#maybe this can help him finally get his deserved halloween alt

[zorua-adorable]

THE TIME HAS COME

[cooltrainererika]

Alt-talia Compilation: Bloody

Greetings, everyone. It seems Halloween has ended already... but the event isn’t over yet!

So this is another fic for hetaween; or rather, another compilation! This is for 10/27: Bloody. Now, I thought I could skip that day, because I thought it had to be about Halloween specifically.   But it turns out that wasn’t the case. So I’m going to release some here. I was thinking releasing a Hetalia Emblem fic for this prompt… but man there were so many ideas for this one. These aren’t the only ones, even. I’m just posting this now so that I can get it out while I can, with more to be added in reblogs. If I can, I’ll try to do the HE one though.

Since the first story ended up being way longer than expected, I decided to put it at the end, with the shortest fic, a scene I’ve had an idea for a long while that could be considered a companion piece to “Past The Finest Hour” in a way, at the beginning, kind of like animated shorts before an animated movie. There’s also a deleted scene that is actually an alternate version of the main feature, but I couldn’t follow up on it. I might post something using the same basic idea for “Nightmare”, though.

Also, once again, I must reiterate that Alt-talia is generally a more morally grey, dark AU. Also at least a few popular relationship dynamics in canon are absolutely shattered here, so keep that in mind. And the main story references a certain... infamous historical incident. It doesn’t feature it, it just references it, but I warned you. And these will all be referencing some kind of violent incident or time period in history. I just hope I gave them the respect they deserve. And since I can’t think of any era cues, I’ll just state upfront that said fic one takes place in the 60s, after the 1963 Élysée Treaty specifically; eventually, I’ve managed to narrow it down to not long after said treaty, probably 1963 - 1965. Also, I tried making the characters speak in an accent, but since they have border languages that are similar, they’re speaking that here instead. Also accents might cause Narm.

Note: I use a word that is often classified as a slur here. However, I feel that it’s appropriate to the era.

So, without further ado...

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(Also… people who read my fics, please reblog? I’ve spent so much time on them, I want more people to see them.)

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Keep Calm

The Battle of Britain had been raging for days; and Canada was growing worried.

The bombing had just begun and it was bad; quite bad. He had finished ushering another contingent of civilians into bunkers and tunnels, following the signs that now covered the city, hopefully safe from the fire and fury that rained upon what used to be their homes.

“Ah, Canada-“

And there his father was.

His head, a good part of of his face, and neck covered in blood.

Matthew just barely held back a scream.

“Father, your head is covered in blood, can you not see that?! Please take it easy!”

“Ah, this?” He was terribly serene, but that was punctuated with a cough.

“Terribly irritating, I must say-“ more hacking coughs “-Jerry, that nuisance. The blood is stinging my eyes-“

And with a painful-sounding cough, he coughed blood.

Canada’s face paled as it stained his uniform.

“GOOD GOD! ...Sorry at the outburst, but how can you call that ‘terribly irritating’?!”

The Blitz had indeed been affecting him; however, his face, as usual, was calm, as if he had a somewhat annoying cold.

More bombs fell, and again he coughed red, making Canada flinch.

He had never seen his father this hurt; the cliffs of Dover had protected him since the time of the Norman Conquest, and he probably hadn’t experienced this much damage, especially in his capital city, in that long a time.

But yet…

“A mere few square kilometers destroyed, is all…”

“MERE?!”

“We are nations, Canada. And can you not shout? I’m quite fine, thank you.”

He took off his scarf, compressing his wound. 

“I shall get back in the air in two hours now. You need to take flight soon too, lad. Chop-chop.”

Matthew, the personification of the Dominion of Canada, sighed loudly.  

“I’m not a ‘lad’ anymore father.”

His father chuckled.

“You are finally growing up, Canada.”

Even after all these centuries, his father’s ability to seemingly be unfettered by anything always never ceased to surprise him.

“I could use an ale now, however.”

“Father! Please!”

As he had been outside, guiding the citizens to their bunkers, many had been just like him.

Maybe, the best way to spite the enemy was this after all; to show that you wouldn’t be affected by their attempts, that no matter what, they would always remain as they always had been.

After all, his father hadn’t become the largest empire the world had ever seen for no reason.

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Unbreakable

Byelorussia bled.

With every Nazi her ragtag group of partisans killed, intentionally or not, her flesh tore and burned, and her mouth tasted of choking, suffocating liquid iron.

If she were human, she would have probably died from pain alone long ago.

She was able to cover most of them by now before the others noticed, and it helped that her old, worn uniform was becoming more and more loose-fitting as her emaciated body grew thinner by the day. But the others surely knew something was wrong.  Her headscarf had become torn from use as bandages, and she couldn’t afford to use much of their already limited resources.

Unbeknownst to them, some of that blood belonged to their families, friends, and neighbors.

She knew what they were trying to do. Many of the partisans urged her to take a rest, at the very least; but her usefulness to the group never faded, much to their confusion. But her nation status, unbeknownst to them, gave her the ability to make them easily dismiss strange idiosyncrasies of her existence.

However, she was only even able to walk by sheer force of will. They had started changing their tactics; less Nazis killed, in favor of other methods of sabotage, made the massacres less frequent. Her swamps and forests slowed them down already, and she gained great satisfaction in knowing the anguish and annoyance she caused Germany and his allies. Though occasionally she pitied the clearly inadequately equipped ones, sometimes barely better than they were; usually Italians. 

Germany’s leaders had apparently told him she was more harmless than her siblings, easily subjugated; a worthy slave. Judging by their obsession with furthering their “Aryan Race”, and being a rare female nation, she sometimes shivered at the implication of that; they already treated her as less than human when they caught her and sent her to work, though so far they hadn’t done anything of that sort to her... yet. The fact that they took infants they deemed “Aryan” enough was even stronger evidence to it. But by now, they surely knew she was more than merely Lithuania’s wife waiting for his return from battle at home, cooking and praying for him, even all those centuries ago. She did not know exactly why, but she had to survive. She would not die here.

She was a nation after all. Or at least, she believed she was. 

She couldn’t be sure about her future; by the time the war was over, it was almost guaranteed she would once again be taken into the Soviet Union, an easy picking, too weak to fight back, into the strangling clutches of Stalin. Even now, most of the partisan groups she had found herself in were Red Army detachments, and as much as she hated admitting it, without them she would be almost completely at the Reich’s mercy by now, constantly under his jackboot. Or worse.

However, that didn’t matter now. All that mattered was getting through today. And then, the war. And she was going to see the end of it, even if it meant dragging herself there.

She looked over their supply; due to lack of resources, Petrol Bombs - or Molotov Cocktails, as Finland, their inventor, spitefully called them - had proved to be a boon to them.

Soon, an important convoy would be passing through; that would be their chance to strike.

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Now, for the main feature...

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An Uneasy Forgiveness

Blood.

West Germany’s hands dripped with red.

His lungs felt like they were on fire from the hyperventilation, his heart raced, his vision blurred.

Now, he scrubbed his hands under the cold water, raising the intensity and rubbing the soap onto his hand again, the water glugging into the basin.

“Verdammt, verdammt, verdammt!”

Tears pricked his eyes as the man continued to try in vain to get the dreadful liquid off his hands.

Simple tears became sobs as he rubbed his hands raw.

On his hands was the blood of every Jew, every Pole, every Russian, Belarusian, Ukrainian, every Gypsy, every homosexual, every so-called “traitor”, everyone else he had determined as “less than human” he had destroyed the lives of.

“Verdammt, Verdammt, VERDAMMT!”

But yet, it wasn’t something he could wash away.

“Hé! What are you doing this early, I can hear you all the way from-“

Germany didn’t notice that the other occupant of this place had woken up and spotted him, until in the mirror, he saw him.

He froze, his red, puffy eyes meeting with the other nation’s.

France.

Germany’s eyes widened, unable to move, hyperventilating, shaking like a leaf, as he attempted to speak, but all that his throat produced were pathetic whines.

He felt his cold stare on him.

“What are you doing?”

“Frankreich... the blood, it won’t...”

His voice cracked, but he didn’t care.

But he didn’t notice the concern growing across France’s face, despite himself. He saw no blood; though he wouldn’t have been surprised if they indeed started bleeding from how frighteningly red and chapped they had become.

“It won’t...”

And he saw so much... vulnerability in the young man’s swollen eyes, his tear stained face, his disheveled hair, his youth making itself painfully apparent.

“Blood?! I don’t see any blood! What’s your deal, brat?”

“Frankreich... please...”

Germany felt the water shut off.

“Stop.”

“But...”

His normally deep voice sounded so meek and frail. Despite him being slightly taller than him, the younger man might as well have become a child again in front of him. No... if this were Germany as a child, he would have probably reveled in making the little hellspawn cry harder. At the time at least.

He avoided France’s gaze, afraid to even look him in the eye.

“I... I’m sorry for waking you. I...I’m s-sorry that you had to stay with me... I... I know you hate me... I know I can’t just sign away what I’ve done to you...”

Germany knew that France wasn’t here because he enjoyed his company. He had made a point and show out of demanding he get a separate bedroom. He knew full well that even within the ECSC, everyone only cooperated with him because they were even more tired of war more than they hated him. Belgium was the only one who reached out to him; he didn’t know why, after what he had done to her in both wars, but it was most likely just realpolitik. He knew, under her meek demeanor, she most likely still despised him. The rest, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Italy, and yes, France, all of them, made no such gestures. He felt it every time they met; how Luxembourg “accidentally” blew smoke in his face, how the Netherlands spat at him as he spoke if he didn’t outright berate him, how Italy refused to look at him as he toiled on the assembly lines.

And how when they shook hands that fateful day, where they officially buried the hatchet, France’s arm seemed oh so rigid, his smile forced.

Of course they did.

After all, it was their blood on his hands too.

He crumpled to his knees, sobbing. His younger self would have probably been disgusted at how he looked now, on his knees at the feet of his former archenemy. But that didn’t matter anymore. His pride didn’t matter anymore.

France was speechless.

It was so very bizarre. Not only was this type of behavior almost unthinkable for a nation, especially for such a man as Germany, but not long ago, France would have been euphoric to witness the sight of his most hated rival pitifully crumpled on the ground in front of him, vulnerable, broken, pathetic. From the day this brat was born, he had resented him. Him and his emotionally stunted, cold-hearted, warmongering father both. His very birth had been possible because of him being humiliated, his capital starved and besieged. He would have probably kicked him in the gut and laughed, spat at him, or at least taunted him.

And to be sure, he still felt some of that.

But, like when he met him in Berlin after he surrendered, another emotion gnawed at him from inside.

Pity.

Then, sympathy.

This wasn’t the genocidal, wrathful, goose-stepping Germany who had proclaimed his people superior above all else. It was the starving, weak, scared Germany he, America, and England had delivered bread to in that Airlift over a decade ago.

He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t Prussia.

And he had come here for a reason. He might as well do what he came here for.

“Get up.”

Germany, still quivering, looked up at him.

France made his way to the door of the bathroom.

“I said, get up. I thought you were good at taking orders? Or are you trying to be an annoying brat?”

He might as well try. It wasn’t like he wasn’t guilty of anything anyway.

And after some hesitation, Germany followed.

——-

Germany laid on his bed, letting the soft pillows absorb his tears. He had calmed down somewhat, or at least to the point where he could speak coherently.

“Mind if I borrow your smokes and lighter?”

No reply.

“Then. I might as well.”

On the nightstand was a pack of HBs. They were no Gauloises, but they would have to do. 

He took out a cigarette as the younger nation began to speak again.

“I didn’t want to believe it at first. I think my mind repressed it. But... I can’t run from the truth anymore. I just don’t know what to do. What... what can even be done after something so terrible? That awful man manipulated me. But... ultimately, I fell for his words. I was naïve. We all were. Ultimately, it was our fault...”

France, his back leaning lazily against the bedframe, lit a cigarette. 

Germany squeezed the sheets in his fists.

“You hate me, don’t you?”

France took a puff; he grumbled a bit about the weak taste and aroma. A few moments passed as the smoke rose.

“Maybe.”

“...”

“But I signed that Friendship Treaty. We shook hands. We officially agreed that our past was behind us. I was sent here to spend a few days with you so we could learn to get along, and I agreed to it. I could’ve followed President De Gaulle’s orders - he’s a good man, that De Gaulle - but for once, I didn’t. I might as well try to start doing what I’m supposed to.”

Germany looked at him, his cornflower blue eyes still wet, but no longer leaking new tears. He was, once again, silent.

“...Besides.”

He took another puff, the smoke dissipating in the air.

The prisoner laid at his feet, cursing him out in his Arabic dialect on the floor of the dark, cold cell, bloody coughs staining his combat boots between pained shouts, hatred-soaked shouts that Allah would damn him to hell.

He clenched his eyes and rammed his boot into the colony’s stomach again. 

“...The truth is, I have to deal with you, no matter what. You’re my neighbor. And we’re nations. We stick together when it’s best for our interests, and we fight when it’s best for our interests. Pretty sure you know this well; your father knew this better than anyone else. And now, trying to be your ally is probably in my best interest, though not so sure about ‘friend’. But who knows. And we want it to stay that way. Might as well try not to fight it.”

He put the cigarette out, the cigarette making a quiet “pssshhh...” sound as it was pressed against the ashtray.

“I’ll try to forgive you. Can’t guarantee for the others though. Though I don’t think I’m the most important one you should be apologizing to for your latest fuck up. I wouldn’t be surprised if Israel and Poland never completely forgive you. Maybe not even in a thousand years. But know that... I’ll at least try to start over. We need to go about this together, whether I like it or not. Might as well try to help show you a different life than what daddy Preußen taught you.”

Germany’s voice hitched again. It was clear he hadn’t made his mind up about his father yet. Understandable. And France wasn’t one to talk about parenting either.

“Thank you... really...”

Now it was France’s turn to remain quiet, as he let the younger one speak.

“When I was little, I remember vater told me that my future and survival wouldn’t be decided by speeches and majority decisions, but by iron and blood. He was quoting Chancellor Bismarck, I believe. Hopefully... I won’t need that advice anymore, from now on.”

“I see, you’re pretty good at this too.”

France lit up another cigarette.

“But if you do anything silly again, remember I’m the one with the nuke.”

“Jawo... Ja.”

“Good. We could go for a smoke later. You probably need one. But I’ll be going back to bed-“

“Don’t leave. Please.”

The older man sighed.

“Fine, you damn brat.”

Their eyes met.

“...Are we friends?”

“...Hopefully. Now, stop acting like that. It’s jarring. You need rest.”

A pause.

“…But if you need a smoke now, I’ll light it for you.”

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Deleted scene

The metallic, gruesome stench of blood surrounded Germany.

Nothing, nothing but darkness and blood. He gasped for air, his feet kicking in the thick, vile liquid searching for a floor that wasn’t there.

Eventually, the blood became hotter and hotter, first merely a singing heat, then searing, blistering, until the unbearable, tortuous heat pierced its way to his bones, boiling his flesh, only his struggles to keep his head above the surface keeping him from screaming in agony.

“Hilfe! Hilfe!”

He managed to choke out, before the scalding liquid spilled into his lungs.

Finally, with that, he sunk.

Deeper and deeper, he sank, the agonizing pain never stopping.

As he sank, he thought he saw many shadows, of all sexes, ages, and sizes, staring at him solemnly, quietly.

Among them, he thought he saw the rest of the ECSC, Russia and Poland, watching his descent with what must have been contempt.

It was then everything became cold as death.

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 (Explanation: the deleted scene was a reference to Dante’s Inferno; according to Dante, in the 7th circle of Hell is the realm of the violent, where souls are immersed in a boiling river of blood. However, it was maybe a bit odd I was using an Italian story for Germany)

Characterization notes: England is the epitome of Stiff Upper Lip in at least this time period in Alt-Talia; he isn’t quite a tsundere, to say the least. He’d be classified more as a kuudere perhaps, but not quite due to the whole British politeness thing.

Belarus is a big one; as readers who’ve read my other fic know, I write Belarus quite different than from canon. She’s probably one of the most human-like, in that her wish is to live a peaceful existence, not power or prestige, and unlike in canon she comes off more as a victim of circumstance than an instigator. While other nations would be motivated by a lot of nationalism, here she just wants to survive first and foremost. She’s generally quiet, even well-mannered, and excluding the Jews and Roma was hurt the most in WWII in terms of proportion of population; estimates of Belarusian deaths go as high as a quarter of the population, and including deportations and displacement the number can go as high as half (!). I like writing her because she just comes across as a woman with a tough life who just gets the crap beaten out of her for no fault of her own except geography. But when driven into a corner even she will be willing to bite back, if just for her people.