I have no idea if this has been requested before, but I've never seen anything like that, so...
It's kind of a fact that Poland's a crossdresser, right? But, what if he's not crossdressing when he's wearing girl's clothes, but when she's wearing boy's clothes? For whatever reason, she's been hiding it, and nobody suspected seriously until... something, you can make it up.
BONUS: Only Hungary knew, 'cause they're bffs and all that BONUS #2: Only Russia knew~
The main reason it hasn't been finished is because I have no idea what to title the damn thing. The filename is 'motherrussia.txt', but Russia is a subsidiary character; mostly this is about Poland and, uh, some other people who identity will be revealed in due course. Title suggestions very gratefully accepted. I have researched this far more than it deserves; if I misrepresent international relations, my apologies, and if you let me know I'll try to correct it in the final draft. Sorry for how rambling and meta this is, it just sort of . . . grew.
as-yet-untitled [2/?]
anonymous
February 5 2010, 16:05:58 UTC
The night of May 1 was damp but clear in Warsaw, and they made their way to the Royal Castle in ones and twos, in fine evening clothes or neat suits or traditional ethnic clothing, depending on their temprament. Germany had worn a tuxedo. He was somehow unsuprised that England had just arrived in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches that he'd owned at least since 1932.
"Ah, I see my attempts to instill a sense of fashion in Angleterre have yet to bear fruit," France stage-whispered to him. In English. Germany did not allow his wince to show. France was in a new suit, of course, with a shirt that made up for its feminine detailing by its brilliant red colour. England glanced at them, then ostentatiously turned away, making a beeline for the corner where America, Canada, Switzerland, and Japan were still setting up their instruments
( ... )
as-yet-untitled [3/?]
anonymous
February 5 2010, 16:08:07 UTC
Four minutes to midnight, and France starts banging on his glass to get everyone's attention. England eyes the room dubiously over his champagne. "Can I get our guests of honour up here?" France is saying, waving vaugely at the windows. Outside, the revelers in the street are cheerfully butchering 'All You Need Is Love'. England supposes it's better than the Polish national anthem, given that the Polish national anthem specifically mentions kicking Sweden's arse, and Sweden is currently leaning against the statue of Atlas, cuddling Finland, looking very content, probably very drunk
( ... )
as-yet-untitled [4/?]
anonymous
February 5 2010, 16:08:57 UTC
The quartet breaks into a cheerful mazurka. They are officially part of the European Union. Lithuania doesn't feel any different, but the thought is pleasant.
Ireland, of course, has grabbed Poland to open the dancing. The way their skirts spin out is really quite beautiful. He could watch it all night.
A hand on his shoulder, and he fliches instictively, but the hand isn't big enough to be Russia. Russia wasn't invited, nobody wants him, this is for the Union, even Lichtenstein only got in as somebody's date. He turns, schooling his features to a smile. "Hello, Denmark."
"Hi." Denmark beams. "You just gonna sit and watch? This is your big night!"
Well, when he puts it like that . . .
It's probably the alcohol making him blush, Lithuania decides, but Denmark hasn't stepped on his toes once and the grin is infectuous. He's happy. He can't remember the last time he was this happy. 1990 should have been, but he was so exhausted and strung out and cold, and it took so long to settle things. 1918, maybe, that came close. But really,
( ... )
as-yet-untitled [5a/?]
anonymous
February 5 2010, 16:09:53 UTC
Ah, England. Hungary smiles at him, showing her teeth. The music lurches, but doesn't stop - America and Canada and Japan are all used to England's strangeness, and Switzerland too stubborn to be put off.
"Hello?" Hands on hips, Poland swings out of Hungary's arms. "What was that?"
And now everyone can see.
"Those things!" England is pointing at Poland's chest, and there's the oddest expression on his face. South Italy, who he'd been walzting with, winces elaborately and takes a few steps away. "Since when have you had - breasts?" Okay, he's sober enough not to swear when he thinks about it.
"Since, like, the seventeenth century." Poland waves a hand. "But they only got this big in the 90s. Yay for economic restructuring, right? I, like, got a lot taller, too. Guess I'm just a late bloomer."
"You're female?" Germany's voice is uncharacteristically strangled, and he's let go of Spain. Spain and South Italy trade exasperated, dismayed looks, then turn as one and head for the bar.
"Duh? Polska?" Poland does that I-share-a-
( ... )
as-yet-untitled [5b/?]
anonymous
February 5 2010, 16:10:11 UTC
"Of course I did. I found her a dress for the ball." Hungary permits herself to beam. Poland had said she was just so sick of keeping up the pretense, and anyway, it'd be fun to watch their reactions, and this was supposed to be a new day in their history, so why not start fresh? And she asked Hungary to find a dress that showed off her cleavage. Hungary knew the unspoken reason - if Hungary picked her outfit, it would be that much harder to pick something ambiguous, and maybe lose her nerve. Hungary pats Poland's shoulder, and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Coming out is never easy
( ... )
as-yet-untitled [6a/?]
anonymous
February 5 2010, 16:12:18 UTC
It's kind of funny listening to them try to figure out who the two are. France keeps trying to surreptitiously feel North Italy's chest, and North Italy keeps blushing and slapping his hand away with a high-pitched squeak, which isn't helping his case, really. North Italy's a guy, Poland has seen him naked, but she figures everyone will wonder now. Hey, maybe the rest of the girls will grow some balls - well, metaphorical balls - and admit it. She almost feels bad for outing Russia, but Russia's been a dick to her often enough she figures it counts as revenge. And besides, it was obvious. A Russian man should have a beard. Plus the whole Mother Russia thing - okay, England was right, that's not proof, but it should at least suggest something, right
( ... )
as-yet-untitled [6b/?]
anonymous
February 5 2010, 16:13:18 UTC
"Liet told me."
Liet's blush isn't nearly so deep as America's. Why is America - oooh. Oooh. Oh, this is going to be so fun to tease him for, and Poland makes a mental note to bring up American-Russian relations at the next NATO meeting. Liet waves a hand frantically. "It's not like that we haven't not for a century and it's not like we were really a couple - Are you coming to Dublin tomorrow? Well, later today." It's almost funny how frantic he is to change the subject.
"Nah, it's really a European thing, isn't it? And you guys have been getting all pissy about me sticking my nose where it doesn't belong." America grins as if this doesn't hurt his feelings at all and he doesn't care what Europe thinks. Only his downcast eyes betray him. Poland feels a little sorry for him, really. He's trying so hard. "Actually, I was gonna go to Moscow. I really should now - man, this just puts that time Russia said he wanted to throw me against the wall and fuck me raw in a whole new light. Uh. Said she wanted, I guess
( ... )
OP says oh my god~
anonymous
February 5 2010, 19:07:50 UTC
Author, you have no idea how excited I was when I saw this had been filled - I mean, even if you didn't write it for my prompt, it's just so nice of you to share it
( ... )
All Together Now [7/?]
anonymous
February 5 2010, 20:47:37 UTC
[Thank you to everyone for your kind comments, and espdcially to the anon with the title suggestion. I hope this continuees to entertain.]
*
North Italy has a mostly-full glass of champagne, but that doesn't stop him throwing his arms around South Italy as the quartet launches into another lively waltz. "Hey, hey," he says with an impatient tug. "Come on, dance with me."
"One dance. And only if you get rid of the glass. I don't want champagne all over my suit."
"Okay!" he declares, and tilts his head back to swallow the rest in one gulp. That was not what South Italy meant, but it's hard to deal with a brother so gleefully clueless. Sometimes South Italy wonders if it's all a grand act, if one day North Italy will cheerfully declare, 'Okay! Time for the new empire! Come on, brother, the missles are in position and the whole world will have Rome for its capital tomorrow!' But nobody is that good an actor, and he's been like this since the 300s. He absently hands the empty glass to Slovakia, who blinks at it in confusion a few times
( ... )
Re: All Together Now [7/?]
anonymous
February 5 2010, 22:56:54 UTC
This is FABULOUS -- it's a fic I've always been wanting, except even better because you bring so much to it and do it so well. Eagerly awaiting the rest <3
It's kind of a fact that Poland's a crossdresser, right? But, what if he's not crossdressing when he's wearing girl's clothes, but when she's wearing boy's clothes? For whatever reason, she's been hiding it, and nobody suspected seriously until... something, you can make it up.
BONUS: Only Hungary knew, 'cause they're bffs and all that
BONUS #2: Only Russia knew~
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I started this several months ago in response to this dicussion on the comm: http://community.livejournal.com/hetalia/5144949.html It might not be exactly what you wanted, but I hope it's amusing.
The main reason it hasn't been finished is because I have no idea what to title the damn thing. The filename is 'motherrussia.txt', but Russia is a subsidiary character; mostly this is about Poland and, uh, some other people who identity will be revealed in due course. Title suggestions very gratefully accepted. I have researched this far more than it deserves; if I misrepresent international relations, my apologies, and if you let me know I'll try to correct it in the final draft. Sorry for how rambling and meta this is, it just sort of . . . grew.
Possibly helpful URLSWhat's going on: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2004_enlargement_of_the_European_Union... )
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The night of May 1 was damp but clear in Warsaw, and they made their way to the Royal Castle in ones and twos, in fine evening clothes or neat suits or traditional ethnic clothing, depending on their temprament. Germany had worn a tuxedo. He was somehow unsuprised that England had just arrived in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches that he'd owned at least since 1932.
"Ah, I see my attempts to instill a sense of fashion in Angleterre have yet to bear fruit," France stage-whispered to him. In English. Germany did not allow his wince to show. France was in a new suit, of course, with a shirt that made up for its feminine detailing by its brilliant red colour. England glanced at them, then ostentatiously turned away, making a beeline for the corner where America, Canada, Switzerland, and Japan were still setting up their instruments ( ... )
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Ireland, of course, has grabbed Poland to open the dancing. The way their skirts spin out is really quite beautiful. He could watch it all night.
A hand on his shoulder, and he fliches instictively, but the hand isn't big enough to be Russia. Russia wasn't invited, nobody wants him, this is for the Union, even Lichtenstein only got in as somebody's date. He turns, schooling his features to a smile. "Hello, Denmark."
"Hi." Denmark beams. "You just gonna sit and watch? This is your big night!"
Well, when he puts it like that . . .
It's probably the alcohol making him blush, Lithuania decides, but Denmark hasn't stepped on his toes once and the grin is infectuous. He's happy. He can't remember the last time he was this happy. 1990 should have been, but he was so exhausted and strung out and cold, and it took so long to settle things. 1918, maybe, that came close. But really, ( ... )
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"Hello?" Hands on hips, Poland swings out of Hungary's arms. "What was that?"
And now everyone can see.
"Those things!" England is pointing at Poland's chest, and there's the oddest expression on his face. South Italy, who he'd been walzting with, winces elaborately and takes a few steps away. "Since when have you had - breasts?" Okay, he's sober enough not to swear when he thinks about it.
"Since, like, the seventeenth century." Poland waves a hand. "But they only got this big in the 90s. Yay for economic restructuring, right? I, like, got a lot taller, too. Guess I'm just a late bloomer."
"You're female?" Germany's voice is uncharacteristically strangled, and he's let go of Spain. Spain and South Italy trade exasperated, dismayed looks, then turn as one and head for the bar.
"Duh? Polska?" Poland does that I-share-a- ( ... )
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Liet's blush isn't nearly so deep as America's. Why is America - oooh. Oooh. Oh, this is going to be so fun to tease him for, and Poland makes a mental note to bring up American-Russian relations at the next NATO meeting. Liet waves a hand frantically. "It's not like that we haven't not for a century and it's not like we were really a couple - Are you coming to Dublin tomorrow? Well, later today." It's almost funny how frantic he is to change the subject.
"Nah, it's really a European thing, isn't it? And you guys have been getting all pissy about me sticking my nose where it doesn't belong." America grins as if this doesn't hurt his feelings at all and he doesn't care what Europe thinks. Only his downcast eyes betray him. Poland feels a little sorry for him, really. He's trying so hard. "Actually, I was gonna go to Moscow. I really should now - man, this just puts that time Russia said he wanted to throw me against the wall and fuck me raw in a whole new light. Uh. Said she wanted, I guess ( ... )
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*
North Italy has a mostly-full glass of champagne, but that doesn't stop him throwing his arms around South Italy as the quartet launches into another lively waltz. "Hey, hey," he says with an impatient tug. "Come on, dance with me."
"One dance. And only if you get rid of the glass. I don't want champagne all over my suit."
"Okay!" he declares, and tilts his head back to swallow the rest in one gulp. That was not what South Italy meant, but it's hard to deal with a brother so gleefully clueless. Sometimes South Italy wonders if it's all a grand act, if one day North Italy will cheerfully declare, 'Okay! Time for the new empire! Come on, brother, the missles are in position and the whole world will have Rome for its capital tomorrow!' But nobody is that good an actor, and he's been like this since the 300s. He absently hands the empty glass to Slovakia, who blinks at it in confusion a few times ( ... )
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Hee, I love this a ton. Thank you so much!
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I really love your characterizations. And also, ee Spain and Romano this is adorable. ♥
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