#aphsecretsanta | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

monabela · 5 years ago

Text

yoo @tikola-nesla it’s your @aphsecretsanta gift! the prompts used are horror and family, with MonaBela and EstUkr, and Russia is also there. I don’t know what kind of horror you actually would want, but I hope you like this sort of... weird creepy stuff. it’s the only kind of horror I like!

the story of one

pairings/characters: Belarus (Nadzeya)/Monaco (Olympe), Estonia (Eduard)/Ukraine (Iryna), Russia (Ivan)

word count: 6012 summary: Olympe follows her wife back to her childhood home, a place she never speaks about. She’s about to find out the reason for that.

warning for character death (not super explicit but people definitely die)

Olympe wakes when Nadzeya bolts upright with a gasp.

In the dark, all she can make out is a tangle of light hair. She turns over, blinking sleep away and reaching out until her hand finds her wife’s back. It’s clammy under her fingers. Nadzeya is trying to catch her breath, and swallows audibly.

“Again,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. Olympe bites her lip and doesn’t do anything but just press her hand against her back, trying to ground her. It never quite works, but Nadzeya lies back down anyway.

Olympe stares at the profile of her pace face in the dark. The sharp nose, the part of her lips. This close, she can see her clearly without glasses. Or could, if it weren’t dark.

“The same dream again?” she whispers. Nadzeya sighs.

“Yes. Always the same.” A long pause, and then she turns, propping herself up on an elbow to look down at Olympe. “I think… I have to go home.”

Olympe feels her heart skip a beat. “Home? As in, where you grew up? You’ve never… Why do you think that?”

“I think I knew I’d have to, at some point.” Nadzeya reaches for her, her hand—cold as always, despite the lingering warmth of the late summer—landing on her stomach, where Olympe grasps it quietly. “You know I keep having that dream about it.”

“You hate it there, Nadzeya,” Olympe whispers. “Do you think you’re ready for all of that?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready, but I think it’s time.”

She lies back down. Olympe is silent.

Nadzeya never talks about her home—or, more accurately, the place she once called home. Her home, like Olympe’s, is here now. Wherever either of them goes.

And so she doesn’t protest when Olympe tells her, the next day when it becomes clear she still intends on going into the mountains, that she will coming as well. Both of them are stubborn, and they know that about each other very well. They work around it now.

It’s a little exciting, Olympe thinks, when they leave at the end of the week, Nadzeya taking the wheel and driving them north. After it became clear that Nadzeya didn’t like to talk about her childhood, Olympe never asked much about it. She knows her wife has siblings. There were two open seats in the front row at their wedding, symbolically or in case they showed up, she never found out. No one filled them. She also knows Nadzeya’s parents passed before she met her, but that’s just about all the concrete information she has.

So, it’s a little exciting, but mostly, it’s disquieting to see Nadzeya this way. There is a restless, nervous energy to her. Usually so stoic, she drums her fingers on the steering wheel when she takes a sudden turn off the main road somewhere in the mountains and flicks on the headlights to navigate the narrow cobblestone path ahead through the shadows of the dense trees and the drizzle that has started to rain down.

“We’re getting close,” she whispers, and her knuckles are whitening, so Olympe touches her upper arm.

“I’m here.”

Swallowing, Nadzeya nods.

A few minutes down the path, they reach a gate, and they stop. Nadzeya takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. The gate is nothing special, but it must be the entrance to her family’s old property, so Olympe lets her be for a moment.

“Don’t feel like you have to do anything,” she does say. She watches her chew on her lower lip in response to that.

“But I do. Like I said, I’ve always known.”

“That you had to go back?”

“That I had to go back. I know it doesn’t make sense, but my family doesn’t tend to.”

“Do they live here?”

Nadzeya turns an intensely focused look on her, blue eyes even darker than usual.

“No one lives here.” She opens her car door, and Olympe tells herself she shivers because of the chilly mountain air and nothing else, before following her example and heading out to help her push the gate open, the wrought iron creaking in protest. She can’t see anything of what lies beyond, even before the little droplets of rain render her glasses practically useless.

Nadzeya drives the car through the gate, and waits for Olympe on the other side while she closes it again. Wiping her glasses with her flowy scarf is mostly ineffective, but she does notice one thing before she gets back into the car.

“Nadzeya, did you see that there—and thank you,” she says drily when her wife tosses a box of tissues on her lap. “I’ll definitely use those to scratch up my glasses.”

“I’m sorry I forgot the silk napkins, your highness.” The teasing jab sounds a little flatter than usual, but Olympe will take it. She cleans her glasses and blinks through them at the winding path ahead before continuing.

“There were tire tracks by the gate.”

“What?” Nadzeya asks sharply. “On this side?”

“Yes. Just through, in the mud.”

There is no response to that. Nadzeya’s expression is difficult to read, even for Olympe, so she just listens to the tires, the intermittent woosh of the windshield wipers. The main road is already impossible to hear.

Finally, a house appears between the trees. Its weathered façade looms, somehow unexpectedly, over an overgrown yard, or maybe even a courtyard. In the drizzle, everything is grey, with one jarring exception.

A car is parked in front of the steps leading to the front door of the house, a tiny turquoise thing that stands out like a sore thumb.

“What the hell?” Nadzeya mutters, pulling up behind it. The license plate is from further east, and there are some bags in the trunk that Olympe can see, neatly arranged.

When Nadzeya kills the engine, it’s suddenly very quiet. Olympe looks up at the door. Well, doors. They’re high, and framed by an arch topped with a symbol that looks like a tree.

“Is this where you grew up?”

“Too much, yeah.” With that cryptic reply, Nadzeya opens her door and gets out of the car. Olympe follows, shielding her glasses as best she can while they ascend the stone steps.

“How old is this place?” she asks Nadzeya.

“My family built it in 1805. Most of it, anyway.” She takes a deep breath, straightens her back as if preparing to launch into a gymnastics routine, and pushes against the doors. They open, and Olympe hurries after her wife before she disappears into the house’s shadows, already digging through her bag for the flashlight she brought.

In the cavernous hall, Nadzeya grabs her arm, long nails digging into her skin, and makes a sharp gesture for her to be silent. In the gloom, not much can be seen, but Olympe can hear someone talking. Trying to breathe steadily, she looks up at Nadzeya, who shakes her head. It’s not anyone she knows.

The voice—probably a man’s voice—is getting closer, and is soon accompanied by the faint glow of a flashlight coming from a corridor to the left, in front of the grand staircase Olympe can just make out. Nadzeya lets go of her to take a step in that direction. She’s waiting.

A man appears, and almost walks straight into her.

“Woah!” he exclaims. When Nadzeya turns one of her ever-piercing glares on him, he takes a stumbling step back.

“Who the hell are you?” she hisses. The man glances nervously at Olympe, who just quirks her eyebrows at him. She isn’t about to stop Nadzeya, even if she didn’t find the intensity of the sparse emotions she shows incredibly attractive.

“My name is Eduard!” he stutters, holding his hands up.

“What are you doing here?” Nadzeya pokes a thin finger against his chest. He’s very tall, and has strikingly light eyes behind his glasses.

“I don’t know, my partner wanted to come here.”

“Your partner?”

“Yes! She—” He is interrupted by a new voice from behind him.

“Eduard, what’s— Nadzeya?”

Immediately, Nadzeya loses all interest in the man, turning instead to the woman who emerges into the hall, who drops her flashlight on the ground, where it stutters out. Nadzeya doesn’t even flinch.

“Iryna?” she breathes. And then, by some miracle, she lets the woman step into her space, wrap her arms around her, and pull her close. The man—Eduard—looks confused, which is just about how Olympe feels about it.

After what feels like a very long time, Iryna pushes Nadzeya back a little to look at her the way a mother might look at a long-lost child. They’re practically the same height.

“Iryna, we can’t both be here,” Nadzeya whispers. Olympe takes a step in her direction, reaching her hand out as if she can soothe away the terrified tone of her voice from the other side of the hall.

“I know.”

Now, Olympe exchanges a look with Eduard, who mirrors her baffled expression, and then she takes another step forward, deciding to take the approach to this she does to anything; face it directly.

“Excuse me,” she says. Iryna frowns at her, but Nadzeya smiles, ever so slightly.

“Olympe, this is Iryna…” She takes a deep breath. “My big sister.”

Eduard inhales sharply, so that must be a surprise for him as well. Olympe just holds Nadzeya’s gaze, questioning but not really expecting any answers, at least not yet. That’s how they work. Nadzeya speaks when she wants to, but Olympe knows she will always get the answers she wants eventually. About most things, at least, and it seems that might become almost everything now.

“And Olympe is your… Girlfriend?” Iryna guesses.

“Wife.” She smiles again. It’s still a novelty two years into their marriage.

“Congratulations.” Iryna grasps Nadzeya’s hand. “We have to leave. If we stay…”

“Can someone please explain to me what’s happening?” Eduard interrupts. He only recoils slightly when Nadzeya glares at him, which is impressive. She once made a man cry just by looking at him. It was incredibly attractive.

“Not here,” Iryna tells him.

“You’ve been dreaming about this place for weeks now, honey.”

“Fuck, no,” Nadzeya breathes. Iryna widens her eyes, and she nods, gravely.

They do look alike, even if Iryna’s face is fuller and seems more disposed to soft expressions than the angles and sharpness Olympe knows so well from Nadzeya. Her eyes are even lighter than Eduard’s, but probably blue like her sister’s. It’s hard to tell in the shadowy hall.

“We’ll tell you later, Eduard,” Iryna is saying now, already rushing to the entrance.

One of the doors opens before she can reach them. Another incredibly tall man enters, looking around curiously.

“Iryna?” he says, and he lets go of the door in shock.

“No!” she exclaims.

The man jumps around to make a grab for the door handle, but it’s too late. The doors slam shut.

“It’s fine,” he says, turning back. His voice is surprisingly soft for the imposing figure that he cuts in the shadows. “This is fine. As long as Nadzeya isn’t—"

“I’m here, Ivan,” she says loudly.

A long, heavy silence follows, blanketing the hall in discomfort. Olympe can hear Nadzeya breathing shallowly as if nervous, and feels her own heartbeat ratchet up in response. Nadzeya doesn’t get nervous, or at least doesn’t show it, same as Olympe. She reaches back and grasps her clammy, cold hand.

“Oh no,” Ivan says. His shoulders sag. He tries the door, listlessly. It doesn’t budge.

“I’m sure there’s another door somewhere,” Eduard says.

“There’s not.” Iryna’s voice is hard, and she pushes her hands through her short blond hair.

“That… That seems like a fire hazard.”

“There’s a lot more to be worried about than fire here, Eduard,” Nadzeya snaps, her nails digging into Olympe’s hand. And, “Fuck, Ivan, we can’t be here.”

“I had dreams,” he says. He tries the door again, to no avail. “There has to be some way to get out.”

“You know there isn’t. It was always going to be this way.” There is an untold sadness in Iryna’s voice that unsettles Olympe deeply. Eduard takes a few steps in her direction, but seems to hesitate before he reaches for her. Olympe wonders how long they’ve been together.

“Iryna, what’s going on?” he whispers.

“I shouldn’t have taken you here.” She closes her eyes and clenches her jaw. Olympe looks up at Nadzeya, who nods, slowly, before turning to her siblings—or, at least Olympe assumes that Ivan is their brother. She can’t tell if he’s older or younger than Nadzeya.

“We’re here now,” she says. “Let’s do something about it.”

Despite herself, Olympe smiles.

Everyone follows them when Nadzeya starts leading her further into the house.

“What a way to meet my in-laws.”

“I never wanted you to meet them.”

“I know.” Olympe flicks her flashlight on when Nadzeya reaches a door at the end of the corridor they’ve entered and starts fiddling with the lock. “Is it because of… Whatever this is?”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “I hope it doesn’t… My family is beyond fucked up, Olympe. Not Ivan and Iryna, but everyone else. We hoped we could end it.”

Shaking her head, she pushes the door open, allowing Olympe to shine her flashlight into the room beyond it. At first, she isn’t sure what she’s seeing. The space is larger than she was expecting, but maybe that’s just because it appears to be practically empty.

“Nadzeya,” Ivan is saying, sidling into the room past Olympe, “do you think this is where we should be?”

“This looks like a place I’d want to avoid,” Eduard puts in. He shines his own flashlight over Olympe’s head. Everyone here is twice her height, and she didn’t wear heels, so it’s even worse than usual. Great.

“This man has a point.” Ivan pauses, turning to the two of them. “Who are you?”

“Your in-laws,” Olympe replies, drily. “Olympe Castil, Nadzeya’s wife.”

“I’m Eduard,” says Eduard, “Iryna’s wife. I don’t know why I said that. I’m her partner.”

Olympe glances up at him over her shoulder, and he shrugs nervously, adjusting his glasses.

“You sure know how to pick them, Ryna,” Nadzeya puts in. And, before her sister can react to that, “We’ll end up here anyway, what’s the point in dragging all of this out? We can stop it. Now.”

Iryna closes the door behind them. It clicks, and Ivan’s eyes widen as he recoils.

“We can end it to begin again.” Iryna’s voice is low, and Nadzeya snarls.

“Iryna!”

Turning, Olympe can see her standing perfectly still by the door. Her shadow is intense in the beam of two flashlights, swaying against the wood.

Why is it swaying?

“Iryna,” Eduard says, reaching for her and not hesitating this time. She blinks at him, bright blue eyes unfocused for a long moment.

“Eduard.”

“Yes.” He touches her face with his free hand, and she turns into it. “Please, explain what’s happening. I want to help. I’m sure we both do.”

“You can’t,” she breathes.

“Maybe he can,” Nadzeya interjects. She has walked over to the other end of the gloomy room, using just the tiny screen of her mobile phone to guide her way.

Olympe illuminates her, and behind her, a carving of a massive tree that spans the entire back wall. The stone branches appear to move every time the light shifts.

“We are the story of one,” Nadzeya says, as if reciting something. “Ivan.”

When Olympe looks at Ivan, the man shakes his head, floppy blond hair falling into his dark eyes.

“Not me. The Ivan who built this place.” He joins Nadzeya by the stone tree, towering over her despite her own considerable height. That must run in the family. “This Ivan.”

He reaches for a low branch of the tree—is it some kind of literal family tree?—but is stopped by Nadzeya before he can touch it.

“That Ivan, yes.”

Ivan steps back, looking bashful. Iryna makes her way over as well, guided by the beam of Eduard’s flashlight, and the three of them stand in front of the tree, Nadzeya and Iryna flanking their brother. Next to Olympe, Eduard is biting his nails. Olympe herself tugs at the end of her braid. Honestly, she has made up quite some of ridiculous reasons her wife wouldn’t want to talk about her family over the years, but she doesn’t think whatever is going on here was one of the options. She turns to Eduard to whisper at him.

“Has Iryna ever told you anything about her family?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve always just assumed they were estranged. This is…”

Ivan turns around. His shadow makes the branches move. Olympe shivers, and Nadzeya grabs his shoulder, sharing a look with Iryna, who nods. They turn as well.

“We should show you something,” Iryna says, addressing Olympe and Eduard. “It’s… Our history. Our family’s history. Nadzeya is right, maybe you can help us, but not if you don’t know.”

What if we don’t want to? Olympe doesn’t ask, because she has the feeling it would be futile, and because she does want to. She’d never abandon Nadzeya.

“Okay?” Eduard does say, putting a hand on her shoulder. Nadzeya raises her eyebrows at her sister, who bites her lip.

“Show us, then.” Olympe takes a step forward, meeting Nadzeya when she does as well. She reaches up and pulls her in to kiss her, to whisper against her lips. “Show me.”

She swipes her thumbs over her wife’s sharp cheekbones when she closes her eyes, her eyeshadow even darker now. After a silent, suspended moment, Nadzeya straightens, adjusting her long skirt and turning to everyone else again, although she keeps touching Olympe, her fingertips resting cool against her neck.

“It started with the other Ivan.” She leads them to the other end of the room again, where Ivan and Iryna pull open a door Olympe hadn’t seen before—no, it’s a piece of the wall, revealing an alcove containing a portrait of a stern, pale man with the same light hair and dark eyes as Nadzeya and Ivan.

“Is that him?” Eduard asks. Nadzeya’s grip tightens on Olympe’s neck, almost painfully, and she swallows half a sentence.

“The child will—” She gasps for air. “Will be born—”

Olympe whirls around and grasps her face. Her gaze is terrifyingly unfocused for far too long, and she’s still choking on words she’s trying not to say. When she eventually regains control, her skin is clammy under Olympe’s hands.

“I’m here.”

Nadzeya closes her eyes. “You are.”

“Guess that’s him,” Eduard says, obviously trying to lighten the mood. Olympe flattens her lips into a thin line. “No?”

“It is.” Iryna reaches into the alcove and unearths a jar. “Ivan was obsessed with cyclical events. He… He believed he should be born again, when the cycle was complete.”

“That’s…” Eduard trails off when he shines his flashlight at the jar Iryna is holding. In it, obscured by a murky liquid, sits a human brain. “Uh.”

Iryna regards the brain with seeming curiosity. In the alcove, the portrait of the Ivan the First is shrouded in ever-changing shadows, and Olympe doesn’t want to look at it. As long as she’s known her, Nadzeya has had a fascination with the occult, but she never thought it was serious. She thought it was a hobby, like how Olympe likes to play the piano and do ballet and talk to the neighbor’s cat. Now, she fears her wife may have been looking for a way to stop whatever this is, all this time.

And maybe she still can’t.

“Why is there a whole human brain just sitting in your house?” Eduard asks—practically shrieks.

“It’s…” Iryna puts it down on the wall they pulled out, as if displaying it. “Ivan called them relics.”

“Them?”

With a helpless gesture, Iryna turns to the Ivan of the here and now, who is dragging a next piece of wall out of the way, opening another alcove, another portrait.

“You can’t be fucking serious!” Eduard takes his glasses off, frantically wipes them with his polo shirt, and puts them back on. “I didn’t know I would be joining the Addams family!”

“They’re far better,” Nadzeya says darkly. And, “Ivan, no!”

Because he has picked up another jar—Olympe is just going to assume there’s a body part in it—and is carrying it to the stone tree, already holding it up to put it somewhere among the branches when Iryna and Nadzeya practically barrel into him and wrench his arm down.

“Oh my god,” Eduard is muttering. “Olympe, how are you so calm about this?”

“I used to play poker,” she tells him. Her hands are shaking, but he doesn’t know how big of a tell that is for her. Doesn’t know how confused and scared she is.

The sisters have wrenched Ivan away from the tree, but there is something in his eyes—something of a darkness. Unwillingly, Olympe looks back at the first portrait. She swallows the scream that wants to escape, but the noise she makes still has Eduard looking.

“Oh, god,” he whispers.

All of the portrait is bathed in swirling shadows that won’t be chased away by their flashlights, except Ivan the First’s eyes. Like distant stars, they’re lit up from within with white light that burns through everything.

“What is wrong with this place?” Eduard says. Frantic all of a sudden, he pulls a mobile phone out of his jeans pocket, flips it open, and jams at the tiny buttons until the screen lights up. By the tree, Nadzeya and Iryna have taken the jar away from Ivan, but he is still struggling, and Olympe feels very small and useless.

“Is there reception?” she asks Eduard, who puts his phone away.

“Of course not.”

Of course not.

“Fuck it!” Nadzeya suddenly shouts, and there is a crash. Olympe looks up just in time to see Ivan crumple to the ground.

“Nadzeya!” Iryna exclaims.

“What! Did you have any ideas?”

The points of light in Ivan’s portrait shine brighter. The shadows swirl. Eduard curses under his breath. Olympe presses her nails into her palms.

“Stop it!” she shouts. “We can’t do anything like this!”

“Ivan—” Nadzeya starts, but she stops when Olympe throws her a stern look.

“Ivan is unconscious, Nadzeya.” She takes a deep breath and walks over to them, putting a hand on her wife’s arm. “What was he trying to do? What happens when he puts that…”

She looks down at the jar now on the ground by Iryna’s feet.

“Those… Human teeth…”

“Seriously?” she hears Eduard blurt, and Nadzeya shakes her head sadly.

“What happens when they’re put on the tree, you mean?” she asks. When Olympe nods, she takes a deep breath and walks over to the portrait—the portrait that looks perfectly normal now. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, she tries to tell herself, pretending not to shiver as she looks at Ivan the First’s angular face. “The relics of a life long lived will bring Ivan back. All of this, ever since he came here, has been building up to that. All our family has been for two hundred years, is Ivan’s legacy.”

By the tree, her brother groans, and Iryna takes a step away from him.

“Ivan?” she asks. He looks up at her, his head snapping up so fast it cracks.

“I am the journey,” he rasps, “I am the destination. I am you.”

Eduard knocks him over the head with the jar full of teeth.

“You know, I’d be inclined to say you’re all insane,” he says, breathing high in his throat, “but, I mean…”

“Maybe we are,” Nadzeya tells him. Iryna just closes her eyes and swallows, eyelids quivering.

“Maybe, but I love your sister. What do we do to stop this Ivan?”

Olympe appreciates that the man seems to be a practical thinker in the end. If Iryna is anything like Nadzeya, that’s something that she probably needs in her life. Even though Nadzeya doesn’t show them, she does let her emotions lead her most of the time. It doesn’t always work out great. That’s what Olympe is for.

“We break the cycle. As long as we don’t… Give in, to him, we have a chance of doing that. But everyone has, these past two hundred years. Even our parents…” Nadzeya looks at Iryna, and then at the wall behind her. “Even our parents.”

“Should we… Smash the jars?”

“The relics?”

Olympe thinks he might have a point, but Nadzeya and Iryna are both shaking their heads.

“The whole house was built around this room, and the room was built around the relics. They’re connected.”

The shadows of the branches move, although Olympe doesn’t move her flashlight and Eduard is aiming his at Ivan. She pretends not to have noticed it, but Iryna frowns and walks over to the wall behind her, which she begins dragging out with haste.

“We can’t idle,” she says. “All three of us being here has already started the process.”

Eduard helps her reveal the hidden alcove, and Nadzeya and Olympe do the same with two other ones on their side before helping them open the last one, keeping an eye on Ivan as they work. There are eight in total, evenly spaced across the room. Six have portraits or photographs of similarly straight-backed, pale-faced people hung in them. The same six contain jars.

At the photograph of a middle-aged woman in, of all things, a bomber jacket and high-waisted jeans, both Iryna and Nadzeya pause. She has Iryna’s eyes and Nadzeya’s slightly wavy hair. There is an ear in the jar.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Eduard starts, “but why the empty ones?”

“Ryna, are you sure you couldn’t have picked a smarter guy?” Nadzeya asks.

“I have a PhD!”

“Olympe has two. You know why the empty ones.”

The empty alcoves are right next to the tree, one on either side of where Ivan is lying still, the rise and fall of his chest the only thing moving about him. They’re like places of honor. Like the right and left hand of a monarch. And Ivan…

“So is Ivan a family name, or is he called that for a reason?” Olympe asks.

“There is always a reason, with us.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Eduard has caught on, evidently, because he takes a step back, away from the carving of the tree. The shadows flicker, and Ivan groans, stirring ever so slightly. While she bites her lip, Iryna turns to him and crouches to put a tentative hand on her shoulder. All of them watch with bated breath as he blinks up at her.

“Did… He get me?” he asks, the softness back in his voice. It’s so different from the rasp from earlier.

“Almost,” Iryna whispers. Ivan feels his head and winces. That will most definitely bruise, but neither Nadzeya nor Eduard seems apologetic when Olympe looks up at them both in turn.

Ivan is looking around the room now, taking in the eight revealed alcoves—his gaze lingers on the same woman’s photograph before it shifts to Ivan the First’s portrait.

“He’s watching.”

In response to that, the shadows in the room stir.

They coil like snakes, like living beings, in the back of the room. Olympe clenches her jaw and looks down to where they creep around her feet. She doesn’t move her flashlight from the front of the room.

Eduard does.

The light is swallowed by the shadows. Ivan the First’s eyes glow.

“We have to hurry.” Ivan struggles to his feet, leaning on Iryna. “He… I think I heard him. He said he’s waiting. Even if we take the long road, he’ll be waiting.”

“Then we take the short road,” Nadzeya says. “And we fucking surprise him.”

She walks away from the shadows, but there is a stumble in her step that unsettles Olympe. Nadzeya was a professional gymnast for years. She doesn’t stumble.

Now, again, she and Iryna stand next to Ivan and face the tree, their backs to the terrifying shadows that Olympe can feel creeping around her. Nadzeya is motionless, the angles of her face shadowed and her hair snowy against the black of her blouse. She looks up at the branches, at the three splitting apart at the top like a crown. The end of all things.

“Fear,” Iryna whispers, “is a choice you embrace.”

Nadzeya glances over her shoulder at Olympe. Her eyes widen, and she stumbles back. Olympe can’t look behind her, she can’t. She doesn’t want to see it.

She looks.

The shadows have coalesced into the shape of a person, a dark form that’s blurred around the edges and has no features but for the eyes, still piercing like a branding iron.

“No,” Nadzeya says, and when Olympe turns to her, she has grabbed one of the upper branches of the tree. Her knuckles are white with the force she puts on it, and although the whole tree groans and cracks under it, the branch doesn’t shatter. It doesn’t come off.

BRING ME HOME

The voice—is it a voice?—rumbles through the walls, through the shadows and the stale air. The jars rattle in their places. Ivan turns to Nadzeya, and pulls her away. Around him, the light dims and gets brighter, as if it’s the beat of a heart.

“Ivan!” Iryna shouts, at the same moment that Olympe leaps forward to try and stop him.

He disappears in a shroud of darkness, there one moment and gone the next.

“No!” Nadzeya stumbles, but Olympe and Iryna catch her. “Eduard, get away from there.”

He is already hurrying over.

YOU ARE MY PATH

Is it Ivan’s voice?

“Ivan!” Nadzeya yells.

It’s Ivan’s voice.

“He can’t be—he needs the relics!” Iryna sounds out of breath, as if she’s just run a marathon. The shadows soar ever higher, and the eyes are ever closer. The four of them are losing light.

I AM YOU

Iryna gasps for air. Eduard reaches for her.

She lands a blow on his face so that he stumbles away.

“He is me,” she echoes, hollow. “We are the story of one.”

“Don’t,” Eduard says, again trying to reach for. His glasses are crooked and there is blood under his nose. “Iryna, don’t.”

THE CYCLE WILL BE COMPLETED

“No!” he yells into the darkness, and crumples when Iryna hits him again.

“Eduard!” Olympe exclaims, but Nadzeya tugs her back when she tries to check on him. Iryna is completely disaffected and walks at an agonizingly slow pace to the alcove to the right. It has no portrait, no photograph. It just has a space the perfect height for her to stand in, which she does, silent.

Olympe digs her nails into Nadzeya’s arm.

“Please, what can I do?” Because she sees now how this ends. One brand new life can’t simply be exchanged for some body parts and a family tradition of worshipping shadows. Never before has she wished that she could have taken some more interest in Nadzeya’s exploration of the occult. What is Ivan’s new life worth? What makes it worth more than Nadzeya’s?

“I need you…” Nadzeya tries to take a step back, to the other alcove, but catches herself. “You’re my home, Olympe. I’d give… I’d give everything just to love you more, but I don’t think I can.”

“It has to be enough, then.”

Nadzeya’s dark eyes brim with tears, shining in the last light in the room surrounding them.

“It can’t.” She closes her eyes and lets Olympe fold her hands around her face. “I see it now, Olympe. We were weak for hoping.”

“No,” she breathes, but the tears are gone from Nadzeya’s eyes when they open. The spark, the eternal sharpness of her gaze. “No, you can’t.”

Nadzeya takes a step back, into the shadows, and Olympe tries to reach for her. It’s like hitting a wall.

“How I wish… To dream again.”

It’s Nadzeya’s voice, but they are not Nadzeya’s words.

“No!” Olympe yells, throwing herself against the shadows that she can’t get through. “Let me through, she can’t—”

Arms close around her waist, and she kicks back, hitting skin and hearing something crunch as Eduard swears.

“Let me go! Nadzeya—”

The shadows drop.

Nadzeya and Iryna are motionless in the alcoves, and all the jars are on their branches. There are three at the top, the liquid in them not yet murky.

“Oh god,” Eduard says, his voice breaking. “Oh god, Iryna.”

THE CHILD WILL BE BORN AGAIN

“We have to go!” he yells, but Olympe won’t move. She can only stare at her wife, who stands like a statue of porcelain perfection, a vision in black and blue among the light, with blood dripping down her face. There is a single, dark blue eye in the jar on the left top branch.

“I can’t…” She tries to look up at Eduard, but can’t seem to will her eyes to move. “I won’t leave her.”

“It’s—Olympe, it’s too late.”

It can’t be. She looks up at the branches. Eye, heart, tongue.

It’s Nadzeya’s voice. She doesn’t move, but it’s her voice. Olympe takes a step back.

The shadows return. The shadows shaped like a man, like a perverted mockery of a soul. The shape stands in front of the tree, and seems to look at them. Olympe takes another step back. The eyes of light follow.

WE ARE THE STORY OF ONE

This time, she listens to Eduard. They run to the door, now open as if it never locked so finally behind them, and pretend not to notice the shadows running along the walls with them, all through the house, the long corridor to the hall, where the front door is open too.

They practically fall down the steps, Olympe trying to see through tears and Eduard probably not much better. It’s got dark outside. There is no moon. Olympe can’t tell which shadows are normal shadows anymore. Maybe none of them are.

“Can you drive?” Eduard pants. He sounds muffled. His nose might be broken, but that is the least of their problems.

“Yes!” She sprints to Nadzeya’s car, digging up the keys out of her bag as she goes to open the doors. Eduard stumbles as he tries to get in, fully breaking his glasses in two and smearing blood on the leather seat. Olympe pushes the seat forward but doesn’t put on her seatbelt or let him get settled even slightly before she starts the engine and reverses as fast as possible, back onto the winding path.

The whole house is dark behind them, but she sees two spots of light in the rearview mirror, even with her vision blurred with tears.

Neither of them speaks. Olympe doesn’t know what she would say. Eduard is trying to regulate his breathing, until it suddenly hitches.

“Olympe?” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Can you see…”

She glances at him. He isn’t wearing his glasses anymore, but is staring down at his chest.

A hand is pressed against it, poised over his heart, over the blood that has dripped from his nose. Olympe feels herself turn cold, and slowly looks into the rearview mirror, meeting pale blue eyes framed by short blond hair. It’s dark. It’s dark everywhere.

She feels a gust of cold air on her neck. Eduard whimpers.

“Don’t worry, Olympe.” The voice is accompanied by another wave of cold, sending shivers down her spine. She clenches the steering wheel and stares straight ahead, ignoring the hoarseness she knows so well, the lilt Nadzeya always gives her name pressed right into her ear. “You are forever.”

An arm shoots out between the seats. Pale skin, dark blouse, black nails.

It yanks at the wheel, and the car plunges into the darkness.

#me trying not to just write the plot of rusty lake roots down: ah yes...... creepy shadows #tikola nesla #aphsecretsanta #Hetalia #monabela #estukr #aph monaco #aph belarus #aph ukraine #aph estonia #aph russia #fin #w: 7500 #u: human #my laptop died #also: spot the nightwish lyrics #shrug emoji #this takes place in 2005 for no other reason than I didn't want them to have smartphones #that's also the only hint

16 notes · View notes

apollon-hyakinthios · 6 years ago

Photo

merry christmas @apple-ring-gummies !!!! i was your secret santa for @aphsecretsanta - i decided to draw some HunUkr with the prompts “christmas” and “winter” ! here they are headed home after a long day of christmas shopping. hope you like it!

#hetalia #aph ukraine #aph hungary #hunukr #axis powers hetalia #aphsecretsanta

865 notes · View notes

gerswe · 4 months ago

Text

2015 Events

Feb 14-20 : usuk sweetheart week | found here

Valentine's Day

Science fiction

Always beside you

School daze

Cinematic

Parallel lives

Holding out for a hero

May 11 - Jun 15 : aphgenficexchange | found here

Jun 22-28 : frukweek | found here

Married couple

Showing affection

Language

Standing in the rain

“How did we start?”

Lovely eyes

Love is…

Aug 23-29 : amechuweek | found here

Food

Walls

Horror

Masquerade

Road trip

Music

Seasonal

Oct 12-18 : asakikuweek | found here

Favorite moment/official art

Crossover

Nyo

Imperial | Islandol

Family

Free

Alternate universe

Oct 25 - 31 : frukheaven | found here

I put a spell on you

Catacombs of Paris | Cemeteries of London

Voodoo doll

Familiar taste of poison

Asylum

Deal with the devil

Love bites (so do I)

Nov 27 - Dec 24 : aphsecretsanta | found here

Dec 6-27 : aphgenficexchange | found here

#bookkeeping #events

0 notes

sinunamor · 6 years ago

Text

An @aphsecretsanta gift for @52px !! Sorry about the late submission! Happy New Year!

Pairing: Ancient Rome x China (romechu)

Prompt: Long distance relationship, modern au

I do not celebrate Christmas, but I have an online friend who does.

Warmth seeped through his porcelain mug. Tired, lithe fingers curled around its smooth surface. A gentle press of lips, a small careful sip and the warmth spread through his chest. The morning fog rolled over the cluttered streets of San Francisco. His window presented him a view of Chinatown rising. Mr. Huang sweeping the front of his herbal shop, Ms. Zhou flicking on a neon light reading “welcome” and a “Merry Christmas” in English and pinyin for her bakery. Around them, the Christmas lights, candy canes and snowflakes signaled the end of another year.

He sighed heavily after the sensation passed, shuffling in his slippers towards the desk stationed in front of his window. Picture frames and assorted souvenir figurines decorated the corners of the mahogany desk. One frame pulled a little closer to his laptop than the rest. Wrinkled brown eyes flickered towards that wide spread of lips, those impossibly straight teeth, that youthful glint of mischief in his eyes. He sat back of the chair and took another sip. Jasmine green tea. The warm herbal scent carried many memories. He set the mug down carefully next to the frame and opened the laptop. He’ll enjoy the view better here. It must be nighttime in Italy.

***

He is the festive sort, that does not surprise me. He finds comfort in the company of others. He would send me photographs, selfies, of his travels and home in Italy. His apartment was so little, such home would be filled with many guests, neighbors, young and old. And he, the center of it all. I wonder if he would enjoy celebrating Lunar New Year with me. He’d enjoy the noise. It would be nice to see him happy.

***

He was half expecting it, Romulo wasn’t online. They did stay up particularly late last night chatting about Christmas plans in broken english and the occasional Italian. Yao briefly looked over last night’s exchange.

RV: nd you? you would be spending Christmas alone?

WY: Alone, yes, i’ll vidchat with Chen and his family...you? You would be throwing a ball

RV: Haha not this year. Decided to keep it small Just me nd my boys and my boys boys’ nd my little girl

WY: very small party so unlike you, i’m Concerned

RV: now you know how i feel!! Im always concerned when i hear you spend holidays alone

WY: i’m alright

RV: i know, i jus wish i can go over there nd spend it with you :(

I haven’t felt my heart pulse an ache in a long while. I do wish that could happen, but there is a half a world between us.

***

My name is Wang Yao, I have seen 48 springs pass me by. 48 years of hardships, blessings and everything in between. I have one son, of which I am very proud. Chen is his name, stayed in China and started his life there. He has his mother’s adventurous spirit, he attended San Francisco State. I admit, he was part of the reason why I came to California at all, but I suppose fathers are mostly protective of their children. While he studied, I was the roommate that cooked for him. But I understood fully that sons needed to make life without their fathers. When time and he graduated with a degree in Travel and Tourism, he and his then girlfriend moved back to the mainland.

So mostly, I was alone. I was too old to fully appreciate the costal nightlife and too young to play mahjong with the elders in the afternoons. An unfortunate generational circumstance of a part-time professor whose social life revolved around attending tai chi group in the mornings, afternoon chats with storefront owners and a dull lecture or two in Mandarin in the evenings.

My son worried for me. He does not see as old, he wanted me to find a friend, a “someone” as he put it, with whom to share interests and hobbies with. To attend events and explore San Francisco for no reason other than to have carefree fun.

***

“It sounds like you want me to find you another mother,” Yao joked over video chat one night.

His eldest son, Chen, laughed heartily. On his lap, an 8 month old daughter gurgling happily and wiggled closer towards the phone lens. Yao was very happy he managed a screenshot of her rosy cheeked face.

“Any partner will do,” Chen teased back. “Your children know you were never particular to any sort.”

Yao let out a frustrated sound, his hand twitched as if he could really swat his son a Pacific Ocean away. “You speak without saying anything!” he reprimanded, holding a glint in his eye.

“We just have your best interests in mind,” Chen smiled. “Ay baba, there are how many people in this world and you cannot befriend one?”

“Well, give me a phonebook of all the people in this world and I shall start inquiring,” Yao half-scoffed.

Chen pursed his lips, his baby babbling, “Yi yi yi!”. Yao cooed and sang at her, wanting so much to reach out and hold her.

“How about a forum instead?”

***

And that was how I met him. The world forum website. Chen had discovered its existence through one boring weekend spent on his school campus. It was a language learning forum but it was no secret that it also served as a dating site as it had the option to state that one was looking for a romantic relationship.

Of course what I had to offer was Mandarin, a fluent grasp on English, and some Cantonese. Yet, I did not feel like connecting with people from the mainland or the United States. The forum listed many, even unheard of languages, but none that held my interest for long. I wanted something simple yet unique, something uncommon but had a significant influence throughout human history.

I remember reading “Italian” and remembering how at one point in my life was enamored with the history of the small Mediterranean peninsula. Of all its accomplishments and failures, the dialects, the influence on art and politics. Of all the love and admiration for Italy as a whole.

It felt childish at first, but I was soon focused solely on the Italian threads, trying to start conversations with others within my age range. It was frustrating to find that it was never as easy as it sounded. Some seemed unreachable or plain dull and there was a great imbalance sent to my inbox from men than women. At first it was amusing, sending them off with an “Thank you for your kind compliments, as a man, I am very flattered” but as I was weeding out the active few with other intentions, there was not much left. I was soon logging in less and ignoring the few notifications I receive over the span of the week.

Until a “ciao bella ;)” reached me.

I do not know what intrigued me, it was not much different from the others that were sent and ignored. Perhaps I was in a good mood, perhaps I was in fact in a very bad one. Perhaps his profile did lure me in, as he claims to this day, but I responded:

“Wrong gender, it would be ‘bello’ not ‘bella’”.

Not even a minute passed before my computer alerted me of a new message.

“ciao bello ;)”

***

His name is Romolo Vargas and he is 4 years my junior. He wants to see the world, and he has been in half of it. He has 3 children, two sons and one daughter of which he is very proud. Unlike me, he is divorced and was spending his free time going to places he had longed to go as a child. He has been to Greece and Thailand, France and Estonia, countries whose name I cannot begin to pronounce. At first, I had thought I was an outlet for him to brag about his travels, about the women he wooed, but then he was always asking about what I done, how my day went, and how I felt. As if I was the most interesting man in the world.

Then the first Christmas came and he was insistent on sending me a gift.

***

“Baba, we are glad you found that friend,” Chen said over the phone. “But you never know this man’s true intentions. How do we even know a Romolo Vargas exists?”

“I’m well aware,” Yao muttered, feeling a tinge of annoyance course through him. “I’ll admit he’s a little flirty, but he never gave me reason to doubt his sincerity.”

“It hurts me to say this, truly it does,” Chen muttered. “But what if Romolo is just leading you on? What if this is a game that he plays?”

“On older men and women? Yes, I know,” Yao frowned, his tone a little harsher than intended. “Thought you had said I wasn’t that old to begin with.”

***

They would never understand the late-night conversations I had, of philosophy and bao recipes. While he was rising, I was preparing for sleep. We managed a balance of work and chat. We began to send each other pictures, photographs of our homes, what we see throughout our day and ourselves. There was never pressure or qualm to keep our discussions going, we just carried on naturally.

Then Chen suggested I should get a P.O. box instead. Bright boy.

His first Christmas gift was a small painted black rooster from Portugal, a few collected postcards from previous travels and a 3 page handwritten letter explaining the story of the little rooster, of his New Year plans and his gratitude of meeting me. I never felt so close and intimate to him before. I felt young again.

We carried on, occasionally sending each other trinkets and tokens of a blossoming friendship. I sent him tea leaves, recipes, inkstones and brushes, a book on tai chi and bonsai training. Soon my bamboo plant and bonsai pot was inhabited with little figurines from the entirety of Europe and western Asia.

The next Christmas we gifted each other the trust of each other’s phone numbers. The first video chat on our phones. When we saw each other on our screens, we laughed.

***

“I’m telling you, you look younger than you say you are! Are you sure you 46?” Romolo grinned. His backdrop was his gardens overlooking the coast. His curls, touched with glints of silver and gold lightly kissed his flushed cheeks from a chilled breeze.

“The sunlight suits you,” Yao admitted without another thought.

A soft, silent smile. Yao felt his heart caught in his throat.

“And I bet you capture it beautifully with your eyes,” Romolo muttered.

Yao wanted to hide behind his sleeve like a flustered schoolgirl. It was a sincere compliment, nothing that implied a growing love for him, no matter how he wished for it to be true.

***

This Christmas would be no different. We had agreed on only sending each other a letter as we haven’t been writing to each other lately. Yet, I had sent his favorite box of tea along with a translated poem I wrote in simplified pinyin. A silly little poem about the love of two birds on seperate nests with a grand river in between, using the strengths of their songs to communicate in new echoing melodies. He always expressed his admiration for Chinese calligraphy. I wonder what he will think of the poem. I wonder if he’ll attempt to read the characters himself before reading the translated bits.

I wasn’t so sure Romolo was going to send me something as well but I did not want to anticipate a gift. I’d prefer to be pleasantly surprised.

***

Yao opened another tab on his computer to check on his email, the local news and weather. Another chilly day as expected in San Francisco Bay. He silently debated going out to pick up groceries at the local market. He already gave himself a bread by sleeping in and missing his Tai Chi session. He stretched his lower back until he felt relieving pops. He sighed heavily, eyeing the little black Portuguese rooster. He reached out to grab it from its place between a figurine of the Roman Colosseum and a windmill figurine from the Netherlands. Yao smiled, running his thumb over the painted wing. The shine was mostly gone, but the sentimental par of him will forever remember the first intimate contact they had with one another. Gingerly, he placed “Little Romolo” back in its place, and stood up to make a light breakfast.

The lone click of chopsticks and the drone of a Chinese reporter from a streamed video on his phone were the only sounds disturbing the calm silence of his studio apartment. The cloud filtered sunlight bled through the curtains, casting greyer shadows in the dimly lit corner of his dining area. Yao rested his head on the heel of his palm, his leg crossed over the other, softly flapping his slipper against his heel. It would be nice to share the silence with Romolo. The reporter’s voice would be replaced with that of his low rumbling chuckles and gentle teases.

Yao’s lips curled up in a soft smile. Christmas would be lonelier this year.

He perked up to the sound of his phone buzzing to life. He turned his attention back to his phone and felt his heart leap. It was a message from Romolo.

RV: check yor PO box >:)

His lips spread into a wider grin. Of course the fool sent him something anyway.

Yao lightly brushed his hair and slipped into a light jacket, scarf and boots. He locked the door behind him with a an eager well-meaning click.

He strode down the hills with purpose. Simple, passing thoughts went through him. What if he gotten him a much larger present? A more expensive one? A painting? Yao chuckled at the thought. Romolo was more than capable for pulling such a stunt.

As expected, the post office was moderately busy. People in hoodies, beanies, scarves and the like made lines to send last minute gifts. Yao made his way towards his box, a small sized thing yet perfect for letters and small paintings.

Something caught his eye. His P.O. box had a note on it. Yao furrowed his brow and neared it. The note was in flowy cursive so he took some time to decipher what it said.

Look behind you <3

Yao’s eyes widened, turning around slowly before his gaze focused on a man that no longer blended with the crowd. That spread of lips revealing impossibly straight teeth and a youthful glint of mischief in his eyes. His brown curls stuffed under a beanie, still showing glints of gold and silver. A spread of lips so handsome, it made joyous wrinkles appear around his eyes.

“Romolo?” Yao whispered.

Romolo nodded.

Yao rushed into the man’s open arms, earning the stares of a few curious strangers.

It was him, physically, it was his scent, his arms, his hair, his breath. His voice. “Merry Christmas,” he muttered, wrapping his arms tightly around him in turn.

He must be dreaming.

***

“So I have my hotel room and everything, don’t worry!” Romolo explained quickly, his arms moving about the more he got excited. Yao found it endearing. They had stopped by a bakery to grab a sweet bread to commemorate the moment.

“I realize how it might have been an inconvenience for you, or perhaps,” Romolo chuckled nervously. Yao noted he looked a little older than he last saw him on video chat. He must be jet lagged. “A little strange since I did not tell you beforehand, er, outright.”

“It is a surprise,” Yao said. “But a welcomed one.”

Romolo nodded, his shoulders laxing in relief.

“How long will you be staying for?” Yao asked.

“A week,” Romolo sighed, placing his hands on the table. “I cannot stay out for too long during the holidays.”

Yao felt a hint of disappointment. There was no possible way Romolo will be back in time for Lunar New Year.

Yao eyed his hands and made the first hesitant slow reach for Romolo. Perhaps if he did not stretch it too far, he could pretend he was stretching his arm.

But he felt his fingers get caught. Pale, longer fingers were soon in between darker, thicker ones. They did not say a word, their touch molded around each other, feeling every callous and muscle. The strength of their knuckles and the softness of their pads. Romolo smiled softly at Yao, it wasn’t flirty nor teasing. Sincere. Like they have done this before.

“I’m glad,” Yao muttered.

He’ll save up to surprise him for next Christmas.

#aphsecretsanta #romechu #aph ancient rome #aph china #hetalia fanfiction

48 notes · View notes

sapphire-artblog · 6 years ago

Text

Woo! Merry Christmas everyone!

Here is my participation for the @aphsecretsanta ~

Some Turkey x Austria for @wandschrankheld with the prompt Bedsharing!

I really like this ship and I just wanted to make something simple and cosy so I hope you like it as much as I liked drawing it!

#aphsecretsanta #my art #traditional art #aph #hetalia #axis powers hetalia #aph austria #aph turkey #merry christmas everybody see you next year

60 notes · View notes

orbitinghetalia · 6 years ago

Photo

@aphsecretsanta gift for @awkwardlittleintrovert .

Hope it was worth waiting for.

#aph america #aph denmark #aphsecretsanta #dename #my stuff #my drawings

38 notes · View notes

whatiwouldnotgive · 6 years ago

Text

Dear @aph-switzerland-fanclub, I’m your secret santa for the @aphsecretsanta exchange! Sorry that it took me so long to get done ^^; but I really enjoyed writing this, and I hope you like it too! Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays! <3

Title: Like Your Eyes are Like Liquor (Your Body is Gold) Pairing: Switzerland/America Word Count: 3855 Rating: G Chosen Prompts: Fixing a lonely heart, “You see the good in me,” Christmas

Summary: Individual and independent but not alone any longer.

“What do you mean he’s not coming?” America’s voice bordered on hysterical—he could hear it crack and winced. A black weight settled at the base of his throat, choking him from the inside out.

The woman he was talking to, a short, red-head with a severe jaw line, sighed. Her security badge marked her as the newest chief of staff—the staff had been coming and going so often lately he couldn’t remember who worked where. Rubbing the back of her neck, she sighed again before pulling out a file tucked under her arm. She flipped through it for a moment then handed him a cream-colored sheet of paper.

“I’m really sorry, but the President requested I tell you that he won’t be coming to the party. You could always ask the VP couldn’t you?”

The weight in his throat sunk to his stomach. Shaking his head, he said, “No, he’ll be at home with his family. I guess I’ll just have to go alone.”

She reached out to lay a hand on his arm, but her touch made his skin crawl. Walking back to his desk, he began collecting his papers and shoving hurriedly into his bag, “That’s—it’s fine. Just go.”

She nodded and made to leave; America, shoving his coat on and throwing his bag over his shoulder, breezed through the door after her, locking it behind him. The walk from his White House office to his house wasn’t that far, but the late December wind whipped through DC’s wide streets, its cold fingers digging into the seams of his coat. Burrowing his face in its sherpa lining, he ducked through the evening crowds headed to the airports and Union station and their homes. The glow of the street lamps highlighted the softly falling flakes—he forgot it was supposed to snow today.

Fumbling with the key, he managed to open and shut the heavy oak door to his townhouse. America kicked off his dress shoes, dropping his bag with a thud to the ground next to them. He slung his coat on the back of an easy chair as he padded into the kitchen. Fixing himself a whisky and coke and warming up the last of the leftovers in his fridge, he noticed a blinking red light on his answering machine. (He could never quite bring himself to ditch the landline—it came in handy when keeping up with his older human friends who struggled with cell phones.)

Canada’s voice filtered out, strong and warm, “Hey America, I hope I catch you before you fly out to Switzerland’s. My boss’s whole family is coming to the party, so they’ll be staying together. If you want to room together, let me know, eh? I’ll be there tomorrow evening. Call me back if you get this.

After ladling chicken and dumplings onto a plate, America grabbed the phone out of the cradle and curled up on the couch. Dialing Canada’s number, he shoved a forkful in his mouth, choking a little when Canada picked up almost immediately.

“America? Is that you?”

Swallowing hastily, America said, “Yeah, I got your message.”

“What’re your plans then? You okay with staying together?”

America nodded, even though he knew Canada couldn’t see him, “Yeah, turns out my boss isn’t coming.”

There was a pause on Canada’s end, “Not at all?” His voice was that neutral, soothing tone he used when trying not to upset someone. America never liked being on the receiving end of it. He blew a huff of air up at his bangs.

“Yeah, didn’t give a reason either. Just isn’t coming. So, you and I can stay together. I just don’t know how this is gonna look to everyone.” The black weight settled in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m sure Justin wouldn’t mind if you walked in with us. I’ll talk to him tonight.”

Heat prickled at his eyes. He didn’t deserve Canada sometimes. “Thanks. I’d appreciate it. I’ll be in to Geneva around seven local time. I can wait for you at the airport.”

Canada laughed, “I’ll be in at seven too. Wait for me outside of customs. We can grab a taxi together. Try not to worry, eh? It’ll be fine. It’s just a weekend.”

“I’ll try. See you tomorrow, bro. ‘Night.”

“Good night, America.”

The dial tone buzzed in his ear.

“America! I’m over here!” America turned to see Canada waving at him. He jogged over to him, duffle slapping against the back of his knees. America threw his arms around Canada, pulling him close.

“God, I missed you. Haven’t seen you since Thanksgiving.” America said, muffled in Canada’s heavy down jacket.

“You know, technically, in the grand scheme of being nations, a few weeks isn’t that long.”

“Yeah, but it’s a long, god awful couple of weeks. You know how it is.”

Canada hugged him back, “Yeah, I do know. Now, let’s get to the hotel. I think Switzerland is having drinks for all the nations tonight. Give everyone a moment away from the bosses.”

“Oh, thank God. I need a fucking drink.” America said as they made their way out of the airport and hailed a taxi. The hotel was a ways away from the airport, so they settled in catching up—mostly America bitching about the state of affairs and Canada cracking jokes to lighten the mood.

Canada checked them into the hotel while America paid the taxi driver, slipping into German as easily as breathing. The driver looked a little puzzled at his accent but accepted payment anyway; America forgot that the German settlers in Pennsylvania had, in their own way, developed their own version of the language, and it could be incomprehensible to some native speakers.

He hauled both his and Canada’s duffles up into the elevator and into their room, flinging them onto one of the double beds. Canada opened the blinds letting in some light from the street below.

“Nice view,” he said. Switzerland booked a block of rooms on the top floor of the hotel; their window overlooked most of Geneva. America could see out overtop the rust coloured rooftops towards the lake. The city twinkled with Christmas lights, powdered with late December snow.

America turned and began digging around in his duffle. With a little, triumphant smile, he pulled a tie and button-up shirt out. “I’m gonna get changed out of these airplane clothes then we can head down together, yeah?” He said.

Canada nodded, settling into a chair with his laptop. “That’s fine,” he said, “I’ve got some paperwork to do, so take all the time you need.”

The hotel had a small ballroom where Switzerland had a set up a bar with a few tables. The room itself was dripping with twinkling lights and laden with garlands and holly. Tea candles flickered and reflected against the white tablecloths. America stood at the threshold of the room, watching the other nations laugh and talk. In the center of the room, Luxembourg whirled Belgium around in a makeshift dance floor to the European pop music playing.

Canada touched his elbow, “C’mon let’s go.”

America allowed Canada to guide him to the bar. America flipped through the cocktail list while Canada ordered a beer. Glancing up, the bartender met his eyes, clearly bored and awaiting his order.

“I’ll take a scotch, neat,” he said. The bartender didn’t so much as acknowledge that he heard America before turning around and pouring his drink into a heavy glass. America barely took a sip before he heard a tinkling sound echo around the room. Music dimming, Switzerland stood at the front, tall and proud in his military dress. America distinctly felt underdressed in his shirt and obnoxiously-festive tie that Michelle had given him as a gag gift a few Christmases ago.

Clearing his throat, he said, “Thank you all for coming. I trust you’re all looking forward to the main party tomorrow. In the morning, we’ll start our last conference for the year. We’ll review how close we came to our goals that we laid out in January. For now, please enjoy tonight.” He paused, giving a rare smile. “Liechtenstein spent a long time working on the details on this weekend. I’ll be around if any of you need to speak with me.” From a nearby table, America spied Liechtenstein looking proud, a hint of colour to her cheeks.

Raising his glass, he called, “To a great 2018! Prost!”

Around him, the other nations raised their glasses, cheering. Looking down at his glass, he swirled the amber liquid round and round, accidentally sloshing a little on his shoe. A hot, anxious cloud pressed in on his head; a wave of dizziness fell over him, and he stumbled forward a step.

Canada rushed forward, “Are you okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah. I’m fine. I think I just need some air,” he replied, shaking off Canada, handing him his glass, and slipping back out the door. The hallway was blissfully cool and empty. A window on the side had a little ledge, just enough that America could sit and rest his head against the cool glass. Listening to the sounds emanating from the ballroom, America allowed his eyes to close. He took a few deep breaths, trying to quell the buzzing in his head.

“America? Are you alright?”

America sat upright. Switzerland stood hesitantly in front of him, brows knitted together.

“Of course. I just, uh. Had to make a call.”

Switzerland’s mouth flattened into a line, “I’m sure. It’s just, you left quite quickly, and it is my job as host to make sure everyone’s okay. Also, Canada came to me and said that you might be upset.”

“Ugh, Canada.” America said, hanging his head.

“Ja,” was all Switzerland said in reply. He crossed the few feet between them and sat next to America on the window ledge.

“Yesterday, Liechtenstein informed me that your boss wasn’t coming to the party. I knew then that this would probably be a difficult weekend for you.”

“What? No, I’ve been to plenty of events alone.” He forced a laugh, watching Switzerland cringe out of the corner of his eye; apparently the laugh sounded faker than he intended. “Why would this one be any different?”

“I think we both know that’s shit.”

America met Switzerland’s gaze, intense and serious as always. It wasn’t often that he cursed like that, so casually. All the decades America had known Switzerland, he kept himself reserved and formal. It came in handy during negotiations when Switzerland mediated for America with Iran or Cuba, able to shut down even the most tense situations with a single, cool look. Now though, America felt it forcing the truth out of him.

He sighed, body hanging forward, staring down at his hands. “I guess. Well. Everything that’s been happening. It’s isolating. Every conference, I feel you guys staring at me. And I can’t just disappear for a while like I used to. I could just go out west for a while. I feel like now if I even look away for a minute, everything’s gonna fall apart.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “What if I disappear? What if this is just the beginning?”

“America,” Switzerland’s voice was razor sharp, “I’ve lived for millenia. I’ve lived through the plague, fought through hundreds of wars, and seen the rise and fall of dynasties that lasted longer than you’ve been alive. You’re not going to disappear. There’s too much of all of us in you.

“Think about it—all the thousands of immigrants from our lands who migrated to you, all on a dream. You’re more than your government. We all are. Nations exist because of our people.” Switzerland stood up, offering a hand out to America. “Let’s go back inside and have a drink. I think there are some nations who want to see you”

America took the outstretched hand and stood. For a moment, the two of them faced each other, a hair's breadth apart, hands touching. Switzerland’s gaze curiously flickered between America’s lips, eyes, and the window. Switzerland’s hand moved to hold America’s wrist, thumb stroking the soft inside of it. America felt his stomach drop.

Someone behind them cleared their throat. Startled, America looked over Switzerland’s head to see Liechtenstein standing in the doorway, feet shuffling and picking at the hem of her sleeve.

“Brother?” she said in her quiet way.

Switzerland released America’s wrist, turning around on his heel, as if doing a military drill. “Yes? Is something the matter?”

“No, I was just making sure you were okay. Are you two coming back inside?”

America spoke up, “We were heading back just now. Come on, let’s go.” He ran a sweaty hand through his hair, trying to quell a tremor running through it. He strode ahead back into the ballroom and glittering Christmas decor. Plastering on a smile, he scanned the room for Canada who came bounding over him.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, handing America his sweating glass of scotch.

“Yeah, yeah. Switzerland talked to me—thanks for that, by the way.” Canada had the grace to look a little abashed.

America felt a touch on his elbow; Switzerland pointed towards a corner, “Lithuania has been waiting for you to arrive.” America saw Lithuania waving at him, gesturing him over.

“Thanks,” he whispered before disappearing off to see Lithuania. Switzerland nodded, turning to Canada who swept the two of them off to chat with France.

Returning to his room, America was pleasantly buzzed. Chuckling at Canada’s snarky jokes as they watched a dubbed-over movie on tv. Canada flopped on his bed, hair fanned around him.

“What did Switzerland talk to you about?” He asked, tone prodding and jovial, like when they were colonies, and he figured out America had a crush on the red-haired stableboy England hired.

“Oh, just. Nothing.” America tried for arch, pulling on a ancient sweatshirt emblazoned with “Harvard Class of ‘79.”

“Mhm,” Canada replied. “If you’re gonna be a hoosier about it, I won’t push.” Kicking off his dress shoes and curling up on his side, he watched America putter around the room, flicking the tv off with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.

Disappearing into the bathroom, America shouted back, “I’m not being a hoosier. We really did talk about nothing. He just asked if I was okay.” He returned sleepy eyed and loose tongued—Canada had always been easy to talk to.

“You were gone for a while. Long enough that Liechtenstein went looking for you. And, she told me you were standing really close when she went out. Holding hands.”

America felt his cheeks pink up, wrist tingling where Switzerland had touched him.

Face gleeful, Canada sat up again, “So you were holding hands.”

Sputtering, America said, “No! No. Maybe? He was more holding my wrist.”

“Oh my God. When I told him to talk to you, I didn’t think he was gonna kiss you.”

“He didn’t! We didn’t. At least, I don’t think we were going to.” America felt an embarrassed twist in his guts at the thought. Had they been going to kiss? He tried to picture it: Switzerland’s strong, calloused hand on his waist, America leaning down a few inches and Switzerland up on his toes, America’s lips curling into a smile. His stomach swooped like he missed a step going down the stairs.

Canada snorted in disbelief, “Of course not.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re the most oblivious person ever. You wouldn’t know if someone was trying to kiss you until they actually did it.”

America slipped under the covers of his bed, placing his glasses on the side table. After plugging his phone into the charger, he finally replied, “Well that might be true, but what would Switzerland see in me? No nation’s shown any interest in me in like, 20 years.” Canada looked at him sadly, mouth turned down. America couldn’t bear the weight of his gaze and turned on his side. He fell asleep without noticing Canada turning off the light and ignoring Canada’s soft, “Oh, America.”

Justin Trudeau had a kind smile and a charm that disarmed many tough leaders. His wife Sophie was the same. America watched Canada chat with them, dressed in a maroon blazer with his flag pin on the lapel. Around him, the other nations waiting anxiously for the beginning of the party—Russia with his grimdark president, England and his towering Prime Minister, Vietnam looking resplendent in her traditional dress on the arm of her own President. America shifted his weight from foot to foot, back pressed to the wall.

A burst of music signaled the beginning of the festivities; countries and their leaders lined up and began making their way inside. Bright laughter and cheers mingled with the crescendo of the music.

“America,” Trudeau said turning to face him, “Will you be alright walking in with us?”

“Yeah, thanks agai—”

“Actually, he’ll be walking in with me.” Switzerland interrupted him. He hadn’t even noticed when Switzerland walked up to them. He seemed to glow in his military dress, shoulders back and chin turned up in pride.

“That’s great. We’ll see you inside.” Canada and the Trudeau’s made their way inside, Canada shooting him a pointed Look over his shoulder.

America opened his mouth to say something but closed it resolutely when Switzerland raised a hand.

“My boss unfortunately came down with the flu this morning and is unable to make it tonight. I was thinking you and I could make the entrance together.” The toe of his shoe dragged along the marble floor. It rested beside America’s.

“That would be awesome.”

Switzerland held out the crook of his arm, face pointing forward, “I think it’s time.”

Lacing their arms together, they walked in step to the grand ballroom. This time held at Switzerland’s Federal Palace. As they entered the room, they were met with the shining eyes of the other nations and the splendor of the decorations. Dripping icicles and glittering lights. Deep greens of a tree, holly, and garland draped the edges of tables and chairs. Delicate ornaments hung off the Christmas tree at the head of the room, with a backdrop of Switzerland’s flag. On stage, a small band played traditional classical. America tried to snapshot the moment in his mind, it reminded him so much of the grand balls he attended once or twice, either trailing England’s coattails or on diplomatic missions as a fumbling young nation.

Switzerland caught him looking gobsmacked and boyishly jostled him, “I had nothing to with this. It was all Liechtenstein.” He subtly gestured his head over to where she was excitedly chatting with Latvia and Seychelles in a delicate egg-shell blue gown.

“You’re lucky you two are so close.” America said as Switzerland guided him towards the center of the dance floor, bewildered by the note of jealousy in his own statement.

“You have Canada. It is the same between us.” Switzerland looked up at him. “America?”

“Yes?” He could feel the spotlight of faces on him. He was present and individual and so very, very alone.

“Would you care to dance with me?” Switzerland asked, face incomprehensible, the glow of the room casting shadows along his delicate features. America knew him to be anything but delicate. The crook in nose from a break that happened 500 years ago, the scar on the back of his left hand from a sword, the way one leg had the slightest blink-and-you’d-miss-it limp from a bullet wound. America felt the immediate stretch of history and time between them.

“Yes. Of course.”

Switzerland took his hand and waist, guiding him into a waltz. It took America a few stumbling moments to remember the steps. The crescendo of the music cascaded over the two of them like a breaking wave. America was intimately reminded of standing on the New England coast, gazing out to sea and imagining himself in Europe—lapping waves at his feet, the taste of salt spray, towering trees behind him, alone and independent. As he had alway been. As he had always wanted. What if he could be European, he thought Would he be the same? That bond of shared history and civilization. He knew it could never be, the ocean that rushed in his ears was a constant reminder of that forever separation.

“You’re different than Europe,” America whispered.

Switzerland raised his eyebrows, “How so?”

“Y’all have this bond. You’ve been so tangled up since the beginning. But you. You’re neutral. And you hold onto that so fiercely. It’s— it’s admirable.”

“That’s kind of you to say. We all find ways to hold onto our humanity. It’s easy to let time erase what makes us different—or to let those differences turn into fractures. It’s difficult, I think, for us nations to find a middle. You, America, you’ve burned so bright for so long. You’re a torch we look to. Us Europeans may have a history, but we’ve allowed our differences to fracture too many times. Even today, this peace is fragile. I’ve admired your leadership—unafraid to stand alone when nobody else will stand with you.”

His throat burned, “Thank you.”

Switzerland looked up, met his wet eyes, “For what?”

America laughed, softly and far more relaxed than his usual ricocheting burst. Switzerland quirked a smile. They continued to sweep wide circles around the floor. A few other nations and leaders joined them. “You see the good in me. Thanks. I’ve been alone for so long I think I lose sight of who I am.” The song slowed to a stop, the room echoed with claps. Switzerland pulled out of the room onto a little balcony. It overlooked Bern’s skyline. The cold winter air whipped around them, snow falling into their hair, dusting their shoulders, and smudging America’s glasses.

Switzerland held both of America’s hands in the cradle of his own. “America, I’ve never had many chances to do this, but I would like to spend more time with you. If you’d like. I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this for several months now, and I guess this will have to do.”

“It’s fine. It’s perfect. I’d like that a lot.” America tucked a piece of Switzerland’s hair behind his ear who scowled minutely at the tender gesture.

Switzerland, still holding one of America’s hands, began stroking his wrist—just as he had done last night, and America felt himself go weak at the knees.

Voice barely above a whisper, eyes half-lidded, America asked, “Can I kiss you?”

Switzerland nodded and said, “please.”

He leaned down and kissed him. A pleasing warmth flowed through like the first rays of summer sunshine on skin. Switzerland did indeed hold his waist, crinkling his suit jacket in his strong grip. The smell of his cologne made America dizzy who stepped closer, legs slotting together, chests pressed together. Cupping Switzerland's face, he paused to breathe. Together on that balcony in the midst of the lights and music and glamour, America could feel the soft edges of his heart knitting back together. A person who could stand with him, individual and independent but not alone any longer.

#AmeSwitz #aphsecretsanta #hetalia #aph-switzerland-fanclub #APH America #APH Switzerland #my content #fanfiction #my fanfiction

33 notes · View notes