comment drabbles
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating & Warnings: PG-13?, language, no historical relevance or correlation whatsoever.
Summary: Alfred hates on 'family' tradition: music night.
Family Music Night
( for weareallpuppets )
It was a shit 'family' tradition. Absolute balls, boozy, bull, and boy was Matthew gonna get it for dragging him into it once it was all over. Punches and noogies, the whole nine yards. From the far side of the room, his aforementioned twin flashes him a slanted grin and a smart ass wave with his cello's bow; and to Arthur's dismay, Alfred responds with a hearty raspberry and a New Jersey middle finger.(Matthew, of course, flicks him off in return behind Arthur's back.)
“My bad,” asserts Alfred with a slanted grin of his own, twisted, before any reprimands and curses can go by his way. His one free hand goes up, palms out, “Heat of the moment.”. Thankfully, Arthur only sighs, rubs his temple with one knuckle, and settles grumpily back into his chair.
Honestly, what did he expect?
Alfred can't quite stare the old man in the eye without attempting to glare a hole through his head(& didn't that make for bad entertainment?), so he's thankful to have the stand and sheet music to mess with once he's settled in the center of the room. It'd be years of grit and torture to get him to ever admit it, but walled in the well-stocked shelves of Arthur's monstrously sized library like this(and under the old man's gaze, settled in that rickety old arm chair like some king), he feels small. It brings him back, shit like this - tick tock, turn back the clock, and suddenly, Big Bad Jones is not so big and bad anymore. Just a crying child fearful of switches and bad ghosts and tariffs. Of the numbed out chill of disappointment.
The fact that he's shoved in a borrowed sweater vest with his hair slicked back with cool, sleek gel doesn't help much with that sentiment. Damn his brother for even knowing his measurements.
Deep breath.
But hey, at least he looks good. Hell, he looks amazing. And as he rolls his shoulders back and carefully removes his sax out his shiny black case, Alfred bets he can sound even better.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating & Warnings: PG-13?, language, alcohol usage, the mixing of human and country names because that is offensive to some people
Summary: When Alfred drinks enough, he acts exactly like Arthur. Depressed, drunken Arthur.
This Never Happened
( EXCEPT THAT IT DID - for weareallpuppets )
Tonight Alfred's drunk, really fucked-up wasted, and Arthur isn't.
It's backwards and ironic and fucking hilarious. Hasn't happened since the 20s.
“Oh my fucking god.”
He knows, of course Alfred knows how messed up he is - he just doesn't care right now. The ringing in his head turns into this dull white noise when he buries his face in the crook of his arm, everything just static and the waterfall rush of blood gravitating through his veins. Bent over the bar counter like this, his heart weighs even heavier against his cradle of his ribs, his sternum, and he has to gasp to release the pressure in his chest. Everything's just pushing down, down, down, so he groans and pulls his arms over his head and -
From behind him comes this garbled garbage noise, “America?”, and Alfred laughs, eyes burning, at how distorted it sounds(especially with that fucking accent), and who the fuck calls him America in public anyway?
Oh yeah.
“Go away,” he grumbles, “'M not - don't want your stupid scones - taste like shit.”
The voice says something else, louder, angrier. Something about indecency in public and if he really had to sleep, did he have to do it here?
Curling into himself, Alfred presses his hands against his ears and shakes his head like some dumbass kid. He doesn't want to hear it; he's sick and fucking tired of hearing it. His human shell of a body's tired with the strains of his people and the war and Vietnam and fucking Russia and, “Shut up, shut up, don't wanna - go away,” because he doesn't need it or want it, especially not from him, not from Arthur, not now.
There's a sigh, one he hears despite his five finger headphones, and a creak of wood against wood as Arthur sits in the stool next to him.
“Alfred.”
It's only when there's a hand on his back, warm, that he realizes that the burn on his cheeks is really him crying.
Hilarious.
Then suddenly, his arms are NOT around his head, around himself; they're around Arthur's shoulders and neck, pressed against and being a general nuisance to that stupid tweed suit Arthur's always, always in. Alfred can tell that it's really him, the bastard, cause he smells like classy old 40's cologne and rain and sea. He can tell, cause the body underneath him stiffens, like it's not used to the random fit of physical affection(cause it's not). Cause the chest against his stutters awkwardly, and the arms so close to his pause before closing in around him in an almost mechanical fashion.
Mechanical, like a tool, like that robot off that Star Wars movie; and the mental image's so funny, that Alfred laughs and shifts and cries and gasps into the nape of Arthur's neck. Maybe he squeezes too hard, too, because Arthur pounds him on the back with a deep intake of air and yells at him a little.
But that's okay, the yelling, at least right now, cause Arthur's hugging him and calling him 'my boy' anyway. And that's nice. It's kinda really nice, and they haven't really done this before, not since the French-Indian War (and yeah, Alfred remembers). It's so pleasant that Alfred decides to tell Arthur this aloud, and the noise Arthur makes is worth the extra effort of talking.
Rating & Warnings: PG-13?, language, no historical relevance or correlation whatsoever.
Summary: Alfred hates on 'family' tradition: music night.
Family Music Night
( for weareallpuppets )
It was a shit 'family' tradition. Absolute balls, boozy, bull, and boy was Matthew gonna get it for dragging him into it once it was all over. Punches and noogies, the whole nine yards. From the far side of the room, his aforementioned twin flashes him a slanted grin and a smart ass wave with his cello's bow; and to Arthur's dismay, Alfred responds with a hearty raspberry and a New Jersey middle finger.(Matthew, of course, flicks him off in return behind Arthur's back.)
“My bad,” asserts Alfred with a slanted grin of his own, twisted, before any reprimands and curses can go by his way. His one free hand goes up, palms out, “Heat of the moment.”. Thankfully, Arthur only sighs, rubs his temple with one knuckle, and settles grumpily back into his chair.
Honestly, what did he expect?
Alfred can't quite stare the old man in the eye without attempting to glare a hole through his head(& didn't that make for bad entertainment?), so he's thankful to have the stand and sheet music to mess with once he's settled in the center of the room. It'd be years of grit and torture to get him to ever admit it, but walled in the well-stocked shelves of Arthur's monstrously sized library like this(and under the old man's gaze, settled in that rickety old arm chair like some king), he feels small. It brings him back, shit like this - tick tock, turn back the clock, and suddenly, Big Bad Jones is not so big and bad anymore. Just a crying child fearful of switches and bad ghosts and tariffs. Of the numbed out chill of disappointment.
The fact that he's shoved in a borrowed sweater vest with his hair slicked back with cool, sleek gel doesn't help much with that sentiment. Damn his brother for even knowing his measurements.
Deep breath.
But hey, at least he looks good. Hell, he looks amazing. And as he rolls his shoulders back and carefully removes his sax out his shiny black case, Alfred bets he can sound even better.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating & Warnings: PG-13?, language, alcohol usage, the mixing of human and country names because that is offensive to some people
Summary: When Alfred drinks enough, he acts exactly like Arthur. Depressed, drunken Arthur.
This Never Happened
( EXCEPT THAT IT DID - for weareallpuppets )
Tonight Alfred's drunk, really fucked-up wasted, and Arthur isn't.
It's backwards and ironic and fucking hilarious. Hasn't happened since the 20s.
“Oh my fucking god.”
He knows, of course Alfred knows how messed up he is - he just doesn't care right now. The ringing in his head turns into this dull white noise when he buries his face in the crook of his arm, everything just static and the waterfall rush of blood gravitating through his veins. Bent over the bar counter like this, his heart weighs even heavier against his cradle of his ribs, his sternum, and he has to gasp to release the pressure in his chest. Everything's just pushing down, down, down, so he groans and pulls his arms over his head and -
From behind him comes this garbled garbage noise, “America?”, and Alfred laughs, eyes burning, at how distorted it sounds(especially with that fucking accent), and who the fuck calls him America in public anyway?
Oh yeah.
“Go away,” he grumbles, “'M not - don't want your stupid scones - taste like shit.”
The voice says something else, louder, angrier. Something about indecency in public and if he really had to sleep, did he have to do it here?
Curling into himself, Alfred presses his hands against his ears and shakes his head like some dumbass kid. He doesn't want to hear it; he's sick and fucking tired of hearing it. His human shell of a body's tired with the strains of his people and the war and Vietnam and fucking Russia and, “Shut up, shut up, don't wanna - go away,” because he doesn't need it or want it, especially not from him, not from Arthur, not now.
There's a sigh, one he hears despite his five finger headphones, and a creak of wood against wood as Arthur sits in the stool next to him.
“Alfred.”
It's only when there's a hand on his back, warm, that he realizes that the burn on his cheeks is really him crying.
Hilarious.
Then suddenly, his arms are NOT around his head, around himself; they're around Arthur's shoulders and neck, pressed against and being a general nuisance to that stupid tweed suit Arthur's always, always in. Alfred can tell that it's really him, the bastard, cause he smells like classy old 40's cologne and rain and sea. He can tell, cause the body underneath him stiffens, like it's not used to the random fit of physical affection(cause it's not). Cause the chest against his stutters awkwardly, and the arms so close to his pause before closing in around him in an almost mechanical fashion.
Mechanical, like a tool, like that robot off that Star Wars movie; and the mental image's so funny, that Alfred laughs and shifts and cries and gasps into the nape of Arthur's neck. Maybe he squeezes too hard, too, because Arthur pounds him on the back with a deep intake of air and yells at him a little.
But that's okay, the yelling, at least right now, cause Arthur's hugging him and calling him 'my boy' anyway. And that's nice. It's kinda really nice, and they haven't really done this before, not since the French-Indian War (and yeah, Alfred remembers). It's so pleasant that Alfred decides to tell Arthur this aloud, and the noise Arthur makes is worth the extra effort of talking.