Lost Inside A Foolish Disguise, Chapter One
I'm posting a lot tonight, I feel I should apologize that still, none of it is Inception. But it is a new fic, and if any of you like Hetalia...
Fic Title: Lost Inside A Foolish Disguise
Chapter Title: Still Living With Your Goodbye
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairings/Characters: England/America, Scotland/Ireland, Canada, Northern Ireland
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sick of watching their oblivious loved ones suffer, Northern Ireland and Canada plot to matchmake England and America, as well as Ireland and Scotland, once and for all. By July, they vow, both couples will be together. But their targets are going to both help and hinder their cause in ways the two could never have expected.
A/N: This fic starts out about evenly US/UK and Scot/Ire focused, but will become more US/UK centric. Because they are infinitely more stubborn/blind. I have no clue which version of Gaelic is older, I just put it how I did for the sake of the fic.
You never looked so good
As you did last night
Underneath the city lights
There, walking with your friend
Laughing at the moon
I swear you looked right through me
But I'm still living with your goodbye
And you're just going on with your life... - Like We Never Loved At All, Faith Hill and Tim McGraw
February
Scotland isn’t normally supposed to come to world summits, but they’re in the U.K. this year so all the brothers are invited. So he’s here, on his best behavior and uncomfortable as hell - except when he challenged England to that duel, doesn’t matter that it ended on a draw, that was great fun - and now he stands off to the side alone. He’s nursing a cup of tea because otherwise he’ll go in search of whiskey and he gave his word as Alba and Caledon Stuart that he wouldn’t. Damn England and Wales for knowing just how to make him promise, and Cornwall and North for finding it hilarious.
North. Northern Ireland. But there are two Irelands, and the one that holds his attention now isn’t the teenager who represents the youngest bit of the U.K. It’s the older one, the slender redhead talking to America about visiting one of his cities - Scotland doesn’t know or care which - for the next St. Patrick’s Day parade. Scotland hardly sees America, doesn’t think much of him anyway. If you asked, he’d be honest enough to admit that Ireland is all he sees.
It’s always been this way, a little. Wales - Cymru, then - was the one who spent the most time with Eire and Albion, but even then little Eire, the girl who would be Ireland, caught his eye. A little red-haired mite who had shamrocks scattered in her hair the day Scotland found her, green eyes taking up practically half of her face. He remembers that she was bound and determined to learn Gaelic from him, but when she learned she spoke it back to him differently. He didn’t even mind.
And now there are two kinds of Gaelic, Scottish and Irish. But it’s still their common language, still a tie between them. Perhaps the only one left, the only one she will allow.
They used to get along. For a long time when they were both in England’s house, their shared fury at the fact that it was Albion, England, who dominated them all now seemingly without any remorse binding them together. That’s why, when the English ousted his Stuart Kings to replace them with German Hanovers, he went to her. He let his bosses promise her freedom, and he whispered those promises in her ear. At the time, he believed them himself. So she stood with him, refusing to accept the changes, and she didn’t feel very much like his sister anymore. She felt like something else, more in some ways, and he wanted the chance to find out just what that was.
But then came France. France was a country of his own, with stronger resources and a place where his exiled royals could stay while they made their plans. And he was told to let Ireland go. So he did, leaving her to face England’s wrath alone. He took all that France offered him and wished that he was embracing someone else.
She never forgave him. There was never any hostility between their countries as entities of the United Kingdom, or from her Republic once she was free, but between the two personifications it was different and still is. Even when he tries, even though he’s apologized, he’s frozen with one cold look. So he’s reduced to this, to standing here and watching from a distance, hoping things might change.
He remembers being the one to catch her when the famine left her all but catatonic. He remembers being the one who taught her to use a sword, so many years ago. He remembers kissing her only once, minutes before his boss told him to betray her.
He remembers how it felt when Ireland got her independence and walked away from them all, when she hugged Wales and Cornwall good-bye but only shook his hand. And then there was the first British-Irish Council, when he tried to get her to go for drinks with him afterwards but she shook her head and told him they had only business to talk about. Even now, she’s thawed a little, but only a tiny bit, and he can’t think that he’ll ever get anything more. And it feels like she’s taken that sword from long ago and driven it into his chest.
“You’ll forgive England for everything, but you won’t forgive me? Why?”
“Because I never expected anything else from him. I thought you were trustworthy.”
~ ~ ~
He’s not the only one watching. From a different solitary spot, England stirs his own tea and watches the two other nations talking, but he can’t really see Ireland at all. Instead he sees America, bright and young and strong, irrepressible despite everything he’s going through. The sight of the younger man sometimes seems burned onto his eyelids, the first thing he sees when he closes his eyes.
Deep down, England knows what went wrong between them is his fault as much as America’s. His deepest fear is being left behind, and so he tightened his grip on America, on the only person to care about him in so long. He couldn’t lose that, couldn’t let America walk away like everyone else. That was all he knew, and so he tried to make sure it wouldn’t happen.
Sometimes, looking at Canada, or New Zealand, or Australia, he wonders what would have been had he let nature take its course. America would have left, but maybe the departure could have happened with smiles on both sides. Maybe.
But England couldn’t let it happen that way. He was too busy seeing the sweet little boy who’d chosen him because he was crying to really see who America was becoming. So he tried to keep America at his side, and instead all he did was push him away. Until that day, in the rain, his musket - or rather, the bayonet point, another blade in a long, long history of blades - pointed at America’s face. But he couldn’t kill him, not America, and England had felt his musket slip from his nerveless fingers, his legs buckle beneath him.
Rain is part of him, he is a country of rain, and so it’s not that which haunts him. But even now, over two centuries later, he can’t stand the mud and how it clings, remembering how he knelt in it on a long-ago battlefield, and watched the most important person in his world walk away.
They didn’t speak for over a century after that, not even during their second war, the War of 1812. They saw each other, but there were no words. And after that... They almost fought again, during America’s civil war. England talked Wales into going to Washington in his place to smooth that over, and Ireland - still a member of the UK, then - volunteered to be the one to go for the “Great Rapprochement” since she wanted to check on her immigrants anyway.
But England remembers seeing him in the years after that, leading up to the Great War. He remembers speaking curtly to the younger nation during that war, and picking constant fights with him when it was war again, in the forties. Anything to keep America at arms’ length, to keep him from realizing how much England still cared, and still does.
He remembers a little boy who clung to him, who trusted him and loved him, an angry teenager who rebelled against him and won, and a cheerfully arrogant young man who holds England’s heart in his hands, and crushes it all the time, forever unaware.
“I’m not your little brother anymore!”
“There's no way I can shoot you. I can't. Why? Damn it, why!? It's not fair!”
~ ~ ~
Northern Ireland isn’t necessarily the most perceptive nation out there, but he’s not blind and stupid either. Not only that, he’d grown up with three of the four people he’s watching, and can read them far too easily. America he can’t read, but he knows someone who can. Which is is why he finds himself standing next to a tall blond nation, overlooked by most of the others. “It’s all such a mess, isn’t it, Matt?” he asks, shaking his head.
Canada gives him a wry smile. “I don’t know who’s worse, Scotland and Ireland or Alfred and Arthur.”
“Oh, really it’s Brigid and Cal. Because with Arthur and America... It’s so complicated, from what I know. I wasn’t around for the Revolution and I was too young to remember their years of open hostility, but... The others say stuff, and so does Arthur when he’s drunk. So I know. With Cal and Brigid it’s just this one thing that she won’t let go of.” North shakes his head. “I really don’t know what to do with any of them. Bran and Perran say leave ‘em be, but...”
Canada frowns. “That’s... Wales and Cornwall, right?” At North’s nod, Canada grins and continues, “Well, maybe...” He stops again, shocked by his own idea. He can’t. Really, he can’t. They can’t. Except... Maybe they can. “Say, Patrick?”
“You know, you kind of look like Peter when he’s planning his Sealandic Empire right now,” North says, thick eyebrows furrowed. “What are you thinking?”
Canada shrugs. “I was thinking, maybe your brothers are wrong about leaving them be. Maybe we should give them a helping hand.”
North stares at him, then smirks slowly. The smirk actually resembles England’s during his pirate days, not that either of them would know that. “That sounds like a very good idea from where I’m standing. So, it’s February, right? I think we can figure out a way to manage this in half a year, so how about, by July we have those stubborn idiots together?”
Canada isn’t entirely sure he likes that particular month as the deadline, but he ignores his misgivings - if they pull it off that won’t matter much anymore, surely - and nods. He and North shake on it, and then start to make their plans.
Fic Title: Lost Inside A Foolish Disguise
Chapter Title: Still Living With Your Goodbye
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairings/Characters: England/America, Scotland/Ireland, Canada, Northern Ireland
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sick of watching their oblivious loved ones suffer, Northern Ireland and Canada plot to matchmake England and America, as well as Ireland and Scotland, once and for all. By July, they vow, both couples will be together. But their targets are going to both help and hinder their cause in ways the two could never have expected.
A/N: This fic starts out about evenly US/UK and Scot/Ire focused, but will become more US/UK centric. Because they are infinitely more stubborn/blind. I have no clue which version of Gaelic is older, I just put it how I did for the sake of the fic.
You never looked so good
As you did last night
Underneath the city lights
There, walking with your friend
Laughing at the moon
I swear you looked right through me
But I'm still living with your goodbye
And you're just going on with your life... - Like We Never Loved At All, Faith Hill and Tim McGraw
February
Scotland isn’t normally supposed to come to world summits, but they’re in the U.K. this year so all the brothers are invited. So he’s here, on his best behavior and uncomfortable as hell - except when he challenged England to that duel, doesn’t matter that it ended on a draw, that was great fun - and now he stands off to the side alone. He’s nursing a cup of tea because otherwise he’ll go in search of whiskey and he gave his word as Alba and Caledon Stuart that he wouldn’t. Damn England and Wales for knowing just how to make him promise, and Cornwall and North for finding it hilarious.
North. Northern Ireland. But there are two Irelands, and the one that holds his attention now isn’t the teenager who represents the youngest bit of the U.K. It’s the older one, the slender redhead talking to America about visiting one of his cities - Scotland doesn’t know or care which - for the next St. Patrick’s Day parade. Scotland hardly sees America, doesn’t think much of him anyway. If you asked, he’d be honest enough to admit that Ireland is all he sees.
It’s always been this way, a little. Wales - Cymru, then - was the one who spent the most time with Eire and Albion, but even then little Eire, the girl who would be Ireland, caught his eye. A little red-haired mite who had shamrocks scattered in her hair the day Scotland found her, green eyes taking up practically half of her face. He remembers that she was bound and determined to learn Gaelic from him, but when she learned she spoke it back to him differently. He didn’t even mind.
And now there are two kinds of Gaelic, Scottish and Irish. But it’s still their common language, still a tie between them. Perhaps the only one left, the only one she will allow.
They used to get along. For a long time when they were both in England’s house, their shared fury at the fact that it was Albion, England, who dominated them all now seemingly without any remorse binding them together. That’s why, when the English ousted his Stuart Kings to replace them with German Hanovers, he went to her. He let his bosses promise her freedom, and he whispered those promises in her ear. At the time, he believed them himself. So she stood with him, refusing to accept the changes, and she didn’t feel very much like his sister anymore. She felt like something else, more in some ways, and he wanted the chance to find out just what that was.
But then came France. France was a country of his own, with stronger resources and a place where his exiled royals could stay while they made their plans. And he was told to let Ireland go. So he did, leaving her to face England’s wrath alone. He took all that France offered him and wished that he was embracing someone else.
She never forgave him. There was never any hostility between their countries as entities of the United Kingdom, or from her Republic once she was free, but between the two personifications it was different and still is. Even when he tries, even though he’s apologized, he’s frozen with one cold look. So he’s reduced to this, to standing here and watching from a distance, hoping things might change.
He remembers being the one to catch her when the famine left her all but catatonic. He remembers being the one who taught her to use a sword, so many years ago. He remembers kissing her only once, minutes before his boss told him to betray her.
He remembers how it felt when Ireland got her independence and walked away from them all, when she hugged Wales and Cornwall good-bye but only shook his hand. And then there was the first British-Irish Council, when he tried to get her to go for drinks with him afterwards but she shook her head and told him they had only business to talk about. Even now, she’s thawed a little, but only a tiny bit, and he can’t think that he’ll ever get anything more. And it feels like she’s taken that sword from long ago and driven it into his chest.
“You’ll forgive England for everything, but you won’t forgive me? Why?”
“Because I never expected anything else from him. I thought you were trustworthy.”
~ ~ ~
He’s not the only one watching. From a different solitary spot, England stirs his own tea and watches the two other nations talking, but he can’t really see Ireland at all. Instead he sees America, bright and young and strong, irrepressible despite everything he’s going through. The sight of the younger man sometimes seems burned onto his eyelids, the first thing he sees when he closes his eyes.
Deep down, England knows what went wrong between them is his fault as much as America’s. His deepest fear is being left behind, and so he tightened his grip on America, on the only person to care about him in so long. He couldn’t lose that, couldn’t let America walk away like everyone else. That was all he knew, and so he tried to make sure it wouldn’t happen.
Sometimes, looking at Canada, or New Zealand, or Australia, he wonders what would have been had he let nature take its course. America would have left, but maybe the departure could have happened with smiles on both sides. Maybe.
But England couldn’t let it happen that way. He was too busy seeing the sweet little boy who’d chosen him because he was crying to really see who America was becoming. So he tried to keep America at his side, and instead all he did was push him away. Until that day, in the rain, his musket - or rather, the bayonet point, another blade in a long, long history of blades - pointed at America’s face. But he couldn’t kill him, not America, and England had felt his musket slip from his nerveless fingers, his legs buckle beneath him.
Rain is part of him, he is a country of rain, and so it’s not that which haunts him. But even now, over two centuries later, he can’t stand the mud and how it clings, remembering how he knelt in it on a long-ago battlefield, and watched the most important person in his world walk away.
They didn’t speak for over a century after that, not even during their second war, the War of 1812. They saw each other, but there were no words. And after that... They almost fought again, during America’s civil war. England talked Wales into going to Washington in his place to smooth that over, and Ireland - still a member of the UK, then - volunteered to be the one to go for the “Great Rapprochement” since she wanted to check on her immigrants anyway.
But England remembers seeing him in the years after that, leading up to the Great War. He remembers speaking curtly to the younger nation during that war, and picking constant fights with him when it was war again, in the forties. Anything to keep America at arms’ length, to keep him from realizing how much England still cared, and still does.
He remembers a little boy who clung to him, who trusted him and loved him, an angry teenager who rebelled against him and won, and a cheerfully arrogant young man who holds England’s heart in his hands, and crushes it all the time, forever unaware.
“I’m not your little brother anymore!”
“There's no way I can shoot you. I can't. Why? Damn it, why!? It's not fair!”
~ ~ ~
Northern Ireland isn’t necessarily the most perceptive nation out there, but he’s not blind and stupid either. Not only that, he’d grown up with three of the four people he’s watching, and can read them far too easily. America he can’t read, but he knows someone who can. Which is is why he finds himself standing next to a tall blond nation, overlooked by most of the others. “It’s all such a mess, isn’t it, Matt?” he asks, shaking his head.
Canada gives him a wry smile. “I don’t know who’s worse, Scotland and Ireland or Alfred and Arthur.”
“Oh, really it’s Brigid and Cal. Because with Arthur and America... It’s so complicated, from what I know. I wasn’t around for the Revolution and I was too young to remember their years of open hostility, but... The others say stuff, and so does Arthur when he’s drunk. So I know. With Cal and Brigid it’s just this one thing that she won’t let go of.” North shakes his head. “I really don’t know what to do with any of them. Bran and Perran say leave ‘em be, but...”
Canada frowns. “That’s... Wales and Cornwall, right?” At North’s nod, Canada grins and continues, “Well, maybe...” He stops again, shocked by his own idea. He can’t. Really, he can’t. They can’t. Except... Maybe they can. “Say, Patrick?”
“You know, you kind of look like Peter when he’s planning his Sealandic Empire right now,” North says, thick eyebrows furrowed. “What are you thinking?”
Canada shrugs. “I was thinking, maybe your brothers are wrong about leaving them be. Maybe we should give them a helping hand.”
North stares at him, then smirks slowly. The smirk actually resembles England’s during his pirate days, not that either of them would know that. “That sounds like a very good idea from where I’m standing. So, it’s February, right? I think we can figure out a way to manage this in half a year, so how about, by July we have those stubborn idiots together?”
Canada isn’t entirely sure he likes that particular month as the deadline, but he ignores his misgivings - if they pull it off that won’t matter much anymore, surely - and nods. He and North shake on it, and then start to make their plans.