Hetalia fics
Title: American Pie
Author: Cattiechaos
Character(s): Alfred & Arthur
Rating: G
Summary: A Fourth of July celebration is about as American as it gets, and Alfred is determined to give Arthur a good ole dose of red-white-and-blue patriotism.
July 4, 1776
Heavy clouds hover over the battlefield, ominous with the threat of rain. Two men stand silhouetted against the horizon, battle-weary but still defiant. Blue eyes blaze into the steely green gaze of Arthur Kirkland, refusing to back down or show weakness.
Alfred Jones speaks. "Stand down Arthur," he commands. "You've lost."
He is a young man, barely entered into adulthood; but he holds himself with the fearless defiance of one who has weathered many storms. His blonde hair is rumpled and his face sweat-streaked, but he stands tall as he boldly returns the gaze of the British man in front of him.
Arthur stands motionlessly, numb with disbelief. There is nothing left for him to do, no words left to say. He finds himself wondering how they had gotten to this point here on this blood and sweat stained battlefield. Where is that happy-go-lucky little boy, Arthur wonders? Is it possible he has grown into the defiant man who stands in front of him now?
"Don't make this harder than it is."
Oh, that's rich; Arthur thinks bitterly, the muscles tensing around his jaw. As if Alfred wasn't already gloating, the gleam of victory shining brightly in those damned blue eyes of his…
He lets the rifle fall from his hands.
Rain begins to fall.
July 4, Present Day
Arthur could hardly see anything for the number of red, white, and blue flags that sailed in the wind.
It seemed as if the entire city of D.C was gathered in this park, the excitement bubbling over as the sun began its slow descent and the time for the fireworks display neared. Alfred's parties were legendary, although Arthur wasn't sure whose bright idea it was to manufacture explosives for the over-eager young man. As he stood invisible from beside one of the many tents, he watched as children raced around, shrieking in delight as they waved their sparklers and miniature flags.
He had to admit; these people really seemed to come together on this holiday. Even the food was better than expected, with the overwhelming amount of barbecue, corn on the cob, and cherry pie. Star spangled banners fluttered from every direction, but Arthur was only looking for one person: Alfred.
Where could he be? Arthur grumbled, dodging between pets and children alike as he searched for the familiar blonde-haired man. He felt uncomfortable amidst this giant crowd of people swathed in patriotic colors, some who had even gone as far as to paint their faces!
Finally, Arthur spotted the American sitting on a picnic blanket at the top of a nearby hill. He seemed to be the very picture of happiness, his hair rumpled, his collar half-sticking up, and his patriotic tie wrapped around his head. Arthur sighed. Typical Alfred.
As if Alfred could sense that he was being watched, he looked down to see Arthur at the foot of the hill, his entire face lighting up as he beamed down at the British man. "Iggy!" he yelled, waving enthusiastically. "Come up and join me!"
"If you think I'm going to go all the way up this hill, you're mad," Arthur called back, scowling.
"Pleeeeease?" the American pleaded, his brow furrowed imploringly. "This is the best place to see the fireworks! Pretty please, with cherries on top?"
"What is this cherry nonsense?" Arthur groaned, but he nevertheless rolled up his sleeves. There was no use arguing against Alfred, as he was all too aware. "You had to choose this bloody place to sit," he complained breathlessly, arriving at last.
Alfred grinned sheepishly, patting the spot next to him. "This is the best spot in the house, you know! Enjoying the festivities?"
Arthur grunted noncommittally. "The food's not that bad," he admitted grudgingly, gingerly setting himself atop the blanket. "Especially the fried chicken, no matter how hideously fattening it is."
"Hey, I wouldn't be complaining about the food."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Arthur said dangerously.
"I hate to break it to you Iggy, but your cooking tastes like crap. And what about your fish and chips? Where are the chips, Arthur? I looked and I looked but the only thing I saw were French fries, so I'm pretty sure that's false advertis- Ow, that hurt!"
"Good," Arthur replied calmly. "By the way, why aren't you down there with your people? I should think you'd want to be with them."
"Oh, I celebrated with them for most of the day, but I like it up here better," Alfred replied, rubbing his head ruefully. "It's quieter, it helps me think."
Arthur raised one brow (an impressive feat, all things considered.) "And what, if I may ask, are you thinking about?" he asked sarcastically.
"About my people," Alfred replied, an expression of calm on his face as he looked out into the crowd of families celebrating below. "Today is the day where they all come together to celebrate their independence."
"American patriotism," Arthur sighed. "Why are your people so patriotic anyways?"
"It's all about the American dream, Arthur," Alfred said mysteriously, grinning slyly. "We all want a slice of that American pie!"
"And what exactly is this American dream?" came the skeptical response.
"Endless opportunities!" Alfred exclaimed, flinging one arm wide. "This is the land of dreams, Arthur! The land of freedom and democracy! Anything is possible here. And think about it - this is the cultural melting pot of the world, and everyone who lives here - except for the Native Americans - have ancestors who came here to find lives for themselves and their children! That's why this is the peoples' land, and it gives them something to be proud of; because no matter where they came from, they found a home here."
Arthur was speechless. Was this the same Alfred that bounced off walls and spouted ridiculous theories about aliens and Mars?
Alfred grinned sheepish, ruffling his hair with embarrassment. "My new boss is really eloquent," he explained, blushing slightly. "It kind of catches on…"
"I can see that," Arthur said finally, sounding vaguely impressed. "Well then. I'm glad you feel that way. Maybe he'll help you get rid of your ridiculous hero complex as well."
"What are you talking about!" Alfred yelped, panicked. "Don't even say such things, Iggy! The world will always need a hero!"
"Don't you understand that the hero is the one who always gets hurt?" Arthur exclaimed, exasperated.
Alfred flashed his thousand-watt grin at the British man, who flushed slightly in response. "Hey, it's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it," he said, winking. "Besides, chicks love a knight in shining armor."
Arthur scoffed. "Knights are part of British folklore, you know."
Alfred shrugged carelessly. "Hey, you raised me for over a hundred years; a few things were bound to catch on."
"Yet you still can't wear a tie properly."
"Hey, I can! I just think ties look better wrapped around your head…"
Smiling to himself, Alfred stretched out on the picnic blanket with a yawn, closing his eyes with contentment. "Ah man, this is great," he said happily. "Couldn't think of anyone I'd rather spend my Independence Day with, 'cept maybe for Mattie, and he's supposed to be here but I can't find him, but when can I ever find hi-"
"What?" Stunned, Arthur stared at the American with disbelief.
Alfred looked equally confused. "I...can't find Mattie?"
"No, no, before that," Arthur said impatiently. "You...you want to spend your Independence Day with me? Why?"
"Well, I wouldn't be here without you, would I?" Alfred replied casually, shrugging. "We had some good times Arthur...it was just my time to go. A bird's got to leave the nest eventually, right?"
Arthur stared. "Alfred. We're not birds. We're countries."
Alfred waved his hand dismissively. "You raised me - you taught me everything I know. Even if the tea and crumpets didn't catch on, you showed me that a man should be able to walk with his head held high."
Arthur didn't say a word. Above, fireworks suddenly shot into the sky, soaring upwards before exploding into thousands of colorful sparks. The sound of the explosives reached deafening heights and Arthur watched peacefully, finding himself as caught up in the colorful explosions as Alfred, who was ooh-ing and ahh-ing though he wouldn't admit it, but Arthur was dazzled by the frenzied storm of fireworks, sparking bright against the dark night sky.
Gradually, more and more fireworks shot into the air and all at once the sky exploded with sparks and smoke as the grand finale was released; a wave of red, white and blue that exploded into the night all at once, thundering through the air. Adrenaline coursed through Arthur's veins as he watched the shimmering of the fireworks, barely noticing the patriotic music that was playing in the background. Gradually, the momentum faded to be replaced with cheers, applause, and laughter, as the final waves of sparklers dissipated into the darkness.
"Gets better every year," Alfred beamed, clasping his hands behind his head and stretching his legs.
"Two hundred thirty-four and counting," the British man sighed, allowing himself to relax and close his eyes.
"You remembered?" Alfred yelped, utterly shattering the moment as he bolted upright, glasses flying askew in his excitement. "You actually remembered?"
Arthur muttered darkly under his breath, shooting an irritated glance at his former charge. "I remember only too well your youthful rebellion."
"Hey, I didn't tell you to tax the shit out of me."
"It was a small tax! I didn't think you'd react that badly!" Arthur exclaimed in indignation. "A rebellion was completely irrational and you know it."
Alfred wiggled his brows. "So burning my capital was rational? We had to meet in a God-dang post office for every meeting after that because it was the only official building left standing!"
"Yes," Arthur mused, "but after my militia burned the capital they were hit by a freak hurricane. And a freak tornado. So that makes us about even, doesn't it?
Alfred clamped his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut. "What was that? I can't hear you over the sound of my independence!"
"This relationship is dysfunctional," Arthur said resignedly. "We can't go five minutes without arguing."
Alfred grinned happily. "Yeah, but would you have it any other way?"
"Guess not." Arthur sighed in relief. "Happy Fourth of July, Al."
"Happen Fourth, Igs."
"IGS!??!!?"
"Aw, and we were doing so well with not biting each other's heads off..."
Title: The Ties That Bind
Author: Cattiechaos
Character(s): Netherlands and Belgium
Rating: G
Summary: Snapshots into the history of Netherlands and Belgium.
Spain, 1568
"You're really leaving?"
Netherlands stops his furious packing to glance over his shoulder, but he knows that there could only be one person standing at the door - his sister.
Belgium's wavy blonde hair is restrained by her headband, but wisps and curls still manage to fall into her face. They can't completely eclipse the worried look she's wearing, but she still tries to hide behind them.
"I don't have to take his crap," Netherlands declares belligerently, looking thunderous as he paces through the room, running a hand through his already messy hair. "I don't need that bastard Spain to tell me what to do and what to think. Are you done packing yet?"
Belgium regards her older brother hesitantly as he continues to storm about his room, haphazardly throwing clothes into the open suitcase on the bed. Netherlands isn't known for his even temper, but she sees now that he isn't acting impetuously. He really means to leave Spain.
"Well?" Netherlands demands impatiently, turning back to face her. "Are you done packing or what?"
There is a pause.
"I - I'm not coming with you."
"What?"
She bites her lip, as if she wants to stop the words from bursting out. "Don't go," she implores finally, her green eyes filled with pain. "He'll kill you. Please."
He stares back at her in disbelief. "You're not coming?" he repeats incredulously. "Are you afraid of what Spain'll do to us? I'll protect you! Do you think I can't?"
"I think you'll try, and that's why I'm scared," Belgium replies, trying to get him to see reason. He is her pig-headed big brother and he's never been one to stop and see reason, but she has to try. "He's not just going to let us walk away, Netherlands. Do you want to start a war over this?"
"I can't live with him anymore!" he retorts vehemently, slamming his suitcase shut. "Where does Spain get off telling me I have to pay taxes? Why should I? I can take care of myself! And I can take care of you," he adds brusquely, anger edging his voice.
Belgium shakes her head, holding her breath. "If I stay, he'll go easier on you," she says.
He swears under his breath.
"So you're the sacrificial lamb, is that it?" he asks brusquely, his amber eyes like thunder as he regards her. "Do you really think I'm going to leave you here with Spain?"
"If I go with you it'll only make things worse!" she exclaims, begging him to see reason. "Maybe I can talk some sense into Spain, if not you…"
He shakes his head bitterly, reaching for his pipe and jamming it into his mouth. "Fine," he says roughly. "Stay here with Spain if you want to - I don't care. I'm out."
His words are clipped and cold, as if he really doesn't care, and it scares her. She watches as her brother - now a stranger - lights his pipe, puffing carelessly before stowing the matches back into his pocket. Wordlessly, he brushes past her as he heads for the door, his suitcase slung over his shoulder.
"W-wait!" she exclaims, reaching out to him. He pauses momentarily, and she reaches for the blue and white striped scarf that dangles from the coat rack by the door. "Your scarf," she says, in a sisterly manner as she pulls it around him. "It's cold outside."
She tries to hide the tremble in her voice as she ties it snugly around his neck. She had made the scarf for him years ago, and he had worn it with brotherly dedication. And now it would be the only thing he had to remind him of her.
"You sure you're not coming?" he asks doubtfully.
She shakes her head.
So she watches as her brother walks out the door and never comes back.
________________________________________
Battle of Nieuwpoort, Belgium, 1600
Chaos.
They say war is hell, but Netherlands knows better. War is chaos, where strategies that look so clear and rational on paper come to life as a raging, chaotic conglomeration of smoke and fire and gunshots that don't ever seem to end.
But now they have ended.
The silence is eerie, and Netherlands staggers unsteadily to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth. Around him, he hears the tramping of the soldiers' boots as they check their fallen comrades. He is victorious, he realizes in disbelief. Spain has been defeated, and he forces himself to believe that this battle has won something.
But that is yet to be seen.
30 years, he thinks tiredly, 30 years he has been fighting this war against Spain and the end is nowhere in sight. Well fuck that, Netherlands tells himself doggedly, fishing into his pocket and fumbling for his pipe and lighter. He'll fight for another 30 years if he has to, and then another, if that means he'll get his independence.
But his sister. He misses her to death and sometimes he hates himself for leaving her behind, but what could he have done? He feels like a crap big brother, feels like he failed her by leaving her with Spain, unable to make sure the bastard was treating her right. His skin crawls at the thought of Spain and Belgium together, and he bites down angrily on his pipe.
"Netherlands!"
He thinks at first he is imagining the voice, as he is supposed to be invisible to the soldiers around him. Baffled, he looks around the battlefield, but he only sees destruction. Then, flitting like a ghost between the soldiers, he thinks he sees the figure of a young girl with wavy blonde hair running, but he blinks and she is gone.
It cannot be Belgium, he tells himself firmly. She cannot be here, because if she were here, that means Spain had forced her to fight, against her own brother…
She wouldn't, Netherlands thinks.
But he knows that people change.
________________________________________
Congress of Vienna, Austria, 1814
It has been so long.
Belgium looks wordlessly at her brother, studying his face as if trying to remember what he looked like before the war. His amber eyes are as tempestuous as ever, and his strong jaw is set into a scowl that seems permanently etched onto his features. He seems unkempt and a little worse for the wear, and it is clear from the shadows under his eyes that the long war has taken its toll on him.
80 years - it takes 80 years for Netherlands to break away from Spain, and now she can see him again. She studies him from across the room, where he stands silently next to his delegates, invisible to their eyes.
Then he looks at her.
She holds her breath anxiously, because she knows that she has betrayed him terribly by fighting on Spain's side instead of his, and by refusing to leave with him in the first place.
But before she can worry any more, Netherlands saunters up to her, moving with his familiar swagger and pride.
"Hey little sister," he says casually, winking. "Miss me?"
She feels like crying with relief, as she flings her arms around his waist. "Just a little," she chokes out, squeezing hard.
He laughs, a glorious laugh that she hasn't heard since they were little. "80 fucking years, but I finally did it - that Spanish bastard can't boss me around anymore. So pack up your bags, sis - you're moving in with me!"
She stares at him, uncomprehending at first. "Me? Move in with you?" she replies finally, incredulously.
"Well, I have my own place now!" Netherlands says cheerfully. "Besides, 80 years is a hella long time to spend away from my baby sister, and it'd be better for both of us this way; we'd be a stronger nation; no one would dare fuck with us!"
"But I -" She feels as if things are moving too fast, as if she is caught up in the whirlwind that is her brother, and she doesn't know what to do; she can only stare at him in disbelief.
Netherlands is looking at her with that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes, and she knows that she has her brother back. She doesn't want to lose him again, not just after finding him.
"Okay," she says finally, laughing. "Okay, I will."
He lets out a whoop of excitement, grinning at her with unabashed enthusiasm. "Just wait, sis - it's gonna be fuckin' epic!"
For a while, it is.
But it is not to last.
________________________________________
Belgium, 1839
"From this moment forward you are no longer a part of the United Kingdom of Netherlands."
Netherlands pauses in reading the document, skimming over the text until the words blur in front of his eyes. He feels hollow as he looks across the table to where Belgium sits, and he tosses the document down onto the table. "Sign on the dotted line," he says sarcastically.
Belgium looks wordlessly at her brother, her stomach clenched into knots. "I'm sorry," she says helplessly. She knows that sometimes two puzzle pieces can't fit together, no matter how hard she tries - and she had been desperate enough to try.
He ignores this.
"You can have this back," she hears him say, as he begins unwinding the blue and white knit scarf from around his neck.
"Keep it," she begins, but he has already pushed it across the table at her, refusing to meet her eyes.
Belgium knows she is losing her brother again.
She gathers the scarf into her arms. "Good-bye Netherlands," she says softly.
He gives her a wan smile.
"It was nice while it lasted, sis."
________________________________________
She has no doubt that he will wear the scarf again. They have been through too much together to ever lose each other completely. So for now, she keeps the blue and white scarf tucked away in the back of her closet, where it waits patiently to be worn again.
One day.
________________________________________
Author's Notes:
The Eighty Years' War/Dutch War of Independence (1568-1648)
King Phillip II of Spain made two mistakes with the Dutch: he imposed taxes on them, although they were already self-sufficient due to rapid industrialization (thanks to the windmill) and new trade routes; he also tried to convert the Dutch Protestants into Catholics. These two factors led to war.
The Battle of Nieuwpoort was a Dutch victory, and although they drove off the Spanish, the battle accomplished nothing. The Dutch were unable to capture Dunkirk and eventually had to withdraw as well.
The Congress of Vienna in 1815 established (among other things) the United Kingdom of the Netherlands, which was the United Provinces in the north (Netherlands) + the southern provinces (who eventually seceded to form Belgium.) The reason for this is because these people were Catholic, while the Dutch were Protestant. It was doomed from the start OTL"
P.S: Congress of Vienna was also where the Holy Roman Empire was officially dissolved.
Long author's note is long :D
Title: Flightless Bird, American Mouth
Author: Cattiechaos
Character(s): America and Lithuania
Rating: G
Summary: The world needs a hero, and this time it's not America. A Cold War fanfiction.
January, 1990
Winter swirled over St. Petersburg.
The Nevsky Prospekt lay still and silent, covered by a vast expanse of glistening white snow. Below, the Neva River was a jagged tundra of thick ice, moving sluggishly under the gray cloak of the early morning sky.
From a window in the far-off Winter Palace, Toris Lorinaitis gazed out at the city, a troubled expression set into his features. However peaceful the city may seem, he knew the danger that lurked deceptively beneath the surface. He was tense, but so was everyone else; it was almost as if the collective world were holding its breath, waiting and bracing themselves for the inevitable.
He felt that at any moment, the silence of the city would be shattered, and the wail of air raid sirens would split the as planes droned overhead and bombs fell on the city. Toris didn't know when this would happen, or even if it would happen, but that made it even worse. The tension, the unbearable waiting, filling him with a sense of permanent dread that he could not rid himself of. He spent his days haunting the endless rooms of the Winter Palace, a lonely and slender figure made gaunt by the tension of the Cold War. His anxious thoughts were divided between the rapidly deteriorating relationship between Russia and America, and the Iron Curtain that had plunged a knife deep into the heart of Germany. He wondered if it were possible that his entire world could cease to exist in a single, silent second.
Toris turned from his vigil to glance at Ivan, who was asleep amid the tension. He was struck by how peaceful the man seemed, and Toris ached for that same peace. Even in his sleep, his dreams were haunted with nameless faces and tortured, twisted bodies. The war had left its mark on him, just as it had everyone else.
Don't think about such things, urged a small, nagging voice in his mind. What can you do but keep on living? But what was the point? What was the point of living this terrible half-existence, living in fear of the unknown?
A bitter gust of winter wind howled against the palace windows, sending a shudder deep into Toris' heart. You wanted to live in a warm place with sunflowers, he thought, gazing at Ivan. So how did you end up here?
He suddenly felt the desire to leave the palace; even the frigid air of the winter morning would be preferable to this stifling atmosphere. Stumbling in his hurry, Toris stepped out into the city, welcoming the sudden rush of ice cold air. The entire city of St. Petersburg was blanketed with the burden of a heavy snowfall, almost too blinding to look at. Toris shielded his eyes from the glare and began to walk, growing increasingly upset with every step. Anxious thoughts plagued him at every turn, and the bustling of each passerby only reminded him of what he did not have: freedom.
He clumped heavily through the snow in an attempt to distract himself, but it was no use: the idea had already caught fire in his mind, sending heat surging through his body. His cheeks were flushed with the wild desire for it, and suddenly, it was 1918* again. It was as if he were a bird in a cage; the door had been locked for so long that he was no longer sure if he had wings.
Growing increasingly upset by these thoughts, Toris barely noticed as he rounded the corner and stepped right into someone.
"Yo, Toris!"
Befuddled, Toris automatically took a step backwards, confused by the rush of memories that the familiar voice triggered. It sounded just like - but no, he couldn't be here, not here -
"Hey Toris, how's it goin'!"
Impossible.
"Alfred?"
"Shh!" Alfred hushed, his eyes darting anxiously about. "Way to almost blow my cover, Toris!" he exclaimed, lowering his voice.
"Sorry," Toris whispered. "But you know your disguise is completely see-through, right?"
"What!" Alfred cried, apparently forgetting his need for silence as he looked at the Lithuanian with an injured look. "This disguise is gold!"
"A-Alfred… it's just a mustache."
"I know, isn't it great?" Alfred beamed, and the movement caused one side of the mustache to droop precariously.
Toris' mind struggled to process the sheer amount of confusion. "What are you doing here?" he asked, keeping his voice down to a low murmur.
"I know I'm not in the best of situations with Ivan right now. But it was imperative that I speak with you," Alfred replied, his voice pitched low with urgency. The sudden seriousness of Alfred's words piqued Toris' curiosity, and he wondered what could be so important that it had brought the American into the heart of danger.
"Do you remember living in my house?" Alfred asked suddenly, his voice suddenly impassioned.
"Of course," Toris replied, caught off-guard by the sudden change in topic. Life with Alfred had been simple and kind, and he had liked making himself helpful to the other nation.
"You said you liked it there, because you felt free," Alfred continued, his blue eyes strong with determination as they looked into the other nation. "Whenever you helped me, it was because you wanted to - not because you had to. The point I'm trying to make, Toris, is that you can't live with Ivan forever. Become independent."
It took a moment for the words to register, and Toris could only stare back at Alfred, the shock in his eyes reflecting the determination in the other's. "Now?" Bewildered by the sudden turn of events, Toris only shook his head as Alfred pressed on.
"But Estonia and Latvia -"
" -are just as eager to become independent as you are. They look up to you," Alfred pressed.
"If you do this, they'll realize that it can be done, and Ivan's hold on the globe will lessen. Toris…they need a leader. They need a hero."
The words caught Toris' attention, and his eyes widened. "Isn't that your job?" he asked hesitantly.
Alfred laughed, but regret flitted across his face. "Not this time."
Toris gazed out across the river, lost in his thoughts. For the longest time, he had thought of himself as a bird in a cage, but only now did he realize that it was one thing for the door to open, and another to seize the moment and fly away. He turned back to Alfred, his own eyes determined as he met the nation's steady gaze.
"Then I have no other choice."
Author's Notes:
Although Lithuania declared independence in 1918, the country was occupied by the Soviets during World War II. In 1990, Lithuania was the first among the Soviet satellites to declare independence, inspiring other countries to follow in its footsteps. There is no documented evidence that the United States ever urged Lithuania to declare independence. I just like good spy stories.
Author: Cattiechaos
Character(s): Alfred & Arthur
Rating: G
Summary: A Fourth of July celebration is about as American as it gets, and Alfred is determined to give Arthur a good ole dose of red-white-and-blue patriotism.
July 4, 1776
Heavy clouds hover over the battlefield, ominous with the threat of rain. Two men stand silhouetted against the horizon, battle-weary but still defiant. Blue eyes blaze into the steely green gaze of Arthur Kirkland, refusing to back down or show weakness.
Alfred Jones speaks. "Stand down Arthur," he commands. "You've lost."
He is a young man, barely entered into adulthood; but he holds himself with the fearless defiance of one who has weathered many storms. His blonde hair is rumpled and his face sweat-streaked, but he stands tall as he boldly returns the gaze of the British man in front of him.
Arthur stands motionlessly, numb with disbelief. There is nothing left for him to do, no words left to say. He finds himself wondering how they had gotten to this point here on this blood and sweat stained battlefield. Where is that happy-go-lucky little boy, Arthur wonders? Is it possible he has grown into the defiant man who stands in front of him now?
"Don't make this harder than it is."
Oh, that's rich; Arthur thinks bitterly, the muscles tensing around his jaw. As if Alfred wasn't already gloating, the gleam of victory shining brightly in those damned blue eyes of his…
He lets the rifle fall from his hands.
Rain begins to fall.
July 4, Present Day
Arthur could hardly see anything for the number of red, white, and blue flags that sailed in the wind.
It seemed as if the entire city of D.C was gathered in this park, the excitement bubbling over as the sun began its slow descent and the time for the fireworks display neared. Alfred's parties were legendary, although Arthur wasn't sure whose bright idea it was to manufacture explosives for the over-eager young man. As he stood invisible from beside one of the many tents, he watched as children raced around, shrieking in delight as they waved their sparklers and miniature flags.
He had to admit; these people really seemed to come together on this holiday. Even the food was better than expected, with the overwhelming amount of barbecue, corn on the cob, and cherry pie. Star spangled banners fluttered from every direction, but Arthur was only looking for one person: Alfred.
Where could he be? Arthur grumbled, dodging between pets and children alike as he searched for the familiar blonde-haired man. He felt uncomfortable amidst this giant crowd of people swathed in patriotic colors, some who had even gone as far as to paint their faces!
Finally, Arthur spotted the American sitting on a picnic blanket at the top of a nearby hill. He seemed to be the very picture of happiness, his hair rumpled, his collar half-sticking up, and his patriotic tie wrapped around his head. Arthur sighed. Typical Alfred.
As if Alfred could sense that he was being watched, he looked down to see Arthur at the foot of the hill, his entire face lighting up as he beamed down at the British man. "Iggy!" he yelled, waving enthusiastically. "Come up and join me!"
"If you think I'm going to go all the way up this hill, you're mad," Arthur called back, scowling.
"Pleeeeease?" the American pleaded, his brow furrowed imploringly. "This is the best place to see the fireworks! Pretty please, with cherries on top?"
"What is this cherry nonsense?" Arthur groaned, but he nevertheless rolled up his sleeves. There was no use arguing against Alfred, as he was all too aware. "You had to choose this bloody place to sit," he complained breathlessly, arriving at last.
Alfred grinned sheepishly, patting the spot next to him. "This is the best spot in the house, you know! Enjoying the festivities?"
Arthur grunted noncommittally. "The food's not that bad," he admitted grudgingly, gingerly setting himself atop the blanket. "Especially the fried chicken, no matter how hideously fattening it is."
"Hey, I wouldn't be complaining about the food."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Arthur said dangerously.
"I hate to break it to you Iggy, but your cooking tastes like crap. And what about your fish and chips? Where are the chips, Arthur? I looked and I looked but the only thing I saw were French fries, so I'm pretty sure that's false advertis- Ow, that hurt!"
"Good," Arthur replied calmly. "By the way, why aren't you down there with your people? I should think you'd want to be with them."
"Oh, I celebrated with them for most of the day, but I like it up here better," Alfred replied, rubbing his head ruefully. "It's quieter, it helps me think."
Arthur raised one brow (an impressive feat, all things considered.) "And what, if I may ask, are you thinking about?" he asked sarcastically.
"About my people," Alfred replied, an expression of calm on his face as he looked out into the crowd of families celebrating below. "Today is the day where they all come together to celebrate their independence."
"American patriotism," Arthur sighed. "Why are your people so patriotic anyways?"
"It's all about the American dream, Arthur," Alfred said mysteriously, grinning slyly. "We all want a slice of that American pie!"
"And what exactly is this American dream?" came the skeptical response.
"Endless opportunities!" Alfred exclaimed, flinging one arm wide. "This is the land of dreams, Arthur! The land of freedom and democracy! Anything is possible here. And think about it - this is the cultural melting pot of the world, and everyone who lives here - except for the Native Americans - have ancestors who came here to find lives for themselves and their children! That's why this is the peoples' land, and it gives them something to be proud of; because no matter where they came from, they found a home here."
Arthur was speechless. Was this the same Alfred that bounced off walls and spouted ridiculous theories about aliens and Mars?
Alfred grinned sheepish, ruffling his hair with embarrassment. "My new boss is really eloquent," he explained, blushing slightly. "It kind of catches on…"
"I can see that," Arthur said finally, sounding vaguely impressed. "Well then. I'm glad you feel that way. Maybe he'll help you get rid of your ridiculous hero complex as well."
"What are you talking about!" Alfred yelped, panicked. "Don't even say such things, Iggy! The world will always need a hero!"
"Don't you understand that the hero is the one who always gets hurt?" Arthur exclaimed, exasperated.
Alfred flashed his thousand-watt grin at the British man, who flushed slightly in response. "Hey, it's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it," he said, winking. "Besides, chicks love a knight in shining armor."
Arthur scoffed. "Knights are part of British folklore, you know."
Alfred shrugged carelessly. "Hey, you raised me for over a hundred years; a few things were bound to catch on."
"Yet you still can't wear a tie properly."
"Hey, I can! I just think ties look better wrapped around your head…"
Smiling to himself, Alfred stretched out on the picnic blanket with a yawn, closing his eyes with contentment. "Ah man, this is great," he said happily. "Couldn't think of anyone I'd rather spend my Independence Day with, 'cept maybe for Mattie, and he's supposed to be here but I can't find him, but when can I ever find hi-"
"What?" Stunned, Arthur stared at the American with disbelief.
Alfred looked equally confused. "I...can't find Mattie?"
"No, no, before that," Arthur said impatiently. "You...you want to spend your Independence Day with me? Why?"
"Well, I wouldn't be here without you, would I?" Alfred replied casually, shrugging. "We had some good times Arthur...it was just my time to go. A bird's got to leave the nest eventually, right?"
Arthur stared. "Alfred. We're not birds. We're countries."
Alfred waved his hand dismissively. "You raised me - you taught me everything I know. Even if the tea and crumpets didn't catch on, you showed me that a man should be able to walk with his head held high."
Arthur didn't say a word. Above, fireworks suddenly shot into the sky, soaring upwards before exploding into thousands of colorful sparks. The sound of the explosives reached deafening heights and Arthur watched peacefully, finding himself as caught up in the colorful explosions as Alfred, who was ooh-ing and ahh-ing though he wouldn't admit it, but Arthur was dazzled by the frenzied storm of fireworks, sparking bright against the dark night sky.
Gradually, more and more fireworks shot into the air and all at once the sky exploded with sparks and smoke as the grand finale was released; a wave of red, white and blue that exploded into the night all at once, thundering through the air. Adrenaline coursed through Arthur's veins as he watched the shimmering of the fireworks, barely noticing the patriotic music that was playing in the background. Gradually, the momentum faded to be replaced with cheers, applause, and laughter, as the final waves of sparklers dissipated into the darkness.
"Gets better every year," Alfred beamed, clasping his hands behind his head and stretching his legs.
"Two hundred thirty-four and counting," the British man sighed, allowing himself to relax and close his eyes.
"You remembered?" Alfred yelped, utterly shattering the moment as he bolted upright, glasses flying askew in his excitement. "You actually remembered?"
Arthur muttered darkly under his breath, shooting an irritated glance at his former charge. "I remember only too well your youthful rebellion."
"Hey, I didn't tell you to tax the shit out of me."
"It was a small tax! I didn't think you'd react that badly!" Arthur exclaimed in indignation. "A rebellion was completely irrational and you know it."
Alfred wiggled his brows. "So burning my capital was rational? We had to meet in a God-dang post office for every meeting after that because it was the only official building left standing!"
"Yes," Arthur mused, "but after my militia burned the capital they were hit by a freak hurricane. And a freak tornado. So that makes us about even, doesn't it?
Alfred clamped his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut. "What was that? I can't hear you over the sound of my independence!"
"This relationship is dysfunctional," Arthur said resignedly. "We can't go five minutes without arguing."
Alfred grinned happily. "Yeah, but would you have it any other way?"
"Guess not." Arthur sighed in relief. "Happy Fourth of July, Al."
"Happen Fourth, Igs."
"IGS!??!!?"
"Aw, and we were doing so well with not biting each other's heads off..."
Title: The Ties That Bind
Author: Cattiechaos
Character(s): Netherlands and Belgium
Rating: G
Summary: Snapshots into the history of Netherlands and Belgium.
Spain, 1568
"You're really leaving?"
Netherlands stops his furious packing to glance over his shoulder, but he knows that there could only be one person standing at the door - his sister.
Belgium's wavy blonde hair is restrained by her headband, but wisps and curls still manage to fall into her face. They can't completely eclipse the worried look she's wearing, but she still tries to hide behind them.
"I don't have to take his crap," Netherlands declares belligerently, looking thunderous as he paces through the room, running a hand through his already messy hair. "I don't need that bastard Spain to tell me what to do and what to think. Are you done packing yet?"
Belgium regards her older brother hesitantly as he continues to storm about his room, haphazardly throwing clothes into the open suitcase on the bed. Netherlands isn't known for his even temper, but she sees now that he isn't acting impetuously. He really means to leave Spain.
"Well?" Netherlands demands impatiently, turning back to face her. "Are you done packing or what?"
There is a pause.
"I - I'm not coming with you."
"What?"
She bites her lip, as if she wants to stop the words from bursting out. "Don't go," she implores finally, her green eyes filled with pain. "He'll kill you. Please."
He stares back at her in disbelief. "You're not coming?" he repeats incredulously. "Are you afraid of what Spain'll do to us? I'll protect you! Do you think I can't?"
"I think you'll try, and that's why I'm scared," Belgium replies, trying to get him to see reason. He is her pig-headed big brother and he's never been one to stop and see reason, but she has to try. "He's not just going to let us walk away, Netherlands. Do you want to start a war over this?"
"I can't live with him anymore!" he retorts vehemently, slamming his suitcase shut. "Where does Spain get off telling me I have to pay taxes? Why should I? I can take care of myself! And I can take care of you," he adds brusquely, anger edging his voice.
Belgium shakes her head, holding her breath. "If I stay, he'll go easier on you," she says.
He swears under his breath.
"So you're the sacrificial lamb, is that it?" he asks brusquely, his amber eyes like thunder as he regards her. "Do you really think I'm going to leave you here with Spain?"
"If I go with you it'll only make things worse!" she exclaims, begging him to see reason. "Maybe I can talk some sense into Spain, if not you…"
He shakes his head bitterly, reaching for his pipe and jamming it into his mouth. "Fine," he says roughly. "Stay here with Spain if you want to - I don't care. I'm out."
His words are clipped and cold, as if he really doesn't care, and it scares her. She watches as her brother - now a stranger - lights his pipe, puffing carelessly before stowing the matches back into his pocket. Wordlessly, he brushes past her as he heads for the door, his suitcase slung over his shoulder.
"W-wait!" she exclaims, reaching out to him. He pauses momentarily, and she reaches for the blue and white striped scarf that dangles from the coat rack by the door. "Your scarf," she says, in a sisterly manner as she pulls it around him. "It's cold outside."
She tries to hide the tremble in her voice as she ties it snugly around his neck. She had made the scarf for him years ago, and he had worn it with brotherly dedication. And now it would be the only thing he had to remind him of her.
"You sure you're not coming?" he asks doubtfully.
She shakes her head.
So she watches as her brother walks out the door and never comes back.
________________________________________
Battle of Nieuwpoort, Belgium, 1600
Chaos.
They say war is hell, but Netherlands knows better. War is chaos, where strategies that look so clear and rational on paper come to life as a raging, chaotic conglomeration of smoke and fire and gunshots that don't ever seem to end.
But now they have ended.
The silence is eerie, and Netherlands staggers unsteadily to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth. Around him, he hears the tramping of the soldiers' boots as they check their fallen comrades. He is victorious, he realizes in disbelief. Spain has been defeated, and he forces himself to believe that this battle has won something.
But that is yet to be seen.
30 years, he thinks tiredly, 30 years he has been fighting this war against Spain and the end is nowhere in sight. Well fuck that, Netherlands tells himself doggedly, fishing into his pocket and fumbling for his pipe and lighter. He'll fight for another 30 years if he has to, and then another, if that means he'll get his independence.
But his sister. He misses her to death and sometimes he hates himself for leaving her behind, but what could he have done? He feels like a crap big brother, feels like he failed her by leaving her with Spain, unable to make sure the bastard was treating her right. His skin crawls at the thought of Spain and Belgium together, and he bites down angrily on his pipe.
"Netherlands!"
He thinks at first he is imagining the voice, as he is supposed to be invisible to the soldiers around him. Baffled, he looks around the battlefield, but he only sees destruction. Then, flitting like a ghost between the soldiers, he thinks he sees the figure of a young girl with wavy blonde hair running, but he blinks and she is gone.
It cannot be Belgium, he tells himself firmly. She cannot be here, because if she were here, that means Spain had forced her to fight, against her own brother…
She wouldn't, Netherlands thinks.
But he knows that people change.
________________________________________
Congress of Vienna, Austria, 1814
It has been so long.
Belgium looks wordlessly at her brother, studying his face as if trying to remember what he looked like before the war. His amber eyes are as tempestuous as ever, and his strong jaw is set into a scowl that seems permanently etched onto his features. He seems unkempt and a little worse for the wear, and it is clear from the shadows under his eyes that the long war has taken its toll on him.
80 years - it takes 80 years for Netherlands to break away from Spain, and now she can see him again. She studies him from across the room, where he stands silently next to his delegates, invisible to their eyes.
Then he looks at her.
She holds her breath anxiously, because she knows that she has betrayed him terribly by fighting on Spain's side instead of his, and by refusing to leave with him in the first place.
But before she can worry any more, Netherlands saunters up to her, moving with his familiar swagger and pride.
"Hey little sister," he says casually, winking. "Miss me?"
She feels like crying with relief, as she flings her arms around his waist. "Just a little," she chokes out, squeezing hard.
He laughs, a glorious laugh that she hasn't heard since they were little. "80 fucking years, but I finally did it - that Spanish bastard can't boss me around anymore. So pack up your bags, sis - you're moving in with me!"
She stares at him, uncomprehending at first. "Me? Move in with you?" she replies finally, incredulously.
"Well, I have my own place now!" Netherlands says cheerfully. "Besides, 80 years is a hella long time to spend away from my baby sister, and it'd be better for both of us this way; we'd be a stronger nation; no one would dare fuck with us!"
"But I -" She feels as if things are moving too fast, as if she is caught up in the whirlwind that is her brother, and she doesn't know what to do; she can only stare at him in disbelief.
Netherlands is looking at her with that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes, and she knows that she has her brother back. She doesn't want to lose him again, not just after finding him.
"Okay," she says finally, laughing. "Okay, I will."
He lets out a whoop of excitement, grinning at her with unabashed enthusiasm. "Just wait, sis - it's gonna be fuckin' epic!"
For a while, it is.
But it is not to last.
________________________________________
Belgium, 1839
"From this moment forward you are no longer a part of the United Kingdom of Netherlands."
Netherlands pauses in reading the document, skimming over the text until the words blur in front of his eyes. He feels hollow as he looks across the table to where Belgium sits, and he tosses the document down onto the table. "Sign on the dotted line," he says sarcastically.
Belgium looks wordlessly at her brother, her stomach clenched into knots. "I'm sorry," she says helplessly. She knows that sometimes two puzzle pieces can't fit together, no matter how hard she tries - and she had been desperate enough to try.
He ignores this.
"You can have this back," she hears him say, as he begins unwinding the blue and white knit scarf from around his neck.
"Keep it," she begins, but he has already pushed it across the table at her, refusing to meet her eyes.
Belgium knows she is losing her brother again.
She gathers the scarf into her arms. "Good-bye Netherlands," she says softly.
He gives her a wan smile.
"It was nice while it lasted, sis."
________________________________________
She has no doubt that he will wear the scarf again. They have been through too much together to ever lose each other completely. So for now, she keeps the blue and white scarf tucked away in the back of her closet, where it waits patiently to be worn again.
One day.
________________________________________
Author's Notes:
The Eighty Years' War/Dutch War of Independence (1568-1648)
King Phillip II of Spain made two mistakes with the Dutch: he imposed taxes on them, although they were already self-sufficient due to rapid industrialization (thanks to the windmill) and new trade routes; he also tried to convert the Dutch Protestants into Catholics. These two factors led to war.
The Battle of Nieuwpoort was a Dutch victory, and although they drove off the Spanish, the battle accomplished nothing. The Dutch were unable to capture Dunkirk and eventually had to withdraw as well.
The Congress of Vienna in 1815 established (among other things) the United Kingdom of the Netherlands, which was the United Provinces in the north (Netherlands) + the southern provinces (who eventually seceded to form Belgium.) The reason for this is because these people were Catholic, while the Dutch were Protestant. It was doomed from the start OTL"
P.S: Congress of Vienna was also where the Holy Roman Empire was officially dissolved.
Long author's note is long :D
Title: Flightless Bird, American Mouth
Author: Cattiechaos
Character(s): America and Lithuania
Rating: G
Summary: The world needs a hero, and this time it's not America. A Cold War fanfiction.
January, 1990
Winter swirled over St. Petersburg.
The Nevsky Prospekt lay still and silent, covered by a vast expanse of glistening white snow. Below, the Neva River was a jagged tundra of thick ice, moving sluggishly under the gray cloak of the early morning sky.
From a window in the far-off Winter Palace, Toris Lorinaitis gazed out at the city, a troubled expression set into his features. However peaceful the city may seem, he knew the danger that lurked deceptively beneath the surface. He was tense, but so was everyone else; it was almost as if the collective world were holding its breath, waiting and bracing themselves for the inevitable.
He felt that at any moment, the silence of the city would be shattered, and the wail of air raid sirens would split the as planes droned overhead and bombs fell on the city. Toris didn't know when this would happen, or even if it would happen, but that made it even worse. The tension, the unbearable waiting, filling him with a sense of permanent dread that he could not rid himself of. He spent his days haunting the endless rooms of the Winter Palace, a lonely and slender figure made gaunt by the tension of the Cold War. His anxious thoughts were divided between the rapidly deteriorating relationship between Russia and America, and the Iron Curtain that had plunged a knife deep into the heart of Germany. He wondered if it were possible that his entire world could cease to exist in a single, silent second.
Toris turned from his vigil to glance at Ivan, who was asleep amid the tension. He was struck by how peaceful the man seemed, and Toris ached for that same peace. Even in his sleep, his dreams were haunted with nameless faces and tortured, twisted bodies. The war had left its mark on him, just as it had everyone else.
Don't think about such things, urged a small, nagging voice in his mind. What can you do but keep on living? But what was the point? What was the point of living this terrible half-existence, living in fear of the unknown?
A bitter gust of winter wind howled against the palace windows, sending a shudder deep into Toris' heart. You wanted to live in a warm place with sunflowers, he thought, gazing at Ivan. So how did you end up here?
He suddenly felt the desire to leave the palace; even the frigid air of the winter morning would be preferable to this stifling atmosphere. Stumbling in his hurry, Toris stepped out into the city, welcoming the sudden rush of ice cold air. The entire city of St. Petersburg was blanketed with the burden of a heavy snowfall, almost too blinding to look at. Toris shielded his eyes from the glare and began to walk, growing increasingly upset with every step. Anxious thoughts plagued him at every turn, and the bustling of each passerby only reminded him of what he did not have: freedom.
He clumped heavily through the snow in an attempt to distract himself, but it was no use: the idea had already caught fire in his mind, sending heat surging through his body. His cheeks were flushed with the wild desire for it, and suddenly, it was 1918* again. It was as if he were a bird in a cage; the door had been locked for so long that he was no longer sure if he had wings.
Growing increasingly upset by these thoughts, Toris barely noticed as he rounded the corner and stepped right into someone.
"Yo, Toris!"
Befuddled, Toris automatically took a step backwards, confused by the rush of memories that the familiar voice triggered. It sounded just like - but no, he couldn't be here, not here -
"Hey Toris, how's it goin'!"
Impossible.
"Alfred?"
"Shh!" Alfred hushed, his eyes darting anxiously about. "Way to almost blow my cover, Toris!" he exclaimed, lowering his voice.
"Sorry," Toris whispered. "But you know your disguise is completely see-through, right?"
"What!" Alfred cried, apparently forgetting his need for silence as he looked at the Lithuanian with an injured look. "This disguise is gold!"
"A-Alfred… it's just a mustache."
"I know, isn't it great?" Alfred beamed, and the movement caused one side of the mustache to droop precariously.
Toris' mind struggled to process the sheer amount of confusion. "What are you doing here?" he asked, keeping his voice down to a low murmur.
"I know I'm not in the best of situations with Ivan right now. But it was imperative that I speak with you," Alfred replied, his voice pitched low with urgency. The sudden seriousness of Alfred's words piqued Toris' curiosity, and he wondered what could be so important that it had brought the American into the heart of danger.
"Do you remember living in my house?" Alfred asked suddenly, his voice suddenly impassioned.
"Of course," Toris replied, caught off-guard by the sudden change in topic. Life with Alfred had been simple and kind, and he had liked making himself helpful to the other nation.
"You said you liked it there, because you felt free," Alfred continued, his blue eyes strong with determination as they looked into the other nation. "Whenever you helped me, it was because you wanted to - not because you had to. The point I'm trying to make, Toris, is that you can't live with Ivan forever. Become independent."
It took a moment for the words to register, and Toris could only stare back at Alfred, the shock in his eyes reflecting the determination in the other's. "Now?" Bewildered by the sudden turn of events, Toris only shook his head as Alfred pressed on.
"But Estonia and Latvia -"
" -are just as eager to become independent as you are. They look up to you," Alfred pressed.
"If you do this, they'll realize that it can be done, and Ivan's hold on the globe will lessen. Toris…they need a leader. They need a hero."
The words caught Toris' attention, and his eyes widened. "Isn't that your job?" he asked hesitantly.
Alfred laughed, but regret flitted across his face. "Not this time."
Toris gazed out across the river, lost in his thoughts. For the longest time, he had thought of himself as a bird in a cage, but only now did he realize that it was one thing for the door to open, and another to seize the moment and fly away. He turned back to Alfred, his own eyes determined as he met the nation's steady gaze.
"Then I have no other choice."
Author's Notes:
Although Lithuania declared independence in 1918, the country was occupied by the Soviets during World War II. In 1990, Lithuania was the first among the Soviet satellites to declare independence, inspiring other countries to follow in its footsteps. There is no documented evidence that the United States ever urged Lithuania to declare independence. I just like good spy stories.