First set of drabbles
For gehayi - Hetalia/Hitchhiker's. Arthur meets England and France:
"Must you smoke those vile things?"
Arthur spun round at hearing BBC English so far from home. He spied two blond men, one short and endowed with the eyebrows of a much bigger simian and one languidly tall.
"Zey are not vile."
Arthur blinked. The French accent was even less expected.
"Excuse me," he said. "But are you French?"
"Mais, oui," the tall man said as his friend snapped, suddenly shifting to the East End,
"Fuckin' 'ell, no!"
"We are, how you say, from Spaceship Earth."
"Which is a bloody stupid name."
"And yet, mon ami -"
Arthur backed away slowly.
For trobadora - Bran Davies and Crowley. An afanc is a Welsh water monster.
Bran keeps his eyes on the line where the mountains meet the sky. "Am I damned, then?" he asks.
"That's a heavy question for so early," Crowley says. "What do you think damned means?"
Bran shrugs, uncomfortable. Crowley's shadow is always ice-cold, and the lisp is a hiss if Bran listens closely.
"Anthony, bach -" he starts.
"Let's talk about this later," Crowley says, and throws the stick in his hand.
Cafall chases after it, silent and fast, ears flat back with the joy of running. Bran buries his doubts. He will lose neither his dead dog nor his afanc friend.
For novembersmith - Fennish art appreciation.
Gedge averted his eyes at yet another marble example of the finest of classical Greek youth. 'My word,' he thought, 'didn't they have no clothes in them times?' It was not, he thought, that he could in any way be considered prudish, but the interest some gentlemen displayed in the statues disconcerted him.
'The sculptor had a remarkably fine touch, don't you think?' Bracy said, indicating the marble youth bending to tie his sandal.
'Very fine,' Gedge said drily. He'd never known all it took to be a gentleman art fancier was to look at some statue's bum all day.
For indelicateink model!assistant!Schuldig and artist!detective!Crawford
We are good at finding things that would prefer to remain lost. Young men who have made unsuitable friendships, for example, and who desperately wish to keep those friendships at the cost of their social position. Schuldig stands over one such young fool, prodding him with his toe.
"Please," he says, "my uncle wouldn't understand-" He looks longingly at his friend, a Greek youth with little English but perfect skin. I itch to sketch him.
"Your uncle will pay to have you home," Schuldig says, and hauls him up. "Stop fucking ogling him," he snaps at me. "If you want something worth looking at you can paint me again."
Ah, you're thinking, I understand. You don't. It's professional jealousy, no more. Schuldig glares at the Greek boy like a wife who sees a younger version of herself, but this is still not the kind of story you think.
Not yet.
For moonsheen - Germany and Italy after the fall of the Berlin Wall
"Germany, Germany!"
Italy runs up to Germany, laughing happily. He is waving a German flag today.
"Italy," Germany says politely, and, "You remember my older brother?"
"Little Italy," Prussia says, ruffling Italy's hair. "Long time no see." He has only a centimetre, if that, over Italy, but always manages to seem like he's much taller. "Has West slept with you yet?"
Germany groans, and Italy decides to use his secret weapon.
"We're so glad you're back with us, Prussia," he says with his sweetest smile. "Everyone missed you."
Prussia goes quiet and flustered. As soft as Romano, Italy thinks, laughing triumphantly.
"Must you smoke those vile things?"
Arthur spun round at hearing BBC English so far from home. He spied two blond men, one short and endowed with the eyebrows of a much bigger simian and one languidly tall.
"Zey are not vile."
Arthur blinked. The French accent was even less expected.
"Excuse me," he said. "But are you French?"
"Mais, oui," the tall man said as his friend snapped, suddenly shifting to the East End,
"Fuckin' 'ell, no!"
"We are, how you say, from Spaceship Earth."
"Which is a bloody stupid name."
"And yet, mon ami -"
Arthur backed away slowly.
For trobadora - Bran Davies and Crowley. An afanc is a Welsh water monster.
Bran keeps his eyes on the line where the mountains meet the sky. "Am I damned, then?" he asks.
"That's a heavy question for so early," Crowley says. "What do you think damned means?"
Bran shrugs, uncomfortable. Crowley's shadow is always ice-cold, and the lisp is a hiss if Bran listens closely.
"Anthony, bach -" he starts.
"Let's talk about this later," Crowley says, and throws the stick in his hand.
Cafall chases after it, silent and fast, ears flat back with the joy of running. Bran buries his doubts. He will lose neither his dead dog nor his afanc friend.
For novembersmith - Fennish art appreciation.
Gedge averted his eyes at yet another marble example of the finest of classical Greek youth. 'My word,' he thought, 'didn't they have no clothes in them times?' It was not, he thought, that he could in any way be considered prudish, but the interest some gentlemen displayed in the statues disconcerted him.
'The sculptor had a remarkably fine touch, don't you think?' Bracy said, indicating the marble youth bending to tie his sandal.
'Very fine,' Gedge said drily. He'd never known all it took to be a gentleman art fancier was to look at some statue's bum all day.
For indelicateink model!assistant!Schuldig and artist!detective!Crawford
We are good at finding things that would prefer to remain lost. Young men who have made unsuitable friendships, for example, and who desperately wish to keep those friendships at the cost of their social position. Schuldig stands over one such young fool, prodding him with his toe.
"Please," he says, "my uncle wouldn't understand-" He looks longingly at his friend, a Greek youth with little English but perfect skin. I itch to sketch him.
"Your uncle will pay to have you home," Schuldig says, and hauls him up. "Stop fucking ogling him," he snaps at me. "If you want something worth looking at you can paint me again."
Ah, you're thinking, I understand. You don't. It's professional jealousy, no more. Schuldig glares at the Greek boy like a wife who sees a younger version of herself, but this is still not the kind of story you think.
Not yet.
For moonsheen - Germany and Italy after the fall of the Berlin Wall
"Germany, Germany!"
Italy runs up to Germany, laughing happily. He is waving a German flag today.
"Italy," Germany says politely, and, "You remember my older brother?"
"Little Italy," Prussia says, ruffling Italy's hair. "Long time no see." He has only a centimetre, if that, over Italy, but always manages to seem like he's much taller. "Has West slept with you yet?"
Germany groans, and Italy decides to use his secret weapon.
"We're so glad you're back with us, Prussia," he says with his sweetest smile. "Everyone missed you."
Prussia goes quiet and flustered. As soft as Romano, Italy thinks, laughing triumphantly.