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discotenny · 5 years ago

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Corner Store [1]

Description: Arthur Kirkland has owned and run a corner store for the past 15 years. He is determined to go through the rest of his life with minimal change. However, when he takes notice of three high school boys, his world gets turned around as he tries to piece back his life in a way that he thinks it's supposed to be. Word Count: 2,104 Warnings: Obsessive behavior, underlying issues, panic attack Characters in Chapter: Arthur Kirkland [Britain], Francis Bonnefoy[France], Alfred Jones[USA], Gilbert Beilschmidt[Prussia], Matthias Nillson[Denmark], Abel Sinterniklaas[Netherlands] Characters Mentioned: Peter Kirkland[Sealand], Toumas Nillson[Finland], Matthew Bonnefoy[Canada], Elizabeta Héderváry[Hungary], Ivan Braginsky[Russia]. Yao Wang[China], Lukas Nillson[Norway] Ship/s Mentioned: RusAme[Alfred & Ivan] AU: !Corner Store AU! !Human AU!

I know I know, this is a far division from the usual content I post on this blog haha. For those not in the loop[literally everyone who follows me], this is for a project and fandom dedicated to Hetalia! While it has had its ups and downs it remains an important part in my life for introducing me to this website + helping me discover writing for fandom lol. My part of the project is two chapters of a story idea I’ve had in my mind for a while. Also, consider this my official return from my [short] hiatus! -Mod Ioten <3

The coffee wasn’t in the right place. Nothing bothered Arthur more than when his store was out of order. An itch crept up into his hand, something that always appeared when anything wasn’t in its place. Several cans of instant coffee were right next to the bags of chips, but they were supposed to be in between the tea and coffee creamer. He used to personally stock the shelves, but lately there were some issues he had to deal with at home and he had to hire someone to help him out. No matter how much he didn’t want to. Francis still had a lot to learn, but he did bring in more business; customers seem entranced by his charm, something Arthur didn’t understand. “Francis!” Arthur called, picking up a can. The Frenchman strutted in from the other side of the store holding a broom.

“Oui?” He gave a sly smile, and Arthur couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“You put some of the coffee in the snack shelf while they’re supposed to go on the shelf above it.” Arthur began to move the cans, one by one to the correct shelf. Turning to his employee he asked, “Did you restock the milk yet? We ran out of whole and 2% yesterday.”

“You only had 2% in the back, no whole coming in until tomorrow,” Francis replied, sweeping the floor around them. Sighing, he stopped and looked up. “Mon ami, have you ever considered getting an air freshener around here? I’m tired of coming in and smelling dust, plastic, and prepackaged food.” Francis frowned, kicking a cobweb that nestled itself under the shelves.

Arthur scoffed in reply, “It smells perfectly fine here. No one has complained so far, and no one ever will because the store smells fine.” Francis gave him a weak smile.

“If you insist….”

Francis continued to sweep the floor, and Arthur finished fixing the shelves. Taking a step back, he smiled proudly at his work; despite how meaningless it may seem. Everything was in order, and the itchy feeling in his palm was gone. Checking down at his watch, there were twenty minutes until school ended for the nearby high school. Though Francis would be checking out soon to pick up one of his sons, and Arthur could always handle the influx of customers that came in at the time. Whether it be the high schoolers themselves, teachers, or random people who just happened to stop by, people would always come by the shop. Getting behind the counter, Arthur got himself comfortable for the afternoon rush. He took out one of the newspapers he sold.

He tried to focus on the horrible news in the paper, yet Arthur’s cynical mind drifted to his customers. No one came in yet, no one ever came in at this time. The store stayed silent with the exception of the soft music coming from the radio that drowned out the pouring rain. But the same set of customers would soon come in once the final bell rang. The same three boys, always buying relatively the same items. One of them, Alfred, was Francis’ stepson. Despite not being blood-related, Arthur could see that Francis cared deeply about him. Alfred was a decent enough kid, a little too eccentric for Arthur’s liking, but he reminded him of his own son. Arthur was moderately familiar with Matthias, as Arthur used to tutor his younger brother, Lukas. Gilbert, Arthur only saw when he came in with Alfred and Matthias.

Arthur moved his arm to check his watch again. Five minutes before the school bell rang. Humming quietly to himself, he took a look around the shop. For the past 15 years, this is where he’s been. Such simplicity, and yet it meant so much to him. It was absolutely, positively, completely perfect the way everything looked.

He looked up from his paper to look at the window beside him. The clouds looked angry, and the rain got heavier and heavier to signify a storm approaching. People were walking down the sidewalk, and he could hear commotion making its way towards the store. The chime of a bell, signifying a customer entering, made Arthur unconsciously smile. Shuffling could be heard, and Arthur took a sip of his tea as wet footsteps approached the counter. “This will be all,” the low mumble was almost barely audible, but Arthur could recognize the person just by the items they bought. Never buying the same thing, Abel always bought the off-brand items due to how cheap they were. Tea biscuits, lightbulbs, and canned asparagus were his purchases for today.

“If you looked next to the eggs we had some herbs for sale,” Arthur hummed. “Some celery was there as well.” The aura around Abel stiffened, and the large Dutchman tried his best to resist the temptation Arthur laid out. No matter how much he wanted to say otherwise, his soft spot for his rabbit outweighed his yearning for cash.

Abel shakily sighed, “Is that so?” He had to keep his eyes from drifting away to the open-air fridge. Arthur felt a smile creep onto his face, keeping his head down as to not let his customer see.

“Yeah, and Yao usually sells them for more than double our prices,” The words fell out of Arthur’s mouth smoothly, preying on the fact that the Dutchman couldn’t resist the best deal possible. The air between them was cold, Abel’s stiff stature slowly cracking away with every word that Arthur said. It was a battle that occurred between them often, Arthur usually winning.

“Kip has been behaving nicely....” Abel muttered, reluctantly letting his shoulders relax. Giving out a breath, he gave into Arthur’s tactics. With a short cough, he let Arthur have his win, “I will buy a stalk.”

Looking up, smiling as if he wasn’t already gleaming, Arthur replied, “Perfect! I’ll add the price of the stalk to your total and you can be on your way.”

Abel grunted, aggressively grabbing the paper bag Arthur pushed his way. As he walked out, he could hear the shop owner telling him that he’ll see him later, and he just raised his hand in reaction.

The smile never wavered even as Abel left his shop. There were a few customers that would make their trip to the counter once they were finished. Arthur’s attention, however, was on the trio of highschoolers that followed in after Abel left. “I don’t know how I failed that chemistry quiz, my grade’s totally down the shitter!” Alfred groaned loudly as he struggled to close his umbrella, it resisting no matter how hard he tried to pull it into place. “How the hell does Francis work this thing.” He yelped as the umbrella snapped down once he clicked the button.

“It’s ‘cause you were staring at Ivan the whole study period yesterday, that hunk of a Russian keeps distracting you,” Matthias teased, walking to the sweets aisle. The other two boys followed, Alfred quickly grabbing a bottle of soda from the freezer.

“Hey, Mattie told me to get some milk before I came home, I’ll be at the counter,” With a peace sign, Alfred departed from the trio.

Gilbert scanned the shelves for his desired treat; a bag of Haribo gummy bears. And although he looked up and down the shelves, his favorite candy wasn’t to be seen. “Hey store man!” He yelled, and Arthur piped up.

“Yes?” Arthur got up from his seat and walked towards the isle the voice was coming from.

The German pointed to the empty hook which once held what he was looking for, “Do you have any gummy bears available?”

Arthur thought back to earlier today, where one girl bought the rest of his gummy bear stock. “Ah, I’m sorry about that. Earlier today a young lady came in and purchased my supply. We won’t be getting more until Friday I’m afraid.”

Gilbert stared at him for a moment, processing what the store owner said. “By any chance…” He mumbled, and Arthur almost couldn’t hear, “Was the girl wearing a flower pin with pink and orange carnations? And was she wearing one of these uniforms?” Gilbert tugged at his uniform with a blank expression.

“She did! Do you know her from school?” Arthur questioned, fighting a sickening smile that threatened to creep onto his cheeks.

The boy’s blank expression turned to one of anger. Matthias started laughing at him from behind, and Gilbert turned around to tell him to shut up. “She’s our- uh- friend!” Matthias butt in, grabbing Gilbert’s shoulder with his empty hand. In the other, he held a bag of black licorice, one that Arthur recognized immediately.

“Lovely, if you still want your bag of gummies, I might have a couple of those gummy roles made by the same company,” Hook, line, and sinker.

The greyish haired male’s attention perked immediately, and Arthur couldn’t help the smile that approached his face. “I suppose that would do…”

“Excellent!” Arthur waved his hand to symbolize that the boys needed to follow him to the counter.

“Yo Mr. Kirkland! No red milk today?” Alfred asked as Arthur got closer to the counter.

“Red milk?” Arthur had to think for a while about Alfred’s choice of words, “ Ah, whole milk. We ran out yesterday and your father could only find 2%,” Arthur gave the signature smile that he learned to give whenever childlike ignorance was at play. “I can check Alfred out first. If you boys want to buy anything else just let me know,” He slipped himself behind the counter and took the milk and soda from Alfred.

“The weather’s getting pretty bad…” Matthias muttered, taking a glance towards his friends.

Gilbert sighed and looked out the window, “Ja, news says that the storm won’t let up until like three in the morning. Do you just wanna grab a bus or something??”

A loud crack suddenly made its way into everyone’s ears. Gilbert and Matthias’ eyes quickly darted towards Alfred, who was visibly sweating despite the cold weather. Alfred took a big gulp of air, and gripped the side of the counter tightly as he tried to steady himself; failing as his body slowly sunk closer to the ground. “You okay man?” Matthias grabbed his shoulders and tried to bring him up.

Alfred looked at the ground sickly, attempting to steady his breath and contain the tears that threatened to leak out. “I-I’m uh-” his speech started to stutter, something Arthur never saw from the energetic American. His palm started to itch a little bit. “I’m- I’m fine,” he assured. “I’m fine,” Alfred repeated again, almost as if he was trying to convince himself of the same thing.

Arthur had to grab his wrist tightly so he wouldn’t begin to scratch his hand, “Are you sure? I can give you so-”

“I’ll call Toumas so he can give us a ride home safely. Is it okay if we wait here a little bit Mr. Kirkland?” Matthias asked, getting his phone out and putting the bag of licorice on the counter. “I’ll pay for Alfred’s stuff. Can you get him, Gil? I’ll buy your stuff too.”

Gilbert nodded and grabbed Alfred, pulling him to the side despite the protests. “Of course, I have a couple customers still needing to pay though, so once you pay make your way into the back exit.”

Matthias nodded, and looked behind him, muttering a small apology to the people politely waiting for them to finish. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Kirkland. Alfred uh- doesn’t deal very well with storms.”

Arthur nodded understandingly and separately bagged the three boy’s groceries. Matthias made his way towards his two friends, grabbing the bags and thanking Arthur profusely. Despite trying to grab Alfred’s shoulders again, he pushed both of them away, insisting he didn’t need to be helped.

Bringing his phone closer to his ear, Arthur could make out tiny bits of conversation from the Dane’s side. “Hej Toumas! Can you give Gil and Al a ride home? We’re stuck in the storm at the corner store near the school…. No, not the grocery run by Mr. Wang, the one run by Lukas’ tutor…. Yeah, that one. Ten minutes? Alright, I’ll tell the guys, thanks Toumas!”

The Dane clicked off his phone and gave a thumbs up to Arthur. He smiled back and centered his attention on the lady waiting at the counter. “My apologies for the long wait ma’am, those boys needed assistance.”

The itch in Arthur’s palm didn’t go away until long after the trio left.

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lying-monsters · 5 years ago

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Made of Thunder and Dependencies

My contribution for Hetabang 2020: The eighties in America come in with rock music, with big names and bigger dreams. Gilbert wants to be a rockstar, Feliciano wants to become an artist, and Ludwig just wants to make his brother proud, no matter what it takes. https://archiveofourown.org/works/23370421

#HWS Germany #Hetalia #HWS North Italy #Gerita #HWS Prussia #writing #fic #fanfiction #my writing #1980s #AU #Hetabang #Hetabang 2020 #fluff #angst

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noxxy-boxxy · 5 years ago

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Hetabang time!

So, it’s finally te time to upload this! I’ve been waiting for this moment lmao

I wrote this and my amazing partner did a drawing of the last scene, but they haven’t posted it yet so imma wait till they do and tag them!

Edit: Here is the artwork!

https://aph-florida-shitposts.tumblr.com/post/616694960857710592/they-my-peice-for-the-hetabang-art-thing It’s made by @aph-florida-shitposts The artis amazing and everyone should go and check it out, period.

The meeting ended sooner that day. Thank God.

Gilbert grabbed his laptop and his briefcase, stretching his neck until it popped. It was Friday, finally, and that meant a lot of things. It meant beer, a nice dinner, some of that leftover cake, and the best part:

"Gilbert! Buongiorno!"

He could invite him for dinner. He could finally invite Italy for dinner and ask him that thing.

"Hey, little Italy! Guten morgen!" He smiled, his heart almost doing a cartwheel when Feliciano kissed his cheeks. "What are you doing here? You're going to miss your flight." Even after saying that, Feliciano sat on the table, and Gilbert did the same, not interested If he missed his own.

"I was looking for you." Said the Italian, and God, if he didn't die at that moment, he really had to be a tough one. His pale face took a very slight shade of pink, invisible to Italy.

"Oh, so you were searching for me?" Gilbert said, his speech still perfect, his tone normal, but his face warming. Slow but steady.

"Yes, I wanted to ask you something." Gilbert arched an eyebrow, blinking once or twice.

«Keep it cool.» He thought, panicking internally. "Oh, yeah, whatever you want, little Italy. I'm all ears." And, to be honest, he didn't expect that much, but surely he didn't see that one coming.

"Can you help me with my paperwork?"

Oh God, Italy was lucky he liked him. He wouldn't waste his weekend explaining paperwork to anybody, but him. He was the only exception.

But now, he surely was going to be talking about boring numbers, when they could be having a delicious dinner and a delicious dessert. Amazing.

Unless.

"Come with me. We can stay together at my house and I can explain to you how I do my paperwork." He smiled, petting the Italian's head. "Then, we can have dinner together. I'll make some homemade pasta for you and we can have cake at the end." And that was the exact way to convince Italy. Gilbert smiled softly, seeing Italy jump from one place to another while he sang some song. "Okay, okay. Chill, Kleine. Don't hurt yourself." Italy stopped and grabbed his hand, tangling his fingers with his own.

"I would love that, Gilbert!" He smiled widely, so beautifully. "Oh, Gil, you're red. Is something wrong?"

"Uh, nothing..."

They were kneading the dough, and Gilbert was amazed at the way Italy did it. His movements were perfectly fluent, his voice hummed a soft song, his eyes half-open. He stopped for a second, pinching the dough slightly.

"It's ready to stretch and cut." Prussia nodded, and then, they began to stretch the dough, making it thinner. Over, and over, and over again, until Feliciano felt like it was perfect. Then, they passed it through the cutter, making perfect spaghetti.

"Perfect." Said Prussia, bringing a tray with flour. "It's ready to cook." Italy nodded, looking incredibly happy. They both went to the kitchen, where the water in the pot was already boiling. Italy added some salt, and then, the pasta.

"It should be ready in two or three minutes. Could you check the sauce?" Gilbert nodded, and went to another pot, opening it and grabbing some sauce with a spoon. He tasted it, the flavor lingering in his mouth. It was absolutely...

"Delicious." He said, smiling widely. "It's delicious." Feliciano smiled, looking at him, small little face so adorable. He wanted to take a picture, no jokes. Gilbert covered the pot, seeing how his hand trembled, feeling his throat tightening. «Everything is going to be okay.» He had to say to himself.

And he really hoped it would be.

"Well, I think it's ready to drain." He nodded, getting closer. Italy was holding a fork, where one string of pasta sat. "Could you taste it, Gil?" And he extended his hand, offering him not the fork, but the food. He had to stop a second, trying to gain control of his face, to avoid that God damned red. He got even closer, eating the spaghetti from his hand.

"It's ready." He said, tasting it. It had the right amount of salt, and it wasn't incredibly soft, but a little bit chewy. It was perfect.

Italy drained it and put it in the same pot with the sauce. he moved it around with a pair of tweezers, and then, it was perfectly ready to eat.

"Let's go. I'm hungry." Italy smiled, grabbing a bottle of wine and a bottle of beer. Prussia nodded, grabbing the pot.

"So, did you understand that thing about your paperwork?" Italy nodded, smiling and grabbing his glass of wine.

"Yes, thanks." He smiled, taking a sip of wine. "You're a very good teacher, Gil."

"Oh, ask West or America, they'll probably have something else to say." He laughed. "I am a good teacher, indeed," he started, grabbing his bottle. "but I am not going soft on anyone. You're just a special case. Usually, I would be more strict and rude with any other. Only for you." And Gilbert smiled softly, booping the Italian's nose, making him laugh.

"I like you a lot, Gil!" He smiled, and Gilbert definitely felt something jump in his chest.

"Ah, yea, ja." He mumbled, looking away. "Actually, little Italy... Feliciano" He whispered, taking a big breath. "I like you too. I like you a lot." And Italy didn't even flinch.

"Yeah! Me too, Gil! You're an amazing friend!" Oh, no.

"No, dearest. I mean, uh, I like you, like, more than a friend. I like you a lot more."

"Like a best friend, then! You're my best friend!" And Gilbert rolled his eyes, but Italy kept talking before he could explain himself. "I wouldn't change you as my best friend for anything in the world! You'll always be the best friend I could ever have, and I hope nothing ruins our friendship!" For God's sake, Gilbert thought, almost speaking again.

Unless...

"You... Wouldn't want me to be anything more than... Your best friend? Only... That?" He said, his voice normal, but something was cracking. "Not even-"

"Always friends!" Italy interrupted him.

Then, he understood. Italy was understanding what he really wanted to say, but he surely didn't want to reject him. He just wanted him to... Catch the cue. He only wanted him as a friend.

He only wanted him as a friend.

"O-oh, yeah. Always... F-friends." He whispered, forcing that painful sensation at the back of his throat. Not yet. "I should take you to the airport so you can go back, Italy. You're going to miss your flight." He said, getting up and grabbing his keys and his helmet. He went to the garage, putting the key at the contact on his motorcycle. "Move, Italy! We don't have all the time in the world!" His words sounded a lot ruder and mean, like if he was tired or angry. Obviously, Italy got scared, and just followed the orders. The garage door opened with the controller, and they went out. Suddenly, Italy had to hold himself again Gilbert, because hell, they were going 100 kph, and it was just rising. They arrived at the airport in 3 minutes, when usually it would take 15.

"Let’s go." And as soon as they were on the ground they were running. Or well, he was almost running. Gilbert was just walking. Incredibly quickly. Gilbert had to buy the tickets for him because obviously, the people spoke German.

"Here. Have this." Italy grabbed the tickets with one hand, while he grabbed his document and passport from his briefcase with the other.

"Is everything alright, Gil?" He literally had to take a step back when Prussia looked at him. His eyes were glowing.

"I don't allow my own brother to call me by my name, Italy. You don't have that privilege either." He deadpanned.

But... Italy wasn't dumb. At least, not when it came to feelings. Even if Prussia was "angry", he saw sadness. In his face, those eyes were not glowing, they were shining.

"Gilbert..." He whispered, trying to put a hand on his shoulder, but at that second, his flight was announced. Prussia didn't even say goodbye, he just left.

His eyes were shining, yes. And he swore, he saw a tear leaving his left eye.

«Is he sad?"

Gilbert went back to his house calmly. He entered and started washing the dishes. The leftover spaghetti was poured in a container and stored in the fridge, with the forgotten cake. Then, he went to the table, grabbing his bottle of beer. It was half full, but in a second, he drank the rest. The wine was stored in the fridge, and the glass... He literally spent half an hour looking at it, trying to go back in time, when he bought that glassware, the moment when he grabbed it from the counter, just some hours ago. That moment, when they were still friends.

His knuckles turned white, and in a quick movement, he threw the glass against the floor, turning it to just useless shards. Panting, he kneeled at its side, slowly picking up the pieces, just hissing when one of them cut his finger.

Wine stung, but the tears falling were even more painful.

The meeting was in Berlin that day. Ironically.

"He didn't come today..." Whispered Italy, looking at the German's seat, unoccupied. In his place, Germany entered, even when he was, technically, on vacation. Apparently, though, he was not there for the meeting, because he wore just civilian clothes.

"Italy." He said, looking at him. "Can we talk? Please?" Italy nodded, concerned. He looked slightly sad but he looked mad too. Something surely had to be going around the Germanic countries. "What happened last Sunday, Italy? When I came back, Prussia was devastated. And I mean, really, sad."

"I knew he was sad. We were just talking, and in a second he was suddenly really mad but really sad. I swear I saw him crying."

"What were you two talking about? Do you remember what you said or what he said the moment when he changed?"

"We were talking about our friendship! I told him I liked him, and he told me he liked me too, but, like, more than a friend! Then I thought, well he wants to be my best friend, and then it went down really quick and he was like that in a second."

Germany observed him for a second, and then he arched an eyebrow.

I mean. He thought he was the clueless one, but even he would have understood that.

"So. Let's set things clear. You said something like 'I like you', then he said 'I like you too.' Then you started talking about friends, but he said 'I like you more than a friend.' Then you started talking about best friends. Then, he was suddenly angry. Is that what happened?”

"¡Si Capitano!" Said Italy, smiling widely. And oh God, he thought he was the clueless one.

"Italy, my dear friend." He started, taking a deep breath. He needed France. "Let's say, a man and a woman are together. And he says 'I like you more than a friend.' What would you think he's meaning?"

"He loves her!" Italy said, smiling. And he smiled and smiled until he didn't. "He... He loves... Her." Slowly, he whispered.

"And what if he does things for her he wouldn't do in normal situations? Like, cooking for her, or allowing her to call him by his name, or taking the time to explain to her something slowly, when everyone would say he's a devil when he's teaching. Or calling her with endearments, when he doesn't do that. What would you think? Does he want to be her friend?" And Italy slowly came into realization.

"Oh my God, I messed it up. I ruined everything. I wasted his time. I fell really low. I-" And Germany had to touch his arm, to prevent him from missing the line. "I have to go and talk to him." And he almost ran away, just in the for Ludwig to grab him and bring him back.

"Do you have any idea of what you’re going to say, at least?" Italy arched his eyebrow, opening his mouth, but Ludwig spoke first. "He liked you even when we were dating, but he never said anything. He liked you since the beginning. And I can't risk you going there and messing it up even more because I haven't seen him this sad since 1945. He doesn't deserve so much pain, and I won't let you go there unless you know exactly what to say." He took a deep breath. "Do you like him? Not like a friend. Not like a best friend." And Italy, slowly, nodded, making him smile. "Give me a pen. I have to give you the address. He's not in Berlin, so you'll have to go now unless you want to miss the train that goes to Hamburg." Italy grabbed a pen, and Germany didn't even waste time on paper, writing it directly onto his skin. "Do you understand it?" Italy nodded, and flew, running to the train station, buying a ticket to Hamburg, and getting on the train in record time. He just hoped that there was still time for him.

He made it to Hamburg, and then, he started going around, trying to remember each street. He reached a big building of apartments and looked at the key in his hand. The door opened, incredibly, and then he started walking, trying to reach the apartment number 19. The door made a little sound when unlocked, and then he went in.

«It has to be Ludwig's private department.» He thought to himself. Some books were easy to recognize for him because he saw them in his library. A jacket was on the sofa, he recognized it as Gilbert's. And there was a bed for a dog on the floor.

He walked to the bedroom, and entered, finding him sleeping peacefully.

«He's here...» He thought, slowly getting closer to him. He sat down on the bed, and at that moment, he woke up.

"What the fuck, Italy?" He almost screamed, going back. "What are you doing here? Get out!" Now he was screaming.

"No!" Italy responded, but Gilbert didn't listen. He grabbed his arm, dragging him to the door, without paying attention to anything he would say. And when they were almost out, he stopped for a second.

"What did you said?"

"I'm sorry," Italy whispered, squirming in his place. "Prussia, my hand hurts..." And he left him to go. He dragged some tears left In his eyes, saying that again. "I'm sorry. I didn't know, I didn't understand at that moment. Please, forgive me." And his face was suddenly red, his eyes shiny again.

"It's not fair, I try to get out, and you drag me back, you probably don't even mean what I think you're meaning. And I thought West was bad when it came to feelings." Italy grabbed his hand, pressing it.

"I like you too." He said, feeling Prussia's hand tremble. "I like you. Not like a friend. Not like a best friend. I like you a lot. I just thought you weren't meaning it like that, or I was just a little tipsy and I wasn't thinking, but I'm sorry. For making you cry and for hurting you." And when he looked at his face, he was crying. "I'm sorry..." He whispered one last time, slowly touching his nose, and kissing him.

It was something slow. Almost as if he was afraid of scaring him. He was suddenly so weak, so small. For a second he was a child again.

His hands just hung at his sides at the beginning, but then he slid them, right to his shoulders. They separated, looking at each other for a second. Then, Gilbert spoke.

"I like you, Feliciano."

"Me too, Prussia." Italy smiled.

"Call me by my name. Please." But Italy didn't, because, of course, he had to kiss him again.

#hetabang #hetabang 2020 #aph italy #aph prussia #aph germany #pruita #smol writes #smol escribe #hws italy #hws prussia #hws germany

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morgens-odeum · 5 years ago

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MUN HERE!

Here’s my half of the Hetabang project with @purenguyening for @hetabang 2020!

Hope you like the gorgeous art by Thanh and the story as well :3

[ Art Link ]

#hetabang #bringbackhetalia2020 #hetalia #aph vietnam #hws vietnam #mun post #mun writes

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wandschrankheld · 5 years ago

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I’m pleased to tell you that the first expedition of the Russian-American telegraph line is scheduled to depart rather soon, before the cold of winter freezes the seas and makes supply impossible - they will be the last of the trail-blazers, the true pioneers.

Fanfic Link - Art Part 2 Link - Arachnid Art Link

Part of my illustrations for the @hetabang ! @arachnoidmater and I wrote a series of letters between Alf and Ivan set during the failed project of the Russian-American Telegraph line, later made obsolete by the Atlantic cable.

Writing old-timey letters is always a lot of fun, & I had a blast drawing this too :>

#hetabang #hetalia #rusame #aph russia #aph america #hws russia #hws america #historical hetalia #def grounded in history.#tho costume historians dont at me... or do at me but gently #wandmalerei

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arachnoidmater · 5 years ago

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My part for @hetabang! @wandschrankheld and I wrote a series of letters based on the failed Russian-American telegraph line, then they illustrated while I wrote a few out and set up scene on what would be Russia's writing desk. The book is a collection of Ralph Waldo Emerson poems I imagine America sent Russia, and the paper is from some old books I have.

The writing is not very readable here, being both in pencil and an awkward hand as I tried to imitate an 1860s America, so you can read the letters we wrote here! Check out the art here and here!

#aph russia #aph america #rusame #hetabang #hetabang 2020

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thewatcherproxy · 5 years ago

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They🥺💖. My peice for the Hetabang art thing

ALSO,big thank you to @my-smol-universe for their great writing and helping me be able to make this drawing of the last scene. This was really fun!

Link to their writing:

https://my-smol-universe.tumblr.com/post/616676021319647232/hetabang-time

#hetalia #aph axis powers #hetalia axis powers #bringbackhetalia2k19 #bringbackhetalia2020 #hetalia2020 #hetabang #aphItaly #aphPrussia #hetaliaprussia #hetaliaitaly #pruita

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anglaland · 5 years ago

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we unhappy two

Fandom: Hetalia Relationship: FrUK Rating: Mature (warning: depiction of strangulation) Word Count: 6,677 Summary:

Following a lull in the Hundred Year's War, England is eager for a new beginning for both himself and France. However, the peace is abruptly broken by an insult between kings, and the two of them march to an inevitable confrontation—in Agincourt. FrUK, historical Hetalia. Notes: This story was written for the @hetabang event on Tumblr. I had the pleasure of working with mysticgummybear for the art, and they were amazing! They transformed my story into a storybook, and I love it. I encourage you to check out the compilation of work that Hetabang will put out, because they made it look great! I've interspersed their art in this story.

If you would like to read on FFN (text only) or AO3, please see the most recent post on my Tumblr.

April 1413

Sitting farther down the table, England watches as his nobles fawn grossly over Henry's coronation gifts. His king, to his credit, is only superficially engaged in the proceedings, his mind focused on the coming burdens of duty.

England is not pleased. He knows the nobles are not either, and that fact alone almost makes him consider siding with Henry. Almost. His chest is still scarred with the disputes that plagued his last king's reign, and now the wayward prince, who had abandoned his duty, returns? It's a mockery. But of course, his nobles only care about their own wealth and prosperity, England be damned.

Henry is intent on not repeating his father's mistakes. Hah. England shovels another bite of food into his mouth. He might as well eat to his heart's content while the good food lasts. It'd only be a matter of time before his people started fighting again.

Unbidden, his thoughts turn to France. With all the civil war that had been going on, he hadn't had the time to write as often as he had liked. The two of them had been in a tentative peace, and England had silently enjoyed it. He had been meaning to respond to France's last two letters, and with the claims to the English throne finally settled, perhaps he could even visit soon…

On cue, the couriers call out a gift from the Dauphin of France, and England starts, nearly spilling soup over his neighbor. He hurriedly dabs at it, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible with his sudden interest in the proceedings.

The gifted chest is presented, and the courier opens it to reveal a single ball.

A hush falls over the dining room. England's stomach sinks to the bottom of his feet, his appetite vanishing in an instant. Standing, Henry walks slowly to the gift.

"There's no accompanying message from the Dauphin?" he asks. A flare of hope sparks in England. Surely, if France had heard of his coronation, then he had also heard of the newly tentative peace in England's lands. This was just a jest, an olive branch between two kingdoms, surely.

The courier shakes his head. The silence is deafening. Someone, somewhere, coughs, and the sound seems to echo for ages before settling.

"This was sent only for me," Henry muses. "For the boy I once was." The court holds a bated breath.

He bounces the ball. "I will accept this gift."

The tension is released, slowly, but England can feel the simmering anger in his people. The ball is an insult to his king and kingdom. The upset brings a tingle to his skin. What was France thinking?

England is lying with his eyes closed, his mind with his people as they worked. While his nobles, arrogant with their French blood, deigned the servants as below them, England sought refuge amongst those who were truly his.

The door creaks open in bursts, as if the intruder is hesitant to disrupt England's peace. England does not move, only opening his eyes in resignation.

He does not need to turn his head to know who has entered. Lean, with dark hair and dark eyes, his king could have lived in this chamber were it not for the heavy, fine fabric that clothes him.

"Henry," England says. The other man steps into the room, not fully closing the door behind him. Henry walks to stand wordlessly in front of him. A long silence stretches between them.

"You…" Henry says. "Who are you? I remember you from when I was a child. I find you again, at the same age. Do you have a father?" He jokes.

"Doesn't every human?" England responds. The conversation is losing his interest quickly. This man was barely grown into adulthood. What did he know of sacrifice, of the duties of kingship? Of attaining peace?

"..."

England cannot tell his king to leave a room that he reigns over. He wonders what pathetic excuse he can give to escape this conversation.

"You are not like us," Henry says, softly.

England starts. This human...how had he…?

"Are you fae?" Henry continues, remarkably calm.

"No," England replies, slowly.

"Then…"

"I am your loyalty—your land, the people, and the collective belief of England."

Henry's eyes widen. England allows himself to look into Henry, into one of his own. His people are him. Their thoughts are his.

A breath escapes him. His king...does not understand. Yet, he is strangely earnest in his desire for peace, to end the petty disputes and civil war that plagued his father's reign. It is such a startling departure from the immaturity England had boxed him into, that he is momentarily silent.

Henry looks down earnestly at this being, this immortal who he knows not, but who he implicitly trusts, as every human who calls themselves English trusts. He drops to his knees, as if it is England who had been crowned. "Will you guide me?"

Perhaps, because his people hope, because they long for a return to order of older times, England does not say no. He is foolish to trust this man's words. Kneeling in front of another… it is madness. England himself had watched from the shadows, bitter and standing, as Henry had been crowned. The young king knows nothing of decorum, of what rule is, having been separated for so long from court. His royals will always disappoint him, forever seeking other land, more worthy personifications to command loyalty from. The English are merely nuisances, a people and a land no one wants.

Yet, he is nothing if not the folly of his people.

"I will be at your side," he says. It is not a promise.

August 1415

When England wakes, he realizes he is not actually awake. The scene around him is clouded, as dreams often are, yet England's mind and senses are sharp.

He is acutely aware that a nation is with him, here, in this dreamscape.

He had known, of course, that when Henry and his army of twelve thousand had landed in France, that this was a possibility. As a nation, England had not sensed France in his physical vicinity, but that did not mean he could escape the other in his dreams, not when he slept on the other's land, breathed the other's air, and drank the other's water.

The meeting was long awaited. The declaration of war from his king had been announced shortly after his coronation, and none of England's following letters had been answered. He had not begged, of course, but simply asked for some explanation to the madness that France's Dauphin had started.

France is older, perhaps seventeen years of age. He is dressed in the proper clothes of a nobleman, a fashion England's own court seeks to mimic. England feels acutely out of place in his sleep tunics. He was not so adept at manipulating the false reality of dreams yet.

France is simply looking at him. The awkwardness of the silence is astounding. What had happened to the easy laughter of conversations past? "Don't you want to know why I'm here?" England blurts out.

"Pleasure, I assume," France drawls. England feels a jitter go through him.

"No," he stutters. "Didn't you get my king's proclamation of war?"

"Hmm?" says France. "My king receives many letters of adoration every day. He cannot possibly read them all."

A prickly feeling grows underneath England's skin. He cannot understand France. Yes, they were locked once more in war...but the last time they had met, it had been in a time of peace (perhaps ceasefire was a better term). France had laughed, running his fingers through England's unruly hair as he had once done when the other was younger. And now, he stood here, as if they were strangers?

"Do you not care that your people will die?" England demands. First the insults to his king, now this disrespect...had Henry been right?

"From boredom, possibly," France says.

England flushes, glaring at the other. "You…! Do not say I had not warned you, I—" Suddenly, he is speaking to empty air. France has left him. He was left with more questions than answers.

England muffles aggravated yells with his hands.

The siege of Harfleur had been brutal.

Despite their victory, the English march with the enthusiasm of snails. Gone were the aspirations of securing the throne. With disease dogging their feet, Henry had been left with no choice but to route England's men to Calais in an attempt to withdraw.

England can feel France behind his men, vague and in the far off distance. The knowledge discomforts him in a way he cannot place. France had not appeared in any of his dreams since the campaign had started, not even to gloat that England was now running from the battle he started. Even when they had previously been at war, France had taken every opportunity to dig salt into the wounds he caused.

(It's not that England had been searching France out, of course, but more so that France was like an annoying peacock — always wandering into your business to needlessly show off. So then why, why—)

Spurring his horse forward, he forcibly turns his thoughts to his king. His poor, foolish king, so well meaning to avoid war, yet standing upon the same bloodshed of his forefathers. England listens in on his king's thoughts, hearing the tumble of was it worth it, were the lives lost worth it, I defended my country's honor but at what cost?

"Was it worth it?," he echoes, pulling up next to his king.

Henry starts at the sound of his voice, and he turns to face England, his face is full of heartbreak. He is so young, England thinks bitterly.

"The siege proved to the French nobility that England is stronger than they assumed," his king says. "We underestimated how long it would be, but with God's mercy, we prevailed, and will prevail at a later time as well. The men we lost knew what was at stake."

England simply looks at him. "Was it worth it?"

Henry cannot meet his eyes, not when he knows who England is, and what the red scratches on his nation's chest mean. What the lives lost represent — England and Henry alike. Once more men died in England's name and in the king's command, with France graciously providing the change in scenery.

"...I don't know," he whispers.

Turning his gaze away, England looks across France's fields. The sense of familiarity pricks at him. "The thrill of victory fades quickly," he says. "What lingers long after is always ugly."

England opens his eyes to their shared dreamscape. France is laying in the field above him, watching the birds above him fly off kilter. England walks up to him.

"Why?" He demands. "Why did you insult my king with that coronation gift? Why did you invite us to war?!"

France feigns deafness. England resists the urge to kick the other. The movement is all too reminiscent of a time after Rome, when he demanded attention from the older nation. France had always only laughed, the weak attacks barely scratching his skin, before pulling England into an embrace to watch the clouds pass above them and listen to the chirping of birds in his woods.

How much the world had changed since then. Here the two of them are, locked in a war spanning decades. And England had hoped, that perhaps, with the recent lack of battles between them, that perhaps...there was a chance for peace...

He squashes down the feelings. There is no time for nostalgia in this new world, not when his men die in his name. "I don't know why I bothered," he scowls. "You probably enjoy feeling the pain of your people. Find it romantic, in your own sick way."

France's head twists uncannily to look at him. "Yet you're the one who sent the first proclamation of war. Is your own love life so lacking?"

The dreamscape dissolves, and England stares into the darkness of his tent instead. He does not return to sleep.

October 1415

The strange farmlands and cottages pass England in a blur as he runs across the countryside, crossing the distance as only a nation could. The thrum inside of him that draws him to the nation of this land, to France, guides him even as the heavy rain catches in his eyes.

He doesn't collide into France as much as the other abruptly appears and sidesteps him, forcing England to cushion his sudden stop against the harsh bark of a tree. His bones crack under the sudden deceleration and England suppresses his wince, reticent to show any sign of weakness.

It is a weak attempt at a show of strength. His muscles are bogged in a weariness that sleep will not fix, and his throat scratchy and reflective of the illness stealing his army away. Nonetheless, he turns on straining ankles to face France.

The other is infuriatingly calm, a picture of civility even amidst the pouring rain. He is not wearing the heavy, pristine armor of his army, a stark contrast to the English army's scraps of metal. Rather, he stands in baggy tunics, a dagger at his side, as if England had roused him from sleep.

"So," France spits out, as if England's existence is an insult to God. "Here we find the dog, running away with his tail behind his legs."

Predictably, anger brings a red flush to England's cheeks that even the rain cannot dampen. He is halfway through drawing his sword when France rolls his eyes theatrically. "Do not bother with this now."

"You insult me and expect me to accept it?" England asks, incredulous. His voice cracks on the last word. France lifts one eyebrow, smug, and England scowls. Even at a distance, he cannot deny the difference in physical maturity between them both.

(It is unfair. France is hardly more than a few centuries older than England, at most, yet it is England that struggles to grow, England that struggles to obtain his people's loyalty and devotion. France captivates both nations and humans alike, and England...England captivates no one.)

"It is you who called me here," France says haughtily. He stands with his hands on his hips, looking down on England.

"I-," England sputters. "I did no such thing."

"Why are you here then?" France asks. "Running in the rain to pay penance to God?"

"Why are you here, then?" England snaps back. "Taking a shower after your Dauphin's had his way with you?"

"You insufferable–" Gone is the composure France effortlessly maintains. "You call me across my land, pull me into your godless dreams, and you are nothing but as savage as you have always been. Still the feral child from when Rome abandoned you, following an equally childish leader."

"You join me!" England squawks.

France rolls his eyes, and somehow, the movement is as condescending as it is elegant. "You beg me to. I cannot sleep without feeling you drag our minds together."

An uncomfortable feeling twists within England's chest. The rain drenching the two of them paradoxically seems to make him grow hot. He wants to reach up to grab France, to force the other to look in eyes and see that England is no longer a child, no, he's a nation in his own right, with people who fight for him, who want him, who will make him strong—

"I am in your land," he begins, his throat feeling as though it has closed up. "I would do the same to any nation-Spain, Portugal, even my brothers."

France looks at him through lidded eyes, and the sneer curling at his lips entices England to rip it off or kiss—

"I'm sure you love the attention, England. You were always so desperate for it, weren't you?"

A snarl escapes England and he shoves at France, the other merely stepping into it. There is a distant thundering in his ears. The few inches separating the two are the width of a chasm. His hand tremble with a desire to- to what? I want to kill him, England thinks, furiously, shoving his other thoughts away. I want to throttle him, I want to see the life fade out of his eyes.

"Why are you here?" England asks instead, and hopes the downpour hides how his body shakes (in anger, he insists).

For a long moment, France does nothing but look at him. "You should not have come," he says finally.

"What kind advice," England replies sarcastically. "I shall surely remember that next time I am on the cusp of victory."

"Cusp?" France says, incredulous. "You will lose tomorrow, you and your weak, defeated army. God has blessed us, and discarded you in the same breath. You are foolish to continue along this path."

"Then go back to your blessed people and win." In this moment, England wants nothing more to return to his king, his own people, far away from any sight or thought of France. Back to his own land, to rebuild after a civil war, to the predictability of warring with his brothers and the peace of not confronting uncertainty.

He pushes past France, and nearly jumps through his own skin as the other grabs his arm. He turns half way, wary, wondering of what to suspect. France looks as though he wants to say something (you wish it was don't go, a voice in him says maliciously).

After a heavy breath, France lets England's arm fall. They both stay frozen in that moment, the world silent.

England leaves.

The run back is dreary, and England is dripping wet and shivering by the time he returns to camp. England finds Henry alone, eyes trained on the nothingness of the darkness ahead. He approaches his king unceremoniously, and stops in front him.

Henry looks up at him, a relief in his eyes. The sight warms England, the feeling of attention loyalty strengthening him. "Where have you been?" the other asks.

England moves to sit down next to Henry, still soaked from the rain that persistently falls. He mutters under his breath and his clothes are dry in the next second. Henry, always uncomfortable with England's lingering pagan ways, pretends not to see. "It doesn't matter," England says, reluctant to think about France in any capacity.

His king looks as though he wishes to push the matter, but falls silent. The impending battle weighs heavily on both their minds. A man of barely a few decades and an immortal centuries old, both single minded in their devotion.

"All I had desired was to see this kingdom united under this English crown," Henry says suddenly. England spares him a glance. "After all the fighting under my father, I only wanted…" He doesn't finish the sentence. It doesn't matter. England is Henry, as much as he is every one of his soldiers in this camp—he is the words they speak, the thoughts they think, and the home they long for.

His king wants peace. "And yet, here you lead me in war," England says. "The blood of my men on your hands."

England feels the flinch from his words in Henry's mind, and almost regrets his words. His irritation at France is still affecting him, he thinks. Nevertheless, the words are true.

"I am your king." Henry breathes out. The declaration isn't one of demanded obedience, but of responsibility. He unclasps his hands, staring at them, as though they will provide him the answers to kingship he so desperately seeks. When Henry lifts his head to look at his nation, there is nothing but the burden of monarchy pressing his shoulders down. England's breath catches in surprise. "I fight for you, and the future of our people."

"Tomorrow," he continues. "Tomorrow…I pray that God will have us victorious. Any life lost will not be in vain, but to a peace that shall last the rest of our lives."

England, too, has a responsibility to his people. He will kill France for his people's prosperity.

25 October 1415

A breath, held. His arms strain at the effort of holding the string taut. And then, the command for release, and the sky blacks out in a shroud of arrows.

The effort would have been tiring for someone of his stature, barely grown into the body of a teenager. But England is no human. Yet, Henry had delegated him away from the fighting. 'To keep him safe.' England is bitter, but not surprised. His kings, at best, find him mildly useful at gauging the public opinion, and a bother day to day.

The archers flank the English men at arms, burying the French with each loosened arrow. The heavy rain from the night before has turned the troughed soil of the path into a waiting coffin of mud. The French soldiers, weighed down in their heavier armor, trample over one another. The weight of their fallen bodies upon each other drowns them in sludge. An undignified death, for a people so obsessed with vanity. The cavalry charges are useless. His king had taken a calculated risk, and won.

But even as England draws his next arrow, his mind is with the slaughter in the field below.

The grin on his face is merciless. His eyes are distant as he watches his soldiers engage the French. They cut down his enemies with ease, pushing forward in lighter armor, uncaring of the destruction they cause. But England doesn't linger on their deaths, beyond indulging in glee at the pain France must be feeling.

(It wasn't always this way. Once...once their pain had been shared. A long time ago…

It would not do to reminisce in the midst of a battle.)

He hears shouting, and he observes in his mind's eyes as one of his humans turns to the source of commotion. Two of his men are fighting a soldier who is resisting the inescapable pull of the dirt below. They are both cut down. The french soldier presses forward, inexplicably resisting the fatal pull of the mud.

And England knows.

He drops his longbow, shrugging off his remaining arrows to a man next to him. The commanding officer says nothing as he runs off to join the battle below. The men all know that he is favored by Henry and the nobles, for whatever reason—so they say nothing save silent grumbles, also drawn to their nation by a loyalty they cannot put into words.

England avoids the mud in the middle of the pass for as long as he can, running alongside the trees of Agincourt until he reaches the edges of the fighting. He sees his king in the thick of it, a beacon of glory, rallying his men to push forward. Pride blossoms in England's chest, but he has no time for that now. Hidden, he scans the battlefield, stretching his senses until—

There.

Lips pulled tightly back over teeth, he shouts, and runs to join in the melee. His people turn at his presence, drawn to defend him, but he pays them no mind, eyes trained single handedly on his target. He hears Henry shout behind him—

If we are mark'd to die, we are enough

To do our country loss

France is engaged in a fruitless battle against one of England' soldiers. Fruitless for the human, for if he had been in battle with another mortal he would have won. The strength inherent to the nation of France cuts him down.

France pushes the corpse of England's man off him, assessing the state of the losing battle. He is donned in the same thick armor as his men. It is obvious that it has been crafted specifically for this revived war against England. Once pristine, it is now darkened with mud. He makes a move, as if to draw back to his Dauphin, to advise him of another strategy, when England slams into him. They tumble without finesse into the mud.

Struggling to get the upper hand against France's greater strength, England clambers on top the other. France's attempts to grapple with him are futile, the heavy weight of his armor his last clothes.

and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honor.

England rips the visor off France's head, throwing it off into the distance. Brilliantly golden hair is immediately sullied by dirt, and England relishes in the panic in France's eyes. Those eyes, trained only on him...be it love or hate, England accepts it all, so long as it is his.

England grabs one of France's arms and snaps it, and the resulting howl brings a smile to his lips. France is spitting French curses at him, failing to push England off. Instead, England properly traps France under him, straddling him so that even as his legs sink into the sludge, they pin France underneath him further.

"Here lies the once great France," England muses casually. He grabs the other's hair, forcing France to look upwards. "Hardly a fight, and defeated so easily."

But if it be a sin to covet honor,

I am the most offending soul alive

"You are a coward," France spits out dirt, as beautiful as ever. "Let us fight fair, and we'll see who the victor is."

England's laugh is mirthless. "Fair? You, who goaded me out here, with an insult to my king? No, France," he shakes his head. "The time for fair has passed."

France looks lazily up at him, as if his people aren't being massacred around him, as if he isn't laying flat on his back. To any other man, any other nation, it would have been a look of defiance. But England knows France better. There is fear in his eyes, not for himself, but for his people as they die. Underneath that armor, his skin will begin to criss cross in red, blood spilling as French die in his fields.

"You are not a man yet," France says, patronizing. "Perhaps you do not fully understand—"

"Understand?" England repeats in disbelief. Here he is, on top of France. France who is splayed out beneath him, like a woman, dressed heavy, while he sits on top in hardly any armor, almost naked. A wedding night, England thinks, unbidden. When was the last time they had embraced each other, at all? And here they were, as intimate as one could be in a battlefield.

England feels as if he is watching himself as his hands let go of France's arms to push the other's hair back from his face.

France's eyes widen. "What are you-" His words are cut off. Amidst the roar of the battle around them, there is an abrupt silence as England presses a kiss against his lips.

"I understand," England says. "Do you?"

France stares back up at him, seemingly shocked. In the distance, he hears Henry shout again.

He that outlives this day and comes safe home,

Will stand o' tiptoe when the day is named

England startles back into himself. When he looks down at France, he stares right through him, a feeling of horror rising within him. The noise of the battlefield is too loud. England wants to get up and leave, or perhaps bring France with him, or rather, leave him in the mud here all together.

"Angleterre," France says, and England cannot hear the rest of his words. He stares uncomprehendingly down at France. What had he done? He had come to defeat France, his enemy, for nearly the last century. And he had...he had...no!

Unbiddenly, his hands close around France's neck. The other stares at him, perplexed.

England tightens his grip, and pushes down. France yelps, before his head is shoved into the mud. His body bucks up at England, panic-struck, a dying man's last effort. Throughout it all, England holds France down, unrelenting, feeling the man's efforts grow sluggish, and then lax against his hands.

When he is sure France has stopped breathing, he pulls the other's head back up. His hand covers his neck, yet England can see the purple underneath. France's face is pale, his eyes closed, and England's own drop to his lips, where he had kissed him.

He drops France as if the other had caught fire, standing up. The world spins around him. He can feel his people jubilant in assured victory. Backing away, he can't bear to look back at France, yet another corpse drowned in the mud behind him. He runs, back to his people, back to what is English.

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be rememberèd—

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers

England is flush with victory when he finds Henry being celebrated amongst his men. Their losses had been few, and England pauses to send a brief prayer to God, naming all those who had fallen in his name.

One exuberant company is picking their way around the dead, lifting off newly smithed weapons without caring for the corpse they are looting. Others are corralling the french prisoners together, in the distance. England does not know where the Dauphin is, nor what is the next step to take, but in this moment, he is content to indulge in celebration with his people.

The cheering spurs the adrenaline that shakes England. He catches a feral smile in the reflection of discarded swords on the ground. He steps in mud, on and around bodies of humans with their mouths forever choking on mud. The image furthers his excitement as he pushes past the battlefield to climb up to his people.

"My king," he says breathlessly, laughing, manic. "My liege," and he gracefully drops to one knee, kneeling in front of this human—his human, victorious and so, so, devoted to him. England cannot remember the last time he willingly bowed in front of a mortal. He hears the ghost of a laugh centuries ago promising him he would.

The soldiers around him step back, an unconscious deference to their personification. Henry is also smiling, but his elation feels dimmed, and the corners of his mouth are strained at the edges. "England," he murmurs, stepping close.

England is too prideful to be told to rise, and so he does so unprompted, sparking muttering around them. Henry raises his hand, silencing the gallery. "Walk with me," he says, ignoring another round of protests.

"Is the personification of France amongst the prisoners?" Henry asks, once they will not be overheard. They walk amongst the trees that surround the narrow pass. England stretches his senses, running them over the nothingness over the French captives, then shakes his head.

Henry sighs deeply. "So he is still a problem to deal with, then," he concludes.

"No," England says. Henry looks at him questioningly. "I killed him."

"What?" Henry jerks to a stop. "He's...dead?" England shakes his head, again. "Then…he will revive as your kind does." Henry mulls this over, remembering snatches of what England had told him in the past. "Where is he now?"

England falls silent. He had…

He had kissed France and then…

"I don't know," England lies. He shuts the memory out and walls it off. The battle ended when he drowned the other in his own land. "I was attacked too soon after. By the time I came back, he was gone."

"For him to be powerful enough to revive so quickly…" Henry murmurs. His mind wanders off in thought, hand stroking his beard. England is too focused on ignoring what happened to follow where his king's thoughts go.

"...the prisoners," Henry is saying, and England has to jerk himself back to the present. He motions Henry to repeat himself. Henry sighs. "I am reluctant to say this, but I worry. I worry for you, England. The prisoners we've captured––there are thousands of them. You killed their nation, and yet he lives. For them to overwhelm us...it could cost us this victory God has blessed us with."

"Yes," England says, slowly, opening his mind to Henry's. "And?" And as Henry begins to talk, England understands, and his face splits in a wide grin. The anger he feels for himself France, the lingering loathing from their battle claws at him, and he has the perfect chance to indulge it.

"Kill them," he agrees. "Your concern is valid."

Henry is taken aback. "It…" he hesitates.

England does not have the same weakness, or mercy. "It would be foolish not to. They deserve nothing less than punishment for their attempt to defy us, and our mandate," he says with a snarl. Sparing Henry a glance, he consciously straightens, commanding respect. Sometimes, humans were too kind for their own good. "Henry," he tries to say, gently. He doesn't quite master it.

(France was right—he is, as ever, the unrefined, wild child from the past millennia.)

"You fought a good battle," he continues. "And won. To keep the French as our prisoners would only threaten our peace."

The young, victorious king shows his age. England can sense as he comes to terms with his decision. Henry turns to look back to where his people stand and celebrate.

"Yes," he says firmly. He looks back at England with a smile, and England can see the charm and sincerity that has captured his people. "This war...has come to an end now. The French will not dare to disrespect us again."

England hides his own smile. Disrespect? It is him who will spit on chivalry when he kills France's own men. He hopes France pays attention.

Calais is part of England, yet it is not. England traces over the sole of his foot, where this new land resides, feeling the lingering novelty in his acquisition. The people living here do not respond to him, but in time, after generations, they will.

England blinks his eyes open to the hazy dreamspace that nations occupy. When had he fallen asleep? Calais around them is warped, the colors blurring together. He stands to his feet quickly, senses sharpening. Calais is part of him now, so why—?

He spins on his heel and catches the thrown knife in the palm of his hand. Hissing, he yanks it out, letting it clatter at his feet.

France stands across from him, eyes wild. The armor he wore the last time England saw him is in shattered pieces around his body. England avoids looking below France's eyes.

"Calais is mine," England says automatically. Blood drips from his hand ominously, dissolving into the nothingness of the dreamspace. Nothing here is real, he reminds himself.

(Except for the words they say, of course).

There is a cackle of laughter in the air. "Yours?" France repeats, in a madman's voice. "Oh yes, you'd love for this whole land, this world to be yours. Wouldn't you, England?"

England doesn't reply. He wonders if this is how France had felt every time he had cornered England, the surefire knowledge of having the upper hand despite being in unfamiliar territory.

France totters unbalanced on his feet, then lunges forward. Alarmed, England fumbles for the knife at his feet but is unsuccessful. France catches him in a tackle and forces him to the ground.

"You can't kill me here," England wheezes, the air knocked out of him. "You can't do anything. You've lost."

"You killed them!" France shrieks, the volume shocking England silent. He pins England to the ground in a mockery of their last embrace, but his hand remain at remain at England’s shoulders, shaking them roughly. “You foul, horrible creature––”

Regaining his bearings, England shoves France off him. "And what of it," he spits, wiping the dirt of his face. "As if you would have had the same kindness for my people."

France shakes his head, standing up. His face is a reflection in disgust. "So eager to prove yourself, aren't you."

The words strike at England's heart. He can't place why. "I'm not a child anymore," he says instead. He stalks forward and grips France's chin, forcing it downwards to meet his eyes. "You underestimated me," he grins. "You won't again."

France laughs in his face. "Underestimated you?" he hisses. "Your rag-tag army manages to survive, and you consider yourself a competitor." He shakes his head, his hair falling forward in between them.

England hasn't moved, but the ground seems to shift underneath him. "I've won, France," he says. "I sought victory, and God rewarded me. This is only the beginning."

"Victory," France hums thoughtfully. He wretches England's hand off his face and grabs the other as it comes up to strike them. Instead of pinning England once more, he simply curves the other down so that England is forced to look upwards. Leaning close, their faces are a breath away, and England's attempts to free himself stop.

"On the contrary," he purrs. "I think you sought me." England's eyes widen, and his mouth twists to refute it. "Won't you kiss me again, mon petit lapin?"

England yells, and throws France off him. "You're wrong," he stutters. "I only wanted to defeat you–kill you–"

"And yet, you kissed me." England can't bear to look at France, his blue eyes hardened in hate (but don't they hate each other?), hair tangled and messy, as if the other had been pulling at it. "Do you think of me?"

"No!" England shouts, scrabbling away, trying to stand up. "Shut up—you've lost, shut up—"

France remains unmoved, a deriding sneer on his face. "Should I leave you? You, all grown up now. Certainly not a child. Perhaps you like to touch yourself to memories of me?"

England shatters the dreamspace and lurches up off the floor. He throws the door open, blindly stumbling through rooms until he's outside and then he's running, away from his room, from Henry, from France—

Shock cold water stops his pace and he almost falls face forward into it. He blinks up into the night sky, and with a start, realizes he's run all the way to the coast. In the distance, he can feel the insistent pull of his land.

Falling to his knees, England stares wide-eyed across the Channel. The sky was clear, the water calm. It wasn't true. France...he….he's a liar, England thinks viciously. Looks are all he has. He wishes I wanted him, the whore.

The ocean only laps at him, silently. He doesn't move until the sun begins to rise.

November 1415

Long live the King!

When Henry staggers into his room, a hollow look on his face, England is not alarmed. His people are happy, his land is at peace. There is an infectious joy in the air, and England feels giddy because his people are. Nevertheless, he gives his king his due respect, and sits up at his entrance.

"Henry," he begins, but the other collapses onto the bed next to him. England steadies him, brow furrowed, before understanding.

"England," Henry pleads. "I ask nothing of you, but to be true to me. Will you promise me that?"

The non-sequitur doesn't surprise England, he who sees all of his people, their deepest secrets and their superficial thoughts. So, the insult had never existed. There had been no ball from France––only an attempt by his nobles to claim France's throne for theirs. A bark of laughter escapes England. His people dead, a war waged on a lie?

Yet, it had been a victorious war. For France to fall—it had been worth it, it was worth it. For England to desire France's defeat, his people desire it as well. They did not die in vain. It is his future to return to France, to assert his dominance over the other. And if France died, then, well. That was only for the better, wasn't it?

"Always," England says. His king is true to him, and he will always be true to himself.

+++

Author's note

This fic is a mix between the actual historical Battle of Agincourt, Shakespeare’s play ‘Henry V’, and the netflix adaptation ‘The King’. The fake ‘insult’ by the French is fictional (the campaign was started when Henry’s claim to the French throne was rejected), but the following siege and miraculous victory are true. Major kudos to my artist, Percy! I hope you enjoyed our work.

Artist's note

I wanted to edit and draw this so it felt like a medieval story book, integrating the wonders of Mary’s amazing writing and my art. I hope you have enjoyed the integration of the two of them. Furthermore, I wanted to have some elements of Medieval story books, which is why most of this is done traditionally, while integrating some aspects of stylization. I suppose I should introduce myself, I’m Percy - a 15 year old artist who used to be heavily in the Hetalia fandom on an instagram account @aph.deutsch.wurst (which is retired now), now I post occasionally post Hetalia fanart on my art account - @mysticgummybear, though now I have moved on to being heavily multifandom. I hope that this provides some new content for the Hetalia fandom, especially towards the historical part, being the part I enjoyed the most, and at times felt lacking, Have a good day!

#hetalia #aph england #aph france #fruk #hetabang #historical hetalia #fruk fanfic

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