature of their existence. The strain of loss and the weight of the questions threatens to tear their delicate community apart at the seams.
A/N: So, I wrote myself into a corner working with the human names, considering I had always planned to involve every country I possibly could. SO, for the purposes of this fic:
Zoelie = Seychelles
Fridmar = Iceland
Niklas = Norway
Jens = Denmark
Catrin = Liechtenstein
Amando = Cuba
A couple others will come up later, those are just for now…
And I wrote the scene with Ivan while listening to Rachmaninov. WOO! : D
***

Chapter III: We Are Called

“The heart will cease to beat;
For all things must die.
All things must die.
Spring will come never more.
O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call’d—we must go.”
--Lord Alfred Tennyson, “All Things Will Die”

July 4th, 2009

On the day they should have celebrated his birthday, they held Alfred’s funeral.

It was one of the cooler days since summer had begun. Just the other day it had been boiling outside, but such bipolar weather was typical of this part of America. Still, it was warm for being just past the break of dawn, and Arthur found himself breaking a bit of a sweat as he scaled the hill—though he half suspected that might have little to do with the temperature or the exertion.

He’d not seen Matthew or Francis since… that day. From the hill where they’d left him, he’d gone straight home to get a good suit for today. He would’ve liked a good stiff drink, but they wouldn’t have let him back on the plane like that, and, well, the last time he got drunk, something wretched overtook him, and he—

And he wasn’t going to think about it, no, no, wasn’t going to, no, wouldn’t entertain it a second.

“Arthur, I love you… stop…”

Arthur’s whole body froze. He doubled up, clenching his teeth to hold back the bile, clasping his hands over his ears like it could silence the voices in his head. He focused on his breathing, and when his nausea subsided, he recalled that he’d come along with the other nations to try to avoid calling too much attention to himself.

No, he hadn’t seen Matthew or Francis since they’d walked off on him. Arthur had tried to call Matthew and ask if there was any way he could help with the arrangements. He wanted so badly to do something, anything, everything to compensate for his wrong, even though he knew there was no real way to make up for it.

Matthew had hung up on him.

There wasn’t especially much to arrange anyway, Arthur supposed, after all the phone calls were made. After all, the burial was already taken care of.

(His stomach clenched.)

What had come over him then? He was a gentleman. Gentlemen are respectful lovers. Gentlemen protect their families. Gentlemen don’t murder…

But think of all the things fine gentlemen have done in your name.

No, it was impossible. Everything the men of England had done was for good. And he… no, he couldn’t have done this. No, it wasn’t him. These images in his mind made no sense. He would never hurt someone he so loved.

You have tried to kill him before.

The Revolution was different. They were different men then.

So if it wasn’t you, whose memories are in your head?

He didn’t know, didn’t know, didn’t know…

And wasn’t he so pretty, covered in blood?

“God no.”

Breathe.

Focus ahead.

On the hilltop, Francis stood waiting, accepting condolences from Antonio and Lovino. In a crisp navy suit, with his hair up, Francis actually looked classy. Matthew stood off to the side, exchanging a few words with the American president. President Obama and his vice president were the only politicians to be seen; they’d kept it a family and friends thing. Arthur ventured a smile, grateful. There was one more elderly man on the hilltop who he didn’t recognize, presumably the officiator they’d brought in for the service.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the old man called. “If I could please have the family up front to prepare for the ceremony…”

Arthur bowed his head at the call and moved forward. This was it. Time to say… Time to say his… last… goodbyes…

His eyes burned.

He would never share a word with Alfred again.

“What are you doing here?” He heard Matthew’s voice, thick with anguish but still strong, loud, and clear.

Damp-eyed, Arthur looked up to regard him. Under the weight of his son’s stare, he shrunk. “He,” Arthur said, “he asked for the family…”

“No,” Matthew said, cutting him off. Though he shook his head, he never for a second broke eye contact with Arthur, and every word he spoke he annunciated crisp and clear. “You are no family of ours.” He pointed, at arm’s length, downhill. “Get in the back.”

Francis, standing at Matthew’s side, only crossed his arms and looked away. He was taking no side in this. He would be of no help.

Arthur blanched. He opened his mouth to argue, to plead, to state his case, but he knew he had no right. He’d lost the privilege to stand at Alfred’s side and see him off after what he’d done to him. So, Arthur only nodded, turned on his heel and set off back where he’d come from, struggling to keep his head held high.

The turnout was remarkable; it seemed like almost every nation on Earth had shown, and the hilltop was far more crowded now than it had been on his way up.

But it was only on his way back down that he saw, clearly, the way every soul there looked upon him.

Lovino’s face twisted with hatred, eyes narrow and lips tight. He dug his fingernails into Antonio’s hand.

Though Kiku’s expression did not flicker in the slightest, when he saw Arthur he moved his hand to rest it upon the hilt of the katana that hung at his side.

Like a mother bear, Elizaveta straightened up and stared him down, clutching her husband’s sleeve tight. Roderich, on the other hand, would not look at him at all, only turned his nose up in disgust.

Ludwig, seeing Arthur pass, was swift to pull Feliciano closer to his side and hold him there.

Raivis flinched at the mere sight of him then went running off to his brothers.

Zoelie, sweet Seychelles, just arriving and coming up the aisle, presumably making her way to see Matthew and Francis, cut into the crowd and took the long way around before Arthur could reach her.

Oh god.

They knew.

They all knew.

Arthur stumbled to a halt, afraid to take another step on his shaking legs lest he fall.

No, he was already fallen.

Bastards. Staring at you like that. You ought to take them all down with you.

No. No. Arthur shook his head hard to clear it out.

Down below, the Nordic nations were just arriving, stepping from their disparate cars and gathering together. Fridmar was shaky and even paler than usual—unsurprising, considering the state of his economy. Niklas had to help him along the path. Jens followed along behind them. Taking up the rear were Berwald, with his arm about Tino’s waist, and trailing after, clinging to Tino’s hand, was Peter. Little Peter, always so lively, now seemed lethargic and dazed, needing to be guided along to even make it up the path. Poor boy, he’d been innocent. Jarred as they all were at this surreal situation, unaccustomed as they all were to loss, it had to be twice as hard for a child.

Perhaps, Arthur thought, if he had one saving grace, it could be with his baby brother.

Breathing deep, Arthur steadied himself and cut across the open field.

The Nordic countries slowed, seeing him, and stood their ground. When Peter saw him, he stared up at him with blank blue eyes. He looked so lost. And the little black suit he wore looked so out of place on him.

Arthur did his best to work up a smile for the boy, to encourage him. “Hello, Peter,” he said as he got down on one knee beside him. He wanted to be on his level, to meet eye to eye and heart to heart. “How are you holding up, kiddo?” He held out a hand to clasp the boy’s shoulder.

Peter stood before him, only staring. Then his eyes went wide, baring their whites. He turned heel and fled, scrambling just as fast as his little legs would take him, and huddled behind Berwald, shaking.

Faltering mid-reach, Arthur recoiled slightly. “Peter…”

Then Peter was swept entirely out of his field of vision by a strong pair of arms. Arthur glanced up to see Berwald holding Tino tight and clutching cowering Peter to his chest. “Stay ‘way from m’fam’ly,” Berwald ordered.

Arthur’s heart tore along its already fraying seams. His family?

Glancing once more at Peter and into the terrified gaze he shot from the corner of his eye, Arthur knew that he had no family any longer. He stood and turned away without any word. Perhaps it would be best if he left.

“Arthur!” a voice called from a few short yards away.

Ice water swept through Arthur’s veins. He looked ahead.

At the rear of the crowd and the nape of the hill stood Ivan, flagging him down. His little sister had her arms coiled tight around his own left arm. Still watching Arthur, Ivan said, “Natalia, why do you not go see our sister? I would like a word alone with England.”

Natalia’s eyes narrowed, brimming with suspicion, and she dug her nails deep into Ivan’s sleeve. “Why?”

“I promise it won’t take long,” Ivan said, and bent down to kiss her lightly upon the forehead.

Though he had not at all answered her question, the kiss softened Natalia, and she unclenched her talons. “Very well,” she said, then walked off, though she kept shooting glances back over her shoulder until she was well into the crowd.

Uncertain of the Russian’s intentions, Arthur stepped forward.

Ivan met him halfway in half the strides. He smiled as usual, but the smile did not quite reach his eyes. He held out a hand to Arthur. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said, and there was nary a strand of irony or amusement to be heard in his voice.

Dazed at the idea of sincerity from Ivan or sympathy from anyone, Arthur took his outstretched hand and shook it. “Thank you.”

And the instant Arthur’s hand was in his grasp, Ivan seized him forward, pulled him close. “Now you know how I feel,” Ivan whispered in his ear, “all the time.”

Off balance, Arthur fell against Ivan’s chest and hung from his coat just to keep vertical. “What?” he breathed. He didn’t want to hear this…

“Do not be silly, Arthur,” Ivan said. He took Arthur by the shoulders and straightened him up, tipped his chin up with one finger. “Everyone knows you are mad. They have all been giving you dirty and frightened looks. They want nothing to do with you.” His eyes finally alit as he looked down on Arthur. “It is the same with me.”

Arthur shoved Ivan back, revolted and feeling his stomach uncoiling. “I am not mad,” he hissed. “And don’t you ever compare me to you.”

“If you are not mad,” Ivan said, his smile unwavering, “then you are just a murderer.”

Arthur stood staring, mouth agape. He could not argue with that statement, and the very idea of that strangled every word and breath from him.

“I have known for a long time that I am mad,” Ivan went on, turning away and looking towards the crowd as they began to wrap up their conversations and get in order. “They say that the insane do not know that they are insane, but I know.” His hands wrapped around each other and clutched tight. “I have only ever wanted to be loved. And so… I hurt people.” A little laugh gilded the edges of his speech. “I know it does not make sense. But I cannot stop. I see the face of someone I adore, and I must wonder what they look like when they are scared…”

Tears streaked Alfred’s cheeks as he begged for reason, for mercy, for love. Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him looking so helpless. Not since he was a child…

“…when they are hurting…”

The way his face contorted in pain was so alike to the way he looked when he was coming that Arthur panted at the sight of it, confusing his mercilessness with his love and passion.

“…when they are bleeding.”

Alfred’s blood soaked the sheets and ran freely from his body as his struggling slowed and his voice grew quieter. Arthur could smell the salt and the copper of it, there was so much.

Ivan caught Arthur’s face in his hand and turned up his head again. “Do you not think red is a beautiful color?” he asked, and his expression was quizzical as a little boy’s.

Alfred was very pretty when he was wearing Arthur’s favorite color. And he was very pretty when he was helpless and still instead of loud and obnoxious. And he was very pretty when he couldn’t get away from Arthur anymore.

And it was not until Arthur felt the dampness at the corners of his lips that he realized he was salivating.

The smile returned to Ivan’s expression, and he giggled. “Oh, Arthur,” he said. “You are drooling.”

Arthur swallowed, then crumpled to his knees screaming into his hands. Oh god. What had he done, what had he done? And the monster that had done it was still alive inside him. That monster was him, and he couldn’t get it out.

Ivan knelt down before Arthur and laid a hand on his shoulder. “But it is not too late for you,” he said.

Arthur managed to quiet his screaming, though not quite catch his breath, to hear Ivan out.

“You can still be saved,” Ivan said. He stood and turned to face ahead as the rest of the crowd stood too, a hush falling over them. “Me,” Ivan whispered, “there is no hope left for me. Nothing to save.”

From down on the ground, Arthur stared upward.

Was that a tear on Ivan’s cheek?

Natalia descended from the crowd, her skirts sweeping all about her in the breeze. She caught her brother by the sleeve and dragged him back up to his seat.

Ivan barely got a chance to glance back and nod a farewell.

Breath heaving, Arthur got up unsteady onto his feet. Standing well behind the rest of the ground, he strained to hear the sermon.

Saved?

After what he’d done, could he ever really be saved?
***

It was a beautiful service, and Matthew had done his best not to cry, though he’d certainly shed some tears. Francis did nothing to help by losing it halfway through, but Francis had always been far more sensitive than he liked to admit.

More than the service, the thing that really touched Matthew was the outpouring of support. So many nations had been so angry with America lately that it astounded Matthew just how many of them came to honor Alfred. Half of them even stepped up to speak after Matthew’s eulogy. Lithuania spoke, if briefly, about how the time he spent at Alfred’s house was one of the happiest times in his life. Sadiq declared that he could forgive Alfred for the mess his bosses had led him into because the allegiance they’d shared before that was so much more important. Even quiet little Kiku talked of how glad he was that they’d gotten a chance to forgive each other after the Great War.

Now it was all over, and the guests were all taking their leave. Matthew gladly shook their hands and took their condolences, grateful for their presence. He was just saying his goodbyes to Vash and little Catrin when a hand caught him on the shoulder to get his attention.

In the back of his mind he could feel himself hitting the wall.

“We’re going to be a happy family…”

He flinched.

The hand recoiled and Francis stepped forward, running his fingers back through his hair and looking apologetic.

“Sorry,” Matthew murmured, feeling a blush singe his cheeks.

“Non,” Francis said, “I should apologize. I should know that you…” He trailed off there, and for that Matthew was thankful. They both knew why he was jumpy and Matthew didn’t need to hear it. “Listen, cheri,” Francis began again, and wrung his hands for obvious want of physical contact. “I am going back to Europe. Unless you want me to stay, because if you need me…”

“No,” Matthew said, and waved his hand to give his father his leave. “Go on. I’ll be fine.”

Though Francis nodded, Matthew could see the doubt spelled out in his eyes. Francis lingered there, looking his boy up and down, stepped ever so slightly forward, then lingered some more.

Matthew sighed, and nodded but once and gave his permission.

With a weak smile, Francis leaned in and kissed Matthew upon the forehead. For once, he had the decency not to try to claim his lips. “Je t’adore, Matthew,” he said, and gave him a short embrace before departing.

Matthew watched him go. Almost everyone was gone or leaving now. Soon he’d be alone with his brother.

No. He’d be alone. It was time to start getting used to that idea.

From upwind, Matthew caught a whiff of tobacco smoke, and from the smell of it, he knew who was coming before he even turned around.

“Matthew,” Amando said, removing the cigar from his mouth and wore a weak smirk. It seemed he was aware of the irony of why he could finally tell which brother he was talking to.

“You came,” Matthew remarked, striding forward to greet him.

Amando gave Matthew’s hand a good, firm shake. “Of course I came, mi amigo.”

When Matthew withdrew his hand, he rubbed the back of his neck and glanced aside. He hated to even bring this up, but… “You never exactly liked Alfred, so I didn’t think…”

Amando did not let him finish. “But I like you,” he said, and leaned in to meet Matthew’s downcast eyes. “And he was your family. If something, Dios no lo permita, were to happen to one of mis hermanos in the Carribean or elsewhere… I would want you to be there.”

“Of course I’d be there,” Matthew said, reflexively. It required not a thought in his head; he’d always done his best to be there for his friends and family.

“Then don’t you see it is only natural that I am here for you?” Amando said. He paused to take a drag from his cigar and let out a smoky sigh. “And you do have my sympathy.

“Thank you,” Matthew said, still staring at the ground. No. That wouldn’t do. He clasped Amando’s shoulder and looked him square in the eyes. “Really, thank you. You can’t understand how much this means to me.”

“I don’t need to,” Amando replied. He glanced downward and frowned. “Do you need to sit?”

Matthew blinked. “What, why?” And it was only when he, too, looked down that he noticed how badly his legs were shaking. He bit his lip to hold back a sob. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be okay again. “Yes,” he said breathless, nodding, and Amando helped him to the nearest chair still left from the service. President Obama had promised to send someone to clean things up in the morning so that Matthew and Francis wouldn’t have to worry about it. Matthew was glad that Alfred’s president had been so helpful through this whole process, and in return he’d been glad to hold the funeral in the early morning and allow him to attend and still make it back to Washington for the Independence Day festivities.

Now that the sun had been out a while, it had gotten much warmer, and Matthew found himself needing to shed his suit jacket. He sighed, folding it neatly over his lap.

Amando stood back, giving him silence and space, never once intruding.

Matthew glanced up to him. “Aren’t you heading back to Cuba?”

“Do you need me to leave?” Amando asked through the cigar between his teeth. He swept it from his mouth to speak clearer. “Because I thought I might stay a while and look after you.”

“I’m fine,” Matthew demanded, then winced at the crack in his voice. He wasn’t convincing anyone, not even himself.

And Amando’s frown illustrated his own disbelief. “You are not fine,” he insisted. “I don’t think anyone in the world is fine right now.” He took another breath through his cigar. “Our world, and our definition of what we are, are changing. And you…” He laid one broad hand on Matthew’s head. “You have lost someone you love, on top of all this. Of course you are not fine. I am not fine either.” Another drag, like his life depended upon that cigar right now.

Matthew brushed his hand away, cringing at both the unexpected contact and the unexpected flood of truth. “I will be okay,” he clarified. “I just…” He fixed his eyes on the little wooden cross and frowned. He’d hoped that they would’ve replaced it with something nicer, but Francis insisted that the cross Matthew made had sentiment. Matthew just thought it looked sloppy and pitiful. “I just need some time to myself.”

From the way his eyes narrowed to the shift of his grip on his cigar, it was apparent how badly Amando wanted to argue with that statement. But he wasn’t going to, not on a day like this. “If that’s what you want, amigo,” he said. He took one step back, but did not turn before saying, “Matthew… if you decide that you are not okay… give me a call. That’s an order.”

Matthew gave his friend a nod as he departed. “Alright, alright.”

And now near perfect silence fell. The only sounds came from the last departing cars and the train passing by in the distance. Matthew continued to stare at the grave and the various flowers that had been laid there. Mostly roses, but there were Japanese Camellias, some lovely tropical orchids from Seychelles, lotuses from Egypt. Ivan, of course, had left sunflowers.

“What am I supposed to do, Alfred?” Matthew asked the cross. “It’s like the whole world is moving on without you, like nothing ever happened but I… I just can’t.”

Silence.

“You were such a pervasive presence my whole life. Since we were just little fledgling colonies…” Or were they the colonies? He didn’t even know anymore. “Since we were little… you were always there. And even when you got on my nerves, you were always there with me. You were my family, my constant…”

Silence. Matthew dug his fingers into his hair.

“I don’t want to think that that stupid, fleeting phone call about my birthday is the last I’ll ever hear from you.” His voice caught in his throat. He could say no more…

Then he gasped.

No, he was wrong. There was one more thing he had left from his brother.
***

Alfred’s house was locked up tight and all the shades were pulled down. It looked so lonely that way, Matthew thought it might as well be all boarded up. He unlocked the door and let himself in.

Everything inside was just as Alfred had left it, except that Francis had run about and turned off all the appliances, and some men the president had sent had… well… tidied up the bedroom. But Matthew wasn’t going that far. On the end table in the foyer, still sitting and waiting for him, was a little present wrapped in white with a bright red ribbon about it. It was fairly small, and Matthew took it gingerly up into his hands and sat right down on the floor with it. He could hear the contents rattling.

The card was tiny and crimson to match the bow. He glanced inside. The message was simple.

Happy Birthday Matty,
Love Alfred

As was typical of him, Alfred had decorated his signature with a sprinkling of little stars. Matthew smiled despite himself, then set to opening up the present. He neatly untied the bow and ran his finger along under the folds and taped edges of the wrapping. Matthew always opened his presents carefully like this. Alfred, Alfred was the one who tore, always ending up in a pile of red, white, and blue litter by the end of the night.

Inside the wrapping was a simple cardboard box, probably just something he’d gotten mail in. Matthew popped open the folded over flaps of the box and withdrew the topmost item, liberating it from the layer of tissue paper which insulated it.

It was a photo, framed in a pretty gilded frame. It was a photo of him and Alfred together, out in the snow and all bundled up. Alfred had his arm about Matthew’s shoulders, Matthew himself doing his best not to look exasperated with Alfred’s knuckles dug into his hair. He could remember clearly the day they took this picture. It was in late February, the day they’d had their last hockey match of the season. Alfred was forever challenging Matthew to another match, and Matthew was always happy to beat him again, even if Al was always a sore loser about it afterwards. It just felt nice to have that one thing he never felt overshadowed by him in, and they always had a good time playing and making a day of it, even as competitive as they got about it.

And beneath the photo, at the bottom of the box, was a set of new hockey pucks. It would seem a simple, silly, stupid gift to many, considering how easily Matthew could just get his own. But Matthew knew…

On that day they’d had their last hockey match Alfred had destroyed a couple of Matthew’s pucks. He’d claimed he just forgot his own strength, but Matthew knew it was because he was bitter about losing again. He hadn’t minded it much, because it was rather easy for him to get more, and he never expected Alfred to take any responsibility for the destruction of his property.

But he’d remembered, and he had, and here in the box was proof that, every once in a while, Alfred could actually be thoughtful. Why, Alfred had really put thought into this. He’d put love into this…

“Oh God,” Matthew choked, pressing a hand to his mouth to hold back the sobbing. No, he wasn’t going to cry, not again, not…

There was a little piece of paper sticking out from under the hockey pucks. Matthew reached down in and fished it out.

It was a note, on a loose scrap of lined paper, and it read, with a little heart scribbled at the end, I demand another rematch.

Matthew dropped his gifts to the floor.

His breathing gone ragged, throat sore and eyes on fire, he fished frantically through his pockets, tossing loose change and gum wrappers aside until he laid his hands on his cell phone. He struggled to pull up the number with his shaking fingers, straining to hold himself together until he’d made the call. As the phone rang, he tucked his head between his knees and waited… and waited…

“Hola?”

“A… Amando…” Matthew said, even as the weeping overtook him again. He gasped between words and his tears soaked the edges of the phone. “Come back. I’m not okay. I’m not… I’m not okay. I’m not…”

Hetalia fanfic - Parting is All We Know (Ch. II) - Canada, France, England

Fri, 06 Mar 2009 04:26:33 GMT

Title: Parting is All We Know
Author/Artist: Red
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Mainly Canada, France, and England, but featuring ALMOST EVERYBODY | America/England, Lithuania/Poland, China/Russia, one-sided Belarus->Russia, Germany/N. Italy, Austria/Hungary, Spain/S. Italy, Finland/Sweden, France/Prussia (kind of!) and probably a whole bunch of others if you wear the right goggles.
Rating: R
Warnings: ANGST, violence, character death overall. No chapter-specific warnings this time ‘round.
Summary: After one of their number kills another in the midst of a psychotic breakdown, and the countries involved seem to remain unaffected, the Nation-tans are forced to question their mortality and the very nature of their existence. The strain of loss and the weight of the questions threatens to tear their delicate community apart at the seams.
***

Chapter II: And the Dead Leaves Lie

“And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'”
--Robert Frost, “Reluctance”

July 2nd, 2009

Arthur woke the next morning as the sun struck his eyes and ignited a chorus of aching within his body. His hands shot immediately to clutch his throbbing head and he groaned. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hangover this bad; it was practically deafening. He couldn’t even bear to open his eyes, chose instead to search his mind for bearings. What the Hell had happened last night?

“So, you’re awake,” said a familiar old voice, softly, from across the room.

It took the entirety of Arthur’s energy just to get his elbows underneath him and prop himself up. He cracked his eyes open, blinking rapidly to get his eyes accustomed to the daylight.

When the world came into focus, he saw Francis sitting at the far end of the room, across from the foot of the bed. The light which fell from the windows did not seem to reach him, but by far the darkest thing in the room was the look he fixed on Arthur. It was so cold it numbed the aching in all of Arthur’s muscles. They’d been fighting each other so often for so long, and yet it had been ages since he had seen such hatred in Francis’ eyes. The last time he could clearly recall it was when he took full custody of Matthew…

Oh.

“Oh God,” said Arthur, pawing at his bleary eyes. “I made an arse of myself at the party, didn’t I?”

One of Francis’ brows drifted upward. “You don’t remember.” It wasn’t a question.

Arthur buried his face in his hands. “How bad was it? Tell me.” He’d need to make it up to the boy today. If he’d even speak to him, that was.

But Francis told him nothing, only shifted in his seat and looked away. Arthur swore he saw him wince, but no words came to betray the Frenchman’s thoughts.

Scowling, Arthur turned away from him. The bastard was never any help. Instead, he surveyed the room and the windows, scraping around the void of his mind. This… this was Alfred’s room. This was Alfred’s bed, and Alfred’s nightstand, and these were Alfred’s family photos. Portraits of Alfred’s presidents and a map of his country hung along the wall. What was he doing here?

“I didn’t go to Matthew’s party at all, did I?” Arthur said even as it occurred to him. No, no, as much as he remembered nothing, he could not recall even a snapshot of being at Matthew’s last night.

“No.”

Damn. Well, it was better than some of the alternatives. Still, as Arthur tilted his head back and cracked his neck, he couldn’t fathom what had possessed him to be drinking so much on his younger boy’s birthday. Unless he’d just forgotten, which he had done before, especially considering the date which followed fast on Canada Day’s heels. Yes, Alfred. It all came back to Alfred. Alfred was certainly the reason he’d gotten so drunk, he was sure now. Well, why was he here? Why was Francis here, for that matter? Well, Francis was about useless, so Arthur reasoned he’d just have to force his weary old body out of bed and ask the boy himself.

When he threw the covers back, Arthur faltered.

He was still fully dressed; he’d expected as much. What he hadn’t expected was to find himself all covered in patches of maroon. The sight of it brought images to his mind that flickered by too fast to quite register, his subconscious suppressing them for his protection. But he felt as though something were strangling his heart. And echoing inside him he heard Alfred’s voice screaming.

“Arthur, please! Stop!”

Arthur pressed his fingertips to his lips. “Francis,” he whispered. “What… did I do?” He gulped, tried to center himself and still the escalating trembling. “Where is Alfred?”

And still not quite looking at him, Francis replied, “Why don’t I show you?”
***

Alfred could afford, if he wanted to, to live in great splendor. He could construct an opulent mansion in any one of his states, but he could never choose. He was instead far more content to live simply in comfortably with one house in every state. Every month he switched off to the next one. And while he could not choose a favorite amongst his states, in every state he had a favorite place.

And there was a hill along the Charles River in Massachusetts. It had a beautiful view of the Boston skyline. Alfred always adored Boston, it was the place he first stood up for himself.

Matthew thought it was perfect.

And he lay curled up on the freshly turned earth, fast asleep. He thought he’d never sleep, but spending the whole night digging a grave had worn him down. When the first fingers of light reached up from the horizon, Matthew had finished. He smoothed out the soil with his shovel, crafted a crude little cross from two pieces of scrap wood. The instant he pitched that cross at the head of Alfred’s resting place, he collapsed. Desperately he wished he could’ve done better for him; it looked like the grave marker of a family pet, not family. But Matthew was so short on resources and so very tired it was all he could do for him.

He was glad, at least, to sleep. Sleep meant precious time away from the painful truth. But it didn’t last long.

“You slept out here, cheri?" He heard Francis’ voice, thin with worry, break his rest. “I thought I heard you come back inside last night.”

Matthew refused to open his eyes just yet. He felt as though as long as he could keep his eyes shut, he could hide from reality. “I came back for a hammer,” he said, and found his voice was hoarse. “Took all night…”

“Mon pauvre petit…” Francis whispered. His hand settled upon Matthew’s shoulder. “Come now, get up.”

There was no escaping it then. Matthew brushed Francis’ hand aside and pushed himself up, sitting groggy at the graveside. He vigorously rubbed his tired eyes. Then his gaze settled upon the shadow cast long across the hilltop from the little makeshift cross. The world blurred.

Alfred. Alfred was gone. Alfred was gone, and it didn’t mean anything. What the hell were they there for, if their countries didn’t need them? Nobody in this country, this country that Alfred was supposed to be, had any idea that anything was wrong. Alfred had felt, intimately, every pain of his people. When his economy fell apart, he fell ill. When some wicked, hateful men destroyed his towers, he bled. So why, when he bled and he hurt, did his country feel nothing?

If Matthew died tomorrow, would Canada miss him at all?

“Can you stand?” Francis asked, fracturing Matthew’s existential crisis. “Do you need help?”

Matthew sniffled and wiped his face, leaving a smear of dirt across his cheeks. “No,” he said. “I’ll do it myself.” He wouldn’t allow himself to be destroyed by this, no. Alfred would expect better from him. So he got his feet under himself and stood, a bit wobbly at first for lack of sleep and heaviness of heart, but soon steadied.

And there, at the bottom of the hill, stood Arthur, staring up at that little wooden cross. His face was blank, and there was still dry blood all over his clothes.

There was blood on his clothes.

Alfred’s blood.

He shed Alfred’s blood.

From Matthew’s gut a scream came which rent his throat, echoed in his ears, and shook his whole body. It erupted from a primal place inside him, the part of him that was still animal, and still worked on fight or flight. And his mind was on fight. When he saw Arthur now, the only thing he could see was blood. Arthur had turned on their family, hurt them and taken from Matthew one of the dearest things in his world. And Matthew was off running down the hillside before he’d even reached his conclusion.

He had to make it even. Alfred’s loss would not be completely meaningless.

He threw Arthur down with the full force of his whole body. Matthew’s knees landed upon Arthur’s chest, and before he could take in another breath, Matthew wrapped his hands around his throat. “Murdering bastard!” he screeched, digging his thumbs into Arthur’s windpipe, doing his best to make it count. “You killed him! How could you!?”

Matthew noticed, in passing, that Arthur made absolutely no effort to defend himself; this realization came a split second before Francis seized him up by the collar.

“Mon dieu!” Francis cried. “I will not be in a family of murderers!”

He was right. Matthew fell back to catch his breath, and instead began once again to wail aloud. He couldn’t do this, this wasn’t like him at all.

He couldn’t even seek justice for his brother.

When Arthur sat up once more he did not look at Matthew or Francis. His eyes were distant, still fixed upon the top of that hill. There was pallor in his face, white like death itself. “I…” he said, but the rest of his sentence got lost in his throat. “I…” he tried again, and once again failed to put words to what was in his head.

“You see now?” Francis asked him, stepping before Matthew. “Do you understand what it is you have done?”

In Arthur’s lap, his fists were clenched and shaking. “No,” Arthur whispered. “I didn’t. I couldn’t have. I wouldn’t.”

“You did,” Matthew spat.

Arthur flinched, and Matthew did not feel sorry.

“You nearly took dear Matthew from us, too,” Francis said, weaving his fingers into his boy’s hair.

“Oh god,” Arthur choked, and laid eyes for the first time on Matthew. He leaned forward, reaching out a hand. “I’m sorry, Matthew. I’m so sorry.”

An icy wave swept through Matthew’s chest and he nearly choked on the very air he breathed. When he saw that reaching hand, he could only see a knife in it. Before that tainted hand could rest upon him, Matthew swept it away. “Don’t touch me.”

Recoiling, Arthur shut his eyes tight. “I am… sorry.”

Matthew gritted his teeth at the very sound of it. All his misery was fading into outrage. “Sorry?” he said. “You’re sorry? You killed my brother and, oh, you’re sorry?” No, he couldn’t take this absurdity. He sprung to his feet, stood over Arthur such that he fell entirely into his shadow. “Sorry doesn’t mean anything! Not after this! Don’t you just sit here saying sorry, sorry, sorry and expect anything from me!”

“I don’t expect your forgiveness,” Arthur said at the ground.

“Good!” Matthew snapped. “Because you’re not getting it.”

“Boys,” Francis said, and dropped down to his knees between them. “We need to figure out how we’re to deal with this. As a family.”

Matthew leaned down and leveled his gaze with Arthur’s, to ensure he felt this. “Arthur is no family of mine.”

Arthur responded only by wrapping his arms about himself and turning away.

In the middle of the animosity, Francis sighed and focused his attention on Matthew. “Well we,” he said, “at least, have to let everyone know what has happened.”

Slumping, Matthew nodded. He knew this was coming. This would be the hardest part. He hoped, at least, that they would only have to call a few and the rest would spread it around. He didn’t know how many times he could handle letting people know his brother was dead.

“Don’t,” Arthur said.

Francis and Matthew returned their attentions to the back of Arthur’s head. “Don’t what?” Francis asked.

“Don’t… tell everyone. Not yet, at least.”

“And what?” Matthew said, straightening up. “Why?”

“America still stands, right?”

Francis nodded. “Oui. Not a sign of trouble.”

Arthur hunched over further and dug his fingers into his hair, like a snail trying to retreat into its shell. “Can you imagine,” he said, “what will happen when everyone finds out… that we can die… and nothing will happen? We’ve always believed ourselves to be so integral. If everyone finds out our actions, our very lives, are all for naught…” He glanced back over his shoulder at them, red-eyed and helpless. “It will be chaos.”

“So what do you propose we do?” Matthew demanded. He already knew there would be problems; he himself was already struggling with these overpowering ideas. But there was no getting around it. “Everyone’s going to find out anyway. We can’t just hide it.”

“Well,” Arthur said, “maybe…” He stood, legs quaking very slightly, and stepped forward. He approached Matthew like one might approach a snarling dog—hesitant, and not quite making eye contact. “Maybe, Matthew, if you helped me. If maybe, for a while…” He faltered, stepped back once, then stepped forward once more. “Just until I think of something better, I mean. Maybe, just for a bit, you could…” He paused for one deep breath. “You could pose as your brother.”

“What?” Matthew stood and staggered back all in one motion.

In defense, Arthur put up his hands before him. “Just for a little while, as I said.” He reached forward, trying to call Matthew to his line of thinking. “It’ll be for the good of the rest of the world. Everyone is always confusing you two…”

But Matthew would not allow him to finish with this madness. Arthur hit the ground hard. Unused to striking anyone, Matthew’s knuckles all stung. He shook out his hand and turned away, couldn’t even look at the man anymore. Behind him, he heard Arthur scramble up onto his knees. Matthew could see now, from a couple spots on his fingers, that he’d drawn blood. There was that, at least. “I need to make some calls,” he said, then walked away before he found himself wanting to put his hands around that man’s neck again. Francis followed swiftly after him.

The two of them left Arthur behind to think about what he’d done.

Hetalia Drabble Challenge

Wed, 04 Mar 2009 05:13:05 GMT

Stole this drabble challenge from asidian on hetalia.

Challenge:
1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn your music player on and turn it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabblet/ficlet related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterward! No matter how whacked out your drabble is. :)
4. Do ten of these, then post them.

The Hush Sound – ‘Lighthouse' (find 'Lighthouse' on the list and click it)
England/America

Arthur stands at the shore, looking out on the water which flickers and roars in the night. No moon tonight, no stars, all hidden behind a black veil of clouds. The only light in the pitch comes from the lighthouse perched up on the cliff, a signal in the night to warn the sailors of the treachery of the shallow waters of this bay.

But sometimes people, for whatever reasons, don’t heed the warnings they see. Sometimes the lighthouses fail them.

“Arthur,” Alfred says, and clutches his hand tight. “I’m scared.” He’s still all wrapped up tight in bandages.

And Arthur’s still bleeding. London. What happened to his London? And Alfred’s New York…

“Why do people hate us?” Alfred asks. There’s a plea in his eyes so desperate, and a fear more real than anything drawn out of him by all those ghost movies.

Arthur watches the light dance across the water’s surface. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, and squeezes Alfred’s hand back. “We’ve just got to keep our harbors safe.”

Everclear – ‘Your Arizona Room’ (the song is sixth on the list)
England/America

Alfred keeps a house in every one of his states.

Arthur hates it, because it makes it so hard to find him sometimes. And sometimes he really, really needs him. Sometimes he looks back at his centuries of history and fears he doesn’t deserve even half of what he has, that he hasn’t earned a thing with all the bloodshed he’s caused.

So sometimes, when he grows desperate and weary in reflection, Arthur goes on a road trip. He travels the veins of all America’s roads, and every state, every place, brings sights and scents and even the feel of changes in temperature that remind him of how lucky he is Alfred ever came back to him, and all the times they spent together as Alfred would show off all his sights. Excited, like a little puppy. Like a child.

And he finds him in Arizona, collapses into his arms when he throws open the doors. “I don’t deserve you,” Arthur says, shadowed over by the sunset.

And Alfred smiles and lays a kiss on his forehead. “Don’t be dumb,” he says. “If you didn’t deserve me, I wouldn’t be here waiting for you.” And he seizes him off his trembling legs. “Now, come to bed.”

Jack Johnson – ‘Sitting, Waiting, Wishing’
Belarus -> Russia

He’s supposed to be with me and I know it. We have so much in common, we share our blood, our history, our lives, and I’ve always been there with him.

But no matter what I do, I don’t seem to be good enough for him. Never. He’s always got his beautiful violet eyes on someone else. All these filthy, worthless…

No, none of them are good enough for my brother. I know it. I could make him really happy if he’d let me get close enough, if he’d just hang on a little while and let me show much how much he means to me. How I’m so ready to kill for him if I knew he wouldn’t make a fuss over what I’d do to the people taking up all his time.

I should be fed up. I should be. And sister tells me I should let go. But I’m not. And I can’t. And there will never be anyone for me but my beautiful brother. And someday, I swear, he will finally see the truth.

Lit – ‘My Own Worst Enemy’
Prussia, Germany

Gilbert tastes grass. He spits out a mouthful of lawn and gets up onto his knees and tries to remember how the hell he got out here.

Oh right. Ludwig.

His little brother can be so uptight sometimes, honestly. He thought maybe he might lighten up a little after he came to live in his house, and they were together all the time, and…

And Ludwig spends an awful lot of time in Italy lately.

What happened last night? Gilbert remembers going out for some beers and…

Certain words may have been exchanged. And certain fists.

Shit.

Well, doesn’t matter. Ludwig’s such a tight-ass sometimes. He doesn’t need him.

Gilbert sits on the front lawn wiping off his clothes and hopes someone will invite him back in.

Foo Fighters – ‘Walking After You’
Poland/Lithuania

Feliks promised himself he wouldn’t cry when Toris was stolen away from him. Just like he promised himself the last time. And the time before that. He knows it’s not Toris’ fault that he has to leave; knows that if Toris had the choice he’d be staying here with him. But Feliks can’t help but feel a little jilted. He’s always the one getting left behind.

Ivan’s people have harassed Feliks’ people into accepting his ways… but Ivan will not take Feliks into his home. Not knowing how close Feliks and Toris have been. Not knowing the little wedge Feliks can be.

But he sees what’s happening in his country, sees the dissatisfaction, sees the crest of the wave of change coming on the horizon. He knows that Ivan’s little social experiment will be a failure. And when Ivan fails again, Toris will finally come back to him. Feliks knows it will happen so he doesn’t worry too much. Toris always comes back to him, always comes back to help him do his chores, to help him keep organized, to carry him to bed and sleep there with him. Yes, it’s only a matter of time.

And if Toris doesn’t come back, then Feliks will go find him and bring him back home.

Action Action – ‘120 Ways to Kill You: An Illustrated Children’s Guide’ (it's at the bottom of the list)
Russia -> Lithuania, Russia/America

Ivan knows that everyone thinks he is mad. Ivan knows that he is mad. But if he knows that he is mad, that means he isn’t mad, right? Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work?

And he understands, perfectly, how self-defeating everything he does is. And when he deals another beating, the fear in his victim’s eyes makes him feel strong, and their cries make him feel weak. He wants to be strong. He wants to be loved. He doesn’t quite know what he wants, and all he really knows is that he hurts all the time.

They say that misery loves company, right?

He knows dear Toris hasn’t really been his company for ages, nor his brothers. He keeps them inside because he feels like as long as they’re close, he can play house and pretend they all love each other like a little family even as he brings the spout down over Toris’ head.

And he looks at the smirk and the frigid, hateful gaze Alfred fixes on him every time they meet. Alfred, who had been so bubbly and optimistic before they locked themselves into this delicate little waltz. He’s ruining him too, and he knows it. And he loves it. And he hates it. Part of him really wants to let Alfred destroy him completely, to set him aflame like he deserves. And part of him really wants to break Alfred all apart and show him all his pieces and inner workings, like he deserves.

And sometimes, when he hears the sirens at night, testing warnings for that lingering threat, he thinks about all the passion hate takes. And he thinks maybe with Alfred he has a chance.

Modest Mouse – ‘One Chance’
America

After the war ended, Alfred thought everything would start to make perfect sense. That everything would all come together. But the way Arthur never really let him do anything for himself leaves him feeling lost and scared like a child. Where the hell are they supposed to begin? He knows the states have been practicing for this in their own ways for a while, but… how do you start a democracy from nothing? And it seems like there is no plan that all states are happy with.

He wishes they would all stop bickering. Aren’t they supposed to be the “United States”? Isn’t that the name they picked?

Alfred wishes he had someone to ask for help, but Arthur is gone, and Matthew is still tucked firmly under his wing, and Francis is waiting for him to pay for his assistance.

Alfred has no idea what he is doing, and that terrifies him. And excites him.

Green Day – ‘Jinx’ (11th song)
England/America

“Must you always,” Arthur asks, leaning against Alfred’s back, “drag everyone down with you?”

“My bad,” Alfred mutters into the wall. And he does feel bad, but he can’t really concentrate on whatever he’s supposed to have done wrong when his arm is twisted and pinned behind his back, and Arthur’s undoing his buttons and… “Oh god…”

“Did I really never teach you any responsibility?” Arthur asks, and kisses about the base of Alfred’s neck.

And as his lover presses up behind him, Alfred breathlessly observes, “And you seem awfully eager to go down with the ship.”

Evanescence – ‘Call Me When You’re Sober’
Lithuania/Poland, Russia -> Lithuania

Toris is trying very hard to enjoy his independence, but every once in a while someone comes pounding at the door.

“Liet,” Feliks moans in bed next to him as Toris sits up. “Don’t go this time. Just, like, let him stand out there and freeze or something.”

But Toris goes anyway. He can’t help but be a little curious.

Ever since the Soviet Union came apart, Ivan’s been coming apart even worse than before.

And he stands on the doorstep stinking of vodka, can barely stand up. “Hello, lovely little Liet,” he says as Toris opens the door, and nearly falls over trying to reach for him.

Toris pushes him back. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I wan… I wanted…” Ivan begins. His brows furrow as he thinks, then tries again. “I jus… jus’ wanted to come… say hello.”

“Alright,” Toris says. “Hello.” He moves to close the door. “And goodbye.”

Ivan tries his hardest to hold the door open—normally, he could do it easily, but he’s barely got motor control right now. “Wait,” he whimpers. “I… I need you. I need someone. I’m so… so lonely.” There are all manner of tears obstructing his eyes, and he’s shaking in the snow despite how bundled up he is. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I want to make it all up. Please come over… and… and I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” Toris demands, and taps his fingers impatiently on the doorframe. He can feel all the scars on his back stinging.

And Ivan has nothing to say.

“You had your chance,” Toris says.

And he closes the door for good.

Blessid Union of Souls – ‘Hey Leonardo (She Likes Me for Me)’
Austria/Hungary

Austria, Roderich has always known, has the finest in all things. It is a serene place and has, for the most part, been a place of peace and neutrality for some time. He admits to having been weak in his past, and having given in to… certain events. But Austria has the finest in music and dance, in all the arts, in dining and scenery. His Austria is a place of little compare, full of great works and great minds.

And their marriage, at one point, had been a necessity. A marriage of convenience, if you will. They had married because their nations had to make peace. She was a strong woman, with the heart of a warrior, and he had always assumed that, had she the choice at the time, she would have wed anyone but him.

But now, as she sits at his side, long after they ended their marriage, long after the iron curtain threatened to and failed to break them apart for good, well… she remains at his side. She remains with him. She keeps coming back. And as she smiles while he plays his violin, he knows she is not smiling at his song. She is smiling at him.

And Roderich knows he is luckier than anyone else on this Earth.

Hetalia fanfic - Parting is All We Know (Ch. I) - England/America, Canada, France

Sun, 01 Mar 2009 02:30:52 GMT

Title: Parting is All We Know (Ch. I)
Author/Artist: Red
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Mainly Canada, France, and England, but featuring ALMOST EVERYBODY | America/England, Lithuania/Poland, China/Russia, one-sided Belarus->Russia, Germany/N. Italy, Austria/Hungary, Spain/S. Italy, Finland/Sweden, France/Prussia (kind of!) and probably a whole bunch of others if you wear the right goggles.
Rating: R
Warnings: ANGST, violence, character death overall. For this chapter, adult themes and about one line of bloodplay.
Summary: After one of their number kills another in the midst of a psychotic breakdown, and the countries involved seem to remain unaffected, the Nation-tans are forced to question their mortality and the very nature of their existence. The strain of loss and the weight of the questions threatens to tear their delicate community apart at the seams.
A/N: This fic is written to go with my essay on Internal Logical Consistency in Hetalia, which originally I was going to post before this, but I just finished another paper and I’m not in the mood to pen up another one just yet. So... eventually there’ll be a very existential essay to go with this, although I think the fic should ultimately speak for itself.
***

Chapter I: All We Need of Hell

“My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of Heaven,
And all we need of Hell.”
--Emily Dickinson

July 17th, 2009

The only thing Matthew can see is blood. He has long since left that place far behind, but he thinks it is all that he will ever see. His family… his friends… where had they all gone wrong?

His legs are shaking, and he falls to his knees on that hill, before that cross which he pitched some weeks ago. Weeks? Had it been only weeks? Only weeks, and all this. His shaking hands disappear into his hair, and he screams at the early morning sky. “Why?” he asks the cross, and his heart breaks for the answers he will never receive. “Why did it have to be like this? I wanted to help. I wanted to make it all better… for you…”

It is only he when he can’t see anymore that he realizes how hard he’s been crying. Strange, he thought he hadn’t any tears left. His forehead fell against the wood of that cross, and his breath came hard from his strained throat.

“Maybe,” he struggles to say, “Maybe none of us ever should have been at all.”

June 30th, 2009

Alfred is leaving him.

Alfred has been in a constant state of leaving him for over two-hundred years, this Arthur is sure of. The closeness they’d had since the last great war has been a lie. Every touch was a lie. Every kiss was a lie. Every night up late ravishing each other’s bodies, that too…

“That’s bullshit,” Alfred had told him, just a few short weeks ago. “I still love you and you know it. But my boss says I should hang out with some other countries a little more, and I agree with him. Just because I’m going to go hang out with Germany this week doesn’t mean I’m leaving you.”

Alfred is leaving him. He can try to hide it all he wants, but Alfred is leaving him, and this wretched week, this week leading up to that wretched day, only serves to remind him, just as every year, of everything he has lost. Everything that has been torn from him. Torn, torn, torn. He’s been torn. His hands are shaking and he’s finding it hard to keep a hold on the whiskey. He’s been drinking fairly constantly for days.

Alfred is leaving him, and Arthur is losing himself.

Everyone thinks Arthur is mad because he sees fairies and unicorns, but they have no idea. There have been times in the past when he has completely lost his mind. Once during that time they had so callously called the splendid isolation, when he was all alone. Once in his piratical days, but his behavior had seemed on par with the lifestyle. And once during the War of the Roses, but no one had blamed him for that. And few and far between, little sporadic bouts of becoming something else entirely.

He remembers well the perverse fascination in tearing apart a helpless woman, in slaughtering a ship full of sailors. Sometimes when he went to war he would wish he could will that part of him up to protect him.

He could almost taste the blood.

And Alfred is leaving him.

No, he knows he’s truly mad when he can’t hear the fairies anymore. Can’t hear them warning him, can’t feel them tugging at his sleeves. One lands insistently before him, to try to get his attention, to let him know that he’s slipping. Arthur leers at her, and the whiskey bottle comes down hard over her head. He twists it, grinds it into the table, pulls it back and leaves a red smear and a shed wing stuck to the table. He laughs shrilly at the sight of it. They think they can save him, they always think they can save him.

There’s no saving him.

Alfred is leaving him.

July 1st, 2009

“So you’re coming, right?”

“For the last time, yes,” Alfred sighs over the phone. “It’s not even ‘til eight or so, right?”

“I just want to make sure you didn’t forget.”

Alfred smirks. His tongue sticks out a little as he adjusts his tie, the phone tucked carefully between his ear and shoulder. “Hey. How could I forget my baby brother’s birthday?”

“You forgot last year.”

“Oh.”

“So… you’ll be there at eight, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Alfred says. There’s a bang, bang, bang down the hall, and his head perks up. “Hey Matty, I gotta go. Someone’s knocking.”

“Alright. I’ll see you tonight.”

Alfred drops the phone down on the receiver and swings toward the front door. He wonders who could possibly be dropping by this late in the afternoon when really, everyone ought to be getting ready to go to Matthew’s. Except the Asian-tans, apparently. Something about Hong Kong. Matthew mentioned it, but Alfred has already forgotten now.

When Alfred throws open the door, Arthur nearly falls onto him. “Shi-!” Alfred catches him by the shoulders, pushes him back to right him, and Arthur his giggling hysterically into his hands. Alfred stares. “…you’re drunk already? Shit Arthur, it’s only four o’clock. Shouldn’t you be having tea or something?”

“’M not drunk,” Arthur spits out. “Had a li’l Baileys, s’all…” He tosses back a hand to wave off the accusation and nearly overbalances again.

Once more, Alfred catches him. “You’re drunk,” he insists. And only four hours until they’re supposed to be at Matthew’s too. He sighs and pulls him in. “C’mon in. You should sober up before we head north.”

Chuckling, Arthur stumbles forward and takes Alfred by the tie, tugs to bring Alfred’s face down to his level. “You gonna sober me up, love?” He leans forward and presses his lips to the other’s.

Alfred can practically taste the alcohol. In the back of his mind, he knows he shouldn’t. But when Arthur is up against him, rubbing himself against him like he was starving for it, Alfred can’t resist him. He was never one for self-restraint. He kicks the door shut and throws Arthur back against it, lips intertwined while Arthur swiftly undoes his tie—remarkably dexterous for being drunk, but that was Arthur for you… dreadfully used to being drunk.

With two buttons of his dress shirt undone now, Alfred is ready to tear his clothes off and have Arthur right then and there, up against the door. But, dizzy with lust, Arthur easily slipped out from between his arms and overtook him, grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him along behind. Alfred followed, eagerly, scrambling to keep up, undoing all the buttons of his shirt with his free hand. The door burst open and Arthur spun him, flung him onto the bed. When Alfred tried to prop himself up, Arthur was right on top of him. He peeled Alfred’s half-open shirt away and cast it aside. Bright green eyes went dark as Arthur leered at his lover, pinned Alfred’s wrists up above his head and tied them.

And oh how Alfred loved it when Arthur played rough with him. He arched up from underneath compulsively, wanting. In compliance Arthur stooped down to meet lips with him again, then began working his way down, under the chin and along the nape of the neck. Alfred’s eyes fluttered closed, and he tipped his head back and let his love do his work.

“Oh… oh, Arthur…”

Across the collarbone and down along the sternum.

“Arthur…”

A few light kisses across the nipples.

“Arthur, please…”

And then down to the stomach.

Alfred opened his mouth to moan, then froze. His eyes snapped open.

There was pain. Not the stinging of little love bites. There was pain, deep and wrenching, in his abdomen. He felt the heat and wet of the wound, the cold of metal, something foreign inside him, tearing at him. He couldn’t even scream, too stunned for sound to escape his throat. Shaking, he lifted his head to see.

And Arthur was crouched between his legs, his hand coiled around the hilt of the blade plunged deep into Alfred’s gut. He was stooped down low and lapping at the blood which pooled around the wound.

Staring, trembling, Alfred tried to force a sound to come from his lips. “…Ar… thur…?”

And Arthur smiled at him.
***

Matthew had his party in the evening because he wanted to have a bonfire, with marshmallow toasting and a cooler of Molson. That, and it would give him time to call everyone and remind them that, yes, he existed, and yes, he was having a party. Most showed up fairly punctually; Arthur had advised him he’d be a bit late. But by nine Matthew had yet to see a trace of his brother.

Bastard forgot again.

Sighing, Matthew pushed himself off his seat by the fireside and cut through the crowd. By the house, Francis had cornered Lovino and was busy fingering that single curly hair. Matthew caught his second father by the shoulder and turned him from his catch.

“Oh thank God,” Lovino breathed, then stormed off calling for Antonio.

Francis pouted. “Now look what you’ve done, mon fils.”

“Francis,” Matthew said, skipping past the issue of the molestation he’d interrupted. It wouldn’t be the first time. “I’m running down to Alfred’s house real quick. He forgot about me. Again. Could you look after my guests for a bit?”

At the very suggestion, Francis brightened. “Of course!” he cried. “I love to host.”

“Great. Thanks.” That set, Matthew turned on his heel and set off… until a second thought struck him and he turned back once more. “And hey, could you just… not rape anybody while I’m gone?”

Francis crossed his arms. “You have so little faith in me.”

“Because I have too much experience with you,” Matthew replied. He stood and accepted a tousle of his hair before departing.

By the time he arrived at Alfred’s, the last of the setting sun had melted away, leaving only inky black and wisps of clouds outlined silver in the moonlight. All was quiet, but the lights were all on in Alfred’s windows, like an invitation forward through the darkness. Matthew sighed. Just as he thought.

“Al!” Matthew hollered, rapping at the door with the back of his fist. “C’mon, Al, you’re late.”

The door flew open, spilling light onto the stoop, and there stood Arthur. He hung from the doorway, leaning halfway out, silhouetted against the light from within. There was a glint in his eye and his grin. And he was soaked in blood.

Matthew staggered back, barely catching himself on the front step railing. For just a split second, he forgot to breathe. “Arthur!” he sputtered. “Is… what’s going on?” He swallowed down his rising tension. “Whose blood is that?”

Arthur caught him by the shoulders and pulled him in, slammed the door shut behind him.

With a yelp, Matthew collapsed against the far wall. All the lights in the house were on, the radio and the TV too, to the point the house was buzzing with electricity. He could see just around the corner where the coffee maker was on and stood at attention. On the end table in the foyer sat a present wrapped in red and white, with a little card. He looked up to see Arthur locking the door and licking his bloody lips. What the Hell was happening here? No, there had to be a perfectly good reason for all of this. Matthew measured out his uneven breath so that he could speak up. “Where is Alfred?”

“In the bedroom,” Arthur said. He reached out a bloodstained hand and snatched up one of Matthew’s, dragged him along behind without another word.

Matthew stumbled as he followed, his brain racing too fast for even his feet to keep up. Absolutely nothing here made sense. “Please, Arthur, what happened here?”

Arthur chuckled a little; it sounded hollow, like it was rattling around inside of him. “We spent the afternoon together,” he said. “It got a little rough.”

For that Matthew couldn’t even manage words. A little rough? Was he seeing right? Arthur was all covered in splotches of blood. They rounded the corner so fast it made Matthew dizzy; he nearly collapsed when Arthur let him go. And then he looked to the bed, and all pretense of movement, all breath, all sound left him.

Sometimes, especially when they were growing up, but even now, Alfred had exhausted Matthew by his sheer presence. He was always so boisterous, relentless and loud. He was the outgoing one, the energetic one. He was the one everyone noticed because you couldn’t not notice him.

And he shouldn’t be so quiet. So still.

That couldn’t be his big brother. Alfred was never so still.

He lay on the bed, crumpled and broken in a puddle of red. Lacerations and little holes littered his naked body. His wrists were bound, and his eyes and mouth parted ever so slightly. But his eyes caught no light, and his eyelids did not so much as flick. His glasses were shattered upon the floor.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t make a sound.

“No,” Matthew said, before he even realized he was speaking. “No, no…” He ran to his brother, because Alfred couldn’t be dead. Their kind didn’t die. Matthew touched his fingers to his brother’s neck to check how bad off he was.

No pulse flinched beneath his fingers. He felt nothing but cold skin.

A sob. No. It was an impossibility. Matthew ran his hand down Alfred’s face, tapped his cheek. “Come on, Al,” he pleaded. “Talk to me. Talk to me. Alfred…”

All the air left Matthew’s lungs as he was flung against the wall once more. The whole world was a blur around him and a cloud of panicked thoughts that never came through clearly. A shadow fell over him, and before he could so much as see straight he found himself rearranged, pulled forward and pushed about, until his wrists and ankles were bound together by a belt. “Hey,” Matthew whimpered, tugging at the restraint. “What’s going on?”

Fingers ran lightly through Matthew’s long, wavy hair. “Look at us, all together again,” Arthur said. There were all manner of little catches in his voice like a skipping record. “And we’re going to be a happy family. Happy family.” He pulled Matthew’s head up by the hair hard, and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “Yes. Yes. Happy family.”

Matthew was aware, distantly, that there were tears falling down his face. Who was this man? This wasn’t the man who raised them. Arthur loved them. This man was mad. And this man… this man hurt Alfred.

Arthur backed away from Matthew, left him in the corner while he crawled up into the bed. He took Alfred’s bloodied body up into his lap and, faintly, began to sing. “Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…”

And Matthew wished he could reach up to wipe his eyes. He blinked to try to clear the dampness from his eyes, but the tears only came rushing back in again for every little glimpse he saw. A smear of blood on the bedpost. A photo of Alfred and Arthur in warm embrace on the bedside table, in stark contrast to the grizzly parody of affection displayed before him. Arthur kept running his fingers over Alfred’s pale hair, leaving more and more streaks of deep maroon there.

“What have you done?” Matthew whispered.

And Arthur only sung louder. “…If that diamond ring turns brass, Papa’s gonna buy you a looking glass.”

“You killed him,” said Matthew, and the voicing of it tore his throat and his heart. “You killed my brother. You killed him.”

Arthur halted mid song, ceased from rocking the limp body in his arms. “It’s his song, you know,” he said. He looked to Matthew and his eyes were wide, baring all their whites. “Mockingbirds. They’re from here. So I think it’s his song.” He glanced back down. “Or maybe it’s mine, and I wrote it for him.” He pressed his fists to his mouth to hold back a fit of giggles. “I don’t even know anymore.”

Matthew trembled like a tiny bird with a broken wing. His back grew sore from being forced to stoop over and the leather was tight around his ankles and wrists. He couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t his family. He couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t his family, that wasn’t his father, that wasn’t his brother, and maybe if he closed his eyes tight enough, it would all just go away.

Wet hands closed around Matthew’s face. “Now, now,” Arthur whispered. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.”

Now unable to stop up his weeping, Matthew forced his eyes open. In the haze of his vision he saw a glint of light reflecting. And then his shirt was being cut away from his body. “Wait, stop,” he said. “Wait.” He squirmed back, pressed back against the wall like he could hide there. “Please.” The shirt was torn away, exposing his bare skin. He felt the tip of the blade scrape against his chest and wailed. “Why are you doing this to us!?”

“I just want us all to be together. Just like we used to be,” Arthur said. He leaned in and pressed a kiss against Matthew’s lips.

And Matthew, unlike Alfred who had broken the father/son relationship long ago, had never been able to see Arthur as anything but his father figure, if that. When Arthur’s tongue slipped into his mouth, Matthew locked up, wanted to retch but couldn’t manage anything but to sit very still. When their lips broke apart, Matthew screamed. He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t take it. He needed Alfred. He needed Arthur.

And Alfred was lying torn up on the bed, very still.

And Arthur was looking over Matthew’s body with hungry eyes, knife in hand.

“Please, Arthur,” Matthew sobbed. “I love you.”

“It’s funny,” Arthur panted, tapping along the length of Matthew’s torso with the knife’s tip. “Your brother said the exact same thing when I stuck the same knife into his belly.” He gritted his teeth and reeled the knife back.

“No,” Matthew whispered. He dropped his head once more, closed his eyes and waited for the pain.

There was a crash.

At first he didn’t even dare to breathe. When another moment passed with no strike, no hurt, he cracked open his eyes and turned up his head.

Francis stood over him, with the shattered neck of a vase in his hand. He scowled down at the floor, where Arthur had crumpled at his feet, a little bit of glass still caught in his hair. Casting the remains of the vase aside, Francis stooped down to caress Matthew’s face, and for once the touch was welcome. “Are you alright, mon cheri?” he asked.

“Francis,” Matthew said, trying hard to hold back the tears that were soaking his second father’s hand. It had been so hard to believe what he had seen so far, and now he just couldn’t believe he was safe. “You… you followed me?”

Withdrawing his hands, Francis bent down to release his boy’s hands and feet. “I was curious what his excuse would be.” When he stood back, there was not a fragment of his usual boisterousness or smarm upon his face. His expression was cold and grim in contrast to the warm summer night. “Germany is looking after your guests.”

Matthew shivered as he watched the belt fall away from him. Once free, he lunged into his father’s arms, like when he was a little boy and still felt safe there. “Oh God,” he sobbed into Francis’ shoulder. “He was… he…” It was impossible to contemplate. He glanced back and forth from Arthur’s unconscious body to Alfred on the bed. “Alfred.” This one idea alone was so huge it took up his whole mind. “He… he’s dead…”

“Impossible,” Francis scoffed, his fingers dancing through his boy’s hair, seeking to console. “He must have some life in him yet.” He turned from Matthew with a flourish and went to Alfred’s bedside. Stooping there, he checked for a pulse at Alfred’s neck and wrist. Finding nothing there, Francis studied the fog in Alfred’s eyes. “O dieu,” Francis breathed. He fled from the room.

And Matthew was quick to stagger after him, eager to leave behind that nightmare and the stink of his family’s blood. The halls were all still a blur of noise and sound. By the time he found himself in the living room, Francis was flicking through all the channels in the TV. There were no breaking news stories, no signs of war or chaos. All seemed business as normal for a Wednesday night. “I don’t understand,” he said. He ran to the window then, threw aside the curtains.

Down below, the cities still sparkled, scattered diamonds in the night. No smoke and fires, no screams, only the calm glimmer of the pulse of America. The pulse of a country that had just had its heart torn out and by all rights ought to have fallen dead with it. Because Alfred was America, was its heart.

Right?

Francis stood braced against the window’s frame, shaking his head.

“How?” Matthew said, but he could not finish the question. He didn’t even know where to begin. The world didn’t make sense.

And Alfred had left him.

Matthew felt so cold he had to wrap his arms around himself to still himself from quivering. “What do we do?”

Steeling himself, Francis stood up straight and turned away from the window and the incongruously peaceful night. “I will call Germany, tell him to send your guests home, that we are having a family crisis,” he said. He clenched a fist, and his fingernails dug into his palm. “And I will keep an eye on Arthur.”

A wince ran through Matthew at the sound of his other father’s name. He’d thought Arthur loved them. He’d always thought Arthur loved them. When Matthew stared ahead he saw nothing but a wide abyss of doubt to drown in. He needed to occupy his mind. “What should I do?”

For the first time that Matthew could remember since Arthur took full custody, Francis began, albeit silently, to cry. He pulled his boy into one more embrace and said into his ear, “Bury your brother. Put him to rest.” He laid a kiss on Matthew’s cheek, jarringly chaste for having come from the Frenchman’s lips, and retreated from the room.

Matthew faltered there, in the electric hum, shut away from the serene gloss of night that hid all things. But there was no going back to the quiet bliss of not knowing. It seemed he simultaneously knew too much and understood nothing at all. Weeping, Matthew marched slowly after Francis to gather up what was left of his brother.

The Stars Stared - A Russia/Lithuania Mix

Sun, 18 Jan 2009 23:28:35 GMT

Medium: Manga
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Subject: Russia/Lithuania
Title: The Stars Stared
Warnings: Potentially sensitive sociopolitical issues (this being Hetalia and all). Implications of non-con and violence. Adult themes. Harsh language. Spoilers for history?
Notes: No fluff to be found here. This might be one of the creepiest, most depressing mixes I've made. Art for covers by psychoxbreaker, used with permission.

Get the zip here

1. 'Dear Flies, Love Spider' -The Low Lows
(Russia - someday, everyone will be one with him!)
Bright eyes like deer’s beside
Highways at twilight
Won’t you come inside
All night, all night
Blindingly, so kindly
Sixteen, all mine
The stars stared, did not shine
Love, spider

2. 'I Will Possess Your Heart' -Death Cab for Cutie
(Russia)
You reject my advances and desperate please
I won’t let you let me down so easily
You gotta spend some time, love
You gotta spend some time with me
And I know that you’ll find, love
I will possess your heart

3. ‘Pet’ –A Perfect Circle
(Russia)
I'll be the one to protect you from
Your enemies and your choices son
They're one in the same
I must isolate you
Isolate and save you from yourself

4. ‘This is Not My Life’ –Fastball
(Liet)
You took away my smile
You took away my life
You took away my reason to live
You took away my world
And this is not my life

5. ‘Temptation Waits’ –Garbage
(Russia)
You come on like a drug
I just can’t get enough
I’m like an addict coming at you for a little more
And there’s so much at stake
I can’t afford to waste
I never needed anybody like this before
You are a secret
A new possession
I like to keep you guessing

6. ‘Cool Cruel Baby’ –Eleven
(Liet)
It’s my show
Why are you breaking all the news?
It’s my life
Why am I bending to your rules?
‘Cause I’m so deep in you
I nearly drown and you are smiling

7. ‘Flower’ –Liz Phair
(Russia)
Every time I see your face
I think of things unpure, unchaste
I want to fuck you like a dog
I’ll take you home and make you like it

8. ‘Bullet Proof…I Wish I Was’ –Radiohead
(Liet)
Wax me
Mould me
Heat the pins and stab them in
You have turned me into this
Just wish that it was bullet proof

9. ‘Gouge Away’ –The Pixies
(Liet)
Sleeping on your belly
You break my arms
You spoon my eyes
Been rubbing a bad charm
With holy fingers
Gouge away
You can gouge away
Stay all day
If you want to

10. ‘Ava Adore’ –Smashing Pumpkins
(Russia)
And I’ll pull your crooked teeth
You’ll be perfect just like me
You’ll be a lover in my bed
And a gun to my head
We must never be apart

11. ‘Mouth’ –Bush
(Liet)
Your loaded smiles and pretty just desserts
Wish it all for you
So much it never hurts
You have soul machine
Stolen me
All your mental armor drags me down
We can’t breathe when you come around

12. ‘Every Day is Exactly the Same’ –Nine Inch Nails
(Liet)
I can feel their eyes are watching
In case I lose myself again
Sometimes I think I'm happy here
Sometimes, yet I still pretend
I can't remember how this got started
But I can tell you exactly how it will end

13. ‘Polly’ –Nirvana
(Russia)
It isn't me
We have some seed
Let me clip
Your dirty wings
Let me take a ride
Don't cut yourself
I want some help
To please myself

14. ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ –Blink-182
(Liet)
I’m so lost
I’m barely here
I wish I could explain myself
But words escape me
It’s too late
To save me

15. ‘At the Other End of the Leash’ –The Paper Chase
(Russia - no one else is allowed to touch his precious Liet)
Like a pretty girl in a wheelchair
That still claims she fell down the stairs
But if he touches you again
With those grubby little hands
I'll have to break them
Like some lovely legs in braces
With toothy smiley faces
So if he gets chopped up to bits
It must have been an accident
Must be a reason, don't need a reason

16. ‘By Your Side’ –CocoRosie
(Liet)
I’d wear your black eyes
Bake you apple pies
I won’t ask whys
And I’ll try not to cry
I’ll always be by your side

17. ‘Possum Kingdom’ –The Toadies
(Russia)
I’m not gonna lie
I’ll not be a gentleman
Behind the boathouse
I’ll show you my dark secret
I’m not gonna lie
I want you for mine
My blushing bride
My lover, be my lover
Don’t be afraid
I didn’t mean to scare you
So help me, Jesus

18. ‘Haunted’ –Evanescence
(Liet)
Watching me, wanting me
I can feel you pull me down
Fearing you, loving you
I won't let you pull me down

19. ‘Blood on the Ground’ –Incubus
(Liet)
From now on, gonna start holding my breath
When you come around
And you flex that fake grin
‘Cause something inside me has said more than twice
That breathing less air beats breathing you in

20. ‘I Alone’ –Live
(Russia - this song was featured once on VH1's "Greatest Songs of the 90s", and this one woman remarked that she thought this song was "so romantic." I don't know what song she was listening to, but this song has never been anything but ominously obsessive to me.)
Your anchor is up, you’ve been swept away
And the greatest of teachers won’t hesitate
To leave you there, by yourself, chained to fate
I alone love you
I alone tempt you
I alone love you
Fear is not the end of this

21. ‘Stop’ –Matchbox Twenty
(Liet)
Yes there’s times I’ve been afraid
And there’s no harm in that I pray
‘Cause I’m more frightened every day
Someone will take the hope I have away

22. ‘Every Breath You Take’ –The Police
(Russia)
Oh, can’t you see
You belong to me
How my poor heart aches
With every step you take
Every move you make
Every vow you break
Every smile you fake
Every claim you stake
I’ll be watching you

23. ‘Overwhelming’ –Everclear
(Liet - Lithuania regains independence: March 11th, 1990)
I don't want to be your whipping boy
Yes, your happy little loser, someone you can ignore
I'm not gonna let you overwhelm me anymore
I'm not gonna let you hurt me anymore
I'm not gonna let you hit me anymore
No, I will not let you kick me anymore
I will not let you overwhelm me anymore

Hetalia fanfic - "Pluribus" - (gen, America and England, PG)

Sat, 10 Jan 2009 23:52:55 GMT

Title: Pluribus
Author/Artist: underthered
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America and England. America/England if you look at it from the right angle. Brief mentions of Canada.
Rating: PG
Warnings: A little blood and grossness and, I suppose, slight self harm. Dances around some very sensitive subject matter (well, so does the canon, but this subject matter is a little more contemporary). And lots of language. After all, England’s here XD.
Summary: No nation speaks in one voice. Someone’s got to remind America of that.
A/N: Shamefully unbeta’d (I don’t have a beta for this fandom yet D: ), so open to concrit. Especially if someone wants to help me with British-English dialogue.

It was time someone paid America a visit, and England could see it would have to be him.

It had certainly not escaped his notice that America seemed different lately, but he’d chalked it up to him being a brat. He’d been a brat about affairs like this before, long drawn out wars with unhappy citizens—rather recently, actually—and England, therefore, hadn’t really been worried. It wasn’t until the phone call from... what’s his name... Canada that England decided he perhaps ought to stop by.

“I’m actually really worried about him this time,” Canada said, his voice soft over the phone. “Somebody needs to talk to him.”

England sighed and slumped over his desk. “Why can’t you?” Did anyone ever consider he might be busy? Too busy, at least, for all of America’s petty little nonsense.

“Oh, he never listens to me,” sighed Canada. “And lately he hasn’t been talking to me at all. He’s been too busy... talking to himself.”

A brow quirked upward. “I beg your pardon?”

And that was when England finally decided to check in. It would probably be a good idea, he figured, considering the mess they were embroiled in together. Sometimes England worried that America was teetering on the verge of a big downfall and was going to drag him down with him. Well, the bigger they are, right? England couldn’t help but smirk a little, almost laughing, and his fingertips grazed his shoulders, where scars hide beneath his clothes. If anyone knew the meaning of that phrase well, it ought to be him.

“Gravity affects us all,” whispered a little pixie voice in his ear.

He chuckled. “Truth,” he agreed.

“And,” the little voice went on, suddenly not so little anymore, “it’s about time someone knocked the guy down a few pegs... even if it was himself.”

At that, England laughed right out loud. He knew everyone else on the plane was staring, but at this point he really couldn’t care less.

On England’s arrival to that nearest opposite shore, the door to America’s house flew open with a bang. Loud. Dramatic. Typical. No warning signs there, certainly.

And then he actually got a good look at America.

“Arthur!” cried the younger nation. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

Somehow the jab didn’t carry the same weight, didn’t cut as deep, in the blandness with which it was voiced. It would be one thing if England thought America was going for deadpan, but the poor simpleton was never so good at subtlety. That his sarcasm fell flat only underscored that his appearance fell much flatter. Pale, hair disheveled, glasses twisted and visibly askew, clothes visibly dirty in a way that suggested he’d either been rolling around in the dirt or hadn’t changed them in two weeks at the least. And yet, he leaned in the doorway with a well-oiled smirk like absolutely nothing was amiss.

Still trying to process the disconnect between all he was seeing and hearing, England asked, “Have I come at a bad time?”

“You’re here. Of course it’s a bad time.”

Sigh. “For once in your bloody life, be serious.”

The smirk now slipped away, retreating into the fog of his muddled expression. “Really, England, what are you here for?”

So he was done with the affectionate human names already, then? England turned his head away to gaze upon the house and sprawling lawns, which he found to be even worse for wear than America himself. In the high summer heat the grass had started to grow brown and even the trees seemed limp and starving. Paint peeled off the siding in sheets and the gutters barely clung to the house’s frame, ready to give at any second. A few shed shingles peppered the vacant flower patch. In the face of all this wreckage, England grew uncomfortable just standing on the stoop, like a man stranded in the wild. “Perhaps we should take this inside.”

America lingered, not quite looking at England, as though reluctant to even move. But without a word he stepped back and retreated into the abyss of squalor his home had become.

Trailing after, England was quick to note America’s limp, and the way he seemed to favor his right foot and his toes. “Hurt your foot?”

A smile was cast back over America’s shoulder like a question mark painted over his face. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I’m fine.”

Fine indeed. England snorted in show of derision, then stooped down to grab America by the left ankle, flinging him to the ground.

“Hey!” America barked, followed close by the thud of him hitting the ground, face first. “Let go of Louisiana!”

The undersides of America’s socks were pure filth, nearly turned black, but on the heel England could still see spots of red-brown and he knew in his heart what they were. Still, the sight he found when he stripped the sock away was more ghastly than he’d prepared himself for. The band-aid there did nothing to obscure it. “Good lord, man!” he cried, a reflex to horror. A long twisted cut snaked out from under the bandage on both sides, purple and crusted over. Around it the flesh was swollen like a blister, bright red like anger.

Glancing up from the corner of one eye, America said, “What? It’s fine. I took care of it. I mean, I kind of forgot about it for a few days at first… but I took care of it, really. It’s fine.” And the reassuring smile he gave appeared and disappeared all at once, a ghost of innocence dashing across his face before he buried it in the carpet, clasping his hands over his head. His voice seemed to break into dozens of tones and accents, dozens of voices. “It is not fine. It’s a mess.” “It’s fine. We took care of it.” “You don’t care about us. You’re letting us die down there.” “Can’t help it. Best I can do.” “Liar.” “I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready.” “You should’ve been. It’s all your fault.” “Not my fault. I tried.”

Then this was what what’s his name was talking about then. It was an earnest mistake, to think America was talking to himself; the difference was hard to tell. But England had been around for more centuries than he liked to talk about, and he’d known America all his life. America wasn’t just talking to himself; he was fragmenting. Only natural for the embodiment of a nation so large, so diverse, and so naïve. Back in the 1860s, in the face of a dividing people and a bout of self loathing, America had developed a full-fledged split personality. And yet, England had understood why that had happened; it had been brewing for a long time. But this… why this? Why now?

He let the captured leg drop and circled around America, watching him shake and mutter into the floor. England knelt beside and snuck his hand under to grace America’s forehead. The hand made contact only a split second before it was slapped away, but England supposed he might have recoiled by reflex anyway. “You’ve got a fever,” he observed.

“No I don’t,” America said to the carpet.

“Bollocks you don’t,” England snapped. “Nearly burned to death just touching you.”

America gritted his teeth and pushed himself up from the carpet onto his knees, then rose unsteadily onto one foot, the injured one tucked behind it. His bright eyes seemed bolder against his sickly skin, and even darker still in the glare he cast down on his old mentor, father figure, friend. He would seem to tower overhead if he didn’t droop so much in his stance. “What do you want, England?”

Always back to that question. Never one to be made to feel he was below others, England practically lunged to his feet. “Do I need a reason to visit you?” he asked, and even he knew he sounded defensive. He knew America had good reason to question him.

And America was quick to call him on it. “You never visit me anymore without business,” he said. “And even then, we don’t meet half as much as our bosses do.” And like the flick of a switch, he went from irritated from downtrodden, the fire in his eyes snuffed out and gone to smoke. He cast his gaze down to the floor and seemed to shrink in place, slumping, wrapping his arms around himself. “No one wants to visit me. When I try to go out, everyone gives me dirty looks. Some of them call me filthy things. They hate me…” With America’s head slung low like that, tangles of hair obscuring his eyes, he looked even more fatigued. And yet, he clenched his shaking hands into fists so tight veins bulged. “Well who needs ‘em,” he snarled. “I don’t… I don’t need anybody. I don’t. I’m the strongest, richest, most powerful nation in the world. I don’t need anyone.” One blue eye peeked out at England between gnarled tresses and his glasses’ twisted frames. “I don’t even need you. I can take care of myself. Take care of everything. I’m the greatest nation in the world.” Like a derelict building imploding, America crumpled onto the couch, his fingers getting lost in that mess of hair. He made a noise that England guessed was supposed to be laughter. “They say it’s lonely at the top, right?”

England scoffed. He knew America was an idiot, but he couldn’t possibly be dumb enough to believe all that… could he? “Oh yes,” England said as he dropped onto the couch. “Because you’re just the picture of health right now.” Even when he had tried to hold the world in his hands, he’d still known he needed others on his side, especially in war. Sometimes the thought occurred to him, though it was always quickly repressed, that it was America himself who taught him that. He threw one elbow over the back of the couch and settled down, because he knew this was going to be a long conversation. “I suppose you also think you can tend to that cock-up overseas without me, too?”

A little bit of grit returned to America’s defeated form as he seized his head up from under his hands. “It is not a mistake!” he yelped, a bit shriller than absolutely necessary and causing England to wince. “It’s… it’s…” Remarkable how quickly America ran out of steam on that argument. His mouth hung open then, waiting for words to come.

“Yes?” England said, leaning forward and propping his chin in hand.

“Democracy,” America mumbled. He never quite met eyes with England, and now he seemed to look past him, not even really talking to England anymore. “I have to show him Democracy.”

“By beating him up?” From the way America hunched down, England knew the boy knew how stupid that sounded.

And yet he persisted. “His boss was evil,” America said, and his eyes slipped shut. “I had to get rid of him. He was hurting Iraq…” “Oil!”

At the shriek and shift in voices, England nearly fell off the couch, barely catching himself on the coffee table. Old wrappers and Styrofoam cups went flying. “Bloody hell!”

“You’re just roughing him up for the oil!” America shrieked at himself, the divide of his people overtaking him again. “You’re a greedy murderer!” “It was a preemptive strike! He was going to kill us all!” “Not the fucking WMDs again! There aren’t any WMDs…” “You know everyone hates you over there. You’re trying to intimidate them.” “You have no idea what you’re doing! You’re wasting everyone’s money and time and lives… we need to leave!” “We can’t leave, he doesn’t know how to take care of himself yet.” “If we leave now, we lose!” “How do we win?” “I don’t know!”

England sighed and relinquished the coffee table, drifting up to his feet. He wondered if he should stay here and keep an eye on America, or go use the restroom while America finished up losing his mind.

“The boss said God told him to do it,” America rattled on. His many voices and his whole body shook. “We have to follow our boss.” “He’s not my boss! I didn’t vote for him!” “That’s not how it works!” “He’s no good! We should impeach him!” “We need him! We need to stay the course!” “The course is ruining us! And we haven’t achieved anything!” “We’ve stopped the terrorists!” “How do we know that!? We haven’t even found…” “We’ll find him! Iraq is the key!” “Iraq has NOTHING to do with it.” “Iraq is TOTALLY tied to them.” “No! We never should have gone! We need to leave…” “Leave! And be hurt again!? Don’t you dare forget about this…” And before England could react in any way, America had brought his hand up to his face, dug his fingernails deep into the still-healing wounds on his cheek and chin, twisted them, drew blood…

England lunged forward and grabbed America by the wrist, seized his hand away so hard he nearly pulled him off the couch. “Stop that at once!”

But the instant England interceded, America went slack, panting, and seemed to completely shut down. It wasn’t like him. The old America would be outraged at England getting so grabby with him, would give him a shove to make him let go. But now America didn’t even fight him, just sat and let the fresh blood trickle across his face.

That was it, wasn’t it? Those wounds. That was when America really started to get screwed up. He’d been so sheltered by his own strength, and coming out on top in the big war had inflated an already excessive ego. America thought he was untouchable. He wasn’t ready for someone to hurt him. And that cut on his heel, easily as bad, and even he’d made it worse, was an accident. An accident didn’t hurt the same way. There was no blame in an accident. America wasn’t used to being hated… or being the victim. And when, traumatized and outraged, he just couldn’t find the person responsible, couldn’t get his precious retribution, well, everything had spiraled out of control from there.

“Hmph,” England said, dropping America’s arm. “I was right. You are just being a prat.”

America turned his weak head up ever so slowly. “…what?”

“Get up,” said England, crossing his arms.

America stared.

“Come on,” England prompted again. “Get off your arse. We’re going to get you bathed and changed. Then we’re going to clean house. So up…” He clasped a hand onto America’s shoulder to pull him off the couch.

When America tore that hand away from his person and cast it aside, England smirked despite himself. There was a flash of the America he knew.

“I’m not budging until you’re on your feet and moving.” England shifted his weight and planted his feet more firmly on the ground. “And I could stand here all day. At least finish taking care of that mess on your foot…”

“I did take care of it…” America began to say, but England would not even allow him to finish this ridiculousness.

“Slapping a plaster on it is not taking care of it!” he cried. He snatched up the ankle once more and tore the band-aid off, waving it in America’s face. “Have you even looked down there since you put this on? You need an antiseptic!”

Gritting his teeth at the bandage ripped from his tender, sick skin, America said, “You’re not my father anymore. I don’t need you to come over and lecture me.”

England leaned in, catching himself on the back of couch, one hand on either side of America’s head. “Well, apparently you need someone to,” England chided him. “Because you’re acting like an obstinate little child. You’re sitting around throwing tantrums, making a mess, and doing a whole lot of nothing. You’re obviously sick… have you looked at your economy lately…?”

“My economy’s fine!” America screamed. He lunged to his feet and England staggered back, kicking over the coffee table. And yet, for all the outrage that had launched him to his feet, once up America only looked wounded, arms held tight to his chest, fingers clenched, staring down into his palms. “I’m going to be fine. I always come out on top.” “No,” he went on, voice cracking. “I’m losing everything. Everything is spinning wildly out of control. I’ve lost so much, I owe so much, but I don’t have it.” “No, I have it. I’m fine. It’s just a little lull. We’ll all be fine.” “No, we’re fucked. We’re going to go completely under. China will make us his bitch. We need help.” “NO. I am the one who helps. I am the one who fixes everyone else’s problems. I am the single greatest nation…”

A loud crack brought silence to the room as England backhanded America right across the face. Glasses flew and clattered against the couch cushions. England stood, his arm still outstretched, staring America down. And America, in kind, stood with his head off to the side, where it had been moved to. He glanced down to where his glasses had landed but made no move to pick them up.

“It’s not the end of the world, you know,” England said, letting his arm drop, “if you don’t dominate it anymore.” His hand landed square on his hip. “Hell, we might all be better off.”

Though the sound which came from America sounded like a laugh, it was so weak, so cold, so completely empty of humor that it couldn’t possibly be defined as a laugh. “Yeah, you’d all like that, wouldn’t you,” he said down to the couch. “You’d like it if I fell and crumbled. I know you all hate me.”

“Yes, because the seventy of us who sent help for that,” England said, pointing to America’s injured foot, “just spells hate.”

America shook his head. It seemed he would take no consolation. “I’ve heard the way you all talk about me,” he said. “Even then.” He turned his head back to meet England’s eyes. “Even you.”

England hung his head, but only for a split second, only to gather his thoughts. Then he strode forward, closing the space between them. “Alfred,” he said, soft, like a word of warning, before taking America by the chin and grazing the scars upon his cheek with a thumb.

Even still, America winced.

“This,” England said as he relinquished him. “This is hate. The rest of us…” He wanted to say that, but he couldn’t, not quite. “Most of us don’t really hate you. We’re just… frustrated. If you’d just admit to fucking up and do something…”

“How am I supposed to do anything when my people can’t agree on anything!?” America cried out. “I feel like I’m coming apart…”

“Oh come off it!” England replied. “Your people have never agreed on anything. Have you really forgotten so quickly about that mess fighting over Vietnam with Russia? You were just like this then. And then there was your Civil War. If slavery didn’t tear you apart, whatever bugger-all you’re fussing over now won’t. Shit, Alfred, you’ve been like this even since…” No, he didn’t want to bring it up, didn’t want to give it voice. But America needed to hear it. England glanced aside to swallow down his pride, then finished, “…even since you tore away from me. I know at least half of you didn’t want to.” He looked to the other nation then to drive the point home. “But you still bloody did something.”

But England did not catch America’s eyes there. He didn’t get a chance, because when he looked back, America was already walking away from him, crossing through the chaotic mess of the living room.

Arrogant bastard wouldn’t even hear him out, England thought. “Where the Hell do you think you’re going?” England demanded.

In the mouth of the hall, America lingered, fingertips grazing the wall. “To the medicine cabinet,” he said. “I’ve got some things to take care of.” England had always thought that after all these years, after enough failures and heartaches, after America finally started to fall as England had fallen, that Alfred would finally become a cynic too. But when America looked back, even after all those fresh scars and all this pointless angst, his eyes still lit up with hope. A genuine grin still brightened his wounded, dirty face.

Back then, after America had torn free, England had supposed the boy wouldn’t last long without him. In a strange sort of way, that now turned out to be true, but not in the way England had intended. “You’re completely hopeless.”

“And you keep coming back to yell at me and get into all my messes with me anyway,” America replied.

England sighed hoarsely and rubbed the back of his neck. He really hated that about himself sometimes. But… “Do you remember what my old boss said about us?” he asked. “Right after the big war?”

The glint of stubborn confidence in America’s face blanked out in favor of complete befuddlement. “Um… no?”

With a heel-face turn, England said, “Of course not. You never remember these things.”

“Hey wait!” America called after him. “Now where are you going?”

“Away,” England said as he stalked towards the door. When he threw it open, he once again got a glimpse of the dying lawn and the air wavering in the summer heat. “You said you could take care of this yourself? Prove it. Like a big boy, now.”

“Yes sir, short stuff,” America said. England figured that would be that, but as his feet crossed the threshold, he heard America hastily amend, “Thank you, Arthur.”

England skidded to a stop and chuckled to himself. To think the day would come when America would thank him for criticizing him. “For calling you on your bullshit?” he said. “Think nothing of it.” Then pressed the door shut behind him.

“Do you think he’s really going to get right to fixing things?”

“Of course not,” England responded to the fairy at his side, surveying the wreckage of America’s home. No, this mess was going to take a daunting long time. But it wasn’t his problem to fix. Turning away, he stepped down off the stoop, one step towards his long way home. “But at least he’s up and moving.”

***

When Arthur asks Alfred if he remembers what his old boss said about them, he is referring to a speech in which Winston Churchill referred to the US and UK as having a “special relationship.”

Alfred’s little remark about China has to do with the tremendous growth of the Chinese economy and their complicated economic relationship. (A friend made a remark to me at some point about Chinese becoming one of the major languages of economics or something but I couldn’t find a source on that).

And this was mostly written on observations I’ve been making for years, but a few notes for those who aren’t readily familiar with American contemporary issues and politics:

When Hurricane Katrina struck the American southeast, the city of New Orleans in Louisiana was the hardest hit due to widespread flooding. Proper emergency assistance did not reach the area for days, leading to widespread criticism of the government. Over 70 countries lent support, but also criticized America’s handling of the situation. The effects of the storm, the costliest in US history, continue to be felt years afterwards, including questions about the national disaster relief system and dispersed citizens still living in “temporary” trailers.

Despite the increasing unpopularity of the Iraq War even within America, particularly due to a lack of a straight answer for the rationale, congressional deadlock and presidential vetoes have prevented a plan for an exit strategy until late 2008.

And in late 2008, it was declared that the US entered an economic recession… in 2007.

Blood+ AMVs (Solomon and Haji/Saya)

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 19:56:23 GMT

Here are a couple Blood+ AMVs I made this summer. You might get better quality if you watch on YouTube, but I included the embeds because it's easier for some people.

Title: Solomon's Place
Song: 'In My Place' -Coldplay
Characters: ...well... Solomon.
Spoilers: Through Episode 47

Title: Never Alone
Song: 'Crash and Burn' -Savage Garden
Characters: Haji/Saya
Spoilers: Full series

Ouran Moodtheme

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 19:50:06 GMT

I made this mood theme a while back for my story blog (baconmidget), then realized other people could probably make good use of it too. So, I'm making it publicly available.

	Examples
Cheerful	Geeky	Indifferent
Moody	Productive	Thankful

Download the full set of 132 moods here.

Enjoy. : D

Blood+ Fanfic - "Mother" - (gen, Solomon, PG)

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 19:21:18 GMT

Title: Mother

Rating: PG for some violence

Spoilers: Just to be safe… through Episode 40

Characters: Solomon-centric (with appearances by Diva and Amshel)

Length: One-shot (3,958 words)

Summary: What happens to the families of people who become chevaliers?

A/N: Thank you to my dear Demo for a bit of beta reading. Constructive criticism welcomed.

Elizabeth Goldsmith had a beautiful baby boy she named Solomon. Pride was not a strong enough word to describe how she felt for her son. Smart, well-mannered, and handsome, he was everything a mother hoped her son would grow up to be. More than that, though, he was her only child to survive his infancy and, by 1916, the last living member of her immediate family. He was everything to her; she’d be utterly alone without him. She thanked God every day her boy had chosen to be a doctor; he wouldn’t get called off to the war that had killed his father.

It was a mixed blessing, though; her boy was sensitive at heart. After the first few days he came to her exhausted, but exhilarated, rattling off to her the stories of all the people he had saved, how happy their families had been, how they’d thanked him. His eyes glimmered, and she could hear the emotion flooding his voice.

It was only a matter of time.

As the war rolled on, more and more of their countrymen were felled. Soon enough, the hospital was overfilled and understaffed, and the patients just kept coming. The day he came to her with a thousand mile stare, telling her three people died because he just didn’t have time for them… she knew he was reaching his limit. But the parade of suffering was relentless. Every day it seemed he grew just a little more tired, a little more distant. His visits came further and further apart, and she knew he was busy, but she couldn’t help but fret the longer she went without seeing his face; she knew the next time she saw him he’d just be a little more miserable. He was never meant to see this much agony.

He showed up one evening, late, head low and soaked to the bone from the pouring rain. She pulled him in before he could catch his death outside. “Where is your umbrella?”

“I don’t know,” he told her, still staring at the floor. “I think I left it at the hospital.” He staggered after her like a dog on a leash, and dropped effortlessly into the chair she led him to.

Standing before him, she placed her hands on her hips. “You should know better than that,” she told him. “You need to take better care of yourself. That hospital needs you.” A short laugh escaped his lips, and when she looked at him again he was smiling. Chills rolled through her body; she’d never known a smile to look so cold, especially not on her own child’s face.

“One doctor more or less won’t make a difference,” he told her.

Her blue eyes widened, and she knelt down before him, resting a hand on his knee. “Solomon, don’t talk like that.”

When he looked up, his eyes met hers, and she could see the dampness forming in their corners that he just wouldn’t let fall. “A battle broke out in the middle of a nearby village today,” he told her. “I… I had to amputate the leg of an eight year old boy. When he came to, the first thing he asked for was his sister… nobody has any idea where she is… They won’t even look… ‘Don’t have time to waste on it,’ they said.” He took his mother’s hand into his own and squeezed it so tight it hurt, but she didn’t dare say a word of it.

Elizabeth pressed her hand to her mouth. This awful war… it was tearing apart their people, their country… and her son.

His eyes drifted to the mantle, and the old family photos that his father still haunted. “We’re supposed to be God’s greatest creation, aren’t we? The Stewards of the Earth…” He trailed off and scoffed, and when he looked back at his mother she withdrew her hand, startled by the subtle traces of rage dancing just beneath the surface of his face. “Well, how can we take care of the Earth when we can’t even take care of each other!?” His face fell, all traces of rage melting away, and the rest of him soon fell after it. His elbows hit his knees and he buried his head in his hands, fingers tangled in blond curls.

Elizabeth sat back on the floor and watched him shake in silence. Her Solomon had always wanted to help people, to make the world a better place, and the world was responding by showing him its ugliest side. Well, this war had already taken her husband, but she wouldn’t let it take her son’s heart too. Rising to her feet, she rounded the chair and threw her arms around her son, resting her head on his shoulder. “Don’t let the wicked people and the wicked things ruin this world for you, Solomon,” she told him. “Even when the world seems to make no sense, just remember that God has a plan for us all.”

“I just can’t help but think there must be something better, you know?” he said between shaking breaths. “A world above all this fighting and madness.”

She knew exactly what he meant; she’d been waiting for that world since the day his father died.

***

There was one thing, at least, that Elizabeth felt she could be thankful for; Solomon seemed to be developing quite a report with his distant cousin, Amshel. As head of the family business, Amshel could probably provide a lot of opportunities for Solomon. Indeed, while the two had been getting along well for years, lately Solomon talked as though they were on the verge of making some sort of deal. He even spoke of his cousin like a venerated older brother. Elizabeth hoped more than anything that Amshel would give her boy a position behind a desk and away from all the human misery. It would do him all kinds of good, especially since, with the New Year come and gone, there was no end to the fighting in sight.

Three weeks had gone by since she last saw her son. At that time, he seemed much brighter than usual, excited even, and she was glad for him. He couldn’t say what he and Amshel were planning, but her boy was smart and capable and she knew they must be onto something great. All the same, she did wish he could break himself from his work a little more often to come visit his lonely old mother. She was due for one.

It thus came as a surprise to her on that Saturday afternoon when it was Amshel, and not her son, who arrived on her doorstep. “Well, to what do I owe the pleasure, Amshel?”

“No pleasure, I’m afraid,” he told her, hands twisting on the handle of the leather bag he carried. “But as a member of the family, I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

The pot on the stove began to whistle, but she barely heard it. “Tell me what?” She couldn’t help but feel like she’d been in a situation like this before, felt this atmosphere. Last time, though, it was not her cousin but a pair of soldiers with solemn looks and her husband’s tags.

Amshel said nothing, but reached deep into the bag and pulled out a roll of crimson fabric.

No… the fabric wasn’t crimson at all. It was a suit. It was her boy’s favorite white suit. And it was all torn up and covered in blood.

“What are you telling me?” her voice said, while she was a million miles away trying to avoid what she was perceiving.

Amshel looked away as he stuffed the blood soaked garments back into the bag. “He was supposed to come to my home yesterday, but never arrived. When I sent the authorities to look for him… that was all they could find.”

All these words and thoughts weighed down on her so hard, she had to cling to the edge of an end table to stay vertical. “Then where is he? Where is my Solomon?”

With a perfectly straight face, in a way she would never understand, Amshel told her, “The authorities don’t believe anyone could have survived that much blood loss.”

It was all coming crashing down on her now and there was no escaping it. She shook her head so hard her hair began to come loose from her bun. “No… no… that can’t… not him too… His father… just last year… No… no, no, no… not my little boy…”

But it was true, wasn’t it?

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Elizabeth.”

“No.”

The last of her family was gone.

“If you desire it, I am willing to pay for a service.”

“Solomon.”

She was all alone.

“If you need any help at all, let me know.” The door clattered shut behind him.

“No!” Elizabeth fell to her knees, there in the foyer. She screamed out her loss, and from the kitchen, the kettle screamed with her.

***

The sound was wretched, and even from the car, over the sputtering of the still-running motor, Solomon could hear. He winced for her, turned his head away from the house as though he could see her breaking. There was a click as Amshel opened up the cab and climbed in.

“That was a very cruel thing you did,” Solomon told him, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the shadows and shafts of light which dotted the woods.

“It was a necessity.” Amshel slammed the door shut and set the car into motion.

“I don’t understand why we couldn’t just tell her the truth.”

“Because she’s human,” Amshel said. “Humans are ignorant, foolish, cowardly creatures. They don’t have the ability to comprehend or appreciate our kind.”

Solomon turned his head back to look at him. “She’s my mother, Amshel.”

Amshel’s fingers coiled tighter around the wheel. “Not anymore; Diva is your mother now. It is Diva’s blood you carry. The Goldsmiths are our family in name only.”

With an imploring shrug, Solomon said, “This woman raised me. Surely she…”

But Amshel cut him off with a sharp glance. “Does that really make a difference? You yourself saw how despicable their kind can be to even their own kin. Why should that woman be any different just because she gave birth to you?” Solomon hung his head, and Amshel turned his eyes back to the road. “You’re new to our world now. You’ll understand in time.”

Solomon stared down at his shoes. His mother deserved better than a painful lie. She never stopped telling him how proud she was of him. Surely she’d be just as proud of Amshel’s little secret.

***

Weeks went by. For several of them, Elizabeth strained to hang onto the hope that they’d find her boy alive. No such luck. No trace of him was ever found, and he was pronounced officially dead soon after. Thus went the last traces of Elizabeth’s hope for this world.

She took to staying in, mostly, and her sister Louise would come by every so often to check on her, to ensure she was looking after herself. Elizabeth just went through the motions of life because she couldn’t think what else to do.

“Remember, Eliza; God always has a plan,” Louise prompted her sister.

What plan could God have that was so great He needed to take her only son as payment?

“Remember the book of Job,” said Louise, “and keep your faith.”

She had faith. She’d always had faith. She had faith for her husband and for every one of the children she birthed, and the only she’d seen grow. Now that faith was all she had. Well, it was nice to have one constant, at least. Faith couldn’t join you for dinner though, nor bring you holiday tidings, nor hold you.

“As long as we keep the Lord in our hearts we are never alone,” Louise told her.

Elizabeth wished Louise would leave so she could be alone.

It was a cold day in February and Elizabeth sat by the fire, watching the flames dance, tangling and curling around each other.

Solomon always had beautiful curls. Like his father.

She jabbed at one of the logs with the poker in frustration, making sparks fly.

A knock disrupted her brooding. She sighed and coiled her blanket tighter around her. It was probably Louise, come to “cheer her up” again. Elizabeth took another stab at the log. Never had she had so little desire to get up in her life. The last thing she needed right now was her sister’s relentless rhetoric.

The knock came again, a little louder this time.

Well, no sense avoiding it. Louise had to know she was home; Elizabeth never went anywhere else anymore. Well, it wasn’t very Christian to turn family away, especially on such a cold day. The blanket slid to the floor as Elizabeth forced herself to her feet, hanging the poker on a hook by the mantle as she went. She brushed the soot off her hands onto the sides of her blouse, then pulled the door open.

Then froze.

“Mother, you look dreadful. Have you been eating?”

“Solomon?” she breathed.

He smiled that bright smile of his and the sun glinted off his hair. “Yes, mother, it’s me.”

One trembling hand reached up to clutch at her heart. “They… they told me you were dead.” This had to be a dream.

The smile slipped away, and he hung his head. “I know, and I’m so sorry to have worried you so.” He reached out for her, took her by the shoulder. “But I’m here now. I’m here for you.” And he pulled her in close, held her tight and cradled her head in his hand.

When she felt her baby’s heartbeat against her and his arms around her, she knew it had to be true. “Oh, Solomon! Solomon!” She flung her arms around him, tears rolling down her face. “Your Aunt Louise was right. I never should’ve given up faith.”

He laughed against her shoulder, where he laid down his head. “No need to cry, now,” he told her. “I’m fine. I’m just fine. In fact…” He pushed her back a little, gently, by the shoulders, and fixed eyes with her. He was beaming. “I do believe I’m better than ever before.”

Elizabeth wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t understand,” she told him. “Solomon, where have you been? What happened to you? What about all the… all the blood… and what our cousin Amshel showed me…”

Solomon pivoted and closed the door tight. “I promise you, I’ll explain everything,” he told her. He strode for the living area and Elizabeth trotted alongside him. Arriving there, he stood and watched the fire she’d been tending, leaning against the back of the sofa. “But you must understand, brother Amshel told you what he did because, well…” he glanced back at her. That smile on his face never once faltered. “I guess he thought he was protecting you.” He looked away again. “Or me.”

What on earth had he gotten himself into? Elizabeth rounded the sofa so she could look him in the eyes. “Protect us how?” she asked. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

He shook his head. “No, nothing like that. Let’s just say…” He glanced off to the side, out the window. “Let’s just say that brother Amshel has made a very rare breakthrough. I do believe he has the means to create that better world we always dreamed of.” He straightened himself up, though his elbows remained on the sofa. “Mother, do I have your support, no matter what?”

Elizabeth clasped her hands together. “Solomon, I’m just so glad you’re alive.” She approached the couch a few steps closer and put a hand on his shoulder. “You are my son. You know you always have my love.”

Smiling, he laid his own hand across hers, then plucked it off his shoulder and set it on the sofa back. He stood back, and he put his hands to his heart. “Alright, mother,” he told her. “This is what happened to me.”

And Elizabeth stood before the sofa and watched as her son disappeared before her. His muscles bulged, face stretched, skin turned to leather and fingers to claws. Elizabeth staggered back and fell against the wall beside the fire. She didn’t know what to think; she was unable to. With nowhere to run, she pressed herself as far into the corner as she could. The creature before her turned its gleaming red eyes on her and she froze, breath catching in her throat.

Then, in her son’s voice, the creature said, “Mother… brother Amshel has showed me the way to that new world… something beyond humanity…”

But it wasn’t her son, was it? Could this huge, beastly, ugly thing before her really be her handsome little boy? “What are you?” She clawed at the wall beside her.

“We’re called chiropterans, mother,” said the creature. It lumbered one step forward and Elizabeth brought her knees to her chest. The creature halted in response. “Now, now… I know I look different but… there’s no reason to be afraid. I… I’ve become part of a superior breed.”

No, this couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. She shook her head and clawed further along the wall, fingertips landing on the poker’s handle. This wasn’t her Solomon. Couldn’t be her Solomon, this… this thing. It was ghastly. It wasn’t human. And the way it talked. “What have you done with my son?” she whispered. There was no way her boy would give up his beauty, his god-given humanity, to become an awful creature like that.

The creature tilted its head to the side, its strange, limp tresses hanging. “It’s still me, mother. Look, see.” And the creature seemed to constrict, to collapse in on itself, and almost in an instant the form of her son was standing before her again. “I’m still the same man,” he said. “I’m still Solomon Goldsmith. I’ve only made some improvements…”

God save her, it was some kind of demon, wasn’t it? It was some kind of wicked thing trying to take advantage of her weak state and tempt her. But… if it could take Solomon’s form and speech so readily, then it must have seen him. And if it saw him… “You killed him, didn’t you?” she said.

The thing which looked like her son frowned then, finally, and began to come around the sofa. “No, mother…”

The tears came cascading down her face again, unimpeded. “That’s why they couldn’t find a body, isn’t it,” she told the monster. “You ate him, didn’t you? You ate up my baby and you took his face…” She pressed her knuckles to her lips. Oh God, her sweet Solomon…

But the creature never ceased approaching, slow and steady. “I am Solomon Jude Goldsmith, only son to Lloyd Goldsmith, and you, Elizabeth Ann Rosenthal-Goldsmith.” He was before the sofa now, and the fire cast an eerie glow on him. “You are the youngest of the three Rosenthal sisters: Madeline, Louise, and Elizabeth. I, I served as a doctor at…”

No, she wasn’t going to let him finish, keep getting into her head and spewing lies. And she certainly wasn’t going to let him get any closer. She snatched the poker off the hook and held it out at arm’s length, its tip meeting the creature’s chest. “Stay back,” she told it. “In the name of Christ, stay back.”

Frowning, the creature brushed the poker lightly aside. “I know you know it’s me, mother,” it said. “You know I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here because I love you; I want to be honest with you…” Then, in the blink of an eye, he was standing before her, reaching out his hand to her. “And because I want you to come with me.”

“I said STAY BACK!” she shrieked, and thrust the poker forward before the demon could get its hands on her. This time, it went straight through the chest to the other side. The monster staggered back, looking down startled at his wound. Elizabeth fell to the floor once more, panting, waiting for the creature to fall dead, or at least descend once more back to the depths of Hell and stop torturing her.

But no. Without even flinching, the monster put both hands around the handle of the poker and, ever so slowly, pulled it loose from its body. As he tossed it aside, she could see the hole in its chest weave itself shut before its eyes.

No, this was too much to take. Howling in terror, Elizabeth curled up against the wall as tight as she could, hands over her head and head between her knees. She waited there, sobbing, for the worst. “Oh God. Oh God in Heaven save me…” That beast. That beast was the one to take her baby, and now it had come back for the last member of the family.

But it never came for her. She heard its footsteps over the hardwood, retreating, and with her son’s voice it called from the doorway, “I see. I understand.” Briefly there was a silence. Then, “Thank you for everything… Elizabeth.” The door clicked open and shut, and it was gone.

It was there, shaking in the corner, that Elizabeth’s sister Louise found her some time later. The elder sister begged to know what had happened, where the blood came from, what had frightened her so, but Elizabeth couldn’t tell her. What could she possibly say? She’d think her mad.

Elizabeth Goldsmith never spoke of her son again.

***

Solomon couldn’t say he was surprised to see Amshel standing outside, beside his car, waiting for him. He couldn’t look him in the eye, so he settled for staring at his new elder brother’s shoes.

“Are you satisfied?” asked Amshel.

Solomon said nothing.

“Didn’t I tell you?” asked Amshel. Solomon walked straight past him and rounded the car, letting himself into the cab. Amshel joined him there. “Humans are foolish creatures.”

Solomon stared at the floor. So that was it. All those years of raising him meant nothing to her, now that he had become something else, something she deemed unpleasant to look at. Were relationships really so flimsy that they could be broken by blood? “What now, Amshel?”

“We are going to take Diva to Russia, to meet with Grigori.”

“Very well,” Solomon said. Whatever Diva required…

They arrived at Amshel’s house just as the sun began to go down. Through the windows he could see Diva standing by the fireplace and singing, the fire making her pale skin gleam. “Did your mommy reject you, Solomon?” she asked with a smirk as they entered.

“She’s not my mother anymore,” he replied.

Suddenly she was before him, staring up at him with bright blue eyes. “Are you lonely?”

He smiled down on her, his beautiful queen. “No,” he told her. “Not anymore.”

“Good,” said Diva, as she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down to her level. “You’re annoying when you’re depressed.”

And he laughed, even as she sunk her teeth into his neck and took her sustenance. She was so like a child, and he found himself more charmed by her every day. After all, it was her blood that had saved him from his old. “I shall try to stay happy for you, then, Diva,” he told her as he put his arms around her. Yes, this was his family now, this was where he belonged. As the saying went, blood is thicker…

And that was all that really mattered, wasn’t it?

Multifandom Fanpoetry

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 06:47:39 GMT

Here's a clot of fanpoetry I've written.

Fandom: Blood+
Title: "Mister Golden Sun"
Rating: PG
Characters: Solomon (with appearances by Saya and Diva)
Note: Spoilers up through Episode 47.

Here comes Prince Charming, knife in hand
Singing, "Dearest one, please understand
The best laid plans are laid out,
And they're laid for you."
He says, "Take my hand,"
And she lets him bleed.
The man's an island when she leaves;
Gone with the black knight, a battlecry in hand.
Your white horse is nothing but old bat's wings.
Your kingdom nothing when it's pulled out from underneath.
Are you still hypnotized when the wicked witch sings,
"Solamen miseris socios habuisse dolores."
Prince Charming rides off in the night,
No kingdom, no princess, no trusty steed.
For the lady he will test his might,
And for the lady he'll finally learn to bleed.
***

Fandom: Blood+
Title: "Bow"
Rating: PG
Characters: Haji/Saya
Note: Possible spoilers through Episode 30. Also, some bitter undertones.

He sees everything from the view from her feet,
Whether on top
Or underneath--
Depends what kind of mood she's in.
A different girl each time she wakes up...
Fair enough.
He will bear his heart to every face,
Even with the scars she gave to him.
He knows damn well that they are playing for keeps.
He'll follow every word she breathes,
And shed a world of blood for her
'Til she cries or goes to sleep;
Then the secret watch he keeps,
Until their time comes down.
***

Fandom: Blood+
Title: "Butterfly Collection"
Rating: PG
Characters: Diva and Amshel
Note: Possible spoilers through Episode 25, just to be safe.

Perfect beauty, perfect grace,
A perfect voice which flows
From a perfect face:
A perfect specimin.
He wants to pin her in his box
With a name card and a number,
But the butterfly is a wasp,
And a mite hard to pin down.
She's got a hive and perfect company,
And a perfect madness
From perfect sadness
Of the little bug in a jar
With no taxonomy.
She will hunt and sting,
And fly and sing,
And always return to the hand of the keeper
'Cause she's never had anywhere else to go;
Alone in the swarm,
A queen without a home.
***

Fandom: Blood+
Title: "Chosen by Aphrodite"
Rating: PG
Characters: Solomon/Saya... sorta
Note: Spoilers through Episode 47.

You got it in your head that you've got it coming
So go bring Helen home, why don't you?
Watch the blood flow without a care in your heart,
A lyre in one hand and an arrow in the other
And no intention to do anything about it--
You just can't see blame where love's concerned.
So go and get her, Romeo,
Pining at her balcony in the night.
No name, no blood, no official order
Will keep you from her side;
Not even death,
Not even death,
For death may die in your eyes.
So call for the lady to live with thee, shepherd,
And listen for the nymph's reply.
Promise her the beautiful world
And hold her close even when she spits in your eye.
Watch the city burn
And try to hold onto a perfect love,
Knowing full well true love ends in tragedy.
***

Fandom: Trigun
Title: "No Salvation"
Rating: PG
Characters: Wolfwood
Note: None really...

Sainted sinner seeking absolution
Well now, here's the solution:
Annoint him in blood and smoke and sands,
Drop him and see where he lands.
Awfully hard to get a hold of,
And even harder to understand:
Preaching mercy, mercy, mercy...
But what's mercy good for
When you've a gun in each of your hands?

He'll let the bodies fall right at his feet
And pray for their souls.
Well wasn't that just convenient, clean, and neat?
Yeah, he's got it under control.
He's got his cross to bear
And his fingers in his hair
And if he judges you worthy, he'll lend a helping hand.
So hard to see, even harder to understand.
***

Fandom: Trigun
Title: "Forsaken"
Rating: PG
Characters: Wolfwood
Note: Implied spoilers through Episode 23

Let me introduce you to a man
Pushed too close to the edge,
Doing everything he can to stay on top,
Clawing...
And he doesn't know where to stop.
Won't somebody pray for him?
Won't somebody break his fall?
Oh, but he won't let go,
No, no, no, no:
Too afraid of what he'd lose.
And he's never known a life that didn't smell like gunsmoke.
This isn't hte path he'd choose...
But here he is anyway--
Hanging off the edge;
You can taste the desperation in his dead gray eyes.
Won't somebody save him?
Doesn't anyone think him worth saving?
Forgive him his tresspasses,
He's just falling
Falling
Falling...
***

Fandom: Trigun
Title: "Swan Song Sung"
Rating: PG
Characters: Wolfwood (Wolfwood/Millie, technically)
Note: Massive spoilers for Episode 23.

And a voice said,
"Look up,
Look up.
That is enough.
You have suffered long enough,
And yet,
Even in the darkest place you always had heart."
And he thinks,
"Is this really where we part?
I haven't had enough time!
Not enough time--
And there is too much on my mind."
...and suddenly he was clean,
And he was free.
He could feel the darkness fall away,
Feel the tears fall from his face,
Tears that would never hit the ground
Because they were his to keep.
He swore he could hear chains fall,
And a warm voice call,
Call him back home and away from the suffering,
And he'd never felt so light...
And he knew she'd be alright,
'Cause she was so much stronger than he could ever be,
With enough love to carry her safely.
And the light finally reached all corners of his soul,
And he saw her smiling eyes when he let go.
***

Fandom: Death Note
Title: "One Lost in the Fall"
Rating: PG
Characters: Matsuda (with mentions of Light)
Note: Spoilers for the series' end

The universe wants to tell me something true,
Well, let it;
I will close my ears and sing.
I can’t see a thing—
Forget it.
I just want to
I want to
I want to believe.
Why can’t I just believe?

The universe wants to tell me something true:
I refuse.
I don’t need to know it;
Let my effort show it.
If I try twice as hard,
Maybe I won’t have to lose
What I want to
I want to
I want to believe.
Why can’t I just believe?

The universe wants to tell me something true:
I hear it.
And now all I see is red—
I want him dead.
How could he?
How COULD HE?
I can’t see a thing,
Even as I move to move.
Hands on my arms and shoulders bring me down.
I hear screaming,
I hear nothing,
I hear myself start to drown.
I finally drown in the flood I’ve been standing in,
Standing in all along.
What’s wrong?
Why can’t I just
Why can’t I
Why can’t I just believe?
I don’t know what to believe anymore.

If That is Your Wish - A Haji/Saya Fanmix

Sat, 29 Dec 2007 03:21:06 GMT

Medium: Anime
Fandom: Blood+
Subject: Haji/Saya
Title: If That is Your Wish...
Warnings: Spoilers through the series' end
Notes: All songs are from Haji's perspective, for the most part (I think a couple of them have mid-song perspective switches). Brush credit for the art goes to lifeisdolce. If the download becomes unavailable, let me know in the comments and I'll reupload.

"If That is Your Wish" Full Mix Zip File
(EDIT: File re-uploaded 08/18/08)

'Right Behind You' -Our Lady Peace
"I don't know, but I believe in yesterday
And what it means
To bleed and know that you're okay

Are you waiting?
No matter what you say
No matter what you do
No matter what, I'm always right there behind you"

'Collide' -Howie Day
"I'm open, you're closed
Where I follow, you'll go
I worry I won't see your face
Light up again

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills my mind
I somehow find
You and I collide"

'Stand Inside Your Love' -Smashing Pumpkins
"But for the last time
You're everything that I want and ask for
You're all that I'd dreamed
Who wouldn't be the one you love?
Who wouldn't stand inside your love?
Protected and the lover of
A pure soul and beautiful you"

'Crash and Burn' -Savage Garden
"Let me be the one you call
If you jump I'll break your fall
Lift you up and fly away with you into the night
If you need to fall apart
I can mend a broken heart
If you need to crash, then crash and burn
You're not alone"

'Breathless' -Better Than Ezra
"Here you are now
Fresh from your war
Back from the edge of time
And all that you were
Stripped to the bone
I thought you'd want to know

That when you feel the world is crashing
All around your feet
Come running headlong into my arms
Breathless"

'Look After You' -The Fray
"Be my baby
I'll look after you

It's always have and never hold
You've begun to feel like home
What's mine is yours to leave or take
What's mine is yours to make your own"

'From Me to You' -The Beatles
"If there's anything that you want
If there's anything I can do
Just call on me and I'll send it along
With love from me to you"

'Name' -Goo Goo Dolls
"And now we're grown up orphans
That never knew their names
We don't belong to no one
That's a shame
But you could hide beside me
Maybe for a while
And I won't tell no one your name"

'Everything' -Lifehouse
"You are the strength that keeps me walking
You are the hope that keeps me trusting
You are the light to my soul
You are my purpose, you're everything

How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you?
Would you tell me how could it be any better than this?"

'Whipping Boy' -Train
"Since then I never feel helpless, recess, this mess if you do
And I find that even time well spent gets bent if you need it to
And we do
Well by now I've showed you how much I believe in the here and now
And I wish that you knew

Lay all you want on me
I'll be your whipping boy"

'Vampires' -Fastball
"We'll burn like falling stars tonight
And hide like vampires from the daylight
Our world comes alive at night
And like the stars we'll shine so bright
As long as you are mine"

'I'm Lost Without You' -Blink-182
"I swear that I can go on forever again
Please let me know that my one bad day will end
I will go down as your lover, your friend
Give me your lips and with one kiss we begin
Are you afraid of being alone?
'Cause I am, I'm lost without you
Are you afraid of leaving tonight?
'Cause I am, I'm lost without you"

'February Stars' -Foo Fighters
"You'll ask for walls, I'll build them higher
We'll lie in shadows of them all
I'd stand but they're much too tall
And I fall

February stars
Floating in the dark
Temporary scars
February stars

'Original of the Species' -U2
"I'll give you everything you want
Except the thing that you want
You are the first one of your kind

And you feel like no one before
You steal right under my door
And I kneel 'cause I want you some more
I want the lot of what you got
And I want nothing that you're not"

Fallen - A Wolfwood Fanmix

Mon, 17 Dec 2007 00:33:03 GMT

Medium: Anime
Fandom: Trigun
Subject: Nicholas D. Wolfwood
Title: Fallen
Warnings: Spoilers through Episode 23
Notes: Songs are in roughly chronological order, save for the introduction. If any of the song downloads becomes unavailable, let me know with a comment and I'll re-upload. Brush credits for the art go to lifeisdolce</lj>and graphical_love</lj>.

(EDIT: Now available by popular demand: the full zip file)
(SON OF EDIT: File updated 08/18/08)

(An introduction for a man who lives his life in bitterness, a man never really understood by anybody)
"As of now I bet you got me wrong
So unsure we reach for something strong
I haven't felt like this in so long
Wrong, in a sense too far gone from love
That don't last forever
Something’s gotta turn out right"

(Roundly used and abused by his legal guardian, Nicholas learned to kill at a very young age)
"I used to be a little boy
So old in my shoes
And what I choose is my choice
What's a boy supposed to do?
The killer in me is the killer in you
My love
I send this smile over to you"

(Going from one dark living situation to another, young Nicholas came to live a childhood like boot camp, trained as an expert marksman by another expert on death to be his personal little soldier)
"I am growing now as I watch you fade
Now I know what you know
And I'll break the chains that you have made
These chains you've made for me
I will pull you down
I know I'll fail in style
I will, I swear
I'm gonna shake your genius hands"

(Having never had a real family, Wolfwood grew up to see the world in a very grim light, being intimately familiar with its darkest parts)
"Stand, climb, and fall
You carry the weight
Can't carry it all

Are you falling
Are you faking
Are you killing
Are you breaking
Am I burning
Am I only melting
These diamonds in the making"

(A hostage situation forces Wolfwood to become a drifter, torn from the most meaningful part of his life and left to his own dark self)
"Unwanted, live my life in shame
Who's to blame for my mistakes?
Well I don't know why
I believe in the truth, from inside
Go away, go away from me
Leave me alone
Ignorance spreads lies
How much will money buy?
Well, I'll take my time as I drift and die"

(Nicholas always feels like he’s got something to prove, even when he really doesn’t need to, even when there’s probably something he himself isn’t seeing)
"I wanna breathe, I wanna grow
I'd say I want it but I don't know how
I work, I bleed, I beg, and I pray
But I'm better off dead
I'm better off dead
I'm better off..."

(Wolfwood often dreams of a place where he can live in peace, although he is far too bitter to believe that such a place exists.)
"Every time I look in the mirror
All these lines in my face getting clearer
The past is gone
It went by like dusk to dawn
Isn't that the way?
Everybody's got their dues in life to pay

Yeah, I know nobody knows
Where it comes and where it goes
I know it's everybody's sin
You got to lose to know how to win"

(For such a cynical man as Wolfwood, a relentless idealist like Vash is a never-ending aggravation)
"Born to be down
I've learned all my lessons before now
Born to be down
I think you'll get used to it

And you just don't get it
You keep it copasetic
And you learn to accept it
You know it's so pathetic
And you don't"

(And Vash, in turn, has a hard time comprehending what can make a man like Wolfwood so world-weary)
"Who is right when everyone is wrong?
Was it fate that brought you here against all your wishes?
Who is to blame for the way that you are?
Was it parental supervision or lack thereof?"

(As Nicholas travels with Vash and the girls, he suddenly begins to find it hard to make the same sort of decisions he’s made all along, hard to face the world in the same way)
"Am I wrong for taking this so hard?
It's tearing me apart, tearing me apart
Partly tearing me a hole in my heart
Hey, is everybody right?
Have I become so uptight I'm giving it away?
And if blame is the answer, it's under control
And if shame is the answer, I'm selling my soul
And if pain is the answer, I've seen it all"

(As close as he starts to get to the people he is deceiving, his own falseness starts to get to him)
"Still don't see much of me giving in
Much too strong to live outside of these sins
Feeling like I’m taken lightly, think you see right through me
Words of those that still despise me, think it's eating me, you're dreaming
Oh, I live a lie"

(As exasperating as Wolfwood finds Vash to be, the famous gunslinger eventually starts to have an effect on the sullen preacher)
"It used to be mine
A face so laced with doubt and daily pain
It used to be mine
A breath so spent on holding up the weight
You made me resign
And trade a dying ember for a flame
Fearing the sound of no one's voice
And nothingness fills the whole..."

(Despite his jaded attitude and dreadful situation, Wolfwood finds himself enjoying the company of the people he’s been stringing along)
"A midnight fallen angel comes
To drag you through the floor
As the chimes ring out you think about
All the things you’ve done before
Then you pray
I hope I did my best to make the grade
Well, I may be broken hearted
But I found myself some pleasure in the pain"

(After spending so much time surrounded by optimists, Nicholas begins to suspect that he doesn’t belong in their world… nor in the dark world in which he has lived)
"It was a beautiful letdown
When I crashed and burned
When I found myself alone, unknown and hurt
[...]
In a world full of bitter pain and bitter doubt
I was trying so hard to fit in
Until I found out
I don't belong here
I don't belong here
I will carry a cross and a song where I don’t belong"

(In particular, an unexpected closeness to light-hearted Millie leaves Wolfwood dreading ever wounding her delicate sensibilities)
"Tiptoe to your room
A starlight in the gloom
I only dream of you
And you never knew

Sing for absolution
I will be singing
Falling from your grace"

(Trapped between two worlds, Nicholas must make a choice… and ultimately chooses to turn on the man who mentored and raised him to defend the only people to ever truly care for him)
"It's just the two of us
A silver cross
And some strength that you won't believe
See, I'm not your friend
And I won't pretend
That I've come here for peace
Well, I'm not afraid
I'm gonna make you pay
I'm gonna wipe that smile off your face"

(In the end, Wolfwood will give his very life to protect the man he was meant to betray, and the dear friends he had made)
"I'm looking down now that it's over
Reflecting on all of my mistakes
I thought I found the road to somewhere
Somewhere in His grace
I cried out, "Heaven, save me"
But I'm down to one last breath
And with it let me say

Hold me now
I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking
Maybe six feet ain’t so far down"

(And, having done his best to make his peace with himself, Wolfwood passes to a dream of an Eden where he can finally live in harmony)
"Out into the cold night
Stare into the dark sky
Do you sleep forever?
Or burn alive?
Or linger in the half light?
Fade into the dark night
Do you find contentment?
Do you find your peace?"

Anime Icons - 64 total

Tue, 18 Sep 2007 00:12:27 GMT

Fandoms
[14] Blood+ (+2 alternates)
--3 Saya
--2 Diva (+1 alternate)
--2 Hagi
--1 Solomon
--3 Saya and Hagi
--1 Saya and Diva
--1 George, Saya, Kai, & Riku
--1 Saya, Kai, & Riku (+1 alternate)
[13] Fruits Basket
--2 Tohru
--1 Kyo
--1 Yuki
--1 Shigure
--3 Tohru, Kyo, & Yuki
--1 Tohru and Kyo
--1 Tohru, Uo, and Hana
--1 Shigure and Hatori
--1 Hana and Megumi
--1 Kisa and Hiro
[9] Fullmetal Alchemist (+3 alternates)
--3 Havoc
--2 Roy (+1 alternate)
--1 Al
--1 Hawkeye (+1 Alternate)
--1 Hughes and Elicia (+1 alternate)
--1 Roy and Hawkeye
[10] Trinity Blood (+2 alternates)
--2 Esther
--2 Seth
--2 Cain
--2 Isaak (+1 alternate)
--1 Abel and Cain (+1 alternate)
--1 Isaak and Dietrich
[11] xxxHolic
--5 Yuuko
--1 Watanuki
--1 Himawari
--2 Yuuko and Watanuki
--1 Watanuki and Himawari
--1 Watanuki, Doumeki, and Yuuko

Examples:

Blood+
1	2	3	4
5	5 alt	6	7
8	9	10	11
12	13	14	14 alt

Fruits Basket
1	2	3	4
5	6	7	8
9	10	11	12
13

Fullmetal Alchemist
1	2	3	4
5	5 alt	6	7
7 alt	8	8 alt	9

Trinity Blood
1	2	3	4
5	6	7	8
8 alt	9	9 alt	10

xxxHolic
1	2	3	4
5	6	7	8
9	10	11

Icon Credits (Listed by number in URL, not the numbers you see here)
Blood+ icons: 1 – lostluck_icons 2 - _hakanaidreams 3 – wonderland 4 – jadedicons 5 – lifeisdolce, amethystia 6 – _hakanaidreams, girlboheme 7/7a – amethystia 8 – lostluck_icons 9 – amethystia 10a – girlboheme 11 - _hakanaidreams 12 – wonderland 13 – amethystia 14 – jadedicons	FB icons: 1 – wonderland 2 – exit_eternity 3 – wonderland 4 – wonderland 5 – neke 6 – amethystia 7 – amethystia 8 – amethystia 9 – wonderland 10 – neke 11 – neke 12 – lostluck_icons 13 – amethystia	FMA icons: 1 – graphical_love 2 – exit_eternity 3/3a – lifeisdolce 4 – exit_eternity 5/5a – graphical_love 6 – exit_eternity 7a – mrs_spock 8 – graphical_love 9 - girlboheme	TB icons: 2 – wonderland 4 – creamuts 5 – lifeisdolce 6 – graphical_love 7 – exit_eternity 8/8a – graphical_love 9 - _hakanaidreams, girlboheme 10/10a – creamuts	Holic icons: 1 – neke 2 – neke 3 – wonderland 4 – jadedicons 5 – graphical_love 6 – gandamu 7 – wonderland 8 – exit_eternity 9 – neke 10 – lifeisdolce 11 - girlboheme</b>

If using, please...
1. don't hotlink; upload to your own server
2. credit

Enjoy, and thanks for looking! :D