Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED

[hetalia_kink]

Thanks to anon's suggestions we are now enforcing a past-part fills post

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The only time we waste... [1/?]

[anonymous]

When Matthew entreats the so-called fairies of the wish-granting cheery tree for relief, the pain in his chest is a dull ache. He thinks about all the things he would have liked to do, about the person he would have liked to become if he was a bit stronger, a bit braver.

He wishes he was never born, that he never existed it in the first place. Not that that would have made that much difference, most nations acted as if he did not exist anyway.

He closes his eyes and it is dark, like the feeling over being swallowed by his brother’s shadow. He will never get out of that place now and he thinks that‘s alright because Alfred can represent the both of them now. He is tired of no one acknowledging his existence, of no one caring. He is tired of it all.

As he closes his eyes, he wishes fervently on the cherry tree and, for a second, it feels as if he is floating. .

XX

When he wakes up he is on his back, on a cold stone floor that smells of faintly of ale. Matthew groans and lifts his head, finding himself in a traditional pub, dimly lit by amber bulbs that cast an orange glow on the chipped oak furniture.

How embarrassing to get so drunk that he fell unconscious. He will not even touch the weird dreams about cherry tress and fairies that live in said cherry tree who grant people’s wishes. He wonders how many nations saw him embarrass himself like that but then he remember that no one would have noticed anyway.

Shakily, Matthew climbs to his feet, using a bulkily carved table for support. The pub is empty save for a diligent barman wiping glasses behind the counter and a customer in a toga.

Great, so his fellow nations forgot about him for long enough to leave him passed out on the floor until closing time. Figures.

He looks around nervously, trying to recall when he arrived at the pub and whatever for. He did not usually enjoy loud parties. Maybe Alfred dragged him along, if Alfred remembered to drag him along, Matthew bitterly notes.

He checks his eyesight - perfect - his hearing is sharp too. He gazes around the pub one last time and his eyes fall on the toga-wearing customer.

The toga wearing customer with wings.

It is definitely not cosplay. Matthew can see the point where feathery white wings break from the skin of the man’s back. Occasionally, they twitch in the air; sensitive to cold, heat, anger, annoyance and The Beatles, who are playing Lucy in the sky with Diamonds from the speakers in the walls.

Their eyes meet across the space of the pub and the customer beckons him over. “There you are! I’ve been waiting ages for you!”

“A - Arthur?” Matthew stumbles back. The man has exactly the same green eyes, the same thick eyebrows, the same sandy hair as that stormy nation.

The man scowls at him and snaps; “No, I’m not England, I’m Britannia angel! Britannia angel, got it?”

“B - Britannia angel,” Matthew repeats shakily, wondering if he is still dreaming and in reality Alfred is decorating his unconscious face with a permanent marker moustache.

“That’s right, Matthew,” Britannia angel looks pacified. “Do you know why you’re here?”