❝and i'm not my body or how i choose to destroy it❞
too many troubles | axis powers hetalia | 2000 words | england ; china | r |
in which the first opium war ends.
written based off of puella_nerdii’s never enough blessings for the hetaliaremix exchange.
Too Many Troubles
Those who believe he enjoys what he does are grossly mistaken. He fulfills his duties with a compulsive desire that has always burned within him but has only recently been given an outlet in the form of these wars, these conquests. And now, he is determined-or something within him has determined-to make the greatest conquest of all.
So when China glares up at him through a fringe of bangs that were neater before he was tied down, and clenches his teeth and spits out “It is a poison…and I want nothing to do with it,” England really only has one thought. And that is: so what?
So what, so what. There’s no one here to stop what he’s doing, and China, for the first time, looks so helpless. For once, all of the power is in England’s grasp, and he drinks it in, finding it more intoxicating than the drug they’re fighting over.
China may want nothing to do with it, but England isn’t going to give him a choice in the matter. After all, he’s felt the burn and bite of forced decisions before-with Rome, with the Normans, with his faithless colonies. China, who has been around since time immeasurable, cannot be bested by many. But England is tired of being one in a crowd.
So China can say what he will, but it doesn’t change the facts. And England tells him so.
“Really? My traders are reporting a tidy profit from you.” And the riches feel almost as good as the power.
“An illegal profit-”
England barely manages to suppress the laugh when it rises up from the depths of his throat. As nations, they know best that a law is only as good as how enforced it is. And the Chinese wealth lining his pockets tell him that the great old nation can say what he will, but England is still making money, and China is still becoming hopelessly addicted.
He watches idly as China shifts his head, tries to regain his bearings. It’s almost cute. The elder nation’s eyes are slim and dark, like an underwater grotto. His lashes are thick and dark enough to give him the appearance of a young girl-but England’s not making that mistake again.
But what he cannot understand is why the old man won’t just cooperate with him. England hasn’t done anything overly antagonistic, or at least he hadn’t until today. But thousands of years of life have given China the stubbornness of a mule-an old, sly, conniving mule. One that doesn’t know what’s good for it.
England’s carefully aloof exterior cracks for a moment as pure rage surges through him; he clenches his fists as he schools his lips back into a calm, condescending half-smile.
“Well, the sum would be tidier if you didn’t restrict my activities to Canton.” True. “For you as well.” Doubly so. “Level all the tariffs and taxes on me you like, just open your ports.” And help us both get rich and inundated with sin.
Many take the elegance of England’s speech and manner for effeteness. They look at his small, lean stature and see someone restricted to one island, one who could be easily manipulated or dominated. Or at least, they used to. For England has made it his mission to prove his dominance; he has spent years expanding his influence and crushing such notions under the heels of his delicately pointed boots.
So now it is that elegance that England utilizes as he draws the long match from an inner pocket and traces it lightly along the lines of China’s face, mockingly tapping the other nation on the nose. He can feel China attempt to recoil, but his men have done their work well. China is effectively trapped, a prisoner in his own land.
Suddenly the match alone doesn’t seem like enough. So England takes his work-scarred hands and gently presses them against China’s cheeks and temples, enjoying the disgusted, resigned wariness lurking in the other nation’s eyes.
And then he realizes the best way to conquer that all-abiding spirit.
England glances idly at his surroundings, mirroring China’s line of sight as eyes wander about the room. When China sees it, when his eyes rest on it, England’s lips pull upwards into a gently mocking smile.
The bowl is blue, made, ironically, of china. The white ivory pipe that rests atop it is long and beautifully crafted; the finest money can buy. So when England reaches for them, and twirls the pipe between his fingers, and gently lifts the lid of the box, all he can think it-sometimes even the plans I devise myself seem almost too perfect.
He tips the match into the lamp, watching as the flame catches. Though his back is turned to China, his voice carries: “The design’s ingenious-such precision. Enough heat to vaporize, but not enough to burn.”
He would like very much to master such precision. To hold absolute power, like the all-consuming heat of a flame, but to be able to control and temper it to fit his will. As it stands, he has the power but not the temperance. He can destroy but not control. And, when all is said and done, he doesn’t want to destroy China. He wants the man to break under his will and submit.
“I’ve long admired your artistry in such things, you know.” Why not admit it? The more China knows England’s respect and admiration for him, the more it will scar the elder when England comes out on top.
He turns back to China and gives his men an imperceptible nod. They lean forward and draw China’s lips away from his teeth with rough fingers. England smiles, looking down at the eldest nation left on earth. He’s onyx and opal-dark hair and luminous skin, a young face with an ancient soul. A tantalizing blend of contrasts that has England’s heart beating faster in anticipation.
Finally, against the many forces weighing him down, China manages to snarl, “What does artistry matter to you?”
He’ll admit he’s never been much of an artist, not when compared to France and Italy. His painters tend to take a more realistic view of the world; they capture with photorealism things that aren’t necessarily plain to see. No, England will never see in the abstract; he will never be considered “artsy.” He has always thought of himself as more of a scientist, anyhow. But that doesn’t mean he can’t admire another’s work.
Two ornate characters twine around the blue box in chalky white porcelain. Barely hearing China’s last words, England murmurs, idly, “And these pipe-bowls, well, that’s artistry of a different kind. What do you call the design on this?”
He turns around, now, making the movement slow and deliberate. China’s dark eyes are glaring at him, an intense myriad of emotions that must come from years of experience. He sees the other nation’s jaw clenching, but before China can bite down, England cups his chin in his long, tapering fingers. He traces the line of China’s jaw with precision, basking it every minute detail: the curve of his lips, the brief indentation underneath his long, proud nose, the line where his brows draw together in worry and thought.
“It’s lovely,” England says at length, “whatever it signifies. I do appreciate what you have to offer, China. I just wish you’d offer more of it.”
Or offer any of it, at all. For China has been greedy with his knowledge and beauty for far too long, sequestering himself in the vastness of his lands and hoarding what he has. Could anyone blame England for wanting a piece of it? He has always been an island, isolated by geography and united to the rest of the world through his own efforts. And China? He’s just the opposite. Vast lands connected to everyone from Russia to Turkey, and yet cut off by choice.
“Keep him still,” England snaps, as he sees China’s muscles tense in preparation for yet more resistance. The Englishmen knock China forward, and he tumbles towards the table in a pathetic imitation of the old man he should be. The soldier catch him an instant before he sends the oil lamp tumbling; England reaches out involuntarily to steady it. “Come now,” he says, patting China lightly on the cheek. “Don’t make this hard on yourself.”
Now is finally the time, he decides. He pulls the pipe forward just as the soldiers nudge China a little closer. England reaches forward and pinches the other nation’s nose closed, as China sputters and gasps for breath. He struggles for a moment as the slow, sleepy smoke washes over his face, but England gently massages his fingers over China’s throat, so that eventually the other man swallows convulsively.
“There, there. The first time is always the most difficult.” Not that he would know. He’s interested in the stuff purely for its monetary value; he’s decided to stick to alcohol for all intoxicating purposes.
England dismisses his men with a nod and then sits back, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. It’s amusing, to watch him struggle. China rears back in disgust, his nostrils flaring in distaste as soon as England lets go. But, of course, this only allows more of the smoke to invade his system. He hacks on it, coughing it out, but within a few moments it has entered into him, hitting his lungs. England watches as China’s pupils expand and his eyes grow misty; he can only imagine the sensations, as even he’s never inhaled so much of the stuff before.
He continues to watch, idle now, as China’s limbs go limp and his head lolls. His eyes wander around the room, not focusing on anything, but keeping the other nation in his corner sight until he deems China drugged enough to be passive and malleable. Only then does he gently pry China’s lips off of the pipe and set it down on the table.
China’s teeth chatter, and he gazes outwards with unseeing eyes. England frowns lightly; perhaps he’s overdone it, a bit. Because the sight of such a strong nation so reduced before him is a bit unnerving. The mighty may fall, but that means the same can happen to the ones who push them down.
England shakes his head as though to dispel such unpleasant thoughts and leans forward again. He gently tugs the silken collar way from China’s throat and presses his lips to the spot instead, his breath hot on China’s shivering, oversensitive skin.
“The ports, China.” His lips form the shape of the words against China’s skin, and he can feel the other man snap back to awareness and try to pull away. But China’s far too sunk into that lovely little drug to resist when one of England’s hands digs into his scalp and pulls him closer; he probably hardly knows what’s happening as England bites down on reddened skin.
China’s mouth opens and shuts convulsively, he’s gasping for air as though he’s drowning. England presses his fingers to China’s cheeks and whispers, with more intensity than he’s had the whole while, “Open for me, won’t you?”
The response he’s given is neither affirmative nor fully pronounced. England scowls for an instant before the idle smile returns to his lips. He braces one of his hands against the small of China’s back and clutches the other man’s shoulder with the other, pulling China to his feet. He staggers and falls against England, his chin coming to rest on England’s shoulder.
England’s eyes flash like China’s beloved jade as he gently strokes China’s hair and whispers in his ear, “Progress, China. It’s all a matter of progress.”
→ as stated above, the concept of this fic isn’t mine. it’s based almost exactly around puella_nerdii’s amazing fic. in fact, the only difference between the two is that mine is from england’s point of view. all of the dialogue comes from the original fic, as well.
→ like the original, this war is set around the end of the fist opium war.
→ the chinese proverb that the original fic was titled after is “there are never enough blessings, and always too many troubles.” it seemed apt to name my remix of the fic after the second part.
thank you so much for participating, puella_nerdii, because i absolutely adored reading through all of your work! i had a really difficult time deciding what to do for you, but i hope the end result turned out well and that you enjoy it! &hearts
in which the first opium war ends.
written based off of puella_nerdii’s never enough blessings for the hetaliaremix exchange.
Too Many Troubles
Those who believe he enjoys what he does are grossly mistaken. He fulfills his duties with a compulsive desire that has always burned within him but has only recently been given an outlet in the form of these wars, these conquests. And now, he is determined-or something within him has determined-to make the greatest conquest of all.
So when China glares up at him through a fringe of bangs that were neater before he was tied down, and clenches his teeth and spits out “It is a poison…and I want nothing to do with it,” England really only has one thought. And that is: so what?
So what, so what. There’s no one here to stop what he’s doing, and China, for the first time, looks so helpless. For once, all of the power is in England’s grasp, and he drinks it in, finding it more intoxicating than the drug they’re fighting over.
China may want nothing to do with it, but England isn’t going to give him a choice in the matter. After all, he’s felt the burn and bite of forced decisions before-with Rome, with the Normans, with his faithless colonies. China, who has been around since time immeasurable, cannot be bested by many. But England is tired of being one in a crowd.
So China can say what he will, but it doesn’t change the facts. And England tells him so.
“Really? My traders are reporting a tidy profit from you.” And the riches feel almost as good as the power.
“An illegal profit-”
England barely manages to suppress the laugh when it rises up from the depths of his throat. As nations, they know best that a law is only as good as how enforced it is. And the Chinese wealth lining his pockets tell him that the great old nation can say what he will, but England is still making money, and China is still becoming hopelessly addicted.
He watches idly as China shifts his head, tries to regain his bearings. It’s almost cute. The elder nation’s eyes are slim and dark, like an underwater grotto. His lashes are thick and dark enough to give him the appearance of a young girl-but England’s not making that mistake again.
But what he cannot understand is why the old man won’t just cooperate with him. England hasn’t done anything overly antagonistic, or at least he hadn’t until today. But thousands of years of life have given China the stubbornness of a mule-an old, sly, conniving mule. One that doesn’t know what’s good for it.
England’s carefully aloof exterior cracks for a moment as pure rage surges through him; he clenches his fists as he schools his lips back into a calm, condescending half-smile.
“Well, the sum would be tidier if you didn’t restrict my activities to Canton.” True. “For you as well.” Doubly so. “Level all the tariffs and taxes on me you like, just open your ports.” And help us both get rich and inundated with sin.
Many take the elegance of England’s speech and manner for effeteness. They look at his small, lean stature and see someone restricted to one island, one who could be easily manipulated or dominated. Or at least, they used to. For England has made it his mission to prove his dominance; he has spent years expanding his influence and crushing such notions under the heels of his delicately pointed boots.
So now it is that elegance that England utilizes as he draws the long match from an inner pocket and traces it lightly along the lines of China’s face, mockingly tapping the other nation on the nose. He can feel China attempt to recoil, but his men have done their work well. China is effectively trapped, a prisoner in his own land.
Suddenly the match alone doesn’t seem like enough. So England takes his work-scarred hands and gently presses them against China’s cheeks and temples, enjoying the disgusted, resigned wariness lurking in the other nation’s eyes.
And then he realizes the best way to conquer that all-abiding spirit.
England glances idly at his surroundings, mirroring China’s line of sight as eyes wander about the room. When China sees it, when his eyes rest on it, England’s lips pull upwards into a gently mocking smile.
The bowl is blue, made, ironically, of china. The white ivory pipe that rests atop it is long and beautifully crafted; the finest money can buy. So when England reaches for them, and twirls the pipe between his fingers, and gently lifts the lid of the box, all he can think it-sometimes even the plans I devise myself seem almost too perfect.
He tips the match into the lamp, watching as the flame catches. Though his back is turned to China, his voice carries: “The design’s ingenious-such precision. Enough heat to vaporize, but not enough to burn.”
He would like very much to master such precision. To hold absolute power, like the all-consuming heat of a flame, but to be able to control and temper it to fit his will. As it stands, he has the power but not the temperance. He can destroy but not control. And, when all is said and done, he doesn’t want to destroy China. He wants the man to break under his will and submit.
“I’ve long admired your artistry in such things, you know.” Why not admit it? The more China knows England’s respect and admiration for him, the more it will scar the elder when England comes out on top.
He turns back to China and gives his men an imperceptible nod. They lean forward and draw China’s lips away from his teeth with rough fingers. England smiles, looking down at the eldest nation left on earth. He’s onyx and opal-dark hair and luminous skin, a young face with an ancient soul. A tantalizing blend of contrasts that has England’s heart beating faster in anticipation.
Finally, against the many forces weighing him down, China manages to snarl, “What does artistry matter to you?”
He’ll admit he’s never been much of an artist, not when compared to France and Italy. His painters tend to take a more realistic view of the world; they capture with photorealism things that aren’t necessarily plain to see. No, England will never see in the abstract; he will never be considered “artsy.” He has always thought of himself as more of a scientist, anyhow. But that doesn’t mean he can’t admire another’s work.
Two ornate characters twine around the blue box in chalky white porcelain. Barely hearing China’s last words, England murmurs, idly, “And these pipe-bowls, well, that’s artistry of a different kind. What do you call the design on this?”
He turns around, now, making the movement slow and deliberate. China’s dark eyes are glaring at him, an intense myriad of emotions that must come from years of experience. He sees the other nation’s jaw clenching, but before China can bite down, England cups his chin in his long, tapering fingers. He traces the line of China’s jaw with precision, basking it every minute detail: the curve of his lips, the brief indentation underneath his long, proud nose, the line where his brows draw together in worry and thought.
“It’s lovely,” England says at length, “whatever it signifies. I do appreciate what you have to offer, China. I just wish you’d offer more of it.”
Or offer any of it, at all. For China has been greedy with his knowledge and beauty for far too long, sequestering himself in the vastness of his lands and hoarding what he has. Could anyone blame England for wanting a piece of it? He has always been an island, isolated by geography and united to the rest of the world through his own efforts. And China? He’s just the opposite. Vast lands connected to everyone from Russia to Turkey, and yet cut off by choice.
“Keep him still,” England snaps, as he sees China’s muscles tense in preparation for yet more resistance. The Englishmen knock China forward, and he tumbles towards the table in a pathetic imitation of the old man he should be. The soldier catch him an instant before he sends the oil lamp tumbling; England reaches out involuntarily to steady it. “Come now,” he says, patting China lightly on the cheek. “Don’t make this hard on yourself.”
Now is finally the time, he decides. He pulls the pipe forward just as the soldiers nudge China a little closer. England reaches forward and pinches the other nation’s nose closed, as China sputters and gasps for breath. He struggles for a moment as the slow, sleepy smoke washes over his face, but England gently massages his fingers over China’s throat, so that eventually the other man swallows convulsively.
“There, there. The first time is always the most difficult.” Not that he would know. He’s interested in the stuff purely for its monetary value; he’s decided to stick to alcohol for all intoxicating purposes.
England dismisses his men with a nod and then sits back, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. It’s amusing, to watch him struggle. China rears back in disgust, his nostrils flaring in distaste as soon as England lets go. But, of course, this only allows more of the smoke to invade his system. He hacks on it, coughing it out, but within a few moments it has entered into him, hitting his lungs. England watches as China’s pupils expand and his eyes grow misty; he can only imagine the sensations, as even he’s never inhaled so much of the stuff before.
He continues to watch, idle now, as China’s limbs go limp and his head lolls. His eyes wander around the room, not focusing on anything, but keeping the other nation in his corner sight until he deems China drugged enough to be passive and malleable. Only then does he gently pry China’s lips off of the pipe and set it down on the table.
China’s teeth chatter, and he gazes outwards with unseeing eyes. England frowns lightly; perhaps he’s overdone it, a bit. Because the sight of such a strong nation so reduced before him is a bit unnerving. The mighty may fall, but that means the same can happen to the ones who push them down.
England shakes his head as though to dispel such unpleasant thoughts and leans forward again. He gently tugs the silken collar way from China’s throat and presses his lips to the spot instead, his breath hot on China’s shivering, oversensitive skin.
“The ports, China.” His lips form the shape of the words against China’s skin, and he can feel the other man snap back to awareness and try to pull away. But China’s far too sunk into that lovely little drug to resist when one of England’s hands digs into his scalp and pulls him closer; he probably hardly knows what’s happening as England bites down on reddened skin.
China’s mouth opens and shuts convulsively, he’s gasping for air as though he’s drowning. England presses his fingers to China’s cheeks and whispers, with more intensity than he’s had the whole while, “Open for me, won’t you?”
The response he’s given is neither affirmative nor fully pronounced. England scowls for an instant before the idle smile returns to his lips. He braces one of his hands against the small of China’s back and clutches the other man’s shoulder with the other, pulling China to his feet. He staggers and falls against England, his chin coming to rest on England’s shoulder.
England’s eyes flash like China’s beloved jade as he gently strokes China’s hair and whispers in his ear, “Progress, China. It’s all a matter of progress.”
→ as stated above, the concept of this fic isn’t mine. it’s based almost exactly around puella_nerdii’s amazing fic. in fact, the only difference between the two is that mine is from england’s point of view. all of the dialogue comes from the original fic, as well.
→ like the original, this war is set around the end of the fist opium war.
→ the chinese proverb that the original fic was titled after is “there are never enough blessings, and always too many troubles.” it seemed apt to name my remix of the fic after the second part.
thank you so much for participating, puella_nerdii, because i absolutely adored reading through all of your work! i had a really difficult time deciding what to do for you, but i hope the end result turned out well and that you enjoy it! &hearts