We As People: Chpt. 1 Fr/Uk, Canada, America
This fic-ish thing spawned from a conversation, a request on the Hetalia!Kink Meme, and my inability to sleep. I'm posting it here to get some feed back before I post it as a fill. (in case it brings on utter fail.) DON'T HOLD BACK!
Pairings are, so far: France/England
We as People
1/?
He was a very strange father, or he would appear so to someone else. He was always touching, speaking, moving like he had some sort of attention deficit problem and wanted his kin to join the club.
'Regard Matthieu. Le Chat! Can you say that? Le chat. Menqui, menqui~"
'Regard Matthieu! Le ciel! C'est bleu!'
If his attention was on you so were his hands. I pointed to something once and instead of just looking to where I was pointing my finger he crouched down to my height, his hand on my arm. If he ever spoke to me he'd look right in my eyes, put a hand on my head.
Contact, he'd said, was key. People thrived off it.
"Contact and love, Mon Crotte. That's all we need as people."
He'd been with a few men. On and off really, but you always knew where his heart was: with Dad.
For a while, when Papa and Dad has stopped talking to each other, Antonio would visit. There was always laughter in the house then. Loud stories, wine, and the smell of spicy food were regulars when the three of us sat down in the kitchen for dinner.
The smell of flour, beans, spiced meat, and cheese would lay heavy on the air throughout the house. The three of us stuffed with food and full of heart taking our seat on the living room couch, the ottoman, the love seat, to listen to a story that hadn't yet been told at the table, or the old radio next to the fireplace.
Antonio was all hands and soft words too. He always held your eyes, had a hand on you. He talked and talked, but you never grew tired of it. He was so comfortable in living, so jubilant in life, and it seemed nothing could take that smile off of his face. It would rain and instead of being upset he'd say: 'Oh good, maybe this will help your garden, Matty.'
It made us comfortable with life. It made every rainy day not so bad because my garden was going to thrive from it- at least we had an umbrella. Soccer is more fun in the rain! It was so rewarding because as Papa said all we as people need love and contact and they both had so much heart, loved to touch, to connect with people.
Antonio insisted Papa add stories. He'd said something like people love drama, like those plays Mama Greece (whoever that was) started. He explained she wasn't really his actual mother, but everyone called her Mama Greece. It was some sort of title. Papa insisted it wasn't stories it was conversation.
Words.
They decided as people we needed contact, love, and expression.
Antonio left soon, becoming busy with a younger country, with famine, and poverty.
It rained so hard that year it washed out the seeds in my garden.
The day Papa and Dad finally started talking again Papa cried. He cried more than he had the day they'd stopped. I crawled out of my bed and sat next to him on his. I was fourteen by then I think. I had no preconceived notion that it could be odd for men to hold each other or emasculating for them to sob as hard as he had. So, I held him and he cried.
'Because I'm happy Matthieu, it's because I'm happy....Don't think-...."
When Dad came back home he'd brought my brother with him. Me and Al spent a lot of time together when we were young because Dad was always so busy. Now, he was so much taller than me (he was taller than Dad even) and his smile had grown so cocky. He was still the same lion hearted Al that left, even if now he seemed to be /trying/ so hard. For what though, I don't know.
I hadn't heard the low murmur of Dad's voice in the house for so long and I missed it. I spent the whole night listening to the dull throb of it through my bedroom wall as he talked with Papa all night in the living room. They'd argued about why Papa never used Dad's actual name. They argued about tea and breakfast foods. It was nice though because in some way they reminded each other they loved one another at the end of each one, even if dad was reluctant to admit.
Dad was so stern, but Papa is a great compromiser. All people need compromise, there's nothing wrong with that.
-
One night at the dinner table Alfred had flung a piece of creme at Dad, managing to have it land right in the middle of his forehead. Dad just slammed his napkin down on the table and reached across like he was about to strangle Al. He got close too, but my brother took off, running to the end of the table to escape him. Dad yelled, Alfred let out something like a giggle, I sat horrified, and Papa chuckled.
"I think some people need confrontation in their lives. Oui, Matthieu?"
-
I had a stuffed bear. I named it when I was younger, but now I can't seem to remember what it was I had named him. I figure as long as I never try to say his name, he'll never know I forgot. I don't really call it lying to him because, really, I've never said anything false to him. I simply haven't said anything regarding the subject.
When it rains Dad doesn't really notice it as much as me and Papa. Alfred most of the time is locked up in his room playing a video game or pretending he's Clark Kent and I'm whoever the female sidekick of his is. If she even is a sidekick. I don't play with him, I like to watch the rain out the sliding glass door, but he'll run past me screaming "Lois this, Lois that!." Sometimes I wonder if he's more lonely now that he's home then he was when we were separated. Papa looks out the window too, usually at my garden and when Dad asks him why he does that Papa replies:
"Just procrastinating, Mon Bichette."
He doesn't lie to Dad. He usually stops like that when he has extra time, or doesn't want to do something, but he doesn't tell him he's thinking about Antonio from time to time.
We as people sometimes need to be lied to.
-
Dad drinks often and gets drunk occasionally. When I question it Papa says men who drink to get drunk wish to forget something. I've never seen Papa drunk and he says it's because there is no class to drunkenness. He prefers not to be. Sometimes when Papa goes into the kitchen to round him up I can hear them through the wall.
It's almost comical hearing Dad say things so out of character. Say things with as much passion as he does when he drunk. I feel like he loves Papa more, or more openly when he's drunk, but even if Papa is a bit of a dog he never takes advantage. Most times when I come out for a glass of water Dad is tucked in bed and Papa is in the ottoman with a drawn face and sad eyes. When I ask he's says he's tired, but his eyes say:
'Why can't he love me like that sober?'
Dad does love him, but sometimes Papa forgets that.
We as people need to forget, but we also need to remember.
Chapter Two
Pairings are, so far: France/England
We as People
1/?
He was a very strange father, or he would appear so to someone else. He was always touching, speaking, moving like he had some sort of attention deficit problem and wanted his kin to join the club.
'Regard Matthieu. Le Chat! Can you say that? Le chat. Menqui, menqui~"
'Regard Matthieu! Le ciel! C'est bleu!'
If his attention was on you so were his hands. I pointed to something once and instead of just looking to where I was pointing my finger he crouched down to my height, his hand on my arm. If he ever spoke to me he'd look right in my eyes, put a hand on my head.
Contact, he'd said, was key. People thrived off it.
"Contact and love, Mon Crotte. That's all we need as people."
He'd been with a few men. On and off really, but you always knew where his heart was: with Dad.
For a while, when Papa and Dad has stopped talking to each other, Antonio would visit. There was always laughter in the house then. Loud stories, wine, and the smell of spicy food were regulars when the three of us sat down in the kitchen for dinner.
The smell of flour, beans, spiced meat, and cheese would lay heavy on the air throughout the house. The three of us stuffed with food and full of heart taking our seat on the living room couch, the ottoman, the love seat, to listen to a story that hadn't yet been told at the table, or the old radio next to the fireplace.
Antonio was all hands and soft words too. He always held your eyes, had a hand on you. He talked and talked, but you never grew tired of it. He was so comfortable in living, so jubilant in life, and it seemed nothing could take that smile off of his face. It would rain and instead of being upset he'd say: 'Oh good, maybe this will help your garden, Matty.'
It made us comfortable with life. It made every rainy day not so bad because my garden was going to thrive from it- at least we had an umbrella. Soccer is more fun in the rain! It was so rewarding because as Papa said all we as people need love and contact and they both had so much heart, loved to touch, to connect with people.
Antonio insisted Papa add stories. He'd said something like people love drama, like those plays Mama Greece (whoever that was) started. He explained she wasn't really his actual mother, but everyone called her Mama Greece. It was some sort of title. Papa insisted it wasn't stories it was conversation.
Words.
They decided as people we needed contact, love, and expression.
Antonio left soon, becoming busy with a younger country, with famine, and poverty.
It rained so hard that year it washed out the seeds in my garden.
The day Papa and Dad finally started talking again Papa cried. He cried more than he had the day they'd stopped. I crawled out of my bed and sat next to him on his. I was fourteen by then I think. I had no preconceived notion that it could be odd for men to hold each other or emasculating for them to sob as hard as he had. So, I held him and he cried.
'Because I'm happy Matthieu, it's because I'm happy....Don't think-...."
When Dad came back home he'd brought my brother with him. Me and Al spent a lot of time together when we were young because Dad was always so busy. Now, he was so much taller than me (he was taller than Dad even) and his smile had grown so cocky. He was still the same lion hearted Al that left, even if now he seemed to be /trying/ so hard. For what though, I don't know.
I hadn't heard the low murmur of Dad's voice in the house for so long and I missed it. I spent the whole night listening to the dull throb of it through my bedroom wall as he talked with Papa all night in the living room. They'd argued about why Papa never used Dad's actual name. They argued about tea and breakfast foods. It was nice though because in some way they reminded each other they loved one another at the end of each one, even if dad was reluctant to admit.
Dad was so stern, but Papa is a great compromiser. All people need compromise, there's nothing wrong with that.
-
One night at the dinner table Alfred had flung a piece of creme at Dad, managing to have it land right in the middle of his forehead. Dad just slammed his napkin down on the table and reached across like he was about to strangle Al. He got close too, but my brother took off, running to the end of the table to escape him. Dad yelled, Alfred let out something like a giggle, I sat horrified, and Papa chuckled.
"I think some people need confrontation in their lives. Oui, Matthieu?"
-
I had a stuffed bear. I named it when I was younger, but now I can't seem to remember what it was I had named him. I figure as long as I never try to say his name, he'll never know I forgot. I don't really call it lying to him because, really, I've never said anything false to him. I simply haven't said anything regarding the subject.
When it rains Dad doesn't really notice it as much as me and Papa. Alfred most of the time is locked up in his room playing a video game or pretending he's Clark Kent and I'm whoever the female sidekick of his is. If she even is a sidekick. I don't play with him, I like to watch the rain out the sliding glass door, but he'll run past me screaming "Lois this, Lois that!." Sometimes I wonder if he's more lonely now that he's home then he was when we were separated. Papa looks out the window too, usually at my garden and when Dad asks him why he does that Papa replies:
"Just procrastinating, Mon Bichette."
He doesn't lie to Dad. He usually stops like that when he has extra time, or doesn't want to do something, but he doesn't tell him he's thinking about Antonio from time to time.
We as people sometimes need to be lied to.
-
Dad drinks often and gets drunk occasionally. When I question it Papa says men who drink to get drunk wish to forget something. I've never seen Papa drunk and he says it's because there is no class to drunkenness. He prefers not to be. Sometimes when Papa goes into the kitchen to round him up I can hear them through the wall.
It's almost comical hearing Dad say things so out of character. Say things with as much passion as he does when he drunk. I feel like he loves Papa more, or more openly when he's drunk, but even if Papa is a bit of a dog he never takes advantage. Most times when I come out for a glass of water Dad is tucked in bed and Papa is in the ottoman with a drawn face and sad eyes. When I ask he's says he's tired, but his eyes say:
'Why can't he love me like that sober?'
Dad does love him, but sometimes Papa forgets that.
We as people need to forget, but we also need to remember.
Chapter Two