Fifty Paper Hearts [1a/30]
anonymous
October 6 2009, 02:16:24 UTC
Damn it, I know it's not a lot, but I figured I'd give you something, just to show that I am working on it. Everyone's free to join me in making little voodoo dolls of my teachers. Here's the (first 1/120th of the) fill.
Title: Fifty Paper Hearts Chapter: Flight 409, London to New York Notes: The story begins on August 14th, 2009. America and England have been in an established relationship for slightly over a year, although neither of them officially recognize it as a “relationship.” Similarly, the world is "technically" unaware of their relationship, but only because they haven’t openly told anyone yet. Comments, criticism, and suggestions gratefully accepted. ----- He was in a suit.
It was nothing particularly fancy, actually; simple black, but it looked awkward on him nonetheless, and out of the corners of his eyes he caught the occasional odd stare or double-take. If he’d looked twenty years older, he would have blended in perfectly with the crowds of businessmen disembarking, on their way to some swanky hotel in New York City with the best view of the streets below; if he’d been wearing anything else, he could have been a college student back from London, touring the United States with all the airs of the delinquent he’d once been. But he wasn’t either, and so he stood apart, oddly uncomfortable in the swirling chaos that was an airport, everyone so completely different and somehow exactly the same. People bustled around (why did everyone in New York move so fast?), and he took two steps forward, like he had a purpose, his reflection flashing on black glass, pale, nearly translucent. He chuckled. He almost looked like a ghost in these clothes.
(America was afraid of ghosts, his mind reminded him. Maybe that was why he wore the stupid suit in the first place.)
He stared for a moment at his reflection, halfway-transfixed at the way the glass made the black even blacker and tinted his hair a dark that somehow managed to look impossibly pale, his fingers darting up reflexively to straighten a tie that didn’t need straightening. He didn’t wear black that often. It lightened his hair, bleached it a pale, nearly-white blond, and he looked colorless except for his eyes - dark smudges of green. They were an ugly color, he thought, mossy and dark and on those nights where he stood in front of the mirror and just looked at himself and wondered if he’d look the same if he were mortal, human, he thought it was the only thing about him that really might have been so many thousands of years old even he had forgotten.
He hesitated, hovering a moment, before dropping his hand. The motion was awkward, like the rest of him; it fit the scene, a man that looked barely in his twenties in a suit more befitting the old men with balding hair and graying sideburns swarming around him, a boy looking at his reflection. Dark glass, and he looked so apart. So distant.
Maybe the thing that really separated him was the fact that he was alone.
Idiot. He was such an idiot.
Was he even talking about America any more?
(And there were strong arms around him, drawing him backwards and into an equally strong chest, and for a moment he was eclipsed by the warring sensations of warmth that wrapped around him - drew him back into a daze that reminded him too much entirely of waking from a long, long sleep - and electricity, the hidden, coiled power of the not entirely-human one behind him. And he half-turned - and there was something that was like the sun and the sky and America all at once.
He smiled. Just a tiny bit, but it was the way it always was; one for one, and his matched the smile above him so perfectly it didn’t have to split his face like the other's did.
“Hey, I missed you.”
“Missed you too. Git.”)
He opened his eyes again. Nothing.
Like he’d expected any different. ----- Dude I had to cut this so much you don't even know Haven't written in a while, much less in the past tense. In any case, I'll be back (hopefully this weekend) with the rest of the chapter.
Re: D: Are you still alive, anon?
anonymous
October 25 2009, 22:22:37 UTC
Ah - right now? Frantically studying for my Human Geo test *sweatdrops*. Don't worry, I'm going to finish this! And I am working on it. But I'm also a high school student who nearly had a nervous breakdown about her GPA, and I don't think I'll be able to update for about a week (in addition to what, the two weeks or so you've already waited?)
Re: Fifty Paper Hearts [1a/30]
anonymous
February 11 2012, 14:25:40 UTC
Super late but but but... is this ever gonna be finished? :'I
Because I'm on the floor about to do epic France-esque handkerchief frustration biting if it isn't. Because I REAAAAALLY like this.
A lot.
Not wanting to be a nag but I'm seriously going to wail if this never finishes. (O-Or I could also write my own fill for it to satiate my own need to read this b-but that's besides the point!)
Title: Fifty Paper Hearts
Chapter: Flight 409, London to New York
Notes: The story begins on August 14th, 2009. America and England have been in an established relationship for slightly over a year, although neither of them officially recognize it as a “relationship.” Similarly, the world is "technically" unaware of their relationship, but only because they haven’t openly told anyone yet. Comments, criticism, and suggestions gratefully accepted.
-----
He was in a suit.
It was nothing particularly fancy, actually; simple black, but it looked awkward on him nonetheless, and out of the corners of his eyes he caught the occasional odd stare or double-take. If he’d looked twenty years older, he would have blended in perfectly with the crowds of businessmen disembarking, on their way to some swanky hotel in New York City with the best view of the streets below; if he’d been wearing anything else, he could have been a college student back from London, touring the United States with all the airs of the delinquent he’d once been. But he wasn’t either, and so he stood apart, oddly uncomfortable in the swirling chaos that was an airport, everyone so completely different and somehow exactly the same. People bustled around (why did everyone in New York move so fast?), and he took two steps forward, like he had a purpose, his reflection flashing on black glass, pale, nearly translucent. He chuckled. He almost looked like a ghost in these clothes.
(America was afraid of ghosts, his mind reminded him. Maybe that was why he wore the stupid suit in the first place.)
He stared for a moment at his reflection, halfway-transfixed at the way the glass made the black even blacker and tinted his hair a dark that somehow managed to look impossibly pale, his fingers darting up reflexively to straighten a tie that didn’t need straightening. He didn’t wear black that often. It lightened his hair, bleached it a pale, nearly-white blond, and he looked colorless except for his eyes - dark smudges of green. They were an ugly color, he thought, mossy and dark and on those nights where he stood in front of the mirror and just looked at himself and wondered if he’d look the same if he were mortal, human, he thought it was the only thing about him that really might have been so many thousands of years old even he had forgotten.
He hesitated, hovering a moment, before dropping his hand. The motion was awkward, like the rest of him; it fit the scene, a man that looked barely in his twenties in a suit more befitting the old men with balding hair and graying sideburns swarming around him, a boy looking at his reflection. Dark glass, and he looked so apart. So distant.
Maybe the thing that really separated him was the fact that he was alone.
Idiot. He was such an idiot.
Was he even talking about America any more?
(And there were strong arms around him, drawing him backwards and into an equally strong chest, and for a moment he was eclipsed by the warring sensations of warmth that wrapped around him - drew him back into a daze that reminded him too much entirely of waking from a long, long sleep - and electricity, the hidden, coiled power of the not entirely-human one behind him. And he half-turned - and there was something that was like the sun and the sky and America all at once.
He smiled. Just a tiny bit, but it was the way it always was; one for one, and his matched the smile above him so perfectly it didn’t have to split his face like the other's did.
“Hey, I missed you.”
“Missed you too. Git.”)
He opened his eyes again. Nothing.
Like he’d expected any different.
-----
Dude I had to cut this so much you don't even know Haven't written in a while, much less in the past tense. In any case, I'll be back (hopefully this weekend) with the rest of the chapter.
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Can't wait for the next part, anon!
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recaptcha: rubier Aaron? Who's Aaron, captcha?
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d-d'aww. Poor Artie. )': I anxiously await the rest, dear authornon!
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*stalks this fill*
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Sorry! Sorry! I really am trying.
-Author!Anon
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Because I'm on the floor about to do epic France-esque handkerchief frustration biting if it isn't. Because I REAAAAALLY like this.
A lot.
Not wanting to be a nag but I'm seriously going to wail if this never finishes. (O-Or I could also write my own fill for it to satiate my own need to read this b-but that's besides the point!)
;____;
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