Hetalia Sunshine

Hetalia Sunshine 2010 - Main Round Closed + No Fill Left Behind + Thanks!

2010-09-17T18:11:56Z

Hi, everyone!

Thanks for joining us for Hetalia Sunshine 2010, whether as a participant or supporter. ♥

The main round officially is closed--but the bonus round will open in a couple of weeks, on October 1st. For those unfamiliar, here's how it works:

Hetalia Sunshine is open year-round, except for a couple of "admin" weeks before each round.
The main round runs as an exchange, with requests, assignments, and guarantees of at least one fill.
The bonus round includes all prompts not filled during the main round. It's a free-for-all with no claiming, no minimum requirements (sketches and ficlets are okay), and no guarantee of a fill. The bonus round is open to EVERYONE, whether you were a main round participant or not. It's kind of like a kink meme, except it's not focused on sex and not anonymous.

If you have a fill for the bonus round ready to go already, please feel free to post now; the comm is still on moderated status, so we'll send it through as soon as the bonus round opens.

In the meantime, some of you may have noticed a link at the top of the main page to something called Operation: No Fill Left Behind 2010!:

With well over 100 fills posted in just two weeks, it's not hard for one to get overlooked accidentally. We want all the great HetaSun artists and authors to know how appreciated they are--so, taking a page from the Yuletide book, this post is where you can find HetaSun 2010 fills deserving of a little love they haven't yet received.

So if you're still basking in the sunshine or just looking for some Hetalia fanworks to enjoy, you might want to check out these HetaSun 2010 stories and artworks.

Last but definitely not least, Miaou would like to thank those who went above and beyond to help make this year's Hetalia Sunshine such an enjoyable experience:

♥ Our amazing pinch hitters (asterisks indicates multiple pinch hit fills): moirae*, B., chibi_spork, hideincarnate, isakana, orangepencils, raikana_sakaro*, revolutionjack*, sakuratsukikage, salmagundi_fic*, sayasama, strawberryburst, twoxten, viothegreat.
If I left you off the list, please don't be shy about mentioning it--I'll add you right away.

~Special mention to revolutionjack and salmagundi_fic, who both attempted to claim nearly every pinch hit assignment--even after they'd already done multiple pinch hit fills!

♥ Our awesome graphics makers: abarero (participant banners), and oinkwarrior & twistedsheets10 (comm banner).

♥ And those who shored up Miaou in some of her less sunshiney moments. You know who you are and you know ILU! ♥ Special mention to deixis_dyad, who stepped in to help moderate posting and likely will be taking on even more next year... ♥

Thanks again--and please look forward to the Bonus Round, opening October 1st!

[Art Fill] At the Shore

2010-09-12T03:01:25Z

TITLE: At the Shore
ARTIST: cayenne (anonymous participant)
RECIPIENT: yaoiophile
CHARACTERS: America
RATING: G
NOTES: Headers not provided by filler; please comment with errors/additional info and Miaou will fix it.

And a bonus pic (unfinished):

[Fic Fill] Of Fiats and Italians

2010-09-12T01:27:58Z

TITLE: Of Fiats and Italians
AUTHOR: HERO-sandwich! (anonymous participant)
RECIPIENT: Dafiya (anonymous participant)
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: N. Italy, Germany; appearances by others
RATING: PG-13/T (for a little language)
A/N: I hope you enjoy this. There are probably some tweaks here and there since I obviously have never been to Europe before so I tried looking around through some travel guides, logs, and stuff. I hope it’s okay that I made the twins kind of part of the mafia. I figured they might be. I’m sorry if my Italian is a bit off. And before I forget this, Lovino and Feliciano are twins here but Lovino’s still older. Anyhow, I really hope that you enjoy this~
SUMMARY: Feliciano takes Ludwig around Italy.

“Ve~ Ludwig, is this working right? Can you see me now? Where are you? I can’t see you! Ludwig~”

“Hold on, Feliciano.”

“Oh, okay~” replies a cheerful voice from the speakers.

As soon as he is satisfied with the adjustments he’s made to his webcam, Ludwig turns it on. It takes the camera a few moments to start up before a small window pops up, showing an auburn haired boy with a hair curl sticking out from the side of his head like a sore thumb.

“Ludwig! I can see you now! Hi!” Then the boy has this oh-so-happy look on his face as he waves his arms at the blonde.

Ludwig allows himself a small smile at the sight of his childhood friend before berating the other. “Feliciano, stop waving. You might hit someone!”

“But, but Ludwig, I haven’t seen you for so long!”

“Yes, you have. Through pictures,” says Ludwig as he suddenly wonders when the last time was that he’d sent Feliciano an email with pictures.

“But it’s different when we see each other face to face like this, no?” Feliciano points out. He has a point, says a part of Ludwig’s mind to him. ‘Shush,’ he tells to himself as he readjusts the lamp on top of his table.

“It doesn’t really matter, Feliciano. I’ll be coming over to Italy in a week, remember?” says Ludwig.

“You’re right! I’m so excited~ I’ll take you to all the wonderful places here in Italia and then I can make you pasta! Oh, and brother! Brother doesn’t really remember you much, Ludwig but I’m sure he-“ Feliciano rambles happily as he imagines all the things he and Ludwig could do together, places to see, pictures to take, foods to taste and so much more!

“Calm down, Feliciano,” interrupted Ludwig. “We’ll go do all those things, alright? I’m staying for two weeks in Italy. We have all the time in the world to go everywhere.” He could feel a slight tug at the edges of his mouth threatening to turn into a smile.

“Of course! Anyhow, I need to go. Lovino’s calling for me and I haven’t really made dinner yet so-“

“Go already. If you don’t, Lovino might start yelling at you again.”

“Arrivederci, Ludwig~” says Feliciano, waving at him. Ludwig gives a small wave back. Then the window goes black and a small pop-up at the corner of screen appears saying that the other has finally logged out. Then Ludwig shuts down his computer and stands up from his swivel chair, and walks over to his dresser across the room. He pulls open the topmost drawer, and takes out a small album. Ludwig opens the cover and begins to flip through its pages.

The album was filled with pictures of him, him and Gilbert, him and Feliciano, Elizaveta, Roderich and a bunch of other people. He stops at the pictures that showed him and Feliciano dressed up in costumes. Ludwig, in the photographs, wore some sort of black, old-fashion style clothes while Feliciano wore a maid outfit. He vaguely remembers the numerous comments about what a cute little girl Feliciano was.

After going through a few more pages, Ludwig closes the album and places it back inside the drawer. He looks at the calendar that hangs over his bed. A few more days and then he’d be able to see Feliciano after so long. A small smile appears on his face.

------

Berlin-Schoenefeld Airport

“…and West, don’t forget to bring back souvenirs for me and Gilbird, alright? OKAY?”

“Yes, bruder. I won’t,” Ludwig replies in an exasperated tone. “A fedora each and-“

“The suits! And pictures of authentic Italian babes too!” adds Gilbert loudly, causing several people to turn their heads in their direction. Ludwig turns a slight tinge of red before shushing his older brother quickly.

“Not too loud, bruder!” he scolds.

“Pfft-! Anyhow, don’t forget alright?” Gilbert says, putting his hand on his hips. Ludwig nods. Then Gilbert looks away and says in a small voice, “And… have fun. Say hi to Feli for me, okay?”

Ludwig stares at his brother before letting go of the handle of his luggage and wrapping his arms around him. A few moments pass by before Gilbert pushes his younger brother off him. He folds his arms in front of his chest, smirking. “You better remember what I told you or you ain’t gonna have a room to sleep in when you come back.”

Ludwig pales.

“I won’t.”

------

On the airplane, Ludwig’s thoughts are somewhere between wishing he was asleep—despite the tantrum a little girl two rows down was throwing—and seeing Feliciano.

------

Malpensa International Airport

With his luggage in one hand and a small backpack in the other, Ludwig makes his way to the arrivals and scans the crowd for any signs of his friend. Just then at the corner of his eye, he sees a sign with his name on it.

“LUDWIG! OVER HERE~!” a familiar voice cries out from amongst the crowd. This is immediately followed by a cry of pain and a whimper then another shout. “BE QUIET, IDIOT! DON’T YELL!”

Ludwig hurriedly walks over and sees a pair of twins. “F-Feliciano?” Ludwig says, not really sure as to what he’s supposed to say. The twins in front of him stop whatever they’re doing and look at him. One of them has tears in his eyes while the other just glares. Ludwig begins to feel strangely awkward with all the staring until the one with tears in his eyes suddenly has a huge smile on his face and jumps on him. This must be Feliciano.

“Oh Ludwig! You’re finally here! I’m so happy!” Feliciano says as he hugs him tightly. Ludwig smiles a little and pats him on the back before he can feel Feliciano being forcefully pulled away. He blinks and sees that Feliciano’s brother has the boy by the collar of his shirt.
“Oh! This is brother, Ludwig! You probably don’t remember each other so… Ludwig, brother. Brother, Ludwig.”

“So…” Lovino is glaring at him so intensely that Ludwig begins to wonder what on earth he ever did to offend the man. As if reading his thoughts, Lovino drops Feliciano to the side and walks up to Ludwig. He pulls him down by the collar of his shirt so he can whisper into his ear, “I don’t like your ugly mug, and if I see or find you doing anything I don’t like,” Lovino pauses before continuing, “I’m going to have the entire famiglia hunt you down like a Spaniard hunting down the last tomato in a market.” Then he lets go of Ludwig and walks away from them, towards the parking lot. He stops and turns around before yelling, “HEY, BOTH OF YOU! HURRY THE FUCK UP ALREADY, DAMMIT!”

Feliciano cheerfully replies and takes hold of Ludwig’s luggage, carrying it towards the car. Ludwig follows.

------

As it turns out, Feliciano and he are going on a road trip around Italy. Thankfully, Lovino isn’t coming along. “He has to take care of the family!” explains Feliciano.

------

After a few hours of Feliciano’s driving, Ludwig offers to drive instead. He makes Feliciano quickly pull over on the side of the road, then switches sides with him. Ludwig hands the map to Feliciano and begins driving, occasionally asking for directions.

When a car passes them by at an alarming speed, Ludwig briefly wonders if all Italians drive like maniacs or whether the country’s traffic laws and regulations were laxer as compared to back in Germany.

------

Ludwig asks Feliciano where they’re going. Feliciano looks at him with a cheery smile on his face and answers, “Florence. It’s a beautiful city.”

------

After three hours, they finally reach Florence. It’s just as Feliciano has told Ludwig; the city is absolutely beautiful. The first thing he does is take out his camera and take a picture of the scene before him. He wonders how it would look like in the evening, the sunrise and the sunset. Then Feliciano takes the camera from him and grabs him by the shoulders. He positions them in front of the camera and takes a picture.

They park the car across from their hotel and go off to explore the city. Feliciano begins telling Ludwig about the city, but it quickly dissolves into his telling him that the best way to experience Italy was to live there.

“So if you could live anywhere…?” Ludwig’s questions trails off.

“It would be here. In Florence. With brother and the rest of mia famiglia,” Feliciano answers airily.

------

They spend about four days there. The two of them go to Ponche Vecchio where there are dozens of gold and jewelry stores. Then they visit the Uffizi museum, home of Michelangelo’s David. Feliciano makes a comment at how buff and strong David is, just like Ludwig. Ludwig blushes a little.

Soon, lunch time comes and Feliciano takes Ludwig out to eat some local cuisine. The foccaccia is different from the Italian restaurants back home, Ludwig comments.

“That’s because this is real foccaccia!” Feliciano says almost fiercely.

------

When lunch is through, they spend the afternoon looking around at all sorts of Etruscan ruins and mansions in the surrounding areas. Ludwig has taken so many pictures by this time that half of his memory card is already eaten up.

------

That evening, they hang around Piazza delle Signorie.

“It’s one of the nicest in Italy!” says Feliciano excitedly as he takes the other by the hand and leads him around the place, through the hustle and bustle of the lively crowd.

------

At the end of their stay, Ludwig is somewhat feeling a mixture of excitement and exhaustion. However, when Feliciano tells him that he’ll be taking him to Verona next, he can feel some of his stress going away.

(“You’ll love it there! That’s where-“

“Romeo and Juliet are from. I know, Feliciano,” cuts in Ludwig.

“Let’s go then~”)

When they get in the car, Ludwig can’t help but feel that two weeks with Feliciano will seem longer than what it really is. When he inserts the keys and starts up the car, the engine comes to life and they set off to the next part of their trip.

------

“Ve~ So Ludwig, you be Romeo and I’ll be Juliet, okay?”

“Feliciano, get down from there!”

“Mm… How about I’m Rapunzel and you’re the prince? So if I jump, you have to catch me alright? Or I might get hurt…”

“Wait! Don’t jump! Please!”

“Here I come~”

“Oof-!”

------

After Verona, they head off to Pisa where Feliciano tells him that people tend to ‘leave their hearts.’ Ludwig looks confused at this. Feliciano just laughs and tells him to turn left at the next intersection. “You’ll see,” he says with a smile on his face.

When they arrive, Ludwig understands what Feliciano means.

If Florence was beautiful then Pisa is breathtaking. The leaning tower of Pisa seems a bit ridiculous to Ludwig (thirty Euros to climb up the places is a bit too much, he says until he gets to the top and sees the view that causes him to change his mind almost immediately) but the rest of the town is simply one of the most charming places he’s ever been. “The Piazza dei Miracolli, aside from the overpriced tower with the wonderful view, also houses the Duomo, the Baptistry, and the Camposanto.”

(The entire time they’re there exploring the places in the Piazza, Ludwig notes that Feliciano is less talkative than usual. He wonders if this has anything to do with the fact that these places are practically holy grounds.

Though he enjoys the silence, he really wishes that Feliciano would just start being loud again and explain to him as to why some of the people seem so scared of him.)

Before they leave, they go and visit two more Piazzas- Piazza Guiseppe and Piazza Delle Vettovaglie. They stay there all afternoon until they leave, just walking around, interacting with the locals and simply taking in as much charm of the city as they could.

------

If anyone asks Ludwig what his favorite part of the trip was, aside from spending time with Feliciano, he would have told them it was Rome.

From the lovely Fontana di Trevi to the Roman Baroque, butterfly steps of the Piazza di Spagna, Ludwig was in heaven. During the entire time they look around the Pantheon, Ludwig secretly spazzes and feels like a child lost in a huge toy store. Feliciano tells him afterwards that he has a funny sort of look on his face; something like a cross between having the urge to go to the restroom and a dazed, glassy expression.

After the Pantheon, Ludwig drags them off to see the Coliseum. There, after getting a bit bored of just looking at the structure of the place, Feliciano forces Ludwig to re-enact with him famous gladiatorial games.

(“Ve~ Ludwig, be prepared for the might of the Italian army!”

“Hold on, there weren’t any armies in the coliseum!”

“Take this, you big dummy!”

“Wait! Stop! I don’t want to-“

“Waah! Ludwig hit me!”

“I told you to stop, didn’t I? Come here.”)

------

The following days are spent touring around the northern part of Italy. They do everything Feliciano promised Ludwig they’d do together in Italy. They visit every single tourist spot and sights that they can in the two weeks of Ludwig’s stay. Needless to say, Ludwig’s luggage is practically stuffed with souvenirs and items from every place they’ve visited. Especially from their stay in Milan.

(“Wow… The Duomo looks amazing! And the Madonnina-! I can’t believe this… The baroque artwork and the view-“

“Ve~ Ludwig, after this, can we go to the Galleria?”

“Huh? Where?”

“The Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II! It’s a wonderful paradise, Ludwig~! They have Gucci, and Prada, and, and Luis Vuitton, and so much more~!”

“Feliciano.”

“Yes?”

“You do realize that I don’t have the money for any of those things you just mentioned, right?”

“Oh. Well, it’s okay! We can just go look around then tell Lovi later what we want when we see him next time.”)

So when the day of Ludwig’s departure back to Germany finally arrives, Feliciano is in hysterics. Ludwig is in the airport waiting for his flight and no one really knows what to do. Except Lovino thinks that the best way to calm him down is by telling him that it’s a good thing that the potato bastard is finally leaving. Feliciano just bawls louder.

Tired of hearing his brother’s sobs, Lovino pulls out his mobile and punches in a number. He presses it against his ear and waits for the other line to pick up. As soon as someone greets him, Lovino begins to speak in rapid Italian. Once he’s satisfied, he puts the phone back into his pocket and tells Feliciano to get into the car. This stops Feliciano crying and he blinks.

“But why?”

“We’re going to the airport. It seems that the potato bastard has some problems,” Lovino says, smirking.

“But why?” Feliciano repeats, still looking as confused as ever. Lovino sighs and tries to stop himself from getting irritated easily at his brother. Sheesh, was the kid really that stupid?

“Just get in, okay?” snaps Lovino as he opens the door to the driver’s side and gets in. Feliciano, not really wanting to argue with his brother, gets in the car without another word.

------

Turns out, Ludwig’s been detained at the airport and can’t board the plane. Ludwig doesn’t really know what’s happening until he hears someone call out his name and then proceed to jump on him. Lovino follows right behind. Ludwig’s about to ask them what they were doing there when he sees a grin on Lovino’s face. Somewhere in the back of his mind, something clicks. His sudden detainment has something to do with them.

(Ludwig, however, thinks that Feliciano probably doesn’t have anything to do with it. Maybe at least not directly or intentionally.)

“Ve~ Ludwig! You can stay with us until we sort this out~” Feliciano says reassuringly as he hugs Ludwig while patting him on the back.

“Feliciano, I-“ starts Ludwig only to be cut off by Lovino.

“You’re gonna be working for us while you stay here, you potato bastard,” Lovino says with an evil look on his face. He then folds his arms across his chest, feeling very smug. “After all, there’s no such thing as a free meal.”

Right then and there, Ludwig can feel a strange empty feeling in his stomach as they take him to the car and drive back to the Vargas’ home. Along the way, Feliciano goes on and on at how much fun they’re going to have living together, “just like old times!” he says. Ludwig relaxes for a bit until he sees a crazy glint appear for a moment in Lovino’s eyes.

He wonders if going to Italy was actually worth it.

He decides it is when he remembers the past two weeks he’s spent with Feliciano.

------

Berlin-Schoenefeld Airport

“DAMMIT! WHERE THE FUCK IS WEST?”

[Art Fill] Girl Time

2010-09-11T22:59:55Z

TITLE: Girl Time
ARTIST: Kaede (anonymous participant)
RECIPIENT: meihime_sama
CHARACTERS: Seychelles, Hungary
RATING: G
NOTES: Headers not provided by filler; please comment with errors/additional info and Miaou will fix it.

[Fic Fill] and there were flowers

2010-09-11T20:59:20Z

TITLE: and there were flowers
AUTHOR: Minty-Choco (anonymous participant)
RECIPIENT: tea_for_you
PAIRING: England × France
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Hetalia is not mine to make.
SUMMARY: Prompt was “trying at doing romance the right way.” Somehow it translated to England sending flowers to France and vice versa as a means of showing their affection/facilitating their romance. Because they aren’t good at actual verbal communication. I hope this is OK.

July 14, 2004

England had sent France flowers.

Of course the uncouth idiot didn’t call to say so or even wrote it down on a card with them, nor did he turn up at France’s doorstep, all stormy eyed and scowling and clutching the poor things in a knuckle-white grip just to shove them into France’s face (and, it seems, into France’s throat) and then running off like a coward, but France knew England well enough to deduce it was him who sent the bouquet of exquisite fresh flowers he held in his hand, the one he found lying innocently on his table when he went down to the kitchen after he woke up. Only England would send him such a thing. The other Nations would be too unaware of such subtleties (and for a moment France felt a little ill: Did he just concede that the brute was capable of subtlety? Mon Dieu. The world must be coming to an end.).

The exquisite flowers were arranged with startling elegance and subdued grace, such a contrast to the meaning and sentiments behind them. Hyacinths, France thinks, staring at the blooms of the richest hues of blue with bemusement, on this day of all days he sends me hyacinths. Most of the time, they stood for constancy, an appropriate enough meaning for today, but in French, hyacinths tells the receiver, “You love me and destroy me.”

France need not to be a genius to know which meaning England intended for. He lets out a quiet chuckle at that, and then his lips curve into a bittersweet smile. “How...melodramatic, Angleterre, and how so very like you,” he murmurs to himself.

He briefly wonders what prompted this particular choice of flowers. England had only sent him hyacinths once in their long life before this. Perhaps this was brought about by an attack of self-doubt, of insecurity? England was much prone to those. They had been quarrelling of late, mostly because of the two wars England had gotten himself into.

Then France snorted, dismissing his earlier thoughts. More likely the idiot was feeling somewhat sentimental. It has been a century since their Entente Cordial. Arthur had always been fond of grand gestures after all.

It was May 30, on a beautiful clear day just like this. Francis woke up at dawn to find two bouquets on his table, left there by stealth (really, how does England get into his house without him knowing? He had become quite an adept housebreaker, the infuriating idiot): one was made of various flowers with petals of the purest white—lilies and carnation edged with lilies of the valley—and the other purple hyacinths, each stalk tall and strong and fat and bursting with blooms and heavy with scent. He knew at once that one of them was meant for him, the other, for her.

It was the only time England ever sent flowers on that day, an act of restraint France never thought he’d see him do. Then, it touched him that he could do so. Today, it amuses him to think that England could still surprise him, after all this years.

Merde. It was far too early to be thinking of such things. He presses the flowers against his cheek, the dew-moist petals cool and smooth against his skin, his eyes closed as he imagines England, dressed in his frumpy but somehow adorable knitted jumper, garden shears in one hand, basket on the other, carefully picking out the perfect flowers in his garden to send him, his golden caterpillar brows scrunched up in concentration as he gathers them for the bouquet now in France’s hands, no doubt grumbling why on earth should he be exerting so much care and sacrificing his little darlings for a stupid frog, his lips curling into a pout.

France’s smiles widens to a grin at the thought. England does make the cutest faces when he’s inconvenienced, especially when this inconvenience’s caused by France. His meeting with England later this morning will surely be interesting. He wonders if he should tease the man on how flattered he was for the flowers, that despite England’s resentment of France’s culture, he knew this little bit of French nuance, just to see the man blush and stammer and yell.

He also wonders, what would England do, should he make his own grand gesture today?

But before he could enact this delightful plan, France must put the flowers into a suitable vase with water—more of an ingrained habit than an actual necessity, really; England’s flowers do not wilt easily (some enchantment, France thinks privately, that makes them last for weeks)—and then breakfast, a shower, and then getting dressed for today’s festivities and the parade early today. It was not something he would like to miss.

.

Of course England would send him flowers.

England did use to give him other things than flowers: chocolate, handmade garments, certain unspeakable things, and even, France shudders to remember, his own cooking. But their tastes so differed that they were more often sources of quarrels than affection between the two of them. Flowers, however, proved to be much more effective and acceptable. And less embarrassing when done right.

And why should it not be? It was the way of England, of them, even from long before, when they were but little, before they were quite aware (well, France was a little bit more aware then than England, but that was because he was older and wiser and England was younger and stupider) of the meaning behind the strange fluttering in their hearts and stomachs, the burning hate in their blood.

When they were young, in peaceful times, England would sometimes shyly offer him a bunch of periwinkles or heather or some wildflower. In return, France made them wreaths of daises or asters, worn ‘round their necks or crowned atop their head.

Flowers were long the language of romance, of feelings left unspoken, of things that can’t be said, even before France and England came into consciousness, before it became all the rage in Victorian England, with their codebooks and their secret messages in posies, tussie-mussies, and nosegays.

Nobody knew the twists and turns and nuances of this language better than France, who was, of course, the country of love, and England, who was so deeply repressed and reluctant to speak of his feelings than he had to use something other than words and actions to convey them.

They both wielded this knowledge with great deft and skill. Over the years, they given and received flowers from the other, their secret little code from the rest of the world: from sharp rebukes and insults with a bunch of petunias, or anemones or bird’s tree trefoil, or a single stalk of amaryllis, sly, amorous intents with exotic orchids or ripe pomegranates, to sincere sympathy with irises and chrysanthemums.

An odd thing, though: in all those years, they never gave each other roses. France may sometime frolic wearing nothing but a rose, England may have a garden full of them, but it was their one, unspoken rule: they could give any flower, but never roses. Especially red roses. It seems that they could never say that feeling out loud, even through flowers.

They could be such silly men.

.

Once, sometime during World War Two, when the Nazis were slowly encroaching into France, England found himself more than a little overwhelmed and shaken when France casually dropped a bunch of camellias on his desk, a grim little smile on his face. “For you,” he tells him, rather unnecessarily, and then walked out of England’s office without another glance or word, leaving a stunned England behind.

.

After the parade, France gives England a single red rose boutonnière. France thought it was time. After all, it has been a hundred years of Entente Cordiale. England wears on his lapel, and says nothing to France. He knows doesn’t have to.

Historical and flower notes

On Bastille Day in France, July 14, 2004, “to mark the centenary of the Entente Cordiale, British troops (the band of the Royal Marines, the Household Cavalry Mounted Regiment, Grenadier Guards and King’s Troop, Royal Horse Artillery) led the Bastille Day parade in Paris, with the Red Arrows flying overhead.” This was the first time a foreign troop led the parade.

May 30 is Jeanne d’Arc’s Feast Day, and the date of her death.

White carnations and lilies are for innocence. Lilies of the valley stand for “return to happiness.” Purple hyacinths mean “I am sorry” and “Forgive me.” I will leave to you to judge which of the bouquets is meant for France.

Daisies are for innocence, asters are “tiny beginnings from which great things proceed.” Periwinkles are “to know someone a long time and know them well.” Bird’s tree trefoil is for revenge and betrayal.

Camellias stand for “My destiny is in your hands.”

A single rose in bloom mean “I love you still.” A red rose, of course, is the universal declaration of love. If you put a rose given to you to your lapel or over your heart, it means you return the sentiments of the person who gave it to you.

[Art Fill] Too Small for Walls

2010-09-11T19:47:52Z

TITLE: Too Small for Walls
ARTIST: LBH (anonymous participant)
RECIPIENT: moirae
CHARACTERS: Germany, Prussia, Austria, Hungary
RATING: K/G
NOTES: Headers not provided by filler; please comment with errors/additional info and Miaou will fix it.

[Fic Fill] Chasing the Sky

2010-09-11T18:25:25Z

TITLE: Chasing the Sky
AUTHOR: B. (anonymous participant)
RECIPIENT: abarero
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: England, America
NOTES: Headers not provided by filler; please comment with errors/additional info and Miaou will fix it.

America had many talents.

As much as certain people didn't like to admit it, the young nation knew how to make a movie. His action movies were always over the top and his romances were overly cliché, but they still proved to be entertaining. The musicals he produced were top notch, too. The songs were catchy and the stories were intriguing. He also happened to be very smart when it involved things relevant to his interests like math and sciences.

He was also very persuasive. This was considered, by many, his most dangerous talent. He could tell you to jump off a cliff, and despite knowing how terrible of an idea it was, one look into those pleading blue eyes and you would suddenly find yourself reconsidering.

That very talent was how England found himself in an old, rickety, brown pick up truck doing what he considered the equivalent to jumping off a cliff; chasing tornadoes.

England's head was tilted sideways, resting against the truck's window when they hit a particularly large bump in the old road (could something this bumpy truly be considered a road?) that caused England's head to bounce up and fall back down onto the window with a thump.

“Bloody hell...” England muttered, sitting up while rubbing the side of his head.

“You okay?” America asked, quickly glancing at England before returning his gaze towards the road before him to continue his previous task of scanning the horizon.

“I-I'm fine.” England straightened himself out and turned his head, scowling at America. “Watch where you're going, though, git.”

“Sorry, I can't-” They hit another large bump that violently shook the whole truck and it's passengers. “- really avoid these. This road needs some serious work.”

“Perhaps you should speak with your citizens about it.” England had fallen asleep for a good portion of the trip, and was just now beginning to take his surroundings in. “Where are we?”

America adjusted his glasses and smiled. “The Texas panhandle! It has the most reported tornadoes of all of Tornado Alley! If we have no luck here, we can keep going into Oklahoma and Kansas. They have a lot of tornadoes, too! There should be something around here, though, if my radar was right..."

“Honestly,” England began when they passed a small home, “why would anyone choose to live in a place people called 'tornado alley?' This lot out here certainly must be mad.”

"Oh, come on, England! You like living in that dreary country of yours- why can't these people like living here?"

"Do you truly wish to compare my weather to this?" The Briton crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. "Honestly, I wonder why you insist on insulting my weather when you have these deadly storms all over your country."

"They can form in your country, too, you know."

England shook his head. "Yes, but I believe you are the only one with a 'tornado alley.'"

America just laughed. "Tornadoes or not, my weather is waaaaaay better than yours."

Not in the mood to fight a losing battle, England just crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the passenger side window. They rode in silence until America reached out his hand and placed it gently on England's thigh.

"You know what makes tornado alley so unique?" He asked, giving him a light squeeze.

"Not particularly," England's cheeks turned a light shade of pink, "and keep both of your hands on the steering wheel while you drive."

America smiled and gave him one last squeeze before returning his hand to the wheel. "Tornadoes can happen in a lot of places, but the majority of the world's tornadoes happen in this one area of the US. There is a lot of cold, dry air drifting into this area from the north and it mixes with the warm, moist air that travels in from the Gulf area, and the warm, dry air from the Sonoran Desert."

England glanced towards America, and couldn't keep from smiling when he saw the goofy smile on his face. America was so cute when he was being intelligent. (Okay, he was always cute, but England wasn't about to admit that.)

"Is that so?"

America nodded. "It mixes with the atmospheric instability and produces strong thunderstorms and-" He paused, his eyes going wide, and stopped the truck. "England!" He pointed his finger towards the front windshield. "Over there!"

Following America's finger, England looked out the window and spotted a small funnel cloud in the distance. "Is that really...?"

"Come on!" He threw his door open and jumped out with England reluctantly following suit. They stood together and stared into the distance as the tornado drifted along it's path.

"Are you positive we will be all right out here?"

"Yeah, we're far enough away. If something does go wrong, though," he slipped his arm around England's shoulders and pulled him against his side, "I'll protect you. I am a hero, after all."

Smiling, England shook his head then tilted it, resting it on America's shoulder. "Idiot. I'll hold you to that."

"Our tornado friend is lucky it's so flat out here. There isn't much to disrupt it."

England laughed, "Lucky him." He glanced up at America, his head still resting on his shoulder. "You never finished what you were on about earlier."

"Hmm?" He looked up thoughtfully, then smiled when it hit him. "Oh, right! Yeah, so, all these different winds come together, yeah? They create these thunderstorms called super cell thunderstorms, which are really just giant, rotating storms. The warm air pushes it's self through the stable area above it and into the cool air's personal space which causes all the spinning action."

"Those two types of wind not getting on well with one another is what causes," England motioned towards the funnel cloud, "that?"

"Actually, the low pressure that causes the high wind speed and the speed of the rotation makes the water vapor in the air visible. The tornado itself isn't visible on it's own." He pointed towards the top of the funnel cloud. "You see how it looks like the tornado starts at the base of the clouds and descends to the ground?" He waited for England to nod before continuing, "The vortex actually extends through the clouds all the way to the ground. You know how I told you about the moisture in the air condensing and forming the funnel? Well, depending on where the temperature is warming depends on whether the tornado appears to be descending or ascending. If the temperature is higher at the bottom, it looks like it's descending. If it's warmer at the top, it looks like it's ascending."

England wrapped his arms around America's waist, and hugged him. "Really? I suppose I can learn something new, even from you."

America rolled his eyes. "Haha, very funny." He leaned over and placed a soft kiss on the top of England's head. "Admit it, it's pretty awesome."

"I... suppose it has some degree of interest to it."

"Once again proving that my weather is more awesome than yours! Even my bad weather is cooler!"

England turned and buried his face in America's shoulder. "Prat."

"Love you, too, England. But seriously, this wasn't so bad, was it?"

He turned his head to face the storm again that was steadily moving away from them. "It wasn't... as terrible as I expected."

America smiled. "I'm glad. Let's have more adventures like this sometime!"

England nodded and smiled. "All right."

Leave it to America to turn something as dangerous as chasing tornadoes into something so... special. Watching the storm travel into the distance, holding America in his arms... England couldn't think of any place he'd rather be.

Perhaps America's persuasiveness wasn't such a terrible thing after all.

-----

Tornado sources:
Wiki- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tornado
Tornado alley- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tornado_Alley
Not wiki: http://gocolumbiamo.com/EM/Natural_Disasters/Tornadoes/index.php

I hope this even somewhat resembles what you wanted.

[Fic Fill] Après la pluie, le beau temps

2010-09-11T01:09:11Z

TITLE: Après la pluie, le beau temps
AUTHOR/ARTIST: roolley
RECIPIENT: fanfaluche
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Belgium, France, mentioned Netherlands and OC!Wallonia, BelgiumxFrance
RATING: K/G
NOTES: not quite how I'd have liked it to turn out, but well...
SUMMARY: France and Belgium hanging out at Belgium's house, chatting, baking and singing.

France parked his car in front of Belgium’s house, half on the pavement and half off it, turned off the contact, and tried to muster up the courage to walk from the safety of the vehicle to the front door. It was pouring outside; the rain was so thick he could only just make out the branches of the oak tree that stood in Belgium’s front lawn, a somber mass of leaves against an even darker sky. Not that the weather in Paris had been much better – the parade on the 14^th had turned out to be a disaster.

Sighing, he briefly leant his forehead against his steering wheel and then reached into the back seat for his coat and umbrella.

A short struggle with buckles and seatbelts ensued, and then he had slammed the car door behind him and was hurrying towards the hazy shape of the pavilion.

He was, as usual, late, but Belgium had counted on that; even as a young nation, he had never had the utmost respect for punctuality, and he was only getting worse with age – and as she was not the type to keep fighting a losing battle just for the sake of it, she contented herself with telling him to be there by one when she really meant two.

It was, however, two thirty, as the old clock ticking away in a corner of the kitchen informed her, and she was starting to wonder if he had been kept in Paris by an emergency. Or maybe he had taken one look at the weather, and decided to cancel their afternoon? It would not be unlike him, after all.

She flicked her wrist a bit harder than necessary at that thought and the bowl she was holding skidded a few centimeters to the left, coming to a halt perilously close to the kitchen sink, and she was considering it dispassionately – maybe she shouldn’t have added so much milk? – when the doorbell rang.

Typical. It was as if he’d sensed she was thinking about him. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail, wrenched her apron off, and headed towards the entry hallway.

France swept in as soon as she had opened the front door, closing his umbrella in a cascade of rainwater, and greeted her by ushering her with wild gestures of his hands –

“The door, the door, what are you thinking!” he yelped in quite an undignified manner.

“Yes, yes,” she answered amusedly, and watched him flail on the spot. His fashionable overcoat seemed completely soaked through; his shoes were awash; his hair frizzing wildly at the temples – he cut, in short, a rather pathetic figure, for someone who prided himself on the distinction of his appearance. She wished she could take a picture, for posterity.

“I’m sure this is very funny,” France snapped, correctly interpreting her stare, once she had complied and closed the offending door.

“It is,” she assured him, and he gave a fake, sarcastic laugh which prompted a true one from her in return. “Oh, France, I’d give you a hug, but as you see –“

They contented themselves with kissing each other once on each cheek, Belgium unable to stop giggling as she attempted to avoid any contact other than that of their faces, and she felt sure that France had to stop the corner of his lips from turning up. It was, after all, a rather comical situation.

“Well, that’s not all,” he said once they had drawn apart, “But I’m sure you’ll want to avoid me dripping all over your kitchen floor…”

“And over the cooking bowl.”

“The most important thing,” he agreed. “ -- Except for my shoes, they must be ruined and they were terribly expensive. Real Italian leather, sewed in Florence - they were Veneziano’s gift to me last Christmas.”

There was a pout in his voice, sulky and wobbly, and Belgium had to restrain from rolling her eyes.

“I’m sure you have ten other pairs you never wear anyhow. This’ll give you a chance to do exactly that!”

France had the gall to look offended and opened his mouth to answer, but she cut him off before he could launch into a tirade about the difference between shoes of French and Italian cut. “And I won’t apologize for my weather, so don’t even try. Now come on, take those off!”

He grumbled and complained all the way to the buanderie, where she hung up his coat, jacket, shoes and socks so that they would dry – if not under the sun, at least in the heavy warmth of the radiator – and looked him over critically. He was barefoot and shivering slightly, and she gave a snort – Parisians.

“It’s autumn here!” he defended himself, and added something under his breath about terrible weather which she chose to ignore.

“We’re not having the best of summers, true – but it’s better like this than like Russia, isn’t it?”

She saw something slipping over his face right then – frustration or worry, it was hard to tell – and then it was gone, as quickly as it had appeared.

“Oh, don’t talk to me of Russia!”

“Had a fall out?” she asked, biting her lip to hide her smile.

“He’s being rather stupidly proud -- mine is the first help he’s accepted, do you realize? And I can’t even send that much.” He exhaled sharply, a sure sign of irritation. “Well, anyhow.”

There was a full-stop in the way he pronounced the last two words, and she decided not to press the issue – try to question France against his will, and he would just slip in your grasp, turning the conversation around until it was hard to remember what you wanted to ask him in the first place.

“I’ve think I might have some of Netherland’s old stuff somewhere, if you want,” she offered instead, and although he pulled a face which suggested he had just bitten into a very sour lemon, he accepted.

“Now, though I do rather appreciate the comfort your chair offers my posterior, I hate to see you hurrying about the kitchen without doing anything,” France remarked once he had sat down at her table.

“Oh, really?” Belgium retorted with a mischievous smile, giving a little jingle of her behind for emphasis. “It’s a pity; I thought you might enjoy the view.”

This caused him to chuckle, and her smile to widen around the finger she was licking - much too sweet, she instantly decreed; France would pronounce it a murder on his tastebuds. He didn’t like pastry that was too sweet.

As if answering her thoughts, he mock-sighed and said, “Alas, you know me too well. But it would have been inconsiderate of me not to ask.”

Flour, now. She measured the precise quantity under France’s watchful gaze, poured it into the mixing bowl almost religiously. Baking was an art of precision; he knew this as well as her.

Once she had done so, she turned to face him, hand on her hip, fully intent on telling him he had better earn his keep if he wanted to get his slice of the cake, but she was taken aback by his smirk. Before she could open her mouth, he reached up to wipe at her cheek with a handkerchief he had produced out of his pocket, seemingly by magic.

Belgium half-heartedly whacked his arm away.

“You had flour on your face,” he explained, blond eyebrow curved questioningly with an elegance which had probably taken centuries to perfect.

Trying hard not to get distracted by the mental image of sixteenth century France preening himself in front of the first glass mirror, Belgium ploughed on.

“You didn’t actually ask me if you could help. I was going to say yes.”

“Good,” he purred, and wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her to him. “So can we have sex?”

He received another whack for that remark, and laughed.

“You know what I meant, you idiot. Go chop the apples.”

She pushed against him playfully, but he held firm, blue gaze planted into hers; earnest and laughing, imploring and mocking all at once.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“A no, of course!” she laughed, and twisted away from his grasp.

France pouted dejectedly and rose from his chair with all the martyred countenance of a whipped dog. Belgium bit her lips to stop her smile; he went to stand face to the opposite counter, gathering the tools he needed at the approximate speed of a funeral march.

“Well – maybe later,” she amended.

She knew from the set of his shoulders that he was smiling, but he didn’t reply.

For a moment they worked in silence: France working the knife with the practiced ease of one who had spent centuries handling them - its blade gleamed in the light as it came down on the apple, sending flashes of silver streaking across the walls at regular intervals –; she stirring the paste that would soon be thick enough for. It was a soothing pastime, baking, because it was repetitive enough not to demand much thought, and yet had enough of variations on the original theme that it never became boring. Slash, slash, went France’s knife as he began peeling the apples, his gestures regular and assured; and to this rhythm he soon added music, a hum, low in his throat.

Her hand faltered, and she turned and saw that he was France was looking at her over his shoulder, the corners of his lips quirking, and something strummed in response -- that certainty, that knowledge that something belonged to her that came with being a nation. Her mixing bowl was quite forgotten; she leant back against the counter and watched him watch her.

“I have all his CDs, you know.”

He didn’t seem surprised. He wouldn’t – after all, he probably did too, she thought with some fondness.

“In Dutch, naturally?” he asked, teasing.

“Those that he translated.”

His gaze was so intense she felt she could not look away.

“And you gave some to Lars?”

“Yes.” She scratched her left eyebrow thoughtfully. “I kept those he had given me, though.”

“He gave you –“

“He’d seen me in Brussels, one day. I knew who he was, of course, but I never thought he’d be able to – he didn’t – “ she blinked away thoughts of her sister, swallowed – “Well, anyhow, he came to see me before the song came out, offered me a CD. The Dutch version. He’d recorded it in Dutch, he said, he couldn’t think not to.”

“Of course.”

France’s voice was quiet, almost apologetic, as if he had sensed Wallonia’s name in the offing, and she shook her head at him with a surprised laugh.

“Come on –“ she said, with a gesture of her hand. “‘Mijn Vlakke Land’?”

“Ik speek geen Vlaamse!” he answered, lifting his hands in the air as if surrendering, and his accent was so thick she had to giggle, repeating the sentence in proper Flemish.

France followed her to where the Hi-Fi stood, unobtrusive, in a corner of the kitchen and watched her fiddle around with the buttons - hands floating over her hips, of course, it would not be France if he wasn’t so touchy-feely, she thought with a roll of her eyes.

She pressed ‘play’.

Wanneer de Noordzee koppig breekt aan hoge duinen…

Music poured from the speakers, and the feeling was not unlike being struck full-face by a strong gust of wind. It left her stunned and gasping for air, and France laughing at her - not unkindly, because he was feeling it too; not as strong as her, of course, but this was him, too, somewhere.

“Avec des cathédrales comme unique montagnes,” he said, between a song and a whisper – of course, that was the line he had chosen, she thought, the pervert!

She whirled in his arms, catching his left hand in hers - wanneer de lage lucht er grijs als leisteen is – he pulled at her hand and she fell against his chest with a cry and a shout of laughter and they sang together the last few words, tasting them, weighing them on their tongues; it was as if something was blossoming in Belgium’s chest, a bubble of joy pressing right above her heart.

“Oh, France,” she breathed, and he merely nodded, letting his forehead fall on the crook of her shoulders.

“He spoke well of you,” he agreed. “Of us. I always think the part about the cathedrals bears a particular resemblance –“

“Oh, France,” she repeated, this time more in exasperation than anything. “You know how to ruin a mood.”

“You are insensitive to my charms.”

“I’m immune to them; you’ve used them too often on me.” He gave a little jerk of his shoulders to signify his regret, and Belgium leant forwards, startled and horrified – “Don’t do that!”

He repeated the gesture, surprised, and she yelled and guffawed at the same time – “France!”

“Quoi?” he asked, nonplussed at her sudden hilarity.

She stood face to him, imitated his gesture, and understanding slowly spread over his features. With a disbelieving “mon Dieu”, he let his face fall into his cupped hands, and she burst out into peals of laughter.

“It’s not funny,” he snapped from behind his fingers. “I didn’t know I was doing it, I should be considered a victim –“

“Of your boss’s mannerism? Come, France –“ a thought struck her, and she whispered conspiratorially, “Have you tried embracing Germany yet, like he does – now that’s something I’d pay to see!”

“Stop, stop, n’en jette plus!” he cried, and hid his face deeper.

There was an empty moment as she vaguely tried to pat consolingly at his shoulder, only to make him flinch as if he were carrying a terrible burden.

“I know you don’t like him much,” she ventured at last, holding her laughter back with her teeth, before continuing in what she hoped was a bracing tone, “But come on, you’re not going to waste a perfectly good afternoon when you’re on holidays away from Paris.”

“Holidays usually entail sun, in my book,” he sniped, lifting his head to glare at her, looking in all the world like a sulky child.

His criticism seemed to act as a lucky charm, because as that moment two clouds parted to reveal a corner of milky blue sky, and light spilt across their faces as if to taunt them. Belgium glanced through the window, at the neighbour’s trees bent by the wind, then up at the sky again, and sure enough; it was blowing the rainclouds away, slowly but surely.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she beamed back at him. “I predict a lovely afternoon.”

He sniffed, mock-sighed, and she coaxed him with promises of the finished tart, which would, of course, be lovely, being produced by the both of them; to which he retorted that he had taught her to bake anyway, at which point she relented, just to get him to finish peeling the apples.

“You know,” he started as they were arranging the fruit pieces on the tart in concentric circles, “On the subject of bosses –“

“Hmm?”

“Your Prime Minister,” he said with a wide smile, and Belgium cringed.

“I know, I know –“ she began hurriedly, but he cut her off.

“And to think that when my president married his wife, you teased me about it for weeks. Now, I’ve not read the Bible for a long time, you’re probably more learned it than me – but wasn’t there a verse about casting the first stone, and another about seeing the straw in another’s eye but not the – the -“ he flailed with the term, “la poutre in ours?”

“Yes, well… he’s Walloon, not Flemish! And anyway, that was a purely professional situation.”

France hummed in disbelief and seemed ready to retort something, and she filled the silence by shakily readjusting the rows of apples, casting desperately around for another subject.

“It’s bizarre, because I distinctly recalled Wallonia saying that –“

“I think we can go ahead and put the tart in the oven, now,” she said, firmly. “It’s probably at the right temperature by now.”

France fell silent, but there was a smile on his lips that told her he would bring the issue up again, preferably in Netherlands’ hearing, and he would never let her hear the end of it. How hilarious, he would think! His conservative little sister’s Prime Minister being caught – well. She opened the oven door with a vengeance, and glared at France as he handed her the tart.

It was amazing how easily the mere thought of her brother riled her up, really. And by that, she thought with rather more violence than necessary, she meant amazingly annoying. She threw her kitchen gloves down unto the countertop and stalked to the table, where she plunked herself down on one of the chairs.

“You could make the coffee,” she groused at France, and, having probably no wish to designate himself as a victim of what she called her Netherlands-moods, he moved to obey, and had soon filled two cup with the steamy black liquid.

“So,” he announced as he sat down in front of her, and tried to catch her gaze, but she looked away each time, pouting, so he simply leant back in his chair and laughed. “Again, I have to point out that it’s the hospital that makes fun of charity.”

“You don’t say that in English,” she grumbled, but that comment slid off him easily; he had never much cared about the correctness of his idioms.

“Yes, yes – you act like I am unreasonable when I am grumpy when I am, in fact, no worse than you.”

“You don’t have Lars as a brother!” she retorted, but felt the corners of her mouth twitch.

France frowned, obviously surprised. “Well, I’m very thankful for that, but I don’t see why…?”

She sighed, hesitated, feeling, after all, slightly ridiculous, and then decided to summarize her thoughts in a few words, and he restrained himself to commenting that her thoughts moved fast.

“You don’t have him as a brother,” she repeated. He smiled and solemnly swore to her, if it made her mind easier, that he had no intention of telling Netherlands about what had transpired with her Prime Minister, “though I don’t see how I could anyway. I never see him, outside of World Meetings.”

“Lucky you,” she mumbled.

“Though you’d never guess –“ and here he leant forwards above the table – “I met him just last week! I was at the market at Forcalquier, in Provence – a lovely town – and the number of his tourists that were there! It was astounding. And I saw the man himself at a stall, trying to buy tapenade. His accent was simply awful, so I offered to translate for him, but he brushed me off.”

He frowned, obviously offended, and Belgium felt torn between amusement and irritation. It was one of these facts of life that Netherlands and France didn’t like each other much, despite, or maybe because of, their many resemblances and their geographical proximity – or rather, Netherlands found making fun of France very amusing, and France, in turn, found that behavior deeply vexing. Flanders and Wallonia both had given up on them; it was one of the only things they could agree on anymore.

France took a sip of his coffee and shook his head as if trying to express all the wrong in the world. - “Tourists,” he concluded.

“Consider yourself lucky to have any at all!”

He stared at her as if she had suggested England’s eyebrows should set a trend, then stopped, frowned, and relented with nothing but an unintelligible grumble.

“I’d like to have a little more of them sometimes,” she confided almost sheepishly.

“Well – what about Brussels?”

“Oh, excuse me; I’d like a little more tourists for something else than the European Capital.”

There was a pause, France obviously trying to think of something to retort to this. She felt touched that he cared enough about her to try to spare her feelings – but on the other hand, she was also a little disappointed, because France mocking her would have meant he thought her fears unfounded.

At last, he gave a helpless shrug, blowing on his drink.

“Well, I hear I’ve won you a few with my film.”

“Your film,” she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, you know – Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis.” And, probably taking her silence for incomprehension, which it was, in a way, he added – “You saw it?”

“Well, I did. I could hardly have escaped it – Wallonia dragged me to the cinema with Luxembourg.”

France didn’t even attempt to be subtle about his preening, and Belgium giggled. She had been glad of the film’s success - it brought to light a region that was, in many ways, similar to her own – but as often when it concerned himself, France had gone overboard. A success equal to that of Titanic in the Hexagon! Really.

“I still don’t see what it has to do with me,” she added.

“Well, people started to want to visit the Nord, and then it’s very close to Belgium, or to Flanders, more precisely. The Low Countries.”

Belgium gave a slow nod – she couldn’t help feeling doubtful despite France’s self-assured explanation. Even if he had ‘won her a few tourists’, as he said, it was probably in numbers so low as to be unnoticeable.

They chattered on a little, switching from the European Union and the latest trends in Paris and Brussels and their respective merits, to the forest fires in Russia and the generally autumnal summer they had had so far, and Belgium took advantage of the situation to remark that the sky had cleared up remarkably in the last hours, that the sun was now shining, and the temperatures were – miraculously! – flirting with the 25 degrees Celcius.

The tart was gotten out of the oven, tasted pronounced ‘delicious’ by France – “no doubt thanks to the wonderfully clean cut of the apples,” he added with a smile - and they decided of a common accord to eat on the outdoors table, which of course had to be uncovered first.

Belgium stayed behind to cut the tart into even pieces, and, as she was straightening, looked out of the window. She smiled at the sight of France shaking out the table’s covers, spewing droplets of rainwater unto the already humid grass. His shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled back, and Netherland’s old sandals really were hideous (France had, sniffing, referred to them as ‘tourist outerwear’) but he seemed almost more approachable that way than in his perfectly-tailored suits and shiny Italian shoes – and it warmed her heart to know she was one of the only people he’d ever consent to show himself to in such a state.

“Frankrijk,” she called out fondly as he turned towards the window, and he smiled at her and disappeared from her view in a swish of golden hair.

Her last thought before he took her in his arms and kissed her was that he really did look handsome like that, face tilted in the afternoon light -- whatever his clothes.

Whew! Okay, that was longer than I meant it to, and maybe it wasn’t… exactly what you intended with your prompt, but I hope you like it!

NOTES (because I couldn’t resist adding tons of details)

~ Belgium is divided into two (well, in three if you count the German-speaking province, but it’s really a minority): Flanders, to the north-west, and Wallonia, to the south-east. Flanders is mainly Dutch-speaking, Wallonia mostly French-speaking, and Brussels is both, hence the heated debates over whether Brussels would be Flemish or Walloon in the event of a split between the two. Geographically, the two are also very different. Flanders, like the Netherlands and northern France, is very flat (the jokes Hetalia-wise are endless ;D) and consists mostly of open fields, polders, canals, etc. Wallonia is much more hilly and wooded.

~ The situation between Flanders and Wallonia, as you might have surmised, is complicated. Walloon people used to be much more numerous, powerful, and also much richer, than Flemish people (all the important jobs went to Walloon people, etc.) Now the tide has been reversed: Flemish people have the numeric superiority and also most of the industry and trade, Wallonia being a mostly agricultural region, and it’s the turn of the Walloon to be discriminated. If you go to a bar in Flanders and order something in French, you won’t be served; in many workplaces, they’re forced to speak Dutch even though normally the two languages should be used. Also, a majority of people in Flanders is pro-independence, while the overwhelming majority of people in Wallonia want Belgium to stay united.

~ I chose to have Belgium from Hetalia represent Flanders. Headcanon is: Flanders and Wallonia are twin sisters, with Wallonia being a sort of distant cousin to France and Flanders being Netherlands’ sister, as per canon. I imagine the relationship between Flanders and Wallonia to be very strained, and that Flanders and Netherlands wouldn’t get along that well either, being that Netherlands is much more socially liberal than Flanders. Still, it’s a love/hate sort of thing ^^

~ Jacques Brel is a Belgian singer of Flemish origin, although he mainly spoke French (it being at the time the de facto language of Belgium) and all of his songs were written in French (he translated some of them into Dutch, like Le Plat Pays/Mijn Vlakke Land – ‘The Flat Country’ – which is is basically a description of Flanders. The original text in French is simply beautiful, though I can’t judge for the Dutch version!)

~ Forcalquier really exists. Its market does too (I was there on holidays). And the number of Dutch tourists there was simply astounding: the only other nationalities I made out, apart from French, were German and American. Also, Forcalquier is a very beautiful village, like many in Provence, but what makes it out of the common is its rather awesome history, involving – if I remember correctly – refusing to surrender during WWII; I imagine France would have quite an attachment to the place.

~ Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis is a really cool film. Rather overrated, Belgium’s right about that, but it’s still cool, although I image it must be hard to understand and appreciate for non-native Francophones. Which is probably why an American version is in the works.

[fic] Priyatnogo Appetita!

2010-09-10T16:34:33Z

TITLE: Priyatnogo Appetita!
AUTHOR: harusamemosuke
RECIPIENT:erueru_2d
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Russia/America
RATING: G
NOTES : OTL I am so sorry this is late. Seriously. Work sucks. This fill was going to be a whole lot better.
SUMMARY: It's a special day, circled in red. A special day requires a special meal.

It starts out small. A note on the calendar, an anniversary in fact - nothing big. No treaties or war declarations or invasions. Just a day circled in red, when two people decided, hey, I kinda like you, Hey, I kinda like you back (liked you back before everything went south/loved you before your world went crazy). It's not to say there have not been ups and downs over the years; fights, and objects being thrown, and silences (that oddly enough, never last more than a month; then it's on the phone - hey, how you been, just wanted to know how you were doing).

It's enough to warrant the circle, enough to make Russia feel warm inside, to hum a little as he goes about his day.

Two weeks and counting until the circled date. Two weeks until America comes to visit. Until they celebrate a milestone in their relationship with each other.

Perhaps I shall take him to dinner, Russia muses over lunch. Somewhere nice - America in a nice suit that accentuates his frame. Champagne. Good vodka. ("Why sir", he can hear Alfred say, in that Texas drawl, "I do believe you are trying to get me drunk") Steak (because he knows America appreciates a good one). Flowers, if he can get away with it.

Imagines America in candlelight, and sighs.

Still, he cannot help but feel, somehow, that it is not enough. Dinner and flowers and good alcohol, perhaps a gift?

What should I give him? He wonders aloud to his sister. They are talking, tentatively. She is happy for him, happy that her brother and America no longer stand poised to destroy each other.

Happy that her brother is in love. "What does he like?"

"Gadgets. Airplanes. Rockets. Perhaps I should offer to give him a ride on one of my shuttles?" Ukraine thinks hard, brows furrowing together.

"What about cooking something for him? I know that dear brother and sister love the bread that I give them"

Russia hums. "Mine? But that is nothing special."

Ukraine pauses, then claps her hands together. "How about his?"

___

It is simple to decide, but the execution, it turns out, is tricky.

What does America like to eat?

He rules out hamburgers immediately. Hotdogs follow soon after. It's embarrassing enough having a McDonald's in Red Square, he is not about to have them in his home. (At least, not without some serious persuasion.)

What does America like to eat? He googles and gets contradictory answers, though the entries about "Thanksgiving" seem promising. It is not the season for turkey, however, and he has no idea what "succotash" is.

Perhaps some intelligence-gathering is needed. He debates calling England, but decides things are tense enough between them - no need to remind him yet again of his relationship with America.

He winds up calling Canada.
____

Two days later, he is hunched over notes, arranging a hunk of chuck roast in a pot, covered with canned onion soup. Into the oven it goes, and then he is on to chopping carrots and potatoes, before setting them aside.

His cellphone vibrates across the counter. He picks it up absently and flips it open.

"Privyet."

"Hey, Russia!"

It is funny how even now his heart skips a beat hearing America's voice. He presses his hand against his chest to keep it from falling into the bowl of vegetables.

"Amerika. How are you?"

"Just dandy, thanks! Yourself?"

Russia glances around his kitchen. "I am well. Busy, but well."

"Umm hmmm… busy doing what?"

Russia chuckles. "Busy doing secret things."

"Secret things? Is this something I should be worried about? Do I need to alert the CIA?" The sincerity and concern in America's voice is marred by the undercurrent of laughter crackling over the phone line.

"Your CIA is so incompetent they cannot find the noses on their faces," Russia says with especial fondness.

"Hey now," America pouts, "don't go dissing my intelligence agency!"

Russia laughs while listening to America's grumbling on the other end.

"All right, all right, laugh all you want."

He quiets himself, reaches out to snag a carrot and takes a bite, nibbling away like a rabbit.

"Not that I do not enjoy hearing your voice, but may I ask why you are calling me?"

"I can't call to just talk if I want to?" America feigns hurt. "Well, fine. Just wanted to let you know my flight info and all, since it's not really an 'official' visit."

"Very well. Let me find a pencil."

They discuss America's flight (the information winds up written in the margin of Russia's notes) and then the conversation wanders from topic to topic, until they are discussing rockets and Russia realizes two hours have gone by.

He hurriedly opens the oven and dumps the potatoes and carrots into the pot, the bowl making a clanging sound against the oven door.

"What's that?" America asks, interrupted in midflow.

"Nothing," Russia grunts. "Just making dinner."

"Ah really? Oh man, I'm looking forward to meals at your house! I mean, I love Mickey D's and everything, but your food is something else, ya know?"

Warmth blooms again in Russia's chest. "I am glad you think so."

Someone is speaking to America; he can hear it through the phone. America replies. then speaks to him. "Hey, listen, I have to go. I'll see you soon, okay?"

Russia sighs. "If you must. I shall be at the airport to pick you up."

"Okay. That would be awesome. Can't wait to see you."

"Same to you, dorogoi."

They hang up.

_____

Russia has a bit of time to wait. He sets the timer, then goes through some paper work on the kitchen table. One hour passes. He gets up, checks the oven.

Hmm… not quite done. He pokes the meat and realizes the carrots are still much too firm. Perhaps another hour?

He goes back to his paper work.

One hour. The meat looks undercooked.

Two hours. The potatoes are still much too firm. Canada said they should be easy to cut through.

Three hours. The roast is still raw in the middle.

Four hours. This is getting ridiculous. Russia finally pulls the pot out and stares at it. The outside is overcooked, the inside still raw. He tries some, and it tastes exactly like underdone meat.

He calls Canada again.

"Mmm… what's up Russia? Did you try the recipe I gave you?"

"Privyet, Kanada. Yes, I have. I believe I have made a mistake, however."

He presents the problem to his partner in crime. Canada chuckles over the phone. "I think I know what went wrong here. Don't worry, it's an easy mistake to make."

Russia pokes the roast again.

"What was it?"

"It's my fault really, don't think I told you about this part. You need to cover the whole thing in tin foil so it cooks properly."

"I see. And if I do that, it will not be underdone?"

"It shouldn't be."

"Thank you, Kanada. I appreciate your help."

"Not a problem. Good luck, eh?"

_____

Despite Canada's reassurance, Russia is nervous the day of America's flight. He rushes through the house, cleaning and fussing over minor details. He has another roast, all ready to go, as well as a peach pie (which America professes to like just as much as apple). He double checks the tinfoil on the pot, just to be sure.

Finally, there is nothing more to be done and it is time to pick up America.

He waits in the baggage claim.

"Russia!" He is engulfed in a bear hug which he happily returns, burying his face in America's hair.

"I am glad to see you made it safely."

America beams up at him tiredly. "As if anything would happen on the way over. Well, I could've been abducted by aliens, but that would've been kinda awesome, but also not because then I wouldn't be here, so it all works out."

Russia just hugs him again, glad that any aliens wanting to abduct America had held off.

Baggage is soon collected, and he manages to get America to his car. The blonde dozes on the way home, leaning against the car door and snoring quietly. They pull up his driveway to his home, and he shuts the car off, nudging his passenger.

"Pickles…. nooo… England, make the scary lights go 'waaaay…"

Russia takes a moment to laugh into his hand before nudging America again.

"Dorogoi, we are here."

America gets up drowsily to the tune of his stomach growling. He's guided inside with promises that he can lie down on the couch until dinner. And stops short.

"Whazzat?" He wrinkles his nose at the smell in the air.

Russia comes up behind him with his luggage. "Hmm?" He takes a sniff, himself. "Dinner seems to be almost ready."

"Dinner? Whaddya make?" America follows the elder nation into the kitchen. He plops himself down at the table and watches him pull out the pot from the oven. "Smells familiar. Have I had this before?"

Russia lifts back the tinfoil and sighs in relief. "I should hope so," he mumbles absently, going to open the fridge. "Otherwise, this will be all for naught."

He comes back with water, then goes to fetch plates and silverware. He makes America close his eyes, then brings the pot over, setting it on the table and removing the tinfoil entirely. "You will have to tell me what you think," he says shyly. "This is only my second attempt, but I hope you like it."

America opens his eyes and looks down. And stares. "You made pot roast?"

"Do you not like it?" Russia asks, suddenly nervous.

"No, no, it's just…" he continues to stare, with a funny sort of smile on his face. "I… I haven't had this in ages. It looks delicious, Russia." He looks up, still with that strange look in his eyes. "Thank you."

Russia blushes. "Do not thank me yet. You have yet to try some. Here." He beckons for America's plate and serves him a generous portion. He then serves himself and looks to America, anxious to see what he thinks of it.

America, never one to do anything by halves, loads his fork with meat, potato, and carrot and slips it into his mouth. He closes his eyes and chews. Then he relaxes and hums happily. "This is incredible! I can't believe you made this for me!" He goes to eat more, stuffing it happily into his mouth.

Russia sighs in relief, and takes a bite himself. It tastes different, but not bad. Warm and filling, the kind of food that sticks to your ribs.

He looks to America, gasping in contentment, and smiles.

____

After dinner comes dessert ("Peach pie! This is awesome!"). And then he and America clean up (America insists on helping, sneaking bits of pot roast when he thinks Russia isn't looking) until Russia shoos him out and finishes.

America is lying on the couch, groaning contentedly when Russia joins him, immediately sliding over to make room, before pressing himself into the elder nation's side.

"That," he declares, "was good."

Russia hums as he settles an arm around America's shoulders. "I am glad you liked it."

"I loved it. Thank you." America presses a kiss to Russia's check, then leans down against his shoulder. He sighs sleepily. " 's the best meal ever."

Russia presses a kiss to America's hair. "Happy Anniversary, America."

"hmm… same to you, big guy. Your gift's in the bag, here, lemme get it…" America struggles to sit up, then flops back against Russia, trying to stay awake.

Russia strokes his hair. "Do not worry about it, dorogoi. Rest. It will be there when you wake up."

"Mmm… okay." America finally succumbs to slumber.

Russia simply continues to stroke his hair as he sleeps.

_____
Notes: Yankee Pot Roast is the name of the dish. It's fairly simple, and a pretty staple food for winter for Americans. It can be cooked in the oven, or in a crockpot. (as a side note, the tin foil is important. My mother and I made the mistake of forgetting it, and the roast did not cook properly.)

Succotash is a New England dish involving beans and veggies all cooked together. It was a Native American dish, originally.

Dorogoi: If I have this right, it's essentially "darling" in Russian.

I hope you enjoy it just as much as I did writing it! :D

[FIC FILL] PET

2010-09-10T13:20:00Z

TITLE: Pet
AUTHOR/ARTIST: vexinglilium
RECIPIENT: darklordavy
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: The Netherlands/Canada
RATING: MA / NC-17
NOTES: This fic contains original characters, drug use, sex, D/s elements, some dub-con, and steampunk sex toys. Yes, you heard that right.
SUMMARY: Steampunk AU. Canada unknowingly finds his way aboard a smuggling airship crewed by the Netherlands and his cities.

To the recipient: I apologize for not having time to expand upon this story. I've been dealing with illness and the beginning of school recently. (Though not to worry--I've nearly entirely healed and the new professors I've met so far seem awesome.)

Canada doesn’t like how similar Kumajirou’s cries sound to metal parts scraping against each other. It’s a horrible sound, honestly. That’s why Canada is so quick to investigate the source of them, even if it’s a, ‘Come here—I found something interesting’ noise rather than a, ‘Help—I’m in pain’ one.

Canada ascends the unknown ramp with a thought to get out of whosever vehicle this is as soon as he finds Kumajirou. The reason for the bear’s excited discovery would be a stray piece of beef jerky, he soon discovers.

“C’mon, Kuma. Stop stealing. We’ve got to go.” With that, he attempts to lift his pet, but he’s quite a bit heavier than he looks. The struggling also makes this into no simple task.

Eventually the bear escapes and goes darting off amongst sacks and crates of all sorts. Mostly food, as Canada can tell from the shapes and labels. Rice; flour; potatoes. Containers of jerky, fruit preserves, and jarred vegetables. Enough food to last whoever was aboard this thing for quite a long time. Canada stops pondering this and resumes his search. Kumajirou is being quiet now, so this is going to require a good portion of his attention.

The silence other than his footsteps make it easy for Canada to hear the yells of very nearby orders and soon, the sounds of more sacks being thrown onto the floor. With a mental curseword, he freezes. It’s only when the yelling seems not quite so close that he dares resume his search, hissing for Kumajirou to come. He ceases these only when he hears the slam of a large metal hatch and the fiddling of a lock being attached.

Canada sits to think. Not much else he can do here. Banging on the door would be near-useless. Even if he were heard, he’d have a hell of a time explaining that his pet polar bear had snuck aboard to eat from their food stores if he couldn’t even find the creature. They’d think he were some street rat looking for some easy dinner. Canada was proud of his honest living. Typesetting paid him enough to get by, and meant that he was never short of reading material.

Canada waits. Somewhere among hearing the hissing of steam, shifting of pistons, and rattling of old gears turning, Kumajirou finds his way back to Canada’s side. The sounds are awfully loud. The boiler room must be next door.

It must be because of him working all day at the printing press that he doesn’t mind the sound. Soothing to him, even. Soothing enough to, within an hour, coax Canada into sleep.

Somebody is shaking his shoulder. Canada wakes with a start to find himself face-to-face with a boy a good seven or eight years younger than himself. Purple shirt, tan pants. Blond curly hair. Canada’s too busy adjusting his glasses to get a better look that he nearly misses the question about what in the hell he’s doing here.

“I’m Canada,” he mumbles. A downwards glance to Kumajirou curled up in slumber reassures him that it’s okay to tell the truth. “My bear snuck aboard to eat some food. And… And I was chasing him, but before I knew it, the door shut. I-I don’t even know where I am.”

“Oh, the boss is gonna be pissed…” The boy takes a moment to grab a sack of potatoes nearly half his size and sling it over his shoulder. “Come with me. Let the bear sleep.”

The boy’s got an unnaturally high voice, Canada notices. Along with a peculiar inflection on his words that he isn’t used to. Not the same as an accent. Simply odd.

Rubbing his eyes and stretching, Canada rises to his feet and prepares to follow. Not like he’s got any other option. If he looks really sorry and tells the truth, maybe he’ll be let off easy. Canada hates confrontations. He sulks whenever his supervisors tell him he’s messed up small things, for god’s sake.

The state of this place, he notices, is neither quite in good shape nor decay. Rather, it seems that pieces of his surroundings that had grown so old to be problematic had been replaced with new components, but anything carrying rust or stains that did not interfere would remain. The bridge, when he arrives there, appears no different. There is a world map pinned to a broad table, a steering wheel, and couches scattered throughout the room for relaxation. The entire room is elliptical.

Upon one of the couches, a man sits reading a book of some sort. His hair is the most curious thing about him. Pale brown and spiked straight upwards to make a peak upon the centre of his head. He wears a leather coat that extends below his knees, and looks thick and extremely heavy. Sticking out of pockets, around his neck, and around his waist are all manner of strange devices and accessories. Things like the rings on his hands were ornamental, as was the chain that looked to be braided out of old pocketwatch ones which hung around his neck. In that place there are also a pair of goggles, more complex in apparent function than Canada had ever seen. The strength it must take to shoulder all of these things, as well as the size of the man, makes him imposing. As does the critical look he’s giving to Canada and his young companion.

“Cap’n, we’ve got a stowaway here,” the boy explains. “Said his pet bear came on board to steal food and got stuck inside. Saw the thing.”

“What kind of bear?” The captain asks. He may as well get all the details in this messed up story.

“A-A polar bear, sir.” Saying ‘Captain’ wouldn’t be fitting until he knows the man’s name, Canada thinks. A ‘sir’ is safe. “A polar bear cub. His name is Kumajirou.”

“Hm.” The captain pulls from his pocket and puts between his lips something that looks like a cigarette, but is thinner and pure white. The lighter he pulls out to start it with is copper and etched with a picture of a cityscape. As he begins to smoke, going over to the window to look upon the sky, the bridge fills with a sweet, intoxicating smell that had been hanging faintly around the area previously.

“We can’t just drop him off,” the captain thinks aloud. “Long voyage. But we can’t let him stay either. Could always toss him outta the ship.”

Fearing for his life, Canada speaks with haste and less hesitance than normal. “I can make myself useful, sir. Anything that you need doing.”

“Can you fix machines?” Asks the captain.

“No, sir.” Not even the printing press, when it stalls. He’s tried before with no success.

“Can you cook?”

“W-Well enough.”

The captain makes a noise of conditional approval. “Then that’s what you’ll be doing.” He turns around and strides over. Canada doesn’t at all recognize the smell of whatever he’s smoking. “Welcome to my ship. I’m the Netherlands. Before you ask or Amsterdam offers some to you, yes, this is a smuggling ship. Mostly opium.”

That warning looks tells Canada clearly that he is not to mention the activities on this ship to any authorities, lest the Netherlands change his mind about letting him stay. “I-I will try my best… Captain.” Having to say the title is so alien to him.

“Til, take him down to the kitchen. He’ll help you do errands, too.”

Practically beaming at the prospect to not have to slave away in the kitchen or with a washcloth, the boy beckons Canada to come. “Sure thing, Cap’n.”

Canada doesn’t risk another glance at the Netherlands’ face when he is leaving. No such issue about doing the same to the boy, who is now introducing himself.

“Tilburg,” he says, a hand on his chest. “And yeah, don’t take any drugs from Amsterdam. I tried some once. Don’t do it.”

Canada nods his understanding. “What kind of person is Amsterdam?” This is making him curious. That person certainly seemed to be the questionable sort.

Tilburg grins. Ah, how to describe him? “Special, how ‘bout that. He’ll prob’ly try ‘n’ sleep with you. Up to you if you let him.”
That gets a shudder out of Canada. He doesn’t like the thought of that. Premarital sex was a morally corrupting thing—or at least, that was the opinion he had gathered from all the people he had known to engage in it. “I sincerely doubt I will.”

“Then don’t take his drugs.” Tilburg kicks open the door to a noisy room without knocking. It appears to be a workshop. “Hey, there!” He calls to the two busy workers to be heard over the machines.

The man, large and hunched over a lathe, pulls his file away from the brass disc he’d been shaping. He wipes his brow with the corner of a filthy rag. When he turns around it’s clear he’s young. Only slightly older than Canada, probably. The man looks in confusion at the new crew member.

“Utrecht, this is Canada. Found him as a stowaway. He’s gonna be helping me and working in the kitchen.”

“Meaning we don’t have to cook?” Utrecht goes searching through his workbench drawers for more tools. Something he’d been meaning to do in a minute anyway.

“I suppose not,” says Canada with a shrug.

Upon hearing how soft Canada’s voice is, Utrecht glances over his shoulder. “You’re sort of cute,” is his verdict.

The craftswoman in the room looks up from her table to see if she agrees. Her look says she doesn’t understand how he can think that. “Name’s Eindhoven,” she says with an inclination of her head. Can’t curtsy if she’s sitting. “Utrecht’s sister.”

What she’s working on seems far more interesting than what her brother is. Canada comes to stand over the table and watch her apply varnish to a smooth, curved length of wood. The purpose of it evades Canada, which Eindhoven notices and explains.

“This gets attached to that engine,” she says, and points to a metal cylinder containing the smallest steam engine Canada has ever seen, “and the whole thing vibrates.”

“Why?”

“’Cause Amsterdam requested it. Saw I bought that tiny engine didn’t have a use for it. So he said having something vibrating would be interesting.”

“But what is it for?” Canada has a feeling he will soon regret asking.

“Wooden bit gets shoved up inside yourself—made of wood so you won’t get burned. And then you turn it on and enjoy it.”

Canada knew there was a reason the piece of wood looked vaguely phallic. He’s regretting having asked. Eindhoven is smiling knowingly at him, which he returns with an awkward and tiny smile of his own. Then he turns around and sees that Tilburg is asking Utrecht if there’s a spare mattress around that Canada can sleep on. Much easier of a conversation topic to deal with.

Turns out that there is one around. Admittedly it is too old to be serving practical purpose any longer, but it will do. Tilburg spares a blanket of his own for Canada. His pillow is a decorative one stolen from Amsterdam’s couch. Canada had kindly volunteered to stay behind when Tilburg had gone to get it. He will be sleeping in a corner of the storage room. Not the most comfortable place, but there was no room in any of the bedrooms for an extra bed. With the exceptions of Amsterdam and the Netherlands, he’d been told, but Canada sincerely doubted that either of them would want to share space.

Canada spends the rest of his day becoming acquainted with the kitchen and the storage room. Everything is surprisingly well-organized, in contrast to the state that the workshop had been. Canada is shown which crates were the cargo they were delivering and clearly warned to stay away from them. As for food, he has free access to everything, save for a few specialty items. Those were for the captain.

Preparing dinner is tiring, as he expected. Canada was left to do this without assistance. Kumajirou is his only company as he cooks for seven. In the end he had settled for a type of vegetable stew. Simple to make, but it required much preparation. By the time his stomach is full, he is longing for bed. As soon as he is done with the dishes, he retires to the storage room with Kumajirou curled up next to him.

Today is a cleaning day. Armed with a mop and a washcloth for dusting, Canada sets off to conquer his tasks. As he works through the boiler room, he becomes enamored with the mechanical equipment. Having never been closely exposed to advanced technology like this in his lifetime allows him to look upon it with childlike curiosity. Canada isn’t sure which fascinates him more—the sounds from the machinery, of work and wear; or the aesthetics of interlocking cogs and the colour variations of different metals and other materials.

When Utrecht comes in to make sure that everything is functioning as it should, he has the kindness to explain to Canada what the functions of some of these machine parts are. This runs the propellers; this pumps the water. Utrecht walks him through the transfer of energy, from the boiler to the gears to the end and function of the device. All throughout explaining, Utrecht stokes the fire with Canada’s assistance. He discovers that coal is far heavier than it appears.

The bedrooms come next on Canada’s agenda. Tilburg’s is a messy affair, full of food containers and assorted trinkets, as most childrens’ are. He is surprised to discover that Utrecht and Eindhoven share a room. Mixed-gender living was far from common amongst grown unmarried people. He does remember being told that they were siblings, which made it somewhat acceptable in Canada’s mind. The cleanliness of the room to begin with gives him less incentive to contemplate and judge it.

The next bedroom he comes by has not a door, but a curtain of red brocade. When pushed aside, he finds that it’s the same colour which dominates the living space. Red and dark browns, with gold accents on the edges of furniture and the stitching on throw pillows. For all appearances, this looks to be the lair of some ancient dragon with good taste in decoration.

On a fainting couch reclines a figure in a bodice and skirt. The skirt does not extend to floor-length as Canada typically sees, but goes past knee-length with a richly ornamented hem. Likewise, the bodice is decorated with frills and ribbons. The figure’s hair was long and auburn, curled and left to flow freely over their chest. If he hadn’t been clued into the male gender pronouns, Canada would have automatically assumed that this beauty was a woman. Even so, he has his doubts.

“Come here, pet,” the beauty says with an inviting gesture of the hand. Canada is nervous about obeying, but does. What makes him more nervous are the eyes raking up and down his frame; surveying him. “So you’re the stowaway boy, aren’t you? Cute. Very cute.” The smile the stranger offers is intrigued in the same way that a snake is about a mouse. “May I offer you a drink?”

“N-No thank you.” Canada hurries to look elsewhere in this room. Fortunately the rich ornamentation makes this easy.

“No? Hmm.” The supposed man sits up and begins to prepare himself another drink. It is a curious process, involving an ornate spoon delicately balanced upon the glass, a cube of sugar, and some green drink that Canada cannot, for the life of him, identify. “Canada, I am Amsterdam. Very pleasant to meet you.”

“And the same to you,” Canada automatically answers. The way in which Amsterdam continues to stare through half-lidded eyes, he finds, is nothing short of intimidating. He feels as though his value on the slave market is being estimated.

“D’you—” Canada scowls in embarrassment as he remembers his purpose for coming here. “Do you need anything cleaned?”

“No thank you, dear.” After a sip of that mysterious drink comes an enigmatic lip-curl. “Though do feel free to visit my chamber whenever you… feel the need for company.”

Needless to say, Canada is quick to leave and take his cleaning supplies elsewhere.

Canada’s been robbed of his ability to see. It is the middle of the night and he can hear somebody in the room with him. He tries to move his hands; remove the obstruction from his eyes—but they are bound behind his back with some kind of restraints made of cool leather and cooler metal. Canada makes a protesting noise for automatic fear of kidnapping, but silences himself when told to hush.

Then there are hands peeling away his underwear, which gets him to really start to panic. Those same hands pin down his attempts at groggy struggling. Canada realizes in less than a minute that they’re damned strong. He stops, after that. The hands withdraw and resume their task of disrobing him.

Canada will not sit idly by when he those hands begin to fondle his nether regions. The most protest he can offer is a kick that doesn’t connect and a hissing, “Stop.” Again he’s told to hush, and again he stops. The hands continue. “What are you—”

There is no answer. Only the sound and slight vibration of the floor as somebody lowers themselves to their knees. Canada tries to edge away as much he can from those wicked hands’ contact as he finds himself growing hard against his will. Self-pleasure was not new to him, but activity of that sort with a partner most certainly was. It’s uncomfortable. Foreign.

And overwhelming, as soon as Canada feels something slick and warm and good envelop the tip of his prick. A mouth? It had to be. Canada is reduced to shaking and gasping between parted lips as that probable mouth begins to move.

“Stop,” repeats his common sense aloud. The half-hearted command goes ignored.

Canada finds out that it truly is a mouth around him when it begins to moan. The vibrations upon his engorged flesh are a phenomenon unto themselves. Canada hears himself echoing it before he can help himself. Wishes he could have a hand to quieten the louder sounds that are threatening to escape, he does. There are tears beading in the corners of his eyes as he keeps his whimpers as soft as possible. The prospect of somebody walking in on him and seeing him in this obscene position would be horrifying.

This utterly new, utterly fantastic type of stimulation brings him quickly to orgasm. It hits him with all the force of a locomotive. Canada is seeing sparks behind his dampened eyes as he bends over almost double. Nearly surreal, this feeling.

Whomever the visitor servicing him was does not wait around for Canada to recover. His cuffs are unlocked and the footsteps he hears long overtaken by mechanical resonance by the time he removes his blindfold.

Canada does not at all blame himself for his ensuing paranoia on the following day. In his sleepy state, he had not been able to find any indication as to who had been responsible. Amsterdam was the obvious choice. He thought he remembered some off sort of scent hanging in the air. But from what little he had seen of the man, he assumed that Amsterdam would be much more of the direct and talkative sort.

It wouldn’t be Tilburg or Eindhoven. The voice he’d heard hints of was too low to be either of theirs. That left him with four people to be suspicious about, including the one he had yet to meet but had seen at the dinner table.

Watching Kumajirou notice and interact with a rabbit unexpectedly inhabiting the ship’s bridge was a good enough distraction. Odd. He hadn’t seen any pets around the ship at all. Canada kneels down beside the creature to extend a friendly hand with the intention of petting it. The rabbit responds well to this, turning to nuzzle curiously at his fingers.

“Her name is Nijntje.”

Startled, Canada turns around. The constant noise made it sometimes difficult to hear anybody approaching. He tries out the sound of the name on his tongue just as he’s coming face-to-face with the captain. “Is she yours, sir?”

The Netherlands nods. “Yes. She is. Pet her if you want to.”

Canada takes him up on this suggestion. He quickly discovers that her fur is far less coarse than Kumajirou’s. “She seems to be a sweet rabbit, sir.”

“Drop the honorifics, kid. This ain’t a military ship—you know that.” The Netherlands has a hint of a laugh about him, with the intent to put Canada at ease. It works. “Where’d you get your bear?”

“I found Kumajirou when I was visiting family overseas. He was hanging around the cottage for days. I brought him some food, and then I could never get rid of him. So I brought him back with me.” Much to the bewilderment of the airship’s other passengers, he does recall.

“Ah. Bit more interesting a story than being a gift from my sister, that.” The Netherlands squats down to tickle behind Nijntje’s ears. “Seems to like you, doesn’t she. Wanna take care of her?”

Canada is surprised by this. Caring for the captain’s pet, of all things? He can’t exactly refuse. And Nijntje does seem to be an independent rabbit. “Sure. Of course I can.”

The Netherlands smiles broadly. “Good. Let her wander wherever, just make sure she doesn’t get into the boiler room or outside. And feed her twice a day. There’s hay in the storage, and a bit of whatever vegetables you have laying around.”

That sounds simple enough. “I will.”

“Should come down to my room tomorrow night to see you’re doing. Not giving you too much to do, am I?”

Canada shakes his head. Though the work was plentiful, it was a pleasant change from the doldrums of his normal job.

“Tomorrow night, then.” With a backwards wave, the Netherlands departs.

Later on tomorrow, Canada realizes that he doesn’t know where the Netherlands’ room is. He’d assumed that ‘down’ meant on the same level as the storage room, but to this moment, he’d had no success in finding it. He’ll have to find somebody to help him. He doesn’t know where any of the people he’d met are, and he has no desire to have another run-in with Amsterdam. Cradling the rabbit in his arms, he knocks and enters the nearest lamp-lit room when invited to do so.

Canada finds himself looking upon the one man he had seen only at dinnertime. He was far more formally dressed than any other of the ships’ crew, and staring at a ledger through a pair of thick-rimmed circular glasses. Thick brown hair made up the short-cropped haircut, the mustache, and the stubble of a beard. “May I help you?”

Finally. One sane person amongst the ship’s questionable crew. “Yes, I’m looking for the captain’s room. He invited me, but I’m not sure where it is.”

The man pauses to press buttons on some strange device next to him. The buttons clack; the wheels inside whirr. The man copies something down with his dip pen. “In the bridge, there is a door to the left of the entranceway. Descend the stairs and his room is there.”

“Oh. Thank you very much.” Canada pauses to make sure that Nijntje is doing okay in his arms. “I am Canada, by the way.”

“And I, Rotterdam. Take care.”

A grateful inclination of the head, and Canada leaves. “He was an awfully nice man, wasn’t he?” He quietly says to the rabbit, stroking her ears. If an answer came he’d be extremely surprised, but his usual confidante Kumajirou was sleeping.

Canada continues on through the hallways of the airship. These are becoming increasingly familiar to him. Up the steps to the bridge, a turn, and yes, there’s the door. Canada finds that it is unlocked. The doorframe at the end of the hall is made of glass in bright copper-framed panels. It isn’t smooth glass, either—it has a textured quality that distorts the flickering light within. Canada knocks on the door and waits.

“Come,” says the Netherlands.

Canada finds him sitting upon his bed, tinkering with his pocketwatch. The chain extending from his waistcoat to his pocket tells him that he has another, and so he mentally questions the purpose of this. It is odd to see the Netherlands without his heavy jacket. But there’s a fire burning in the grate which keeps out the altitude chill. The fire is not the sole source of light in the room—all upon the walls there is a row of cylindrical glass bulbs with glowing wires within. These do not glow evenly but pulse every few moments, which accounted for the flickering. Everywhere there are edges of brass and polished wood for them to highlight. The Netherlands’ room is full not of riches and jewels, but new technology. Canada finds himself in awe.

“Sit.” The Netherlands indicates the foot of the bed. If Canada doesn’t move much, then his work will not be interrupted. He pauses to allow his visitor to follow the order, and to examine how his pet is doing. “Nijntje looks fine. Good job.”

Canada is pleased to hear it. “Thank you.”

“So how’re you doing?” The Netherlands pulls out a brush to clean out the interior of the watch. “Adjusting?”

“Yes. I have been.”

“Different from your normal life, isn’t it. What’d you do before?”

“I was a typesetter. I worked at a printing press.” Not nearly as impressive as the captain of an airship, Canada’s thinking.

The captain seems to disagree. “’S neat. What kinda stuff’d you do?”

“Newspapers, mostly. Some posters.”

A nod of approval. The Netherlands attaches the back of the pocketwatch and stows it away in his pocket. From his other one, he takes out one of his slender white cigarettes. “Pass me those matches, will you?” Canada gets him the box from the table he was indicated and hands them over. It takes his third try for him to light it. Then it’s inhaling sweet smoke and relaxing into his pillows.

Finding it impolite to observe the Captain when he was trying to relax, Canada occupies himself with stroking Nijntje’s fur.

“Was it good? I can’t for the life of me remember.”

Canada stares with a look of confusion. “I’m not sure what you are talking about.”

The Netherlands is smirking. Not in the same feral way that Amsterdam wore one, but one of superiority nonetheless. “When I came to visit you the other night.”

His face grows pale as Canada comes to this realization. It had been the Netherlands that night. It had been the Netherlands who had restrained him and blindfolded him and… done those things to him. Things he hadn’t wanted, but his body had enjoyed. He doesn’t know what he wants to do first—tell him off or simply leave. For the moment he does nothing.

The Netherlands’ smile fades away, replaced by stoicism. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you.”

Canada had thought that had been obvious. He nods, pointedly staring at the wooden floor.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” The Netherlands’ voice is similarly emotionless, but that in itself makes it sound genuine. “I was high at the time—I didn’t realize.”

Canada has to wonder if he always plays these mind games when up to sexual activity. What a degenerate.

“I’m normally nice about it.” Nijntje has hopped away from Canada, and so the Netherlands takes her into his arms. “But… wasn’t horrible, was it?”

Canada needs to think about this. God above, he doesn’t want to answer. But he’s just been asked a question by a superior and cannot, for the sake of his values, avoid it. “No. Not horrible,” he says in a very small voice.

“Tell you what. You wanna try that again, come see me and we’ll do it properly. Whenever. Again, I’m sorry. Thanks for taking care of Nijntje.”

A week ago he doubted he would even think about indulging the Netherlands’ offer. But a week ago he hadn’t been tormented constantly, sleeping and waking, with memories and possibilities. If the Netherlands could do so well when not in his conscious mind, then how well could he do that if he were focused on it? Canada was frustrated—a fact that he made clearly known to Kumajirou. Why did the Netherlands have to go and get under his skin like this? He’d thought himself nearly incorruptible, and now he was tormented by temptations he didn’t even know the nature of.

Canada lasts another two days. Two days of trying his best to put all of the attention that he could into his assigned tasks. Then, when he’s cleaning the windowpanes of the bridge with the Netherlands sitting there reading, he gives up.

“C-Captain?” He’s all the way across the room and Canada doubts that he can even hear him.

Apparently he does, when he marks the place in his book with a thumb. “What is it?”

Incredibly wary of being overheard, Canada approaches within a few feet of the Netherlands and keeps his voice low. He focused on the goggles instead of at the face of the person he is speaking to. “That offer of yours… Does it still stand?”

The Netherlands looks nothing short of victorious. I knew you would ask. “In a couple hours, it can. Meet me in my room for then.”

Canada squeaks out a, “Yes, sir,” and scurries off.

The next couple of hours are, predictably, torturous. Especially the ten minutes or so he spends in the captain’s room awaiting his arrival. When the captain finally does enter, Canada follows his instruction to sit upon the bed. Canada had thought it an invasion of space to do so right away, and so had been passing time in an armchair.

The Netherlands’ orders to Canada to undress and lie down come in a manner that’s almost businesslike. His coat is thrown on top of the armchair with a loud flop. Looks like it had been just as heavy as Canada had thought. The chain and the goggles go on top of this. Then it’s the waistcoat and the shirt. Naked to his waist, the Netherlands climbs on top of Canada’s fully exposed body. To tease, one of his knees slides up between Canada’s legs to touch. “So. What exactly do you feel like doing?”

Canada already likes having visuals this time around. That knee, though, is an uncomfortable annoyance that Canada tries to wriggle away from. “Wha-Whatever you were doing to me that first time.”

With an anticipatory grin, the Netherlands straightens up to take all of the rings off his left hand. Wouldn’t want to scratch Canada with them. “Can do. You, relax. It’ll suck if you’re all nervous.”

Canada can’t help being nervous. It’s in his nature. But the Netherlands fondling him with a touch that is both familiar and altogether new does take some of that away. It takes a couple of minutes, but slowly, he’s adjusting. Then the Netherlands shoves his mouth down upon his erection, and it’s so tight that it makes Canada cry out in something that is far from pain. It defies logical sense for a person to smile with their mouth full in that way, but he’s seeing it.

The Netherlands is far from gentle or lazy this time. His goal is to overwhelm Canada so much that he simply isn’t able to be anxious. But not to have him orgasm—no, the Netherlands wants to leave him panting and desiring more by the time he is finished with him.

The Netherlands’ strength is an asset with the way Canada cannot stop his hips from moving. Too much—this is too much. This time, too, Canada whispers for him to stop, but this time not really meaning it. He believes that this is equally as agonizing as the frustration at having nothing. It makes the pleasure almost painful, from the way he progresses to thrashing about and clutching at his wavy hair. “G-God damn it…” Canada chokes out between breaths.

With a final, long lick up his cock, the Netherlands pauses. His efforts have been nothing but successful. There is the wonderful sight of young Canada splayed out, skin flushed and trembling, gasping for air. How lovely. “Do you want more?” The Netherlands asks, all low seduction.

Canada can only nod. He wishes for nothing else than that.

The Netherlands climbs off the bed to reach into a bag he had set down beside it. What he withdraws and sets on the bedside table are a small jar of something near-colourless and viscous, accompanied by a long wooden box. The Netherlands invites Canada to climb off the bed for a moment so that he can remove the quilt. Then he unscrews the lid of the jar and opens the box. In it are a series of four small conical shapes with flanged bases, made from steel. The smallest of them, he hands to Canada.

“Put some of that liquid on it,” he points, “and ease it into your arse.”

“My what?” Canada doesn’t know if he looks more or less shocked than when he found out that the Netherlands had been the one responsible for molesting him. He had no idea how two males could sexually interact. This wasn’t anything he’d ever fathomed.

“Into your arse. Trust me. It will be good. I know it sounds strange, but believe me, try it.”

Understandably, Canada is extremely skeptical. “You do it.”

The Netherlands helps out by scooping up some of the thick liquid with his fingers and spreading it on the cone, wiping them clean on the sheets afterward. “But it’s better if you do. It’s going to hurt, so you need to do it really slowly.”

The purpose of this activity eludes Canada. As does thinking up the best position in which to attempt this. He settles for kneeling with using one hand as support in front of himself and inserting the cone with the other. “It’s cold,” he comments when it touches his entrance.

“It’ll warm up.” The Netherlands pays close attention to Canada’s face to watch his reactions. “When you’re finished with the first one and it stops hurting, move to the second. Keep doing that until you can fit the biggest one inside.”

Canada doesn’t know why he trusts the captain, but he does. On an exhale, he begins to push on the tip of the cone. There is a lot of resistance, which results in a lot of discomfort. His face shows it. The calming words of the Netherlands do help, and he tries pushing it in further. A wince results, accompanied by a grunt of pain.

“Careful. I said slowly.” The Netherlands gets up off the bed. Grabs a wine bottle and glass; sits down in a chair. “It’s going to take you a while. You can do it.” And while he waits, he’s going to relax with a pleasant drink.

Determination is something of which Canada has plenty. It’s what allows him to bear with the pain all throughout the next while. The Netherlands was right when he said that it would take a long time. But Canada suspects that he may not be entirely wrong about this being pleasurable. When it stopped hurting on the third one and he forced it in a slight bit far, he’d felt a flicker of something good. It makes him curious about what else may follow, and so he asks. “What is this for?”

The Netherlands pauses mid-sip and sets down his nearly-empty glass. Canada was putting on such a good show that he supposes he ought to explain. True to what fantasies he’s currently entertaining in his head, he is vulgar with his phrasing. “I am going to put my prick in there next and penetrate you as if you were a woman.”

Canada isn’t keen on the sound of that. Everything he’d heard about sex, it wasn’t enjoyable for the woman at all. “Will it feel good?”

“Very.” A fond smile from the Netherlands, and he drains his glass. “I’ve been in your spot before. I know.”

For the moment, Canada will trust him. He goes right on trusting him until he can fit in the fourth cone without pain. Then, at the captain’s encouragement, he lays back while the Netherlands removes the cone, strips, and coats his prick with a large portion of the liquid. Canada knows by now that it feels oily to the touch and makes the penetration smoother. Even so, when he feels his legs being lifted and the Netherlands begin to enter him, there is a lot of friction. Canada hisses in response to it, and he is accordingly penetrated more slowly. Adjusting to this is easier than it had been to the metal cones. Being filled with a length of flesh instead was both warmer and softer. It’s not so bad, but Canada fails to see what may be good about this.

“Am I doing okay? Not hurting you?” The Netherlands blinks down at him concernedly.

Canada shakes his head. “No. I am fine.”

The results of Utrecht’s practice with the lathe one day had helped. That was good—the Netherlands had thought so. A virgin needed all of the assistance he could get. Including a warning before the Netherlands begins to move. God in Heaven, the boy was tight. After rolling his hips back and forth for a few moments, he remembers his courtesy and takes Canada’s prick in hand to slide his fingers along.

Better, much better. Now it’s beginning to feel nice. For a minute, Canada closes his eyes and breathes. Living in the moment. “You can move more,” he tells the captain. He thinks he’s ready to take it.

The Netherlands obliges. Once he’s had his fill of savoring the tightness with slow motions, he lifts Canada’s hips up further to change the angle. He forces in deeper—as deep as he can go. Canada rewards him with a startled gasp. “See, it is good.”

Canada does see. He’d had no idea what that was, but being touched deep inside had felt spectacular. “Can… Can you do that again?”

“’Course.” And the Netherlands does, more sharply than before. Ah, he sees that Canada likes this even better. “Can I move faster?”

Canada’s nod is enthusiastic. That enthusiasm is not misplaced when the brisker movements he’s presented with draw moans from his throat and pleased whimpers from his lips. Canada’s arms grab hold of the man’s biceps and squeeze to channel some of the tension afflicting his body. He forgets embarrassment; forgets propriety. His world is heat and taut muscles and a haze in his mind like exposure to those cigarettes had started to cause after a while. Canada alternates between calmness and agitation as the Netherlands continues. He begs, eventually. Begs for his lover to move deeper and faster, and when he does, cries out a release and spills all over his stomach.

The Netherlands takes a couple minutes more to work himself to completion. Canada’s slack muscles, he continues to support as he has his way with the boy. When he’s finishing his vigor causes Canada to wince, but it must not be too bad, for he does not protest it. Now tired himself, the Netherlands withdraws from the boy’s body and lays himself down on the bed.

With their breath intermingling, there is a minute of silence. The Netherlands is the one to break it. “Now was it good?”

Canada could laugh if he weren’t out of breath. The vocally unexpressed mirth extends instead to his eyes. “Yeah. That was good.”

The voyage lasts for weeks. Fortunately, Canada does not have to spend all of this time sleeping in the storage room. The day after they had slept together, the Netherlands had offered him a place to put his mattress on the floor beyond his footboard and, occasionally, would share with him his bed.

The Netherlands had won himself a great deal of admiration after that night. Canada felt far more motivated to serve him and his crew these days. From the hard work in the kitchen to relaxing with them on their social nights, Canada put his heart into it all. He did miss his old life sometimes, however. His own room; his own paying job.

But when they pull back into port in his home city and the Netherlands calls for him and tells him that if he’s going to leave, he cannot say anything about the purpose of this airship to anybody.

Canada says he isn’t. Even if that means serving as a thing like a captain’s pet, curled up at the foot of his bed, to keep him and his crew company in exchange for nothing but food and water, he doesn’t care. Pets were given an abundance of affection, weren’t they.

[Fic Fill] An Overdue Visit

2010-09-10T03:15:39Z

TITLE: An Overdue Visit
AUTHOR/ARTIST: inner_wings
RECIPIENT: revolutionjack
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: England, America, platonic England/America
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: England goes to see his little colony again after a long absence, but a few of England's lessons for America don't go quite as planned.

England was always taken aback by America's open, unabashed delight whenever he came to visit. The boy didn't hold a single thing back, including his abnormal physical strength, as he would fly at England like a ball from a cannon the instant he caught sight of the elder nation exiting the ship and making his way down the dock.

It was clear the lad had grown at a shocking rate in the time England had been gone. The top of his head was now past England's navel, and the charging tackle of a hug that used to merely set him off balance now toppled him right over into an undignified heap on the ground, attracting more than a few raised eyebrows from the other men milling around. It was only luck that America hadn't accidentally knocked them both into the ocean with his enthusiasm.

“You came back!” America cried happily from his current seat on England's stomach. It stung a little, how honestly surprised America seemed, as though he truly expected England to leave for good one day and never return.

“Oh course I did,” England wheezed. The fall had fully knocked the wind out of him, and having a child sit on his chest didn't help speed the recovery. “I promised I would be back...the last time I left...didn't I?”

“But you were gone a long time! For ages and ages! I thought maybe you forgot me.”

“You're impossible to forget,” England laughed breathlessly, ruffling the golden mop of hair. “Now hop up and let me give you a proper hug.”

America was quick to comply with the promise of a hug, and held his arms out expectantly once he climbed to his feet. He had gotten a bit too big for England to scoop him up into his arms anymore, so England instead pushed himself up onto his knees and pulled America to his chest. America squeezed back tightly, nuzzling his cheek against England's coat. England was loath to pull away, but he could feel eyes watching them. Public displays of sentimentality and affection made England squirm, and a glance up at the audience around them was enough to make him untangle his arms from America in an instant.

“We should get back to your house,” England said firmly, fighting back a blush that threatened to bloom across his cheeks. “I'll have my things on the ship sent for later, but I-”

“You want some tea now, right?” America guessed.

“Oh dear, am I that obvious?”

“You always want tea right after you get off the ship! Every time you come to visit!”

“Well it's damn-...erm, impossible to get a decent cup of tea while out at sea,” England said, catching his language at that last minute before steering America back into town. The trip to America's house could be made on foot, but it was a bit of a hike. England had bought that house for America specifically. It was close enough to town for the boy to get anything he needed with relative ease, but far enough away that he was unlikely to draw much attention. It wouldn't do for anyone to notice a little boy who didn't grow like other children.

America practically bounced down the rough trail to his house, tugging at England's hand when the older nation began to slow down.

“Are you tired, England?” he frowned.

“Just a little worn out from the trip,” England admitted. He could see the house through the trees, and sighed happily at the sight.

“I'll make your tea!” America chirped, speeding up and dragging England along behind him. “I can make it all by myself!” He broke away from England then and ran the rest of the way to his house, bolting inside before England could get a word in edgewise.

England followed inside at a slower pace, peering around the house. It was surprisingly well kept, relatively clean and with nothing terribly out of place, save a layer of dust on shelves too tall for America to reach. There was a loud clatter from the kitchen.

“Sit down, England!” America called from around the corner. “I'll bring the tea when it's done!”

Instinct made England want to take over the task from America or follow him into the kitchen to tell him how to do it properly...but the boy clearly wanted to do it by himself. England sighed and took a seat at the table, listening to the scuffling sounds of America's working. The quiet noises and the exhaustion of sea travel had nearly lulled him into a doze when he felt a sharp tap on his arm.

“Finished!” America said proudly, holding out a cup.

England looked down at the offering. The tea was thin and weak, having not been steeped properly, and so loaded down with cream that it was more tea-flavored cream than a real cup of tea. But America was watching expectantly, so England took a gulp and nodded encouragingly. “Very good!” he lied weakly. “You've gotten quite good at taking care of yourself, haven't you?”

America nodded back cheerfully. “I'm learning how to be ind...inder...um...”

“Independent?” England offered.

“Uh huh! I'm learning to be in-de-pen-dent, so I can take care of stuff while you're away and you won't have to worry about me!”

“My dear boy, you could be completely self sufficient and I would still worry about you.”

America wilted slightly. “You don't think I can take care of myself?”

“No, that's not it at all! It's only...that's what big brothers do. They worry about their little brothers and want to look after them, keep them safe. It just means that...er, well...it means that they care.”

“You care about me, England?”

“I'm, ah...qu-quite fond of you.”

“I'm quite fond of you too!” America chirped, with a smile that could melt the coldest hearts. England's didn't stand a chance.

“Well...that...ah,” England floundered helplessly, trying his damnedest to not turn into a soppy, sentimental mess. It was time to change the subject. “Y-You've been keeping up with your studies, haven't you?”

“I practice my letters every day!” America said proudly. “Did you get the letters I sent you? Did you?”

“I did!” England had kept every chicken scratch letter America had sent and showed them off to anyone who held still long enough. Horrific handwriting and questionable grammar and spelling aside, he appeared to have a fair grasp of the language. “Then perhaps we can skip that for now and pick up with your history lessons while I'm here. I was telling you about the Third Crusade last time, wasn't I? About how we bravely took up arms and marched forward to take back the Holy Land and-”

“And how you and France were friends!”

England choked on a sip of tea. “Wha-...what was...I most certainly never-”

“But it said so in the book! It said that Richard the Lionheart...that's a really neat name, I wish I had a name like that. Um, it said Richard the Lionheart was friends with King Philip from France. It was right there in the book you gave me last time!”

Suddenly England was less thrilled with America's fast progress in the written word. “You must have not read any further, because they had a terrible falling out later,” he grumbled. “And I'll have you know that Richard only tolerated Philip for a very short period of time. And only because it suited his own interests. There was no affection there. And certainly none between me and that...that repulsive, filthy minded, snail-eating, cowardly, foul...” England bit down on his tongue before he used any adjectives he didn't want America's innocent young ears to pick up. “Never mind history. We can save those lessons for later. But look here, I brought you something.”

“Is it a story book?” America asked brightly when he saw England pulling a text from his bag.

“No, this is a different kind of book. See here?” England flipped the book open on the table, pushing it closer for America to have a look. “It's full of maps. The entire world is in this book.”

America stared, open mouthed, at the colorfully painted maps. “This is what the world looks like from up high?”

“From very up high,” England laughed. “Higher than birds can fly, I'm sure. Here, turn back a few pages. This is me.”

America followed England's finger with his eyes to the tiny island. “You look so little.”

England bristled at the remark. “Size isn't important! What matters is-”

“Was it lonely? Being off on an island, away from everybody?”

England worked his jaw, caught off guard. “I-I wasn't alone, my brothers are on that island too...although we rarely get along, so I-I suppose it was a little lonely.”

“I get lonely too,” America sighed sadly, petting his finger across England on the map. “You hardly ever visit, and it's a long way to go see Canada, even though he's closer than anyone else to me.” He sighed again, then brightened up. “When I'm big, I'm gonna go make friends with everybody on the map!”

“Not everyone,” England said darkly. “There are quite a few nations who are nothing but trouble. You ought to keep away from them.”

America frowned at the map, as though he could judge the nations based on their shape on the page. “Which ones are the bad ones?”

“First, Spain,” England said, reaching over America to point. “You keep far away from Spain. He's had his eye on this continent for ages, and I don't doubt he'll snap you up if he gets half a chance. And that's to say nothing of the rumors that he's very fond of little boys.”

“What's wrong with liking little boys?” America asked with a tilt of his head. “Don't you like little boys too? You like me and Canada, right?”

England choked at that and hastily shook his head. “Never mind that part. It was only a rumor. Pretend you didn't hear it. N-next, Russia.” England waved his hand over a great stretch of land. “As barmy as they come. You wouldn't like him much anyway. There's nothing at his place but snow.”

“I like snow!” America protested. “I built the biggest snowman ever last winter, remember? Does Russia like snowmen?”

“I take him more as the type to kick over snowmen than build his own.”

America's horrified expression made it clear what he thought of people who kicked over snowmen.

“And of course I shouldn't have to tell you why France should be avoided at all cost,” England concluded when an aggressive stab of his finger at the country in question.

America sighed again. “I don't know. France was nice when I saw him last. He brought me yummy food!”

“Only a trap,” England growled. “Don't trust him. And if he ever gives you any trouble, you be sure to write as soon as you can and let me know. If he lays so much as a finger on you, I'll cut off his-”

“But maybe he really is nice! And maybe Spain is a good guy too, and maybe Russia just needs to be told that it isn't nice to kick over snowmen.” America paused, beaming as though he had just found the answers to all the world's problems.

England shook his head wearily. “You're entirely too trusting, dear boy.”

“Are you just worried that I won't be your friend anymore if I'm friends with everyone else?” America's little hands clapped over England's palm. “Don't worry, England! Even if I'm friends with everybody, you'll still be my first, best, most special friend of all.”

Friend. Colonies were under no obligation to like their empires, let alone consider them friends. England found himself completely speechless. He didn't dare try to force any words yet. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he would tear up if he tried now. America had an awful way of making him embarrassingly softhearted and emotional.

Fortunately, the boy had already found something else to occupy his attention. “Can we look at books later, England?” he asked, leaving his chair to peek out the window. “It was rainy all week, but it's pretty and sunny now! I bet the weather got nice just for you. Can we go out and play? Please?”

As if England could refuse him anything now. “If you promise to be good and not get too muddy,” he managed through a tight throat.

America glowed like a firefly and grabbed England's hand tightly, already babbling about how the blackberries were ready for picking, and where he found a rabbit nest with little baby bunnies inside, and which trees were best for climbing, and which streams were too deep to wade across...and England wracked his brain for a good excuse to send back to the king for why he had to stay in the colonies much longer than he had originally planned.

[FIC FILL] Little Wonders of Life

2010-09-09T16:14:46Z

Title: Little Wonders of Life
Author: orangepencils
Recipient: alatherna
Characters/Pairings: Little England, Gaule [France]
Rating: PG
Notes: I'm sorry I didn't get around to posting this sooner... The prompt was: "I would like to see young Francis and Little Arthur
being all adorable and cute. Maybe France dressing England up, or
brushing his hair, or England showing France fairies, or maybe wanting
to show him an Unicorn (but failing and Unicorn running away
because... well, it's Francis :P), something like that.”
Summary: Little England is determined to prove to Gaule that he isn't living a childhood fantasy.

Little Wonders of Life

299

A pinch hit for alatherna for the Hetalia Sunshine 2010 exchange. The request was “I would like to see young Francis and Little Arthur
being all adorable and cute. Maybe France dressing England up, or
brushing his hair, or England showing France fairies, or maybe wanting
to show him an Unicorn (but failing and Unicorn running away
because... well, it's Francis :P), something like that.” I hope this pleases you!

Characters: Little England and Gaule.

Disclaimer: I got a Rebel!

Little Wonders of Life

Little England was sitting on the grass with his hands folded on his lap and his legs bent together. It was a nice sunny day today and the soft breeze felt lovely on his skin. Besides him, the slightly older French boy was talking about just how marvellous he would look in some of the new clothes his king and queen had gotten him. In Little England’s opinion, he knew he would look ridiculous, but he didn’t say anything.

For some reason or another, the young English nation had found himself in the company of that annoying French nation. He had been talking with Elderwald when Gaule had skipped up to him, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. The older boy had mocked him for speaking with air again and Little England had done his best not to chuck a rock at him. It wasn’t his fault if the stupid French frog couldn’t see his friends. That just meant that he was special and the others weren’t.

“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a, petit lapin? Tu sembles bien pensif.”/ “What is it, little rabbit. You seem pensive.” Little England blinked his eyes and looked up at the other boy who was eating an apple. He had been busy contemplating the many ways he could escape from here without Gaule following him. He hadn’t found anything, so far.

“It’s nothing.” Gaule did not look convinced, but he didn’t say anything.

“Tu sais, je n’ai jamais vraiment compris ta fascination pour tes amis imaginaires. Tu me fais rire à chaque fois que je te surprends à parler tout seul, dans le vide. Tu es chanceux que personne ne t’ai surpris encore à part moi, sinon tu aurais de gros ennuis!”/ “You know, I never really understood your fascination for your imaginary friends. You’re lucky no one else saw you other than me, or else you would be in big trouble!” The older boy laughed, but Little England was not amused.

“You’ll see! One day, I’m going to show you that they are real and then you’ll be the one who’ll look like a giant rhubarb head!” The younger of the two boys rose to his feet and clenched his small fist. His face was set in an even deeper scowl and Gaule had to do his best not to laugh.

Little England felt affronted and left at once with a huff. He walked through the forests as quickly as his little legs would bring him and only stopped when he tripped over a root he did not see. As he sat there, with a bit of dirt on his clothes and a new cut to his knee, he tried to be a brave little boy about it and hold back his tears, but the pain, coupled with his previous conversation with the older nation made tears of rage and frustration fall on his cheeks.

“What is it, young master?” The young boy heard a voice next to him. He turned his head to come face to face with Elderwald’s long red and white hair.

“Can I ask you for a favour?” Elderwald looked into the child’s emerald green eyes and nodded. There was very little he found he couldn’t concede to the young nation.

“Of course, anything you want.”

“I need to show the stupid frog that I’m not making things up. I want him to meet you and the others. I’m going to show him!” Elderwald fluttered in the air for a moment before sitting on Little England’s shoulder.

“Are you sure you really want to do this, young master?” The faerie asked. The young child nodded his head vigorously at that.

“Alright then, in that case, I’ll go tell the others. I’ll try convincing Evion to come as well.” Little England’s eyes widened with joy. If Gaule saw one of his unicorn friends and some of the faeries, then he would for sure believe him and he would have proven to the stupid frog that he wasn’t living a child’s fantasy.

The following day, Little England was first to rise in his household and ran to find the French frog. He managed to enter the castle without much fuss and went to his room almost at once.

“Petit lapin, il est trop tôt pour être réveillé, retourne chez toi dormir.”/ “Little rabbit, it’s too early to be up, go back to your place and sleep.” Gaule told him as he hid a yawn behind his hand.

“No, you have to see this!” The two young nations stared at each other for a moment before the older one finally relented and got out of his bed. He shooed the younger boy out while he changed into his clothes of the day. Once Gaule was dressed, he followed his young companion to the forest where they had been just the previous day.

“Pourquoi sommes-nous ici?”/ “Why are we here?” The French boy finally asked after walking for a while. It was too early for him and he could only imagine the feast that they would be serving at the palace.

“I want to show you something.” Was the only reply that he got. They walked further into the forest for a while longer until Little England stopped. The young child stood immobile and Gaule could see his green eyes searching for something.

“There they are!” He exclaimed. The older boy was about to protest that “they” were not there, when he saw the back of what he supposed was a horse.

“Here Evion.” Little England called gently. Gaule looked at the boy and noticed the proud smile on his face. He then turned around in the direction of the animal and his eyes widened with shock.

He was about to comment, to say something witty, when the creature took fright at him and ran off. He had only caught a glimpse, but he wasn’t entirely too sure if what he had just seen was really what it was supposed to be.

“No, wait, come back!” Little England cried out, but it was too late.

“… c’était quoi tout ça?”/ “… what was all that?” Gaule finally asked, breaking the silence.

“You saw him, didn’t you? You saw the unicorn, right?” As much as Gaule wanted to say that he had seen something, he didn’t want to give his young friend the satisfaction of knowing that he was right, so instead, he lied.

“Tout ce que j’ai vue c’était une pouliche. Il est grand temps que tu apprennes à faire la différence entre le rêve et la réalité. Allez, viens, on va aller manger.”/ “All I saw was a mare. It’s high time for you to learn to make the different between dream and reality. Come on, let’s go eat.” Gaule took Little England’s hand and walked back towards his home. Teasing the child was too much fun and he would keep it that way for as long as he possibly could do so. Perhaps, with the years, he would admit to what he had seen… or not.

Little England, on the other hand, swore to himself that one day, one day he would prove to Gaule that he wasn’t seeing things. He honestly couldn’t blame Evion for taking flight after seeing a French frog like Gaule. He should have seen that one coming and he would take that into consideration for his next plan.

OWARI

Wheew, done! And on time as well. I hope you liked this! Thanks to P. for beta-ing.

Reviews, no matter how short, even if they are anonymous, mean a lot to me and let me know that my writing brings emotions to you readers out there. I see you, the ones who only favourite, the ones who add me to alert, don’t think I don’t. Even if it’s just an exclamation point, it warms my heart.

Started writing: August 27^th 2010, 8:20pm

Finished writing: August 28^th 2010, 1:59pm

Started typing: August 30^th 2010, 9:44pm

Finished typing: August 30^th 2010, 10:17pm

[FIC AND ART FILL] (Much Less Than) Twenty-Four Hours

2010-09-09T13:16:49Z

Title: (Much Less Than) Twenty-Four Hours
Author: peculuiarities
Recipient: crowitched
Characters/Pairings: Prussia, Germany, Prussia's chick, various
Rating: PG for Prussia's mouth
Notes: I don't know how to make good titles.;;
Summary: A day in the life of one Gilbert Beilschmidt. Now with 17% more awesomeness.

(Much Less Than) Twenty-four Hours

7.01am

Gilbert likes to tell people that his day starts at seven sharp. He likes to say that he jumps out of bed even before the minute hand slides into place, that his awesome super-senses and awesome reflexes have him working at top condition even after a full night of drinking and chatting up the ladies. If you are one of the aforementioned ladies, this declaration will be followed by a burst of laughter (his) and a devilish smile (also his).

What really happens, however, is this:

Gilbert’s alarm rings for approximately forty-seven seconds before it is knocked to the floor by a well-aimed pillow. Sometimes the force of the impact is enough to jar the batteries out and buy him a few minutes more. Sometimes all it does is, well, knock his alarm to the floor.

Today, it’s the latter.

Gilbert ignores the insistent ‘cheepcheepcheep’ of his completely-awesome-and-not-at-all-feminine-looking yellow chick-shaped clock (the avian type. Feliciano had brought it over one day. Gilbert had melted.) and turns over on his side, pulling the blanket over his head. It is two minutes later when he feels a hand shaking his shoulder firmly.

“Gilbert.”

Luckily, Gilbert is good at ignoring things.

“Gilbert.”

Well, not ignoring. Obviously he is fair and impartial and shit. Some stuff just isn’t cool enough to notice.

“Gilbert. Wake. Up.”

Take right now for example.

“Gilbert, if you do not wake up I will seal the basement door and leave you in there with nothing but a plate of English cooking.”

Aw shit.

“Of course the awesome me is awake.” The declaration is only slightly marred by the mass of sheets separating it from the freedom of the open air. “Go make breakfast like a good little brother and I’ll be up before you know it.”

Silence. Then,

“Get up, Gilbert.”

Sometimes Gilbert can never win.

---

7.37am

Breakfast is warm Brötchen with butter and jam, sliced ham, soft-boiled eggs and coffee. Like a gentle guest, the morning sun unfolds through the windows and picks out their edges in brightness. At the table, Ludwig flips through that morning’s paper with the quiet, measured movements of a man who has much to think about and little to say; his plate is wiped clean, fork and knife placed together at the same angle.

Gilbert chatters about the previous night’s adventures (a spider as huge as my fist you really should have seen it Lud I scared the shit out of it hahahahahahahahahaha) and asks for seconds.

---

8.04am

Ludwig leaves the house at eight sharp, his suit and tie cleanly-pressed. He leaves Gilbert the same reminders he gives every morning— feed the dogs, watch where his bird relieves itself and clean up the mess when necessary, lunch must be eaten at twelve-thirty in the dining room and not at four in the basement, and please do not invite The Other Two if any alcohol is going to be involved— with the weary air of one who knows that his instructions are, eventually, going to be ignored.

Gilbert grins and claps the taller man on the shoulder and tells him there is nothing to worry about, before sauntering back into the kitchen. He scrapes the leftovers into the disposal, puts the rest into the refrigerator, leaves the dishes in the sink to soak. Then he goes downstairs, back to his bed, and slouches into his sheets.

---

8.06am

Gilbert falls back asleep.

---

11.17am

Gilbert wakes up and uncurls lazily, stretches until he feels his joints pop to his satisfaction. In its cage, the little yellow chick that he carries around gives a little peep; Gilbert aww’s and flails a little where he sits before getting up to refill the feed bowl. When he replaces the birdseed sack into the cupboard, he finds a note taped to the back with ‘Feed the dogs’ in Ludwig’s crisp, evenly-spaced handwriting.

Oh yeah.

Ludwig’s dogs are large, eager things, with coats so sleek and eyes so bright that a breeder would weep out of jealousy. Ludwig has kept dogs for as long as Ludwig has been Germany (a measure of years which is not so impressive to Nations, but to dogs is a very long time indeed), and by now he knows how to keep them happy and healthy until the end of their days. Gilbert likes them best when they’re puppies, because they’re just so much more awesome at that age, but they’re cool when they’re older, too.

He appreciates the barking,especially. Obviously anyone would be excited to have Gilbert Beilschmidt fill their food and water bowls.

Fuck yeah.

---

11.36am

Gilbert leans back against his sofa-bed with a contented sigh, fingers digging into the bag of chips that he brought down with him. On his shoulder, his yellow chick cheeps and ruffles its feathers, adjusting its grip on the fabric of his shirt. The basement (or Gilbert’s Super Awesome Manly Bachelor’s Pad, as Gilbert likes to call it) is cool and quiet, with just enough space for him to pile his things around. He had originally slept in one of the bedrooms upstairs, but over the years his clothes and toys (manly toys, not cute things from Honda or anything, there’s no way he had any of those hahahaha) had begun a slow migration downward.

At first Ludwig had complained, saying that the basement was for storage and really why would Gilbert want to spend any time down there when he had a perfectly acceptable room aboveground, but eventually he had seen the wisdom in giving his excitable older brother free reign downstairs. The fact that Gilbert liked to bring over his friends for loud, potentially offensive drinking sessions contributed largely to this decision.

“This,” Gilbert tells his feathery companion, “is the awesome life.”

And then he turns on the TV to see whether something manly and awesome like wrestling is on.

---

12.21pm

Fernando’s pregnant wife is sobbing on his shoulder, having realized that Anamaria, who is sleeping with a boy half her age, is, in fact, her long lost mother. In the other room, Xavier is deciding how best to tell his girlfriend that he is falling in love with another man.

Gilbert is definitely not tearing up.

---

12.31pm

Not many people are aware that Gilbert Beilschmidt has a fully-functioning spy network available to him in the safety of his basement. Of course, these are the same people who, upon hearing the phrase ‘spy network’, immediately call to mind a collection of highly-trained individuals skilled in the arts of forgery, deceit, information-gathering, and/or martial arts.

Snobs.

Gilbert likes to think that his spy network is a spy network for the average man. Not that Gilbert is an average man— Gilbert is the most un-average, super awesome man there is, thank you very much— he’s just really in tune with the needs of regular citizens. Especially the jobless ones who live in their brothers’ basements.

That, and his spy network is really a bunch of cameras he remote controls with his laptop. Totally affordable, and he would patent the system if it didn’t involve alerting other Nations to the existence of said spy network. Oh well.

The first person Gilbert always checks on is Ludwig. Mostly because he’s the easiest to follow around, and even when Ludwig discovers his secret agents (re: cameras duct-taped to Ludwig’s bookshelves) and returns them to Gilbert with a long lecture about privacy and its importance, Gilbert can always sneak back and duct-tape another set. Gilbert likes to say that it’s because he’s his baby brother and he needs to watch over him. As you can recall, Gilbert likes to say a lot of things.

“I wonder what Lud’s doing now,” Gilbert tells his chick conversationally. The chick pecks at the crumbs scattered on the arm of the sofa and doesn’t respond; it has just witnessed a grown man breaking down during an episode of a badly-written Spanish soap opera and still isn’t sure how to come to terms with that fact. “He probably hasn’t found the camera yet, because I made sure to put it in a super secret awesome location— Oh.”

The chick looks up in interest.

Silence.

“Feli’s really bendy, huh.”

---

1.08pm

After rushing off to the bathroom to finish off what twenty minutes of watching his brother engage in carnal relations with the anthropomorphic representation of Northern Italy started, Gilbert returns to the sofa wiping his hands on a towel. He flops down onto his regular spot, throwing a leg over a sofa arm; the chick peeps in indignation.

“Maybe I should put parental filters on this thing,” Gilbert says, pulling his laptop up. A pause while he considers the idea. Then, “Nah. Let’s see what that prissy Austrian is doing, shall we? Bet it’s something prissy. And. Like. Austrian.”

He presses a few buttons and leans back to watch, an expectant grin on his face. After a couple of minutes, he minimizes the window. The grin stays, and if it’s accompanied by a couple of manly tears then the chick doesn’t comment on it.

“It’s awesome to be alone.”

---

1.14pm

For Fritz’s sake.

“Well, it’s Francis anyway so that’s pretty normal.” Gilbert’s expression looks like a mix between disgust and admiration. The chick just looks green. “Arthur, though.”

The chick peeps.

“I know right?”

---

1.25pm

So Gilbert may or may not have installed a camera in Ivan’s house. Okay, ‘house’ might be a bit too broad; it’s in his garden. He’d sneaked in after one too many drinks (how he had paid for a plane ticket and gone through customs while inebriated is a matter that still mystifies many experts up to the present day) and dropped it in the bushes. Whether or not Gilbert had spent the next few days holed up in the basement with a gun and a warning to Ludwig to ignore every knock at the door will not be disclosed.

Gilbert has successfully resisted every urge to check that little green dot on his screen for several months, and will continue to do so.

Until he gives in.

Which is right about now.

The screen on his laptop is a mass of black and white pixels until a click sounds, alerting him that this is a recorded message and holy shittttt—

“привет. Hello?” Ivan’s voice is cheerful and slightly crackly through the speakers. “Hello stupid person watching this! You left such a nice camera in my garden, I must thank you! It’s a shame you could not tell me about it to my face, it spent a lonely night in the cold. It is mine now, however. Do not worry! I will make sure that it has a safe home here. If you wanted to see how I live so badly perhaps you could come over yourself! I am always nice to guests. Да, Gilbert?”

Gilbert slams the laptop closed and pulls the plug.

He needs a drink.

---

6.34pm

When Ludwig returns home he finds an empty kitchen, three hungry dogs, a basement floor littered with bird excrement and potato chip crumbs, several empty beer bottles, and a Gilbert sprawled on the couch out cold. At least Gilbert hadn’t invited anyone else over. (This is not strictly true. Around 3.42pm, Gilbert had sent out a text to both Antonio and Francis inviting them over. Because Gilbert’s texting abilities had by this time degenerated to simply random numbers and letters in succession, it had been ignored by the latter. The former had thought this was an exciting new code, and had spent two minutes trying to decipher it before forgetting all about it.)

“Gilbert.” Ludwig takes a moment to ponder over just how much time he spends shaking his older brother awake. Too much, he decides. “Gilbert, wake up.”

“Hunh?” A pair of bleary, bloodshot eyes opens to meet his own.

“There is no dinner on the table.” Then, because Ludwig finds that greeting to be lacking, “Good evening.”

“Unghh. Uh. Yeah.” Gilbert rubs at his eyes with a fisted hand. “Sorry. The awesome me forgot. I mean. Fell asleep. And then I forgot. Because I was asleep. Yeah.”

Ludwig sighs, and smoothes down his already slicked-back hair. “Come on, brother,” he says, pulling the former Nation up. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” Gilbert stretches, then reaches down to pick up a sleeping chick and put it in its cage.

“To—” and Ludwig is about to say something about the state of the basement— really Gilbert I thought giving you your own living space would instill a sense of responsibility somehow— but instead what comes out is, “—dinner. We’re going out to dinner.”

“Awesome.” Gilbert grins, and scampers off to change into jeans.

“And you’re going to clean this up after we get home,” Ludwig calls after him weakly.

“Sure!”

Ludwig sighs, and half-smiles.

---
END.
---

ART TIME

because wrestling is so exciting and you should watch it with your pet chick all the time
~~apparently I cannot write or draw Gilbert. or his chick.;;~~

fifteen minutes later,

guys, spanish soap operas are life-changing experiences. remember this.

I really hope you like it, crowitched !! thank you for the amazing prompt, I hope I did it justice!!

[Fic Fill]: Inexpressible

2010-09-09T04:24:12Z

Title: Inexpressible
Author: greeneyedlady
Recipient: mklnay
Characters/Pairings: Germany/N.Italy
Rating: G
Summary: Germany wants to impress Italy by creating a great painting, but he needs some inspiration.

Inexpressible
By Mochi

“Don’t get discouraged, Germany! It’s in your blood!”

Italy’s voice rings clear as a bell and is brimming with cheer, but Germany doesn’t feel the intended sentiment. With nose scrunched and mouth puckered, he pulls back his brush and scrutinizes the smudgy mess of green and blue oil paint he’s just laid down. It doesn’t look a bit like the Rhine; it doesn’t even look like a river. Or anything for that matter, except a smudgy mess.

“Oh! You’ve stopped,” Italy chirps, peering over from behind the canvas on his own easel. “Have you had a breakthrough? Can I see?”

“Errr…” Germany grunts. Those huge brown eyes, so eager to see his handiwork, render him strangely inarticulate. His cheeks feel hot. “It’s not ready yet,” he mumbles. He knows, of course, that Italy will not just leave it at that and go back to his own (almost certainly breathtaking) painting, and he feels an immediate urge to cover his work with both arms. But he has enough discipline not to act on the urge.

Italy is already sidling over. “Well can I see what you’ve done so far?” He asks innocently. He keeps that clueless, optimistic grin plastered on his face until his eyes settle on Germany’s muddy disaster. And then his features sag; Italy has never been good at hiding his reactions and though he clearly is trying now, the awkward, secondhand embarrassment shows through. He tries to be delicate. “Oh. That’s a little…”

Germany’s shoulders rise up stiffly. He feels his face on fire with shame and struggles to keep his expression hard as stone. How ridiculous it is, he thinks, that the flippant little nation has exposed such a weakness in him. Not that Germany thinks Italy will use his complete lack of artistic talents against him. No, that’s not like Italy at all. But this role-reversal—Italy being the expert and himself being incompetent—leaves Germany feeling very uncomfortable, vulnerable.

For so long he’s wanted make a great painting, desperately. He’s even been studying in private, reading up on the great Italian Masters and trying to imitate their style, but to no avail. His hands, which are so talented when applied to engineering, become clumsy and incompetent the moment a paintbrush is placed in them. He knows he can never catch up to Italy.

Why does that bother him so much?

Germany has asked himself this question over and over in his head. At first he assured himself that he simply wanted—needed—to be the very best he could be, a proud nation of superior skills. But that can’t explain why the image he holds in his brain each time he picks up a paintbrush is not the glorious work of art he is about to attempt, but Italy’s face, smiling in approval.

Now it’s finally sinking in for whom Germany is really painting.

But today will not be the day he impresses Italy with his skills. He’s still woefully inept, despite countless hours of research and practice, and Italy is struggling for any other words to offer besides the horrible truth.

“I think you’re improving,” he says, with enough hopefulness to cover all but a thin residue of pity on his voice. He really does want to believe Germany is getting better.

“I’m just finding my, er, groove,” Germany responds gruffly. “Soon I will be making some very impressive works that the world will have to take notice of.”

Italy’s lips purse for a moment as he digests the bluff. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he finally asks. “Maybe I can help you master your brushwork.” His hand reaches out and hooks loosely around Germany’s wrist and immediately Germany’s skin erupts into a sea of goose bumps.

“Ah…” Germany can only manage to get out a short, startled sound, nothing coherent. The gentle touch guiding his brush over the canvas stirs something that is buried deep inside him. It feels nostalgic somehow, as if a memory from his childhood is trying desperately to surface. But Germany never picked up a paintbrush until he met Italy, and he was an adult by then; there is no reason this should be familiar. He shakes his head and dismisses the sensation as a byproduct of Italy’s rich artistic tradition, which has always had a way of charming the entire world.

Italy seems oblivious to Germany’s reaction and continues his merry instruction. “Okay, now form a picture of what you want to paint in your mind, Germany. Picture the river and the trees growing on its banks, the boats and people and livestock. Close your eyes and let your hand pull the color where it wants to go.”

“Close my eyes?” Germany snorts. This sounds like more of Italy’s feel-good nonsense. But he has to admit that he’s warmed up to that feel-good nonsense lately so he’s willing to give it a try, as ridiculous as it sounds. Germany’s eyelids fall shut and he surrenders the motion of his wrist to Italy’s guidance.

“Feel how the brush traces the image in your mind,” says Italy in a soothing tone.

But the only feeling Germany can focus on is the heat where that small hand is wrapped around his. Again, his brain is dredging up hazy bits of nostalgia that he can’t place in his memory: another hand, much tinier than Italy’s, touches him gently as the smells of grass and earth and oil paints fill his nostrils. The heat spreads up his arm and to every corner of his body, concentrating in the center of his chest and filling him with the most intense longing he’s every felt. He can only bear it for a few minutes before he has to stammer, “St-stop! Italy, this isn’t going to work!”

Italy lets go of Germany’s wrist and steps back slowly. His face has that sad but-I-was-only-trying-to-help look on it, which stings Germany under the ribs to look at. But a moment later it dissolves under the overwhelming power of Italy’s natural optimism. “Okay then! We’ll just have to try something different!”

Before Germany can even open his mouth to speak, Italy is tugging him by the elbow with both hands. At least this touch doesn’t trigger any more strange memories of questionable validity. “Where are you leading me?” Germany asks as he is pulled forward at a fast clip.

“You’ll see! You’ll see!” Italy chimes. “It’s something I think you need.”

“An art museum?” Germany’s face twists skeptically at the sight of their destination. His first impulse is to tell Italy that he’s seen enough fabulous works by Leonardo and Raphael and it hasn’t done a thing for his style. But Italy doesn’t know about Germany’s extra studying. And besides, Germany just can’t be rude to the guy when he is trying so hard to help. So with a sigh he allows Italy to drag him into the austere hallways lined with masterpieces.

When they zip right past the Italian wing—an entire wing of the museum is dedicated solely to Italian painting and is always crowded with visitors—Germany blinks in confusion a moment and waits for Italy to turn around. But Italy keeps going with a determined look on his face until they reach a far corner of the museum. There aren’t a lot of patrons in this section.

“Here we are,” says Italy. “Now I’m sure you come here all the time, but I thought you could use a refresher.”

Germany’s cheeks flush hotly when he sees the wall plaque at the entrance to the section: German Painting. “Actually, I can’t even remember the last time I came here,” he admits.

Italy lets his jaw fall in shock. “Well no wonder you’re having trouble. This way! This way!”

The first painting that catches Germany’s eye is a large brown hare nestled on a cream background. Every hair on that hare is exquisitely rendered. Its muscles ripple beneath its perfectly painted pelt. The artist’s name is Albrect Durer.

“It looks so alive,” Germany mutters. “Like I could reach out and feel its whiskers brush against my hand. I forgot that Durer did paintings as well as printmaking.” The guilt of having forgotten his own art history is a tiny but very sharp pinch in his stomach.

“See? I told you it was in your blood,” Italy tells him. Then he pulls Germany deeper into the gallery.

They stop in front of a rustic winter scene, men and dogs trudging over a snowy hill as they return to their little village after a hunt. The painting is by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, according to the plaque beneath it, and is stunning in both its scope and detail.

“I’ve always admired Bruegel,” Italy says. “His grasp of perspective was far more advanced than most Italian painters of his time. And he created scenes of ordinary life when other artists were mostly focusing on religious pieces.”

For several minutes, Germany marvels at the painting, trying to regain the feeling he’d gotten the first time he’d ever seen it, which was centuries ago. The artists of his country have long had talent, there is no doubt about it, though there are far fewer known German Masters than there are Italian Masters. So why, Germany wonders, can’t he himself make a painting to save his life? How did he become so detached from his own art history?

He still is fretting over this when Italy scoots him down to the next painting. Two soft and lovely young women, one blonde and one brunette, sit together, their faces so close they appear to be a moment away from kissing. When Germany reads the title of the painting, Italia and Germania, his face blazes with a fire that won’t be suppressed.

“Let’s move on to the next one,” he says with sudden insistence.

“But don’t you like…?” Italy only gets those four words out before Germany ushers him briskly away.

It wasn’t a bad painting at all. It was gorgeous, really. But looking at those personifications of Italia and Germany cuddled up like lovers flooded Germany with such self-consciousness that he knows he’d barely be able to speak in their presence. And what might Italy think of it? Germany is too embarrassed to think about what comments the painting might have triggered.

In effort to get as far away from that sensual painting as possible, Germany pushes Italy all the way down the hall, rushing past hundreds of years of his country’s artwork. They don’t come to a stop until they are in the early twentieth century. It takes a few minutes for Germany’s heartbeat to return to something normal.

“What is this?” Germany asks as his eyes widen on the canvas he has, by chance, stopped in front of. It is a beautiful, surreal composition of three horses. Their bodies are rendered into soft, round curves of bright blue and the field they are in is awash with shades of delicate rose and gold and green. The horses don’t look like any found in the real world, and yet they are instantly recognizable and breathtakingly beautiful.

Italy is still recovering from being whisked away so quickly, but his eyes soon settle on the blue horses and his brows crease slightly. “You know, I don’t think I remember this painting from my last visit. Usually I spend the most time looking at art from the Renaissance, since that’s my favorite period. These horses, though, they’re different somehow…”

As Italy’s voice trails off—he is getting lost in the rich colors of the painting—Germany’s brain is contemplating furiously. It conjures up a word, Expressionism, and suddenly he remembers. The painter who gave life to these blue horses, Franz Marc, was one of the leading artists of the Expressionist Movement, which had started in Germany’s own home.

He remembers how his artists, and writers and musicians, too, wanted to create works that weren’t just beautiful reproductions of life, but distortions as seen through the lens of human emotion. Their masterpieces were far from the great altarpieces of Renaissance Italy, but no less stunning. Germany had gotten so distracted by wars and engineering an empire during the twentieth century that he’d almost forgotten all about Expressionism. It was his great contribution to the art world and he’d forgotten it.

But now he feels it in him once again, the thrill he’d gotten when Franz Marc and August Macke showed their paintings to the rest of the world, the thrill of knowing that the movement spread to other parts of Europe, that he’d been the birthplace of something amazing. “Italy,” he says, “I think I’m ready to try painting again.”

Italy’s face lights up, ecstatic at the announcement. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Germany says, with a stern nod to maintain his serious image even though he is brimming with excitement inside. Then he adds, “Thank you, Italy, for bringing me here.”

…

Germany stands in front of an enormous canvas on an easel once again, but this time his brush glides over its surface without hesitation. He doesn’t have a perfect image in his head that he is trying to recreate with paint; he is letting the feelings he normally keeps buried flow up from the deepest center of his chest, through his hand, and out of his brush. He is painting the emotions he has so much trouble expressing in words. He is painting the vague, dreamlike memories that churned when Italy guided his hand.

Though Germany hasn’t stepped back to fully appreciate the image being born on his canvas, he somehow knows it is a little girl in servant clothes, her gentle smile shining through a gauzy swirl of colors.

“Wow! That’s beautiful!” Italy coos, having appeared at Germany’s side seemingly out of nowhere. For a split second, Germany feels his old instinct to cover up what he’d just done, but when he looks at Italy’s face, the smile is absolutely genuine. “See, I told you it was in your blood!” Italy says. “So who is the little girl?”

Hope? Love? Joy? Germany’s brain can’t decide who she is, so he just says, “I don’t know.” He doesn’t feel he has to have an answer; through art he can express the inexpressible. “Thank you,” he tells Italy, not for anything specifically he has done, but for everything. Then Germany’s eyes dart from Italy to the girl in his painting and he can’t help but notice they have the same smile.

The End

[FIC FILL]: Blue and Roses

2010-09-09T03:13:27Z

TITLE: Blue and Roses
AUTHOR/ARTIST: mikazuki_kagami
RECIPIENT:haylerzz
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Spain
RATING: PG... I guess...?
NOTES: I fail at summary. Also, first time posting this, if something's wrong, please tell. orz
SUMMARY: On his way to visit France, Spain stumbled upon a troubled youth and decided to give the young one some help.

There had been no reason for him wanting to visit France that day. Absolutely no reason. If anything, he should have wanted to stay at his place for a while longer.

But for some reason he couldn't understand, that nagging feeling, that urge to visit... they just wouldn't stop bugging him, telling him to go, go, go and just go, no questions asked.

He tried to reason with himself, arguing that he can’t leave now, not yet. After all, he still had work to do, and, perhaps more importantly, he still needed to entertain his special guest - his beloved little henchman, the one who had grown so much in the time that they had been separated. He couldn't, shouldn't leave. But no, the feeling was still there despite his attempts at reasoning with it and, in the end, Antonio had given up and decided to just do exactly what he wanted. Though not before he had packed some things into his worn bag and left a small note for Lovino (oh, his cute little henchman, how he’d grown after all these years) to tell the pouty Italian of his leave, of course. The other wouldn't be pleased by this, but there’s nothing he could do…

Why, though…? Such a sudden and unexpected feeling…

His mind wandered as he watched the road roll by, tanned hands clutching tightly at his bag so that it would stay safely in its place.

Maybe he had just wanted to visit his old friend, to talk with him about the good old days; to remind themselves of a time when people died facing each other courageously, instead of being shot from afar by a cowardly enemy; to reminisce about the time when they had been in their glory, their clothes clad with gold and their throats thirsty for other’s blood; to conquer and have more and more and more to themselves; to—

The carriage stopped abruptly, snapping him out of his thoughts rather violently. The voice of the driver announcing that they'd arrived, in rough and barely-understandable French, made him frown.

He hadn't expected the journey to be so short…

Guess that meant he had fallen asleep midway, then.

Rubbing his forehead with a sweat-covered hand, Antonio slowly made his way towards the exit, only to blink in confusion at the sight which greeted him through the opened door.

“Eh?” Was this really the place he’d told the driver to go to? He turned around to give the other a questioning look before the shape of the building caught his attention.

It really was the right place.

Oh, wow. For a few seconds, Antonio could only stare at the building out of sheer amazement.

The hotel building itself had remained the same throughout the years, having only changed its function. But its surroundings… they had changed a lot.

France had really changed, huh?

Antonio quickly gathered all of his belongings (which was not much, really; just a few bottles of wine for his smooth-talking French friend and some clothes for himself) before walking over to where the driver stood. He beamed a thank you! and finally handed over the payment for the journey.

Humming, the Spaniard began to make his way towards the hotel’s entrance, not noticing the series of quick steps behind him which were getting closer and closer and— “Oh, please get out of the way, sir!”

“Huh…? Uwah!” He almost fell down from the impact when their body crashed - Almost being the keyword here. Antonio flailed, trying to balance himself so that he wouldn't fall onto the ground and watched, unsure of what to do, as papers scattered all around him. A young man, perhaps around twenty years old, groaned in pain as he tried to gather up the fallen pieces. “Need more help~?” he asked in his heavily accented French. His hand was extended, offering the other man some of the pieces of paper that he had been able to grab (after finally realizing what he was supposed to do in such a situation).

“Thank you,” the man muttered, his hands quickly snatching the papers from Antonio. “I apologise for earlier, I didn't mean to run into you…”

Antonio laughed at the obviously forced-out apology and shrugged, grinning at the other. “Nah, it’s not a problem. I should have paid more attention to what was happening around me.” His head tilted and an eyebrow is lifted as he gave the man a once over. “You alright? You sounded like you were in real pain earlier…” Worry slipped into his face when the other didn’t answer his question.

“Hello?” The Spaniard tried waving his hand in front of the shorter male, trying to get his attention. He wasn't going to feel too good if someone had been hurt because of his absent-mindedness.

“I’m fine. Sorry for my rudeness, it's just that I'm in a hurry… Now if you will excuse me, sir.” With that, the young man hurried on his way, swaying slightly on the first few steps before finally vanishing completely from his sight.

Scratching his head, Antonio frowned. Well, well, that… was unexpected. He hadn't even gotten a chance to apologise properly… Why were people these days so impatient? … Hmmm? Hey, what was that…?

He bowed down and picked up the piece of paper (must have slipped away when he had run off in hurry), eyes examining the content carefully before slipping it into his pocket.

Interesting young man, he smiled to himself. If they ever met again, Antonio would have to hand this particular piece of paper back.

---

And they did meet again.

“I just need the paper back. I know you have it.”

Antonio chuckled, ignoring the words purposefully, and gestured for the man to sit at the seat in front of him, offering his guest the menu book as soon as he had done so. “Ah, maybe I have it~. Maybe I don’t. Just sit down and enjoy the meal first, uh…” They never had told each other their names…

“Pablo.”

“Oh! Pablo sounds like a wonderful name. Mine’s Antonio. Nice to meet you! … Wait, are you a Spaniard…?”

No answer.

He shifted awkwardly on his seat when the other’s lips remain pursed even after a few minutes of silence. “Okay, you’re not going to answer me, I see… No need to answer then! Have you decided on your order yet…?”

The change of expression is so obvious that even someone as dense as Antonio can tell that the other is… weirded out by his, what, over-pleasantness…?

“Fine then, I’ll just order for you too if you don’t wanna order~. Let’s see…” Eyes skimming through the menu, Antonio finally settles on coffee and toast (the safest choice, he thought; after all, who doesn’t like coffee and toast?).

“Okay, so all we need to do is wait for our food to come now and—“

“The paper.”

“…” Sighing, Antonio reached into his pocket and fished the piece of paper out. “This, right?” He held it just outside of the other’s reach, a taunting smile playing on his lips. “Why are you so eager about this anyway…? It’s just a sketch, isn’t it?”

The answer came out right after he finished his question, in a firm, stubborn voice. “It’s an important one. I need it to finish my project.”

“What kind of project is it…?” The personification of Spain asked, slowly and carefully, his gaze fixed on the paper.

Who was this figure sketched on the paper…? No matter how many times he looked at it, he just doesn’t get it.

Was it a girl? A woman? A child? A man in his old age? A young man dying? He doesn’t know, doesn’t get it. The figure in the sketch was way too skinny, too gloomy, too harsh-looking and hopeless. It’s just… everything about it was bizarre. Not to mention the choice of colour, too. Black, blue, a faint mix of blue and green… nothing more. Just looking at it makes him feel a little sad.

“… Pablo?” He asked again when nothing comes out as an answer. The other sure was quiet for someone so young in age. Perhaps he just hadn't heard his question…? Was his voice too quiet to hear…?

When the answer comes out, it’s nothing more than a faint whisper. “A painting for a friend.” And that was it, nothing more.

“Oh? So you’re painting your friend then? But why would your friend want to be painted like this…? It’s so… sad. It’s just… I don’t know. It lacks the feeling of life in it…”

“My friend is dead. It’s not supposed to have any life in it.”

The bitter tone caught him by surprise and this time, it was Antonio’s turn to stay quiet.

A waiter came and carefully placed the order on the table, trying to make as little noise as he could. The Spaniard waited, patiently, until the man was out of his sight before finally letting out a sigh. “… I still don’t think you should do it like this though…” He lifted his cup of coffee and took a sip, finally placing the paper on the empty space of the table’s surface.

“See here?’ He pointed with his free hand, looking at Pablo to make sure he was paying attention before continuing. “I think a warm colour would work better with this part than a bluish green.” Well, yeah, okay, he'd admit he knew nothing about painting. Or colour theory. Or whatever. Antonio’s never really been into any of that artsy stuff, after all.

It's more in Francis’ area of expertise, he thought briefly.

“But then it won’t go well with the other part,” Pablo muttered quietly, stubbornly.

“Then just change the colour of the other part, too!” Antonio exclaimed without thinking it over. “Make everything more warm and lively. Not… cold and dead.” He grinned sheepishly, scratching his head. “I know nothing about painting, to be honest. But… don’t you want your friend to live through your painting…?”

A frown.

Oops, maybe he should have phrased it better.

“What I mean is… Uh…” What was that word again…? “Rather than keep reminding yourself of your friend’s death with painting stuff like this… You can try to-- no, I am not telling you to forget it, okay? You can try to remember your friend. Try to remember back then, when your friend was still alive.”

“That’s…” The other paused, and Antonio fidgeted with his shirt buttons. Well, did he say something wrong again…? “It’s actually…” Another pause. “Maybe you’re right…” The youth fiddled with his cup, looking away from him.

“I knew you’d agree with me!” Standing up, Antonio walked over and hugged the other, completely oblivious to the stares he was receiving because of it. “Just try to! Maybe you're too used to using sad colours like this, but after a while…” He flashed his optimistic grin at the frowning young man. Why, he certainly didn't look like he was enjoying the hug…

Releasing the other from his bone-crushing hug, the Spaniard walked back and flopped down onto his own seat again. “So hey, now that this is solved… can you answer my other question? Are you a Spaniard...?” He was still curious, really.

“Oh, that. Yes, I am a Spaniard. Pablo Ruiz Picasso… It’s nice to meet you too, Antonio.”

---

I hope this fill is okay and uh, I hope I did justice with the way Picasso's portrayed here. XD; Never written this kind of thing before, so... yeah. :'D I hope you enjoyed this though, haylerzz !

[Fic Fill] Eagle Heart

2010-09-08T23:57:56Z

TITLE: Eagle Heart
AUTHOR: berseker
RECIPIENT: LBH (anonymous participant)
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: US/UK
RATING: Free
PROMPT: Nations and their pets.
SUMMARY: Alfred gets a visitor. Sort of.

It was one of those days.

Not the bad ones. On the contrary, it was one of those super perfect ones. One of those that only come once in a lifetime, with deep blue skies that could be almost blinding and a soft breeze that smelled like flowers – and that would be because there were flowers here, Alfred was pretty sure it wouldn't smell like that if they were, say, downtown, God knows what would smell like then – and a few white clouds that looked almost like a painting and, and also green fields full of said flowers and other cool nature stuff, it was a nice day. A super nice day. A perfect day to stay just like he was, laying on the fields and being blinded by the sky and thinking deep thoughts about everything.

Like how the green fields looked a little like England's eyes. Or maybe it were his eyes that looked like the fields. After all, he was willing to bet England was older than this field.

How long grass lived anyway? Not as long as England, right? The guy was, like... five centuries old? No. More than that. He was pretty sure of it. Alfred tried to focus on this. It was the perfect day to ponder on his boyfriend's age.

Eeeeeh his boyfriend. This made him smile. Actually, this never failed to make him smile. Even if said boyfriend was super old. Ancient. Like-

“Are you awake?”, his boyfriend asked. Alfred turned to him, a lazy smile on his lips:

“I'm not sure... Why?”

“Because I think we should eat now. I brought some scones for us.”

“... oh. That's, erm. Really cool. Yes.”

After all, he didn't want to ruin this perfect day by insulting his (lack of) cooking skills.

He also didn't want to ruin it by eating rocks. Alfred was facing a serious dilemma now.

So he went back at his sky-gazing, and said:

“I'm just not hungry yet, so I'll just... wait here and you can eat.” and then, because he couldn't help himself, he added, “And if you survive I'll try some.”

He could feel England's eyes narrowing. And he could feel the storm building up, and threatening to crash all over him, like a wave or something, and leaving the fields in a muddy mess of... rage and burnt scones, and it was almost happening, almost, but then something awesome happened and he sat down, eyes wide with glee:

“England, look! That's my eagle!”

England frowned. He looked up:

“...that's not an eagle.”

“No, it's my eagle, I know her!”

“America-”

“Come on, don't you think I can recognize my own eagle?” he got up, even if he couldn't possibly reach her, he just couldn't stay still anymore. It was all he could do not to run after her. He waved at the bird, “England, say hi to her. Why aren't you waving? Wave!”

England didn't wave. He was still sitting. And still frowning. And looking at him as if America had just sprouted a second head.

“I won't wave at a bird. And you don't have an eagle.”

“Sure I do! She's been with me since forever now! That's- oooooh she's coming here!”

He raised his face, squinting his eyes against the sun, watching the lazy circles she was drawing in the air. He laughed out of sheer excitement:

“I haven't seen her for a while now, I missed her!”

“I can see that,” England said.

His voice was different now. Alfred looked at him, intrigued, just to find a small smile on his lips, and that soft weird look England had when he thought Alfred was being just a bit childish.

Uh.

“Hey, come on, I bet you're happy when your pets come to visit you, aren't you?”

“Indeed I am,” England said. He didn't stop smiling. It was sort of pretty, come to think about it. So whatever. Alfred grinned back:

“And it has been a long time. I thought she had gone away, but I guess she missed me too.”

“How could she not,” England murmured, but Alfred heard – it was probably meant for him to hear – and that made him feel even warmer, and happy, and this day was turning out to be even <>more perfect than before.

She looked bigger now that she was coming down. He waved again, unable to contain his joy.

“Eagles are the best things in the world. Don't you think so? Don't you think they're the coolest most awesome animals in the world?”

“Well. I'm partial to unicorns, myself.”

Alfred looked back at him.

“... erm, right. Yes. Well. I like pets who actually exist, but to each their own, I guess.”

“I don't think of him as my pet,” England said, giving a stern glare to show he had decided to be generous and ignore this just so the day wouldn't be ruined but Alfred wouldn't be so lucky next time.

England's eyes were expressive like that.

“It's a different sort of relationship,” he said. He picked one scone from the basket, and added, “I think of them as my friends.”

Alfred waited a few seconds. When he was sure England would live, and that the scone hadn't poisoned him, he answered:

“Well, I don't know. She's my friend too. But it's the same thing, I think. I mean, calling them our pets it's just a different way to say it.” he paused. “Actually, I think she considers me her pet. But that's just weird.”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” England said.

“Well, she used to sort of like take care of me. Before. A long time ago.”

England didn't look surprised. He had mentioned this before, how his imaginary unicorn was immortal and Alfred had told him he was pretty sure his whale was always the same whale too, and how maybe there were animals versions of them, like... ideas, sort of unchanging only not really. Almost as old as England.

Something like that.

It had made sense, back then. If he could be a nation, why couldn't his eagle be the super awesome master queen of all eagles? It was only fitting.

“I don't know,” England said. Alfred paused a moment, trying to remember how many times he had heard England say this. Maybe he was dreaming. Or maybe he should make him write it down and sign it.

Maybe the scones were poisoning him.

“... I see your point,” England said, “but it doesn't look proper. I wouldn't call my lion my pet, after all. It seems disrespectful.”

“… you have a lion? A real lion? That roars and all? Why didn't you tell me that? Can I see it? Is he here? Where is he? How come you have a lion-”

“Go say hi to your eagle, Alfred. We can talk about this later.”

“But a real lion-”

The eagle's shadow was bigger on the floor now, and he could hear her cry (the only part of her that was kinda sort of slightly uncool, but he wasn't going to say that out loud) and all thoughts of other animals vanished. He ran to her as soon as she landed– and it was the perfect day for some dramatic running, and the perfect field too, seriously, this day was getting more awesome by the second – and... not really hugged because you just didn't do that, but he touched her head and tried not to get gutted by her powerful beak and then he ignored the not-hugging thing and threw his arms around her neck, because he had really really missed her.

England watched him, still sitting by the basket, still munching on his scone.

“I know, I know,” he said, “But you must forgive him. He's still pretty much a child, sometimes.”

The unicorn snorted. England petted his head, a little absentmindedly.

He looked at his lion, snoring a few feet away. He was sort of awesome, as Alfred would say it. If a bit lazy. England smiled fondly at him. And it felt nice, to have Alfred in so much awe of him.

... still, he wasn't mentioning his dragon any time soon. God knows how Alfred would react to that.

~*~

Notes:

-Re the eagle's cry: as tvtropes say "All owls hoot, all big cats roar, and all birds of prey will have the cry of a Red-Tailed Hawk dubbed over (because a Bald Eagle's cry MUST be Awesome)". Alfred lives by the Rule of Cool.

-... of course England has a pet dragon, dontcha know?

- I'm sorry about the title. I have no excuse 8D

[Art Fill]Well, I still look awesome no matter what I wear... right?

2010-09-08T19:17:03Z

TITLE: Well, I still look awesome no matter what I wear... right?
AUTHOR/ARTIST: pau_panda
RECIPIENT: greeneyedlady
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Hungary/Prussia(?) (+France and Spain)
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Prussia and Hungary performing "Honey Bun"

a lil omake

I look around in the comm for a bit and it seems all art fills are coloured. OTL Truly sorry about this. T^T
I also checked the thank you post out and found your message; it's a relief that you like this little piece of fanart. ^^
To tell the truth, I never watch South Pacific so I was a bit lost but I check many vids at youtube. :) I can really imagine Prussia and Hungary performing the song with all the other country as an audience and Prussia trying to fool himself by saying something along the line of him still being awesome no matter what, etc. XD It's a shame I wasn't able to draw much than this so I add a little omake of France and Spain's reaction.

Lastly, sorry for being really late in posting. ^^; I was gonna post earlier but was very busy because of school.

[Fic fill] Frukost i Bädd

2010-09-07T19:27:29Z

Title: Frukost i Bädd
Author: futuresoon
Recipient: yumeko765
Characters/Pairings: Sweden/Finland, Sealand
Rating: PG
Summary: Breakfast in bed, SuFin-style.

Knäckebrot. Riksost. Pastejköket. And some grapes, because they were fresh at the market and fresh was good, right? Right. Finland stared at the tray. What else—oh, kaffe. No milk, no sugar. He put it together as quickly as he could—not strictly necessary, but waiting was making him nervous—and put that on the tray, too, and then went back to staring. Right. Okay. He picked it up and went into the bedroom.

Sweden was still asleep, probably because it was still pretty early. No duties of the state today. Finland put the tray down on the bed and poked him in the shoulder.

“Mmf?” Sweden mumbled. He opened one half-asleep eye.

“Morning,” Finland said. He gestured to the tray. “I made breakfast. Well, picked things out and put them on plates. I did make the kaffe, though.”

“Mmf,” Sweden repeated. He pushed himself up and took his glasses from the bedside table, putting them on with the caution of someone who did not entirely trust themselves to get it right the first time. “Any reason?”

Finland shrugged. “I woke up early and, I don’t know, I felt like it. Have some. I’m pretty sure nothing’s wrong with it.”

Sweden looked at the tray. “Okay,” he said. He reached over and picked up the kaffe container, pouring some into a mug. Then he put down the container and handed the mug to Finland.

“Ah—thanks,” Finland said, surprised. The mug was warm in his hands, a small relief from the chilly morning air. He watched Sweden pour himself a cup, and they were in silence for a while, sipping the hot liquid.

Eventually Finland sat down on the other side of the bed. The top of the covers was still cold, but it would warm up soon.

“Did you wake up Sealand?” Sweden said. “I don’t hear him.”

“He stayed over at Seborga’s last night,” Finland replied. “I don’t think he’s coming back until this afternoon.” It felt weird to think about an empty house when they hadn’t had a third person for very long, but he did. Kids changed you, he supposed.

“Mm,” Sweden said. He took another drink of his kaffe.

“I’d say they grow up so fast but, ha, he’s not actually growing up, is he,” Finland said. “At least we don’t have to worry about puberty any time soon.”

Sweden made another noncommittal sound and put his mug back on the tray. He picked up a piece of knäckebrot and spread some pastejköket on it. Finland did the same; he was getting pretty hungry, and kaffe alone wasn’t very filling.

Silence descended again. Not a bad one, though—it’s just hard to talk when you’re chewing, that’s all. Not that Sweden talked much anyway, but.

“I don’t have any plans for today,” Finland said, breaking the quiet. “Mari said she’d call if she needed me, but I don’t think she will. She said everyone needs a day off sometimes, too.”

Sweden nodded. “Same as Fredrik.” Their respective Prime Ministers usually had a lot to handle—especially now—but Nations under too much stress tended to revert to their older ways, and these days it wasn’t considered helpful to suggest invading Poland. So the occasional day off was an accepted thing.

“I thought we could just stay in today,” Finland said. “Do some stuff around the house. The axes need polishing.”

“Gutters,” Sweden said. Too many fallen leaves molding together in there--they did need a good cleaning.

“Right,” Finland said. He took another bite of his knäckebrot. The morning was peaceful and quiet, and the top of the blankets was starting to warm up. It was…nice.

“We should do this more often,” Finland said suddenly. “It feels like we don’t see each other much any more, we’re so busy all the time—it’s good to just…relax.”

Sweden nodded again. That was the problem with Sweden—half the time you couldn’t tell what he was thinking and half the time he just went along with whatever Finland said, which wasn’t necessarily bad, but it didn’t make for interesting conversation. Still, better than Denmark’s constant bragging, Finland supposed.

They continued with breakfast. Soon, the plates were empty and the kaffe was just dregs in the container. Sun was coming through the window; it was warming slightly, though only slightly. It looked like it would be a nice, if chilly, day.

“Guess I better put this back,” Finland said, moving to pick up the tray. He was about to—but then Sweden’s arm was around him, drawing him closer, and he stopped. Warmth suffused the side of his body. He glanced over; Sweden had the same unreadable expression on his face as always, but his mouth twitched slightly.

“Thanks,” Sweden said. It was simple, but just as warming as the extra body heat.

Finland almost wanted to laugh. “Any time,” he said. He nestled into the extra warmth. They didn’t have to get up just yet, he decided.

That lasted all of thirty seconds before Sealand burst in.

“Hey, dad, Seborga said—” Sealand stopped, stared, and immediately ran back out of the room, closing the door behind him. Finland could hear Hanatamago barking in the background. Probably he wanted food too.

“No rest after all, it seems,” Finland said, sighing. He extricated himself from Sweden and picked up the tray. “I’ll feed the rest of the household. You should probably get dressed.”

Sweden nodded, looking slightly disappointed. He watched Finland leave the room, tray in hand, before getting out of bed himself.

Finland surveyed the kitchen. No need to make more kaffe, Sealand wasn’t allowed it and Hanatamago showed no interest in it, but there was more knäckebrot in the cupboard—except Sealand didn’t actually like real breakfast, did he, for some reason he still preferred that terrible stuff of America’s, all sugar and fried things. Finland narrowed his eyes. One day he’d get that boy on herring. One day. Until then, though, he had to search in the back of the cupboard for whatever passed as cereal. And dog food. Honestly, he thought he might prefer the latter.

He paused at the kitchen counter. His side was still warm. Maybe next time they should send Sealand off to Wy’s, that should take a while to get back from. And then--

Finland smiled at the thought, and went back to making breakfast.

[Fic Fill] The Motion in the Ocean

2010-09-06T18:59:37Z

TITLE: Motion in the Ocean
AUTHOR/ARTIST: sayasama
RECIPIENT: rolmolo
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Russia/America
RATING: PG-13
NOTES: Self-beta'd, vague sex on a boat. The prompt was for Russia/America having fun at a beach somewhere. I spent many a summer in Newport, and so when I saw "beach" it was only location that really popped out at me.
SUMMARY: Russia and America spend some time on Newport's shores.

.001

The first things they see upon entering the park are the kites. Some of them are just the quaint sort bought for children on the ride to the park, but most of them are incredibly complex arrays of color and cloth, being flown high with a pride people usually reserve for things like their children or their well-kept houses. Ivan is almost ashamed at how fascinated by them he truly is, but he figures it’s alright, considering his present company is setting one up as well. (It’s a sunflower even. It always surprises him to remember that Alfred pays such attention to his likes.)

“It looks ridiculous.”

“Hey, I spent hours on Ebay lookin’ for this thing.”

“You are ridiculous then.” But Ivan leans forward and kisses Alfred all the same.

.002

“Not so bad, huh? Not exactly an adrenalin rush, but I figured we both needed something that was just peaceful and pretty,” Alfred says as he sits down on the blanket they’ve set out on the grass. Unabashedly he takes up Ivan’s hand as soon as he settles in.

“Your Brenton Point is very lovely, yes. I’m surprised you have such quiet places.”

“Hey!” Alfred playfully bumps Ivan’s shoulder with his own, and the gesture is returned with a smile.

“I’ve got lots of quiet places! ‘S not my fault you never travel beyond D.C. and New York.”

“It is not my fault you do not take me to them.”

“Yeah, well you—Del’s! We’ve gotta get some!” Alfred exclaims, jumping up and pointing in the direction of a white truck with a lemon printed on it. His expression is like that of an excited puppy, and the way he grabs Ivan’s hand and pulls him toward the truck is also rather reminiscent of an overexcited Labrador.

They make it over to the truck quickly, and buy their frozen lemonade even quicker. Then they go right back to where they started, enjoying their frozen treat and watching the kites fly.

.003

Alfred never could sit still long, so before the hour is up they pack their things into Alfred’s truck and leave it to find a worn stone staircase down to the rocky shoreline.

“I like to go shell huntin’ around here; you can find some really nice stuff. There’s a bunch of rocks that go out into the ocean some ways, and you’re kinda discouraged from going on them, but a lotta people do anyway,” Alfred explains, pointing out the things he mentions as he walks over the stones with a surefootedness that speaks of many long hours spent walking the shore.

“I would rather not be washed away by a stray wave, if it’s all the same to you,” Ivan, who has to concentrate just a little more to keep his footing on the incline, responds.

“Fine by me. There’s some tide pools up ahead, you always find cool stuff in them!”

“There is much ‘cool stuff’ right here,” Ivan remarks, eyeing an abandoned lobster trap. Nonetheless, he follows after the enthusiastic blond, responding to his energy with some enthusiasm of his own. Soon enough, Alfred finds a tide pool and takes careful steps over the jutting rocks to see it, instructing Ivan to keep to his path.

“Oh, did ya see that? There’s a crab in this one!” One would almost suspect he’s never seen one, with how excited Alfred gets over the little thing. Still, Ivan supposes that’s what he likes about Alfred; he always goes into things with the air of an explorer trekking through uncharted lands.

They spend a few minutes poking around the tide pool, Alfred taking Ivan’s hand and making it point to the things he wants to show the other. Ivan’s face is flushed from both the heat and affection, but he allows the hand-holding to continue even after they stand up to move on. They walk the rest of the shoreline that way, hand in hand until they come to a rickety old ladder that doesn’t look like it can hold either of them, but nonetheless does bear them both back up to the sidewalk.

.004

“Are we returning home?” Ivan asks as they make their way to Alfred’s truck once more. They’ve spent a few hours in the park and it was already mid-afternoon, so Ivan wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the case.

“Nah, we’re goin’ go to First beach!” Alfred says, throwing open the door and jumping into the driver’s side of the cab. Ivan climbs in the other side, not entirely sure of the significance of going to this beach or if there is any significance at all. As they pull out of their parking space and start down the road, Ivan decides it is probably just Alfred being himself. The thought puts a little smile on his face.

It doesn’t take long at all to drive down to the beach. Stepping out of the truck, Ivan is greeted with the beautiful sight of the late-afternoon sun reflecting on the water and the faint sounds of a carousel. He finds the source to his left, raised up twenty four feet and spinning quite happily. Alfred must realize he is staring for he takes Ivan’s hand and leads him up the stairs to it.

“Alfred, aren’t we a bit big for this?” Ivan asks, trying to keep the childish excitement in his voice in check.

“Never too big for a carousel babe.”

Three go-arounds later and Ivan is pretty sure he agrees with that.

.005

“Where are we headed Alfred?” Ivan asks; Alfred seems to have a destination in mind but he hasn’t said what it is.

“I’ve got a pleasure boat tied up at a dock about a mile down.”

“Pleasure boat? Is that a euphemism?”

Alfred grins, “Only if you want it to be.”

They have been walking along the shore for quite a while now and the sun is starting to go down. Ivan is very content to walk on the sand with his feet in the water and his arm securely around Alfred’s waist. It means that Alfred is close enough to just tip his head to the side a bit and kiss Ivan’s jaw and cheek as much as he wants and Ivan doesn’t feel like denying Alfred much of anything today. Especially not when he gets to do the same thing right back.

Eventually they make it to the dock and Alfred picks out his boat—a 27 foot cruiser—and hops into the captain’s seat.

“You can drive this?” Ivan asks, a little disbelieving. He’s only ever seen Alfred pilot planes or drive cars. Somehow it never struck him that Alfred might be any good with a boat.

“Would I own it if I couldn’t?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Alfred just grins and starts up the engine.

.006

Ivan is caught between watching Alfred drive, looking glorious as ever in the bright red of the dying sun, or fetching the drinks Alfred has kindly informed him are in the cabin. In the end he waits for the sun to be nearly gone before getting up for the drinks, turning the lights on as he does.

While raiding the fridge for vodka and something a bit less alcoholic for his driver, he discovers what appears to be two covered meals of pasta (he wonders why pasta of all things, but figures it’s better than a stack of burgers). Taking them out, he finds the microwave easily enough and warms them up. Alfred is probably hungry anyway by now, not to say anything about how Ivan’s own stomach is growling.

“I’ve heated up supper,” Ivan calls as he come out of the cabin, a dish in each hand.

“Awesome! Lemme put this baby into neutral, and we can eat it on the back of the boat, okay?”

“Da.” Ivan goes to the back of the boat and places the plates down on the table, taking the bottles of water and vodka from his pockets soon after. The boat slows down until he can hardly feel the wind through his hair. This was fine though, as it is quickly replaced by the whirlwind that is Alfred.

“A moonlit dinner on the water? You are unexpectedly romantic,” Ivan says before taking a bite of the pasta.

“Yeah, well,” Alfred murmurs, leaning his shoulder against Ivan’s. “I blame Hollywood.” He kisses the corner of Ivan’s mouth, his tongue flicking out just long enough to clean the sauce from it.

“Tease.”

.007

“Alfred, this area is too small. Perhaps somewhere with more space?” Ivan asks once Alfred finally leaves his mouth in favor of laying kisses down the chest he’s so carelessly made bare. The bench seat at the very back of the boat is quite small for the both of them, and the table is very close as well. It’s more than a bit cramped.

“Well, don’t need much space for what we’re gonna do, right?” Alfred looks incredibly alluring, peaking up at him through his eyelashes as he mouths Ivan’s erection through his pants. An involuntary shiver goes through him as he nods in response.

“You are just an exhibitionist.”

“Yup. Now c’mon, pants off.” And Alfred, never one to tell others to do something he himself won’t, quickly sets an example for him by removing his own. Ivan is a quick study.

“God yes,” Alfred gasps as Ivan drags him back down and onto him, their bare erections rubbing together. He sucks on Ivan’s fingers until they’re wet enough to stretch his entrance, writhes and mewls all the time he’s being prepared, and the waves set their rhythm, rocking their bodies together until they see white.

“See? Not so bad, sex on the deck.”

“Not at all, but… If I’m not mistaken there is a bed in the cabin.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get to it next.” And just like he has been all the day, Alfred gets up and leads Ivan by the hand into the cabin, grinning all the while.

-----

1. Brenton Point is a national park in Newport that's famous for it's kite enthusiasts. It's also got a cliff walk, and you can take a (rusty but reliable) stepladder down the wall and walk on the shore.
2. Easton Beach, commonly known as First Beach, has a carousel, the Save the Bay Exploration Center, a skate park, a pool, and a million other things to make up for it's sliiiiight red tide problem. I took some liberties with the dock's location, as I don't know where or not there really is one so close to that beach.

[Fic Fill]: Trouble in Relativity

2010-09-06T04:06:00Z

TITLE: Trouble in Relativity
AUTHOR/ARTIST: Theif_Raccoon
RECIPIENT: chromatic_coma
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Germany, Italy.N, Italy.S
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Romano goes to Feliciano for relationship advice, but circumstances gave him Ludwig instead.

Feliciano was fidgeting in his seat and it was getting on Ludwig's nerves.

“Feli..... is there something bugging you?” asked the German as he placed a hand on his forehead hoping the headache he felt coming on didn't. The Italian stopped fidgeting with the sketchbook that was in his hands and looked up at Ludwig.

“Um... ve..it's about fratello.” Feliciano quietly answered Ludwig's question.

“Romano?” Ludwig sighed as out the name as he wondered what Romano did this time to make Feli worry.

“Si. He kind of wanted to come over, ve.” Ludwig popped his head up from his hand to stare at the Italian in shock. He wasn't expecting that as an answer.

“Hmmm.. That's unusual. Do you want me to be scarce when he visit?” Feliciano's eyes lit up as the last of Ludwig's words was spoken.

“Could you please, ve?!”

“Ja, Feli. I don't mind at all.” And as an afterthought on the topic. 'I don't think Romano would want to see me anyway.'

Feliciano rushed up to the German man and hugged him as he smiled while responding, “Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Ludwig.”

“Ah Feliciano....” He sighs as he wrapped one arm around the Italian. Feliciano giggled and stood up bouncing to the door.

“Ve, I'm going to buy some items for dinner tonight then.”

“Do you need me to come and help you?” Ludwig started to move when Feliciano shook his head side to side.

“No, I'll be fine. Don't worry I'll be back before Romano is here.” Feliciano skipped out of the room before Ludwig had a chance to say anything about it. He shook his head in defeated amusement by the Italian man's antics. He went back to his work and waited for the usual yell.

“I'm leaving Ludwig. I'll be back later.” He heard as the door slammed shut. He glanced out the window waved back at the ecstatically waving Italian. He watched Feliciano walk out of his sight.

“Hmmm... usually Romano would avoid my place like the plague.” He thought on it, but finally he shrugged his shoulders dismissing it and continue finishing up his work before anything else could interrupt him.

Ludwig walked out of his office stretching out his arms and back.

“Done! Hmmm..? Feliciano isn't back yet.” He sighed and walked back into the office that held his phone.

“I better call him. He's probably gotten distracted by a cat or taking a siesta again.” He was holding onto the phone about to dial when the doorbell rang.

“Who is?.... Oh right Feli did say Romano was coming.” Placing the phone back on the hook, he made his way to the front door as the bell rang several times with someone also pounding on the door itself.

“I'm coming, I'm coming.” Ludwig shouted as he worked to unlock the door. Romano shoved his way in as Ludwig unlocked the door. The Southern Italian growled as he stormed pass Ludwig.

“Alright, I'm here Feliciano! Let's go!” Romano shouted out hoping Feliciano would hear him. Ludwig blinked in surprise at Romano's words. He turned around and looked up and down at the other. Romano was wearing a grey shirt that had an old faded white symbol. A brown jacket was cover the shirt with a pair of blue jeans to set it all together. The odd part about all this is Romano even if he's going with his brother always looked clean and right now the shirt was wrinkled, the jacket disheveled and the pants had a few stains on them.

“What are you looking at potato bastard?”

“Ah nothing. Feliciano is out right now. He'll be back soon.”

“Grrrrr, why isn't he here now? We need to get going now!” Romano nearly shouted out the last of his words. Ludwig narrowed his eyes.

“He isn't here like I said and didn't Feli say you asked to come here anyway.” He watched as Romano's back stiffed, but he quickly turned back to the German.

“One, I did not ask to come here and two, why would I!” As he glared at the man. He could tell Romano was nervous from the slight shake in his form.

“Look just relax...” He didn't get a chance as Romano retorted back, “You are so frustrating! Feliciano keeps talking about you it's... grrrr I just wish you would just disappear!”

While Romano huffed and puffed as Ludwig leaned against the door waiting.

“What's your problem? You know that Feliciano and I have...” It clicked for Ludwig. He narrowed his eyes and took a closer look at Romano's eyes. They held a slight glassy look in them.

“Look Romano, I can't disappear, because as long as Feliciano sneaks up here, he won't let me be. Romano, is there something you want to talk about?”

“Why should I talk to you about anything!” Retorted the Italian as he made the usual vulgar gesture that hardly made Ludwig mad anymore. Ludwig moved closer to Romano, but stayed leaning against the wall. He looked down at his shoes remembering.

“You know it wasn't like Feli and I got together right away. Actually, I didn't know that the red roses he had given me were a gift meant for a friend. It was only later after my disastrous attempt at a date that Feliciano explained everything to me. We decided to stay friends in the end.” Ludwig chuckled, as he glanced over. Romano didn't move from where he was, but he could tell that Romano was listening even if it didn't look like it.

“It wasn't until a few years after the wall fell that we got closer.” Ludwig leaned his head back as he continued, “Even Gilbert has had some troubles. He had a crush on Elizabeth.” He heard the other man's muffled laughter as he tried his best to hide it from Ludwig. Ludwig moved closer to the Italian and lightly patted his shoulder.

“Come on, let's go into the living room.” Romano let the German lead and the two sat down on the couch.

“What happened Romano?” Ludwig watched the Southern Italian as the final barrier broke down.

“I finally asked Miss Emma out.” Ludwig was surprised. He didn't know that Romano liked Belgium. Though he remembered the saying “Don't judge a book by its cover.”

“It was going great. We had a wonderful dinner with a great wine. Went to a theater show and then walked through a beautiful park. It should of ended with a kiss at the end.” Romano had a frown and had his fingers together like he was praying.

“But it didn't.” Answered Ludwig.

“No it didn't. She said she had fun, but she didn't love me at all. She ...only liked me as a little brother.” It almost looked like he might cry, but he kept it in.

“It's never easy being turned down. At least she was honest with you.”

“But why did she even agree to go out at all? Why give me a false hope?” That made Ludwig ponder the question for a bit.

“Maybe to confirm if she liked you as a little brother.” Romano looked up at the German as he continued, “She wasn't sure if she loved you or only liked you. In the end, she confirmed it and was honest about it.” Romano looked so heart broken when the German explained his theory. Ludwig couldn't keep up the gaze, so he turned away.

“Or she didn't know. She thought it was just spending time with you.” Ludwig noticed he was failing miserably at his efforts to cheer up the little Italian. He sighed, the man was Feliciano's brother, so he felt he had do something. Ludwig had an idea he was going to do something stupid. He leaned closer and hugged Romano. The Italian struggled a little, but gave in.

“Look, it sucks alright, but there are many other people out there. There are people who care about you and maybe you'll find the right one. Don't lose hope.” Ludwig said quietly. Romano didn't seem to know whether to hug him back or punch him. He opted for a light punch to the German's shoulder and a quickly muttered, “Thanks” as the front door opened.

“I'm back!!!” The two separated as Feliciano skipped in.

“Ah, Fratello you're here so early.” Ludwig looked over as Romano ducked his head to hide a slight blush as he responded,“Well, I knew you would be late!”

“Ve~ Since you're here you want to help fix dinner?” It didn't faze the younger Italian as he walked towards the kitchen.

“Fine.” Romano followed his brother, but stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

“You coming? Maybe, I'll even let you put in that worst sausages you like so much into the sauce.” Ludwig smirked and followed the Italian as he thought,

“That's the closest thing to a compliment I will ever get from him.”

[fic fill] it's only for you -- prussia/canada

2010-09-05T21:50:24Z

Title: It's Only For You
Author: faerichylde
Recipient: orangepencils
Characters/Pairings: Prussia/Canada
Rating: PG or PG-13
Notes: I hope you liked it, orangepencils! I'm a huge fan of your stories o///o but this is my second time ever writing pru/can, so hopefully it was good ♥
Summary: Prussia and Canada spend a nice day by the poolside.

It's a cool look Prussia throws Canada, an almost-leer as he steps out of the bathroom with his swim trunks on. "What, no Speedo?" he asks, an expression that could have been described as woebegone but for the slight quirk of his eyebrows, the curve of his mouth, settling across his face. Canada blushes -- he hates blushing; it makes him feel all hot and bothered and uncomfortable, but then thinking about that makes him think about other times that Prussia's made him hot and bothered and uncomfortable, and if he does that then Prussia will notice and it'll lead to... something else, and then they'll never be able to enjoy their day by the pool. And that really wouldn't be good.

Canada supposes it's a testament to how caught up in thought he can become that Prussia can sneak up on him like this and wrap his arms so neatly around his neck. "Liebling," the other man purrs, "we don't have to go to the pool. We can just stay here and... relax, if you know what I mean." Canada blushes so brightly that he's surprised he hasn't combusted yet.

"No," he says, a tad firmly. "I want to go." Prussia pouts, but Canada's not budging. After a moment, he sighs and lets go.

"Aaah, fine. The ladies will all be amazed by my awesome self anyway." Canada has to agree with Prussia, silently. The other man looks good. He's not overly bulked up; he's small and wiry, but the muscles in his arms and abdomen speak of strength and durability. Thin white scars run down his chest and back, but don't detract from the watching experience, and the red swimming trunks he's wearing add to the gleam of his eyes, the flash of his teeth. All in all, Canada will say that Prussia does look good. Very, very good.

His lips quirk upward in a small smile. "You do know there are no ladies, right? Just you and me?" Prussia gives him that affected look, the one where he tries to make himself look displeased but actually means he's trying not to laugh.

"What, Canada. Really, man? You didn't invite any babes? Whatever. So lame." He puts his hands on his hips in mock anger and turns to leave, but Canada grabs him around his waist and hugs him.

"Prussia," he says, and he's trying not to whine but he really just wants to sit out by the poolside and be warm for once. "Can we go out? Please?" Prussia looks at him and maybe sees how badly he wants this, so he sighs melodramatically, waving his arms around in that very Prussia fashion, and acquiesces.

They head outside, and it's really very nice. Canada basks in the warmth with the happy reassurance of sunscreen and the fact that he isn't likely to get a sunburn; Prussia basks in the warmth too, but Canada isn't sure if he's put sunblock on or not. He figures that he'll give the other the benefit of the doubt, and forgets about it.

For a while, Canada simply sits on the edge of the pool; the water feels nice after the hot concrete on his feet, and he can sleep in the sunlight. Prussia, after doing fancy flips into the deep end and diving for pennies that Canada throws, soon gets bored with this.
"Come on, Canada!" he says, beckoning to the blonde man from the other end of the pool. "Don't be so fucking boring! Come down here!" Canada shakes his head without looking, his lips curved upward in contentment. After a few more attempts, Prussia gives up. Canada can hear the splashing from the other end and he figures that Prussia's just doing more of what he's been doing.

Suddenly he hears a yell from the other end and his eyes snap open. Prussia's grinning at him from the side of the pool. "Prussia!" Canada says, more out of relief than anything. "Why did you do that? I thought something was wrong!"

"No, come check out this awesome... drain! It's really... awesome!" Prussia sounds a little odd but he looks okay, so Canada heads over to the other side of the pool. Prussia looks up at him, shading his eyes from the sun. "Give me your hand!"

Canada, trusting, gives Prussia his hand and before he knows it Prussia's yanked him into the pool. Sputtering, his glasses wet and his hair dripping, Canada looks at Prussia with such reproach that he doesn't actually have to say anything for the other man to understand. Prussia turns a dark red, but looks defiant all the same. "What? C'mon, you should be in the pool!"

Canada shakes his head. "You couldn't have warned me?" He starts to pull himself out, but Prussia grabs his hand.

"No, stay. Please?" He sends a hopeful look Canada's way and Canada can't take that look from Prussia, so he sighs.

"Fine. Just let me put my glasses on the table." Now that the danger has been averted, Prussia relaxes and leans back into the water, gracefully swimming backward and forward with ease. Canada watches him for a moment, but Prussia can feel his eyes.

"Whatcha looking at?" Canada blushes.

"Nothing."

"No, seriously. Why're you up there? Come on back!" Canada heads back to the pool and slides in, enjoying the cool water lapping against his skin. He sighs in contentment and swims over to the shallow end of the pool, where he sits down on the steps and closes his eyes, resting his head against the top step. A moment later, he feels water splashing on his face.

"Prussia," he says, a little bit exasperated, but the next moment Prussia's pulling him by the hand and having him dive for pennies, talking his ear off. Canada shrugs and goes along with it; he doesn't really mind, he guesses.

After fifteen minutes Canada notices Prussia's skin is starting to redden a little bit, and he stops in their game. "Prussia," he says a bit cautiously, and Prussia stops too.

"What's up?"

"Did you put on any sunscreen before we came out here?"

Prussia's smile freezes on his face. "No...?"

The sudden smirk on Canada's sporting must confuse Prussia, because the look on his face changes from "Caught!" to "What?"

"You're getting sunburned," Canada says, and Prussia shakes his head.

"No way! Not possible for the awesome me to get sunburned!" Prussia doesn't sound all that confident, though, and he's surreptitiously turning back to see if he has been burned.

Canada laughs. "We should go inside now," he says, with a touch of fondness in his voice. Prussia's shoulders droop, and since they've been out here for quite a while, Canada knows he's won this argument.

Inside, after the shower (in which there was much twisting and shouts of pain from Prussia and much soothing and hidden laughter from Canada), they're sitting together on the couch, and Canada's rubbing ointment into Prussia's back, when Prussia looks up.

"Hey," he says, and the directness of it takes Canada by surprise. "I had fun today."

Canada flushes a little bit, then thinks about it. Despite how pushy Prussia had been, he had had fun too. He had had a lot of fun. Prussia was nice to be around, nice to talk to. He smiles. "I did too."

They relax into each other, and when Prussia's body goes limp on Canada's, and Canada checks that he's asleep and not dead (something Prussia insists on), he takes off his glasses, closes his eyes, and allows himself to melt into Prussia's warmth.

[Fic Fill]: Baking Soda

2010-09-05T18:52:21Z

TITLE: Baking Soda
AUTHOR/ARTIST: tea_for_you
RECIPIENT: sadlygrove
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: France/England
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: England bakes scones. France despairs.

. The first time England tried feeding his scones to France was, as most idiotic things anyone of their kind ever did, a consequence of human folly.

The diplomacy of nations was a simple one. There were no treaties, no threats, no alliances, no bartering; there was blood and sometimes marriages, friendships and enmities. And if some such bonds were too deep-seated for the floating politics of a state, well, then there was always the solution of civility.

France and England had always known each other too well for civility to be an option. France had told that to the cabinet, that the demand to be civil to England was preposterious, because England would know that it was a lie and take it as worse of an insult than any amount of frank truth that France would usually deliver. Theirs was a loyal antagonism, carefully nurtured through centuries of personal disagreements and political rivalries. Being nice to England, no, no, that was beyond impossible: it was absurd.

And it was the story of how France found himself in England's sitting room, on a day which he supposed was remarkably fine for Britain, and how he picked up what looked like it was meant to be some kind of baked goods. It had the paleness of something baked in an insufficiently heated oven, and refused to yield when he tried to press his fingers together. It sat like a piece of wood in his tentative grip. France looked first to the other buns on the elaborately carved silver serving plate, and then up at England who was standing across from the table with the tray pressed to his chest in a curiously vulnerable slump.

"Am I supposed to eat this?" he asked; there was jam and butter on the table.

"No," England choked, tore the scone out of France' hand and slammed it back onto the serving plate. He left the room without another word, face red and feet stumbling over his carpeting in his hurry. By the time he returned, the tea had gone tepid and covered in a iridescent film.

The farce of an afternoon came to a slowly staggering end as he sipped tea and forced himself to swallow. England didn't say a word and France didn't either, and they sat there in the silence of their shared embarassment and concentration on the vain hope that the stale bread of the cucumber sandwiches could drown the bitterness of tea that had suffered the most abhorrent neglect.

France - tactfully - did not comment on England's red-rimmed eyes. It wouldn't be worth it, of course, to let this act of goodwill and symbolic fraternity end in a brawl, not after he had spent the entire afternoon biting his tongue. And if France had startled at the uncharacteristic nervousness which had quivered around England's very being when he brought out the scones, why, it was only natural to attribute it to this unnatural consequence of industrialisation and Prussia's little brother.

Not even England, after all, could put so much feeling into shyly muttering that he made them just now.

. England baked like a bad poet.

"Whatever it is you are trying to make, I won't eat it," said France from his seat at England's kitchen table, poking a teaspoon at the tea bag floating like a sack of industrial waste in his mug.

"Well, then it's good it's not you I'm baking for!" England snapped while trying to beat some softness into dough that was crumbling between his fingers. He had not measured the ingredients, as if the alchemy of the kitchen could work on magic alone, as if it was not also a matter of chemistry. "As if I'd want to bother your poncy continental palate with respectable, British cooking."

"England, not even you can enjoy your cooking. Not even America does."

"America is hardly the authority on good dining. Or anything else of within any definition of 'proper'. Did you hear what that, that friend of his is claiming? And the bloody idiot - "

"I heard," France muttered and watched in detached resignation as England struggled to form buns, and the miscreation of a dough kept falling apart between his fingers. France had learned to make the most delicate pastries from masters of the art, men whose likes would never be seen. Watching England bake his scones was like watching a child let loose in his mother's kitchen. Flour and dough crumbs were spread around England's feet, and England was purring a blaspheming litany that would have explained the outcome of his cooking all on its own if at least one of them had kept their faith.

France fished the tea bag out of the mug and dropped it into the mostly empty ashtray. England had finally surrendered what little pride could be left in his project, and taken to lift lumps of dough onto the baking pan and using his fingertips to press them into what could pass for cakes if to America, maybe, if you took away his glasses. They would be falling apart the moment they were lifted away, but France kept his tongue in check. There was no sport in making fun of England's cooking.

When England was satisfied with this pathetic abuse of food, he put it into the oven - top shelf, and France vaguely wondered how it was that his house was still standing - and turned on the heat.

France would later remember nothing of the seconds between his taking notice of that, and when he was standing in front of England's stove with the baking pan in his hands and a livid England in his face. England was screaming. France could not muster any extra emotion to work himself up.

"You don't bake with a cold oven," he said, wonderfully numb after this display of lacking respect for all rules of good cooking.

"What in the name of Christ are you getting at?"

"You must always pre-heat the oven," France rephrased and sat the pan down before he turned and reached for the broom, "nothing bakes properly without steady heat. To make sure it cooks through, to get the perfect texture, you must always pre-heat the oven."

England looked pale when France started sweeping the floor in front of the sink. He didn't even notice that he was a mop away from laying claim to England's kitchen.

"That's rubbish," he said weakly, "I've never bothered with that, and I've gotten along perfectly fine." He didn't sound like he believed in what he was saying. France had to stop himself from reaching out and patting his shoulder.

"Try waiting another fifteen minutes," he said, and covered the pitiful lumps of flour and butter with a tea towel.

"Waste of electricity," said England.

"And bake them on the middle shelf. They'll burn if they are any higher than that."

"I knew that."

The scones fell apart when England tried to move them to a cooling rack, but their ragged edges at least revealed that they had been baked all the way through, with healthy brown tops that seemed to leave England enraptured. He ate his scones with raspberry jam and a curious silence. He only asked if France wanted any once, but France had known that they would by hard and crumbling already when England made the dough. He remained at the table with his mug of cold tea, just to watch England put piece after piece of disgusting food into his mouth, and looking like he could burst from happiness.

. The next time, France had found that the best way to do it was to tell Engand to invite him over for tea. He showed up two hours early to look through the contents of the host's fridge.

England had not been happy about coming home to find that France had thrown away a good thirty percent of the edibles in his kitchen, but France had merely flaunted a bottle of wine and demanded to see the recipe England used for his scones.

"You should've asked Scotland," England said fifteen minutes later, on his knees in front of drawer full of instruction booklets, "I got it from him."

"I'm sorry for making the assumption that you used it on a regular basis," said France, leaning his hip against the desk.

"Don't be daft," said England and shoved the drawer closed before yanking the next one open, "I've made them thousands of times. I know it by heart."

France, in the spirit of a benign and accepting teacher that England certainly needed, managed not to say anything.

When he got the scrap of paper shoved into his hands, it took another four minutes for the two of them to make out the handwriting that had little resemblance to England's neatly curved script, and might have suffered from a light spelling problem as well. It was little more than a list of a few base ingredients and a note on the bottom that said to beat the egg before adding it.

England looked sceptic when France gave him the edited version, which was three times longer and had it underlined thrice that he was to use butter, not margarine.

"That's decadent and wasteful," he said.

"It's the difference between edible food and good food," said France, "now turn on the oven and take the butter out of the fridge."

It was almost painful to see England dice butter with a bread knife, and his attempts at crumbling it into the flour was not elegant work. France also suspected that the result would have been far less predictable if he hadn't been there to keep watch and remdind England about following his recipe. But at least he measured this time, and the result was a dough that might not be quite as light and even as it would have been in France's hands, but which at least was smooth enough to be easily formed.

There were tears in England's eyes when they stood side by side and admired the day's job, which would probably still not be as tender as France would have liked it to be. But they were soft and warm and did not smell of anything that wasn't supposed to be in them. It was a batch of entirely passable scones, and even for a bread so simple and so desperately British, it had a value in that, if nothing else: it was such a difference from what France remembered England giving him that one day almost a century ago.

"See?" said France tentatively, "cooking is like all other sciences in this world. Follow the rules, and it will turn out okay."

England drew a shuddering breath, and picked up a still warm scone as if to test its feel in his hand. France wasn't sure if he had done something right or something wrong when England really did start crying over his perfectly edible scones; he ended up comforting England in the way he did it best, and the scone came with them. There were breadcrumbs in the sheets afterwards.

. England tumbled out of bed with the determination of a man who had almost fallen asleep again; the hardwood floor against his bare feet mercilessly roused his consciousness as he padded into France's despicably large, despicably fashionable kitchen, full of spices that were surely poisonous and utensils that couldn't have any practical use.

Years of enviously watching France cook his dinners had made one thing certain: England knew his way around the cupboards and drawers. He turned on the stove. He remembered to measure the ingredients. He took care to keep the milk and the butter chilled. After he had set the timer, he even found a box of tea that France had paid preposterous sums for at some specialty shop.

It was a matter of pride, of course. A real Englishman would never take to French cooking, but for a Frenchman to teach a Briton how to prepare his own recipes was a shame beyond words. It was humiliating in the worst of ways, but England couldn't feel bad about it as he regarded the results of his efforts. At least as long as France wasn't gloating, but seemingly satisfied to let it pass without ever mentioning it again, except for when he'd be cooking and suddenly comment, out of the blue, about what it was that he was doing.

England, as a small favour, had refrained from complaining about everything that truly was wrong with the French kitchen. It was an agreeable truce: France shared unwanted secrets from his ludicruous cooking traditions, and England didn't deny that he was grateful for being shown how to make better food. The only problem was that France would not accept England's gratitude, or at least physical manifestation of it: France still would not eat scones, even the ones that he had directed himself. England wasn't sure if it was some ridiculous continental phobial of wholesome food or just France being difficult, but either option left an answer that was intolerable to his English pride.

That was why he accepted that the only serving tray that France owned was a perverse souvernir piece with the Eiffel Tower. It took some stacking, but he managed to fit tea pot and cups, plates and scones and a jar of honey on it, and he manouvered it into France's bedroom without accidents. France, sleeping like the mediterranean cretin that he was, did not wake up until England set a foot against his side and shoved him onto his back.

It was with a stab of something he didn't care to acknowledge that England pulled his foot down to make sure he stood safely, and France laid sprawled in the middle of his bed with the nightshirt and his foppishly long hair tousled around his body.

"I made breakfast," England announced, "and so help me, you are going to eat it."

"Is it Frosties again?" France made a face.

"No," England snapped, and would probably have yelled if he wasn't carrying the tray, "you made it abundantly clear that you will not eat that for breakfast any more."

He sat the tray down on top of some thick and undoubtedly perverted novel that France kept by his bed, and sat down on the bedside to pour the tea (perfectly brewed) and hand France the cup on the saucer. While France sipped his tea with a face still bleary from sleep, England parted a scone and dripped honey over it, muttered soomething about the absence of decent marmalade in this house, and picked the saucer out of France's hand and gave him the scones instead.

"This is the least romantic breakfast in bed I have ever had," France groused, and held the plate out for England to take it back.

"I told you to eat it!"

"Why?"

"Because I made it for you! With ingredients that you have personally bought, in a kitchen you have personally kept as clean as you like! It is a perfectly fine piece of baking."

France looked honestly taken back by the proclamation, and England hoped, hoped, that he hadn't sounded as wounded as he thought he might have done.

"You could just have woken me if you were hungry," France finally said with a sigh, and closed his eyes as if to brace himself before he bit off half the scone.

He didn't praise it. England had known that he wouldn't; he and France had known each other for far too long for false praise to be appreciated. France ate the scone he had been given, and England drank France's tea and didn't realise that he had done it before France held out the empty plate. Their eyes met, and England asked anyway and regretted it before he had finished speaking.

"Was it good?"

France held his gaze for a beat, and put the plate down in his lap before he reached for another one.

"It is better than store-bought," he admitted.

He waited a full two days before he started reminding England about whose achievement that was.

[Fic Fil] Feeling Passion

2010-09-05T16:59:20Z

TITLE: Feeling Passion
AUTHOR/ARTIST: Raikana Sakaro
RECIPIENT: vexinglilium
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: France/Prussia/Spain
RATING: NC-17
NOTES: ...this is why I should 1) not do philosophy classes ever and 2) try to write really fast. I tend to...default to porn...bad porn at that... In case anyone couldn't tell yet, sketchfiend has watched me write all of these (and more) to keep me from straying.
SUMMARY: ...Prussia is not feeling himself, so France and Spain take it on themselves to cheer him up the best way they know how...

Feeling Passion

France crouched down in the bushes next to Spain, peering through a pair of binoculars at the nation pacing back and forth in front of the window. Then he lowered the glasses and pointed to the window, turning to look at the brunette next to him. “That is our target.”

Spain grabbed the binoculars out of France’s hand and held them up, frowning as he looked through the window. “Him?” Spain asked, incredulous. “But...that’s Prussia. He belongs on this side of the bushes.”

France just shrugged and sat on the ground, stroking his beard with his thumb. “Nevertheless, he is our friend and he still needs our help. He has just been so...listless under his façade...”

Spain lowered the glasses and frowned at France, dropping down to sit on the ground as well. “Are you sure? He’s been acting just like he used to... Maybe a bit less violent.”

France shook his head and pulled out a small pad of paper, flipping it open to a clean page. “No...I am certain. He is in need of our help. He must feel passion once again and we will help him find his passion.”

Spain glanced back at the window one more time. “If you’re sure...”

France just took the binoculars back and stowed them away in their pouch. Then he took out a pen and leaned close to the brunette. “I am sure. And here is what we’re going to do about it...”

* * *

“H-hey. Hey! What do you think you’re doing?! Let go of me! Hey!” Prussia thrashed and struggled, trying to break free as he was dragged off his couch. “Come on! I don’t want to go with you! Let go! Stop it!”

France just tightened his grip on the albino’s arm and kept walking. “No. You are not yourself. So we must take you and make you feel better. It is the only way.”

Prussia looked over at Spain as he was dragged along. “Hey! Spain! Tell him! Tell this bastard I’m fine! You don’t have to do this! Let me go!”

Spain just shrugged and gave Prussia an apologetic look. “Sorry, but he made some good points. Maybe if you just try relaxing, you’ll have fun...”

“Traitor! Traitors!” Prussia cried, glaring between France and Spain. “Backstabbers! I’m fine! I’m better than fine! I’m awesome!” Then he resumed struggling, kicking out at the other two nations as he grunted, his tongue sticking out in concentration.

Together, they dragged him down the stairs into the basement. Then France pinned the Prussian to the bed and glanced up at the brunette. “Get the door. And perhaps something to drink.”

Prussia glared at the blond on his stomach, holding him down. “Pfeh. I already have drinks down here. Why’d you need to get more?”

Spain climbed the stairs and pulled the door shut before locking it and coming back down. As soon as he heard the bolt slide home, France rolled off Prussia and gave the other man his most charming smile. “Now! Shall we have some drinks and...get comfortable?”

Prussia blinked at the blonde Frenchman and by the time his eyes opened again, a split-second later, the other man’s shirt and jacket were on the floor. “What the hell, man? What the fuck are you planning?! First you drag me away from my awesomely comfortable seat and bring me down here for some beer and...what the hell?”

France wrapped an arm around Prussia’s waist and leaned close, puckering his lips as he closed his eyes. “We are just trying to help you...”

Prussia placed both his hands on France’s chest and shoved, knocking the other nation off the bed. “Yeah, well, maybe molesting shit isn’t the answer to all life’s problems.” He glowered at France for a moment before he grabbed a cool beer away from Spain, cracking it open and chugging it down.

Spain carefully took France’s empty seat, cracking open his beer as well, setting the third bottle by France’s head. “I think what he’s getting at is that...we’re worried. You haven’t been the same since you came back.”

Prussia scoffed as he set down the empty beer bottle. “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve been fine!”

France gave his beer a wary look before sitting up and cracking it open, resting his head against the albino’s knee. “But we never see you anymore, mon cher... You have become like a hermit.”

“Yeah...and why should I leave? Just look at this place! I got everything I need right here! Food, beer, bed, TV, chicks...this place rocks!” He gestured to the room around them before shoving France’s head off his knee and going to get more beer.

France leaned against the edge of the bed as he watched Prussia move around. “Yes, yes...but what about socializing? Meeting other nations? You never come to conferences with your brother anymore.”

Prussia came back to the bed with his arm full of glass bottles and flopped down on the mattress, getting comfortable. “Yeah, well, West won’t let me tag along with him anymore. Something about being...an investigator or something... I keep telling him I’m not a detective or anything like that. Then he just...gives me this look and leaves.”

Spain finished off his bottle and moved closer to Prussia, reaching out to grab a fresh bottle. “Well, you should fight back. Or sneak out. The meetings are so...boring without you there. Remember how much fun you had torturing Austria?”

Prussia grinned and leaned back against his headboard, stretching his legs out, over the Spaniard’s lap. “Yeah...that little nobleman was too damn prissy for his own good.”

France rested his head against the cover and looked up at the Prussian. “Well, since you left with Russia, he has become even more prissy. And almost as bossy as your brother.”

Prussia tapped the bottle against his lower lip thoughtfully as Spain moved up to sit next to him again, leaning against his side. “That does sound pretty bad...but West would kill me if I tried to get into one of those meetings...”

Spain took another sip before rubbing Prussia’s arm gently. “So? Other people tried to kill you, too. Like everyone who shared a border with you.”

Prussia down half his beer in one go, then belched loudly, not noticing France creeping closer. “Yeah, but things were different, then. I was one of you guys. I had people and they cared.”

France rested his head against Prussia’s knee and brought one hand up to gently rub his thigh through his jeans. “You are still one of us... People still care about you.”

Prussia laughed sharply. “Like hell I’m one of you. If West hadn’t taken me back in, I wouldn’t be shit. Nobody cares about me anymore. Hell, they’re probably glad I’m gone.”

Spain tightened his hand around Prussia’s arm and set his beer down, reaching over to pry the beer from Prussia’s hands. “We care about you. Isn’t that all you need? Just two people to care about you?”

Prussia looked between his two friends, frowning. “But you two don’t even count. You’re not people. And I’m pretty damn sure your people were glad to see me go.” Then he jumped and leveled a glare at France, who was busy kissing his way up one leg.

Spain smirked to himself and reached up to gently run his finger down Prussia’s jaw, earning himself a red-eyed glare. “Relax...we are just showing you how much we care...” he whispered before leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to Prussia’s lips.

Prussia stiffened for a moment, giving the brunette a cross-eyed stare before giving up and kissing back, slipping his hand behind Spain’s back, twisting the brunette’s shirt up into his fist. Then he pulled away from the kiss with a gasp as he felt a pair of lips softly brush over his fly as a slender hand slipped under his T-shirt to toy with his nipples.

France gently brushed his thumb across the Prussian’s hardening nipple as he looked up to see Spain lean in front of the albino man, kissing him passionately. Then he smirked and turned his head down again, kissing Prussia’s growing length through his jeans before catching the zipper between his teeth and tugging slowly.

Prussia gasped again and threw his head back against the headboard, the small pain getting lost in the pleasurable feelings. He ran his hand up Spain’s back and grabbed the brown curls in one fist, holding him close as he felt a tongue moving along his jaw and neck. “...fuck...” he whispered softly, reaching down with his other hand to undo his pants.

France saw the pale hand move into view and reached up to swat it, tutting as he released the zipper. “No no...this is our time... Your time is later, mon cher...” Then he gently held Prussia’s hand, lacing their fingers together as he turned his attention back to the zipper and the erection straining against it.

Spain saw Prussia open his mouth again and quickly clamped his mouth over it, sliding his tongue between the pale pink lips as they kissed deeply, feeling the vibrations as the other man moaned into his mouth.

After several more minutes of heated kisses and gentle touches, Prussia tightened his hand in Spain’s hair, pulling the brunette away roughly. Then he glared down at France, panting a bit. “Fucking hell... If you’re going to do something, do it already! I’m about to explode!”

France pulled away from Prussia’s bulging pants and smirked at the albino before leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the silky boxers that were sticking out of the open zipper. “If you feel so strongly about it, perhaps you should do something...no?” he said softly, slowly running his index finger around the brass button on the waistband.

Prussia glared down at the Frenchman for a moment before he reached down to pull the teasing hands away from his pants. He quickly popped the button on his pants, starting to tug them down, taking his underwear with them. “At least make yourself useful and go find some lube, you fucking tease...”

With a bit of help from Spain, Prussia managed to get his pants pulled down past his hips, groaning loudly as his erection pulled free of the fabric, falling against his stomach, already fully hard. Then he grabbed Spain’s hair again and pulled him in for another kiss, his free hand reaching down to open the older man’s pants.

France found the bottle of lube sitting by Prussia’s computer and picked it up with a smirk, going back to sit on the bed, reaching for the young man’s erection. His hand was swatted away by Prussia and he pouted at the albino. “What was that for?”

Prussia snatched the bottle away from the blond and set it on the bedside table. “For fucking teasing me, that’s what!”

France deepened his pout and raised his eyebrows at the albino. Prussia just sighed and held Spain close, moving both of them across the bed. “Fine. Get up here. But no more fucking teasing...”

France climbed onto the bed, bending over to press a gentle kiss to Prussia’s cheek while the young man was busy kissing Spain. Prussia pulled away from the brunette and looked at the blond on his other side. After a few moments of looking between the two, he leaned over and returned France’s kiss, running his hand through the soft blond hair on the older man’s chest.

Spain pulled away from Prussia and moved down the bed to get a better view of the two men as he tugged off his shirt and reached up to play with his own chest, biting back a moan as his hips jerked.

Prussia trailed his hand down France’s stomach to finger the waist of his pants as he gently sucked and nibbled on the older man’s lower lip, feeling the vibrations as France purred in satisfaction. He toyed with the button for a moment before popping it open and gently rubbing the bulge between France’s legs.

France moaned softly and ran his fingers through the young man’s spiky silver-blond hair, massaging his scalp in lieu of massaging his dick. He took a deep, gasping breath as they broke the kiss, moaning incoherently as he pressed his open mouth against Prussia’s cheek.

Spain kept watching the other two kissing and touching each other as he rolled up onto his knees, rubbing between his legs with one hand before opening his fly and shoving pants and underpants down to his knees. He sat back down before gently wrapping a hand around his erection and starting to stroke, his nostrils flaring as his breath shuddered in and out of his lungs.

Prussia glanced over at the brunette as he heard a small moan escape Spain’s flushed lips, then smirked and gestured for Spain to join them. Spain got on his hands and knees and crawled over to sit next to Prussia, tugging his pants the rest of the way off as he kissed the young man.

France kissed down Prussia’s neck and down his shoulder before following his collarbone back to his chest, teasing his nipples with one hand as he still ran the other through the short, soft hairs at the base of the albino’s skull.

Prussia reached down and tugged France’s pants down one-handed, tugging out his erection and stroking it briefly as he kept kissing Spain, holding the brown hair tight with his free hand. Spain just moaned softly and put one tan hand on Prussia’s stomach, stroking down over his pubic hair before pulling back up to his navel.

Prussia finally pulled away from Spain, looking at the older man from under his eyelids. “Lay down,” he whispered breathily. Spain looked back for a moment, then pressed another short kiss to the albino’s lips and slipped down to lay on top of the covers, pulling his legs up to reveal his entrance.

“...very good,” the young man purred before turning to France and tugging on the long hair to get his attention. “Lube,” he said shortly as the blue eyes met his own.

France sat up straight and kissed Prussia deeply as he reached behind himself to grab the bottle. After a few seconds, he broke the kiss and smirked at the younger man, quickly squirting a dollop of cool lube on Prussia’s twitching erection before handing the bottle over.

Prussia gasped then moaned, unable to move for a moment as France’s skilled hand wrapped around him, spreading the clear liquid down his shaft. Finally, he pulled away from the blonde’s grasp and gave him a glare. “What did I tell you about the teasing?”

France kissed the albino gently and smirked. “My apologies, mon cher... It will not happen again.

Prussia gave the other man a wary look, but moved to kneel between Spain’s legs, pressing a kiss to one of the knees as he squirted lube into his hand. Then he pressed his fingers against Spain’s entrance, spreading the slick gel around the outside before pressing a finger past the tight ring to spread it around the inside.

Spain moaned and shut his eyes as he felt the finger move around inside of him, lifting his hips to give the younger man better access as his dick twitched against his stomach. Prussia grinned rakishly and pushed a second finger in, to stretch the brunette, using his free hand to lift one of Spain’s legs over his shoulder.

France pouted to himself as he watched Prussia paying such close attention to the Spaniard, then he quickly pulled his pants off with a loud rip as the velcro along the seams gave way. He moved behind Prussia, gently stroking his erection with one hand as he scooped up the abandoned lube with the other.

He quickly coated his fingers with lubricant and leaned forward to kiss Prussia’s spine as he plunged one finger deep in the albino’s ass. He smirked against the pale skin as the younger man cried out, easily evading the awkward slaps aimed at his head. “Relax, mon cher... After all, it takes three to have an orgy...”

Prussia craned his neck around to glare at France from the corner of his eye. “Shut up. Three isn’t an orgy. Just...get on with it.”

“Of course,” murmured the blond man, stroking his finger in and out of the other’s ass, a bit surprised as how easily it opened up under his touches. After a few minutes, he worked his second finger inside the Prussian.

Prussia sighed and rubbed Spain’s leg as he went back to work, stretching his ass until he was satisfied with the size. Then he leaned down and pressed a short kiss to the brunette’s lips before positioning himself and slowly pushing in with a low, drawn-out moan.

Spain bit his lip and closed his eyes as the albino man pressed deep inside of him, sucking in a deep breath through his nose and holding it. Once he felt Prussia’s jeans scrape against his ass, he finally let out a moan, slipping his arms over his head to grab the pillow and hold it tight.

Prussia wrapped his arm around Spain’s leg, gripping the knee tightly as he started shallowly thrusting inside the other, rolling his hips up against the tight ass. Then he froze as he felt France’s fingers slide out of his ass, holding perfectly still as he felt the older man press against him and then slowly push inside, grunting each time he felt another thrust.

France pressed forward until he was buried deep inside Prussia, pressed a kiss to the young man’s spine, then pulled most of the way out, burying himself again in one quick thrust. He smiled as he heard the Prussian cry out his pleasure.

Prussia drew in deep breaths and locked eyes with Spain, staring at the brunette intently as he started moving between the two men, alternately filling the Spaniard and impaling himself on the Frenchman. “Fuck...” he moaned between pants, unable to tear himself away from the olive green eyes in front of him.

Spain smiled and licked his lips as he tilted his hips up against the younger man. Then he reached up and dragged his fingers down Prussia’s chest and stomach, toying with the silvery curls before he brought them back up his own body to stroke his length.

France leaned forward to rest his chin on Prussia’s shoulder as he thrust deep, grinding against the soft skin as he smiled at Spain. “You are enjoying this, too, no?”

Spain smiled and shifted his gaze to France, nodding for a moment before throwing his head back with a soft, keening moan, arching his back off the bed a bit.

Prussia let his eyes slide shut and reached down with one hand to hold Spain’s hip tightly. “Ooh...ah...fuck...” he panted, resting his head against the older man’s leg as he picked up his pace. “Fucking hell...fuck yes...”

France slipped one hand onto Prussia’s stomach as his other hand grasped his hip, thrusting up and in with a short grunt. “Mnh! Oh...oh, Prussia...” he moaned, pressing his hand tight to the young man’s stomach, dragging it down and over against the front of his hip, his fingers twitching restlessly.

Prussia gasped as he felt the warm hand press against his hip, jerking forward a bit before settling back into his rhythm. Then he looked at Spain, watching his throat bob, frowning a bit as he released the older man’s hip to reach up and touch his chin.

Once he had the brunette’s attention, Prussia grinned and leaned down, pressing Spain’s leg up, trapped between their chests. “Hey,” he said softly, his face only inches away from the Spaniard. “I want to taste you again...”

Spain smiled and reached one hand up to hold the back of Prussia’s neck, toying with the short hairs there. “Then come have a taste...” he whispered, pulling the young man’s face close and kissing him deeply.

France smirked at the two men under him and pulled his hand off Prussia’s hip, leaning back to slap the tight ass before thrusting deep and hard, feeling the moan move through the other two men.

Prussia kissed Spain sloppily and spread his knees farther apart as he let out a wanton moan. Then he groped behind himself blindly, twisting and bending until he hooked his fingers around France’s ass, pulling it closer. He finally broke his kiss with a gasp and a grunt. “Fuck me...deeper...harder...fuck...oh god...”

France slapped his ass again, leaning down to whisper softly in his ear as he slowed his pace, moving in and out deeply but slowly. In response, Prussia dug his fingernail into the skin of France’s ass, scratching parallel lines in his need. “I said...fuck me harder...faster...!”

Prussia finally released his deathgrip as he felt the Frenchman speed up, pounding his ass hard. He panted and started moaning, but was cut off by Spain, giving him another open-mouthed kiss, moaning into his mouth.

He shut his eyes as he returned the older man’s kisses, rocking back and forth between the two bodies, closing his eyes to enhance to sensations. Soon, he reached down and wrapped his hand around Spain’s erection, stroking it quickly as he felt the pleasure growing in his stomach and groin.

He bit down on Spain’s lower lip as he thrust quickly, shallowly, and hard, breathing heavily through his nose as he listened to the brunette moan loudly. He finally released the other’s lip and cried out loudly as he thrust deep, shooting himself deep inside the older man.

Spain brought his hands up to run through Prussia’s short hair, jerking his hips and moaning as the tight fist moved up and down his erection, touching all the sensitive spots on the skin. Then his free leg splayed out to the side, jerking and twitching as he screamed the albino’s name, coming all over his stomach.

France leaned down to press light kisses against Prussia’s back, still thrusting as he felt the younger man twitch around him, squeezing his length, pressing it out, then letting it back in. He gently bit down on Prussia’s shoulder, gripping his hips tight with both hands as he thrust hard and sharp into the twitching ass.

After Prussia released Spain’s leg and collapsed limply, France kept thrusting hard and deep, grunting with each thrust because he felt so close, but wasn’t going over the edge. Then Prussia reached back again and grabbed France’s ass, suddenly pulling him in deep.

France moaned lowly and pressed tight against the younger man as he orgasmed deep inside the albino. He pressed one last kiss to Prussia’s shoulder and took a deep breath, pulling out to fall on the bed next to them.

Prussia remained on top of Spain for several more minutes, just gently pressing kisses to the other man’s lips, cheeks, and jaw as he came down from his orgasm. Then he finally rolled off as well and laid on his side next to the brunette, idly dragging his finger through the puddle of sperm. “Thanks, guys.”

France smiled and rolled over onto his stomach, resting his stubbly chin on Spain’s shoulder to look at Prussia. “So you are feeling better?”

Prussia just nodded and grinned at the other two. “Hey. What do you say we all get drunk and go trash Austria’s house, next? He’s had it easy for way too long...”

[ FIC FILL ] : The World Is Not Enough ( But All Its Nations Shall Suffice )

2010-09-04T22:10:20Z

TITLE: The World Is Not Enough ( But All Its Nations Shall Suffice )
AUTHOR: twoxten
RECIPIENT: merubear
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia primarily with mentions/small appearances by other nations.
RATING: G
NOTES: I don't know what this to be honest. I'm hoping it was at least a little funny.
SUMMARY: All the nations have been captured by an evil corporation, the only ones that managed to evade capture were the three Baltic nations. Now it's up to them to save everyone else. Will our unlikely heroes be successful?

The World Is Not Enough ( But All Its Nations Shall Suffice )

“Is it just me, or is something strange going on right now?”

“N-no, it's not just you! Earlier I went to go visit Sealand and he wasn't there! S-so I went and checked all the places he could have been like England's house, and Sweden's house too! The s-strange part was that neither Sweden or England were there either. It's like everyone's gone missing!”

“Well according to the rumours going around on the net here, there's an evil organisation that's currently working on collecting all the nations and disposing of them. Of course, this is all internet speculation, but it would explain a lot.”

The three Baltic nations were gathered in a small room in Lithuania's house. Latvia, was standing, shaking in the doorway, his coat still on, Lithuania was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, deep in thought, and Estonia was at the computer, madly typing, clicking and reading away.

After a few moments of silence, Lithuania finally spoke up. “Well I guess, we should go and check everyone's houses first just to make sure that, all the other countries have in fact, gone missing as well.”

The other two nodded in agreement.

“If we split up the work among the three of us, the task will be done quicker.”

“S-should we meet back here at the same time tomorrow then?”

Everyone looked at each other in the room, gave a collective nod, before grabbing a coat if they needed, and headed out the door. Little did they know that the fate of the world would rest solely on their hands...

~*~*~

When the three nations met up again the next day, there worst fears had been confirmed. It was just as the internet had told them. Or rather, what Estonia had told them, based on information he gathered from the internet. All the other nations had in fact disappeared, they couldn't be certain that there was an evil corporation behind it, but it was looking more likely as the seconds passed.

“S-so what are we going to d-do?” Latvia asked.

“Well, I think we should try and help them, don't you? We're the only nations that haven't been captured and I don't know about you, but some of my friends have been caught. Who knows what'll happen to them? I don't want them to be harmed!” Lithuania reasoned. He looked determined to help. Countries like America, and more often than not, Poland, had been good to him. Now it was time to return the favour.

Estonia nodded, adjusting his glasses before heading to the computer. “I'm sure with some research we can figure something out. I'll look through some forums.”

Latvia blinked. “There are forums for these kind of situations?”

“Evil masterminds have a tendency to brag a lot. They like to share their exploits on forums, and compare their evil deeds with on another. It helps them to determine which among them is the most evil. I'm sure that whoever's behind on this would certainly love to share what he's managed to do. And at the very least, I might be able to get into contact with someone who has more information.” Estonia explained, as he began quickly typing into the computer, already on the forum, trying to find out what he could.

“Yes, that sounds like a good place to start. Good thinking Estonia.” Lithuania added, pleased that they at least looked like they were getting somewhere.

“B-but, why are you a member of this forum, Estonia?” Latvia asked, voicing the question he had been thinking, aloud while he listened and watched Estonia log in.

Estonia gave an awkward cough, before adjusting his glasses again. “I try to have an account for everything. You never know when the situation arises and you need to have one. Like with our current predicament for example.”

Now that Latvia had mentioned it, Lithuania got to wondering that as well. “So you've predicted that all the other nations would be needing our help one day?”

“Well no, not exactly! Can't you just be grateful that I have an account?”

“B-but what if you're the evil mastermind behind this plot?”

“Latvia's right. You do have an account for being an evil mastermind.. And we're the only three that haven't been caught. It does seem a little suspicious...” Lithuania explained.

Estonia sighed. “Alright, alright, fine. I used the forums to get hacking tips for when I first tried hacking into Russia's system, okay? I just didn't want to admit it. And you can't tell anybody, either. Besides, if I were going to capture all the nations, except for the ones I got along with, Finland would be here as well. I am not behind this, okay?”

Lithuania and Latvia nodded, understanding.

It was silent for a few moments while Estonia continued going through the forum, before Latvia piped up. “Well seeing as it was your first hacking attempt it's okay to ask for help. I- I'm sure everyone would understand. I mean especially since you're so much better at it now! You don't need help anymore, right?”

Estonia gave a grin. “You're right, I'm much better than all those other hackers now. And you should be glad because I've just found some information about this corporation that has taken all the other nations. And you're going to need my superior hacking skills to get into the corporation's system.”

Lithuania gave Estonia a pat on the back. “Excellent job. How long do you think it'll be before you can get into the system?”

Estonia studied the screen in front of him. “Two minutes.”

Latvia and Lithuania went wide-eyed. “R-really?”

Estonia rolled his eyes. Clearly they know nothing about hacking into a foreign system. “No, maybe two hours, if the security is poor. But it'll possibly take longer. Much longer. I'm good, but not that good.”

The other two sighed.

“Perhaps we should just have some cake while we wait, Latvia.” Lithuania suggested.

Latvia's eyes brightened. “Could we have some cider with that too?”

“Of course.” Lithuania agreed. “...Without alcohol of course.” He added and smiled ever so slightly as he watched Latvia's expression fall. The poor boy was too young to be drinking so much. “Besides, if we're going to be saving the world, our minds need to be sober for the next little while.”

Latvia grumbled. “You're right.” The sooner Estonia figured out what was going on, the better.

~*~*~

Several hours later a triumphant shout could be heard from the living room of Lithuania's house.

“Th-that sounded a lot like Estonia.”

“Do you think he finally got into the servers?”

Both Lithuania and Latvia looked at each other before quickly standing up and heading to the room with the computer in it.

As soon as Estonia heard the two enter, he turned in his chair, a gleeful expression on his face.

“I managed to hack into the corporation's surveillance system. Look here, this is a view from the camera that's watching the room that has all the nations locked inside.”

The other two nations peered at the computer screen, and saw a large warehouse room, housing all the nations in it. They seemed alright, and nobody was hurt. If England and America could still manage to argue with each other like that, the three Baltic nations assumed that everything was fine for the time being.

“Okay, so it looks like everyone's okay and no one is panicking. I've managed to find a blueprint of the building and I've also managed to access the building's controls.” Estonia explained, while clicking through various windows and tabs open on his screen.

Lithuania nodded as he tried to pay attention to what Estonia was saying. “Excellent work Estonia. So it seems here that the storeroom for the nations is located in the basement of the building. And if I'm reading this blueprint correctly, it cannot be opened once it's shut? It was designed to hold the nations and keep them there...”

“Um.. What's this clock thing in the room with them?”

Estonia and Lithuania's attention diverted from the blueprints, to the surveillance screen. On one of the walls, there was a large digital timer that appeared to be counting down.

“It looks like a timer. Perhaps how long the nations have before something happens to them? I'm assuming that since the room cannot be opened, the room also has designs to destroy the nations as well. Maybe a poisonous gas will be emitted?” Estonia hypothesized.

“Well if that's the case, we have less than 48 hours to save them!” Lithuania exclaimed. “Alright, so here's the plan. Estonia, I want you to get the GPS location of this building holding our friends hostage. We're going to send Latvia in.” Lithuania began to plan.

But Latvia chose that moment to butt in. After all, Lithuania was planning to send him in, without even asking him if he was okay with that. “W-why am I being sent in?”

“Because,” Estonia explained, catching onto Lithuania's plans. “You're smaller than either of us. You can fit through the air ducts. Which is probably the best way in, I'm guessing. It's a basement room, it needs airflow to get into it somehow. I also have access to the buildings utilities so I can cut off the power when you're inside. Don't worry, you won't be caught.”

“B-but how will I know my way around? And what do I do once I'm inside with all the other nations? You said the door can't be open!” Latvia didn't like the idea of being the only one breaking into the building on his own.

“Estonia and I will direct you. We have maps here so getting in and around won't be a problem.”

“As for the issue with getting everyone out.. Well the power's down, so I'm assuming the door will be in a weaker state so I'm sure I can create a device that could trigger the door's locking mechanism. I'll disguise it as a cell phone.”

“W-wow. Can you really do that?”

“Well if Q can do it in James Bond, I don't see why I can't.”

“But isn't Q fictional?”

“Stop trying to crush my dreams!”

~*~*~

Several hours later Latvia found himself stuck in an air duct in a strange building in Siberia.

“Why on earth would anyone build a hideout in Siberia,” he mumbled to himself. “Oh right, because no one ever goes to Siberia willingly.”

“Latvia! Latvia! Can you hear us?” A crackling came through an old walkie talkie that Estonia had found and reprogrammed for communication purposes. Latvia kept it in his pocket ignoring them, because they had been checking up on him every thirty seconds and he was certain that if were to get caught, they'd be the reason for it.

“Latvia! Latvia? LATVIAAAAAA!”

Latvia sighed pulling the old walkie talkie out of his pocket. “If you two don't stop shouting, I'm going to get caught!”

“But we're-” Crackle. “-ied about you.” Crackle, crackle, crackle. Useless is what those two are. Tossing the walkie talkie aside, Latvia continued crawl through the air duct deciding he'd probably be better off on his own. Only a minute later, his backpack started to ring. At first Latvia panicked thinking the door detonator that Estonia had created was going off early and he chucked the backpack as far as he could in the duct, which really wasn't that far at all, but after several rings he realized it was something else ringing. Carefully checking the backpack, he found a cellphone. Rolling his eyes he answered.

“Hello?”

“Latvia! Thank goodness you're okay! When you stopped answering the walkie talkie we thought something happened to you!” Latvia heard Lithuania's voice through the phone, before Estonia interrupted.

“But it's alright because we thought to give you an extra cellphone just in case. Though we did have to turn on the grid to contact you...”

“Y-you did what? So doesn't that mean, someone could potentially find me now?”

“Well... Yes...”

Latvia quickly shut off the phone and chucked it. He didn't care where it landed at this point. For all he knew their entire operation was ruined. For two seemingly intelligent people, why did it feel like they kept fumbling up at the most crucial part?

If Latvia remembered correctly from when he was at Lithuania's house, and the blueprints he looked at, he could probably remember the way to the room that was storing the nations. But he was suddenly distracted by voices.

“There was a 5 second blip on our cameras, coming from this room. We think there might be someone tampering with the room's security.”

Oh no, oh no, oh no. He was going to get caught. He knew it. His automatic reaction was to start trembling, but then he remembered that Estonia gave him a device that was supposed to help him in case he got into trouble. It was a laser pointer. If he shone it in someone's eyes, he'd blind them. Quickly peering out the air duct, he could see the two guards. Pressing on the button of the laser pointer, he pointed it right at their eyes.

Unfortunately it didn't blind them, only catching their attention towards him. Crap.

“Hey look! Over there!”

So much for being super sneaky.

Using what he could find around him, he picked up the cell phone and walkie talkie and chucked them as hard as he could at the guards' heads. He must've been lucky because both objects hit their intended target hard enough to knock them unconscious for the time being. Well, who would've thought.

More carefully now, Latvia continued his way to the warehouse. But stopped when he felt a vibration coming from his trouser pocket. Pulling out the offending object he saw that they had slipped him a pager as well. He wondered how he didn't notice?

TURN LEFT AT THE END OF THE HALL.

Latvia nodded, grateful they were only sending him directions this time. He did as he was instructed. Completely unaware of the panic that Estonia and Lithuania were going through back at the house. Wondering if he was okay or not. With the pager they could only send directions because it wasn't like he could respond or anything.

“Alright, he should almost be at the room now.” Estonia deduced.

“Okay, tell him to unlock the door, and get the nations out of there as fast as possible.” Lithuania ordered.

Estonia nodded once, doing as he was told.

~*~*~

Once Latvia made it into the warehouse, it now felt like no time had passed by since he saw all the nations on the computer screen at Lithuania's house. America and England were still arguing, France was busy trying to convince the female nations that for their last living hours, they should all spend it naked, and as Latvia was almost at the door, nearly going unnoticed, Latvia got tackled by a rather spry force.

“LATVIA!!!”

Latvia examined the mass clinging to his midsection. “Sealand?”

“Yes! Have you been here all this time? How come you never came to say hi to me?”

Latvia tried to muffle the kid's loud voice while trying to explain, “I just got here, and I'm trying to rescue you all.”

Sealand blinked, wide-eyed. “You mean like, let us all out of this room?”

Latvia nodded, causing Sealand to start wailing.

“Nooooo! Don't do that! It's so much fun in here! People actually have time to play with me now, and listen to me! It's like a huge sleepover! I'm having a lot of fun!” Sealand continued to cling to Latvia.

But Latvia was determined. He had a job to finish. Setting his backpack down, he pulled a rather large looking device. Estonia didn't quite manage to make it small enough to fit into a cellphone, rather it was a large black box that could only fit into a backpack. Latvia placed the black box by the door and pushed the button on it. Estonia had said something about magnets and mechanisms, but Latvia chose not to pay attention deciding it was either going to work or it wasn't. About a minute later, a loud 'CLICK', was emitted throughout the room as the door slid open.

“See! I told you I could do it! The hero always saves the day! Ahahahahaha!”

“Don't be a git. It was probably just faulty technology on the door's part.”

Latvia didn't even care at this point that he wasn't going to get recognition for all his hard work, just grateful that it was all over and done with.

~*~*~

The next day the three Baltic nations were exhausted, and weren't pleased when Russia said he was going to be paying them a visit.

“I am in a very sad mood today, it is nice to be visiting some other people.” Russia stated, when he arrived.

“Why might that be?” Estonia enquired? If Russia was in a bad mood, it might not turn out too well for the three of them.

“My big plan to become one with the world did not turn out so well...”

“Y-your b-big plan?” Latvia asked.

“Da. My big plan. I was taking all the nations who refused to become one with Russia and put them all into a room. If they weren't willing to become one with me, they couldn't stick around. It is not good if I want to become one with world.”

Then it all clicked in Lithuania's head. “So you were the one behind all the nations being trapped?”

“Da. Who else would it be? Did you not wonder why you weren't put into room with everyone else? It's because I know, you three will become one with the great Russia. But someone had foiled my plans and now I am not very happy today. So I came to visit, in hopes that I will get Latvia to serve me tea and cake.”

Latvia nodded quickly dashing off the the kitchen with Russia. While Estonia turned sharply towards Lithuania.

“I thought you checked Russia's house, and he wasn't there?” He hissed.

“W-well.. I checked Belarus' and Ukraine's house and assumed that Russia wouldn't be around. I didn't really want to go to his house if I didn't need to!” Lithuania explained.

Estonia sighed. If he had known from the start that Russia was behind it all, he would have been able to hack in much easier, and probably would have even been able to open the door by pressing a couple buttons.

-END-

[Fic Fill]: A Trip to the Sauna

2010-09-04T18:01:02Z

TITLE: A Trip to the Sauna
AUTHOR: box_of_doom/C-chan
RECIPIENT: pau_panda
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: SwedenxFinland
RATING: PG13
NOTES: mentions of sex, nothing graphic at all
SUMMARY: Berwald has never been a fan of sauna like his wife, but Tino keeps inviting him anyways. Somehow, it's still always worthwhile.

Berwald had never been a fan of sauna like his wife. He couldn't see there; it was too uncomfortable to wear his glasses, and even if he could, they would fog up instantly, either way he'd be all but blind. He couldn't breathe well; the humidity made the air feel thick in his lungs, and made him light-headed. Altogether, it made him uncomfortable and exhausted; it only took a few minutes for the heat to get to him, while his wife would want to sit for long stretches at a time, even without counting the breaks in-between. No, if you were to ask him, Berwald couldn't say he really enjoyed the experience much.

Still, his wife loved it, and it wasn't uncommon at all for him to be invited along. Often, he would grunt or shake his head in the negative, but every now and again, particularly in the dead of winter, or when they visited their Finnish summer home (a comfortable log cabin they had built together, just outside of a small town near Satakunta), he would accept.

This time, it was one of those hot, sultry summer days in Satakunta. Tino had asked while they were still cuddled in bed in the morning... awake, but still not wanting to move. Maybe it was the proximity, maybe it was the time of day, or maybe it was the way Tino had pressed sleepy a sleepy kiss against the junction of his neck and shoulder while he asked, but Berwald had felt like he just couldn't refuse. And so it was set. That evening, they would head to sauna together, just the two of them.

The day went quickly. Even if Berwald wasn't looking forward to going to sauna in the evening, he couldn't help but notice Tino's humming, and the extra spring in Tino's step. It seemed just knowing that it was going to happen, and he would be joining him, had made his wife happier. If that was the case, he supposed, maybe it would be worth it. Maybe.

After they'd taken care of the dinner dishes, and given their food some time to settle, the two head together toward the sauna, located in a separate building a stone's throw from the main house. He thinks he could already feel a rise in temperature when they enter the dressing room, even if Tino has assured him a thousand times that the doors and walls were built to be quite heat-proof.

Berwald had planned to get undressed alongside his wife, but Tino gently guides him to sit down on the bench with the sheepish explanation of, if he couldn't see him well in the sauna, he may as well see him now. He doesn't make a show of it, as he would if they were in the bedroom, but the sentiment is still certainly there. Blushing in modesty, Berwald lets his wife help him undress as well, and draw him in for a kiss as soon as the glasses are taken off.

The last things the pair removes are their cross necklaces. The two are identical – plain and unadorned sterling silver crosses on chains, bought to symbolize both their connection, and religion – the latter at a glance, the former to themselves. (Some part of Berwald has wondered if, one day, they were to purchase rings, they could wear them like this as well, if Tino objected to wearing them on fingers....) Once these are reverently tucked away with the rest of their clothing, the two enter the sauna proper and into the heat, hand in hand.

Usually Tino sits as high as he can in the sauna and relaxes up there while the damp, thick heat washes over him. Today, he stays low where the heat is less intense so he can sit beside Berwald. Their hands remain entwined for a while, and they squeeze and caress each other's from time to time, until both are too sweaty for it to be comfortable. Berwald keeps his eyes closed for a good portion of the time, but he can still feel Tino as he touches his arm or leg every now and again. He hears Tino too, as the two go between having light conversation (mainly one-sided with the Finn chatting away while the Swede grunts a reply or nods his head), and simply sitting in silence.

A kiss or two are planted against his cheek, his temple, his forehead. He returns them in kind. If it wasn't so goddamn hot, he might have pulled the Finn into his lap for hugging and cuddling, but he figures the extra body heat wouldn't be worth it, and might be the death of him instead. It would never go beyond hugging and kissing in here anyways – sex was somewhat of a taboo topic inside of sauna, as was politics. Grudges and hardships were kept out, as was the general lust, in attempt to keep the atmosphere light and relaxing. Berwald could never be quite sure if he was glad of this or not. After all, on top of the lack of eyesight, he was sweaty, overheating, and the heat was zapping him of energy and would probably make him dizzy or light-headed soon (really, how did Tino find the heat relaxing?). Still, the heat affecting him would allow his wife a wonderful opportunity to overpower him. The Finn could be rather insistent when he wanted to be, and there was something tempting about a revitalized Tino flipping him over so the benches could be used for leverage and taking him right there. And he would gladly go willingly to his wife's ministrations, even if.....

A hand on his shoulder, and Tino's voice calling his name snap Berwald out of his daydream. The Finn's blue eyes are wide and worrying as they look into his own. It was only after his wife asked if he was okay and pressed a hand to his forehead that he realizes he had been blushing.

They agree that this would be a good time to end the first round. He takes his wife's hand and follows him out into the dressing room, which now seems much cooler and fresher. From there, they take towels and head outside and in the general direction of the lake, where they jump in. Both seem glad to breathe in the air which seems relatively cool compared to inside the sauna, even if the day was balmy. There was a slight breeze in the air, and Berwald couldn't help but relish the feeling against his soaked skin.

Berwald did not grab his glasses on the way out – there is little use for them in the water, where they would just get wet, get lost, or get in the way, just as they are useless inside the sauna proper. However, he doesn't need glasses to imagine how Tino looks – smiling and laughing, enjoying the feeling of being chill-alive in the water just as much as he had enjoyed the seemingly stifling heat. Being near the water, near these woods, always seemed like a natural place for Tino to be... it reminded him of when he had first met the shorter blonde. tending to his reindeer on the bank of a river. They had both been very young then, as they had been when Berwald had taken the boy home with him.

He feels a splash, and lets the corners of his lips turn up (it was a smile, really) as he splashes back in the general direction of the Tino-blur. This escalates to an all-out war momentarily, before just as quickly dying down. The two spend a moment longer enjoying the chill (much better than the heat in Berwald's opinion, not that he would complain to his wife), before Tino leads him back inside.

Berwald has to admit that the cool of the lake makes the heat initially seem less drastic against his skin, but it still feels just as stifling in his throat. He sits on the bench and waits patiently while his wife prepares a vihta by the hot rocks. After a few moments, the heat begins to make him feel drowsy, his eyelids going from squinting to drooping shut. Before he could completely doze, Tino returns to his side and asked if Berwald would like him to use the vihta on him first. He nods, and shifts so his wife may better have access to swat at him with the vihta, and beat him from head to toe. The hot air was definitely getting to him, but he still feels the tingling as Tino carefully covers his own body. It feels good againt his skin.

Tino asks if Berwald would like to return the favour, but he shakes his head. He feels too much like a pile of hot, light-headed, tingly goo to be an effective vihta-wielding husband. They end the second session there.

Berwald thinks he can feel the water better against his sensitized skin when they return to the lake. It feels cool and inviting, and he relishes the feeling. There was no splash war this time, but he is somewhat glad for this – his head is still somewhat fuzzy.

He isn't sure if he could take a third round, but Tino insisted, so he goes back inside one more time. Maybe it was the löyly, or maybe the rocks really were heating up, but it feels as if the sauna has become hotter with each round, leaving him sweltering now. Tino does sit above him this time, and Berwald leans back against him a bit as his wife pets his hair and rubs his sweat-slick shoulders.

Tino wants a fourth round as well, but Berwald knows he was done with the third, so he lets his wife enter the sauna without him. The light-headed Swede chooses instead to sit in the dressing room, and let his eyes droop shut to the rhythmic sound of Tino beating himself with the vihta from within.

By the time Tino comes out, and wakes him with a kiss to his forehead, he is feeling somewhat better. The shorter man presses kisses to his temple as his necklace is slipped around his neck and the clasp reclosed, and two more agianst his eyes before the glasses finally are slipped on his nose, and his sight is returned. The two get dressed, and leave just as they came – hand in hand.

~~

Berwald has never been a fan of sauna like his wife. He cannot see there; it was too uncomfortable to wear his glasses, and even if he could, they would fog up instantly, either way he'd be all but blind. He cannot breathe well; the humidity made the air feel thick in his lungs, and made him light-headed. Altogether, it made him uncomfortable and exhausted; it only took a few minutes for the heat to get to him, while his wife would want to sit for long stretches at a time, even without counting the breaks in-between. No, if you were to ask him, Berwald couldn't say he really enjoyed the experience much.

Still, his wife loved it, and it wasn't uncommon at all for him to be invited along.

In the end, with the way his wife treated him during sauna and after, and the way he smiled when Berwald was there with him, maybe it was worth the discomfort, after all.