Part VII, cont.
anonymous
November 30 2011, 04:41:22 UTC
Then, you must show him how you feel.
I’ve tried that, too. I tried that first, in fact, but he never got the hint. So that’s when I told him...
Ah.
You know, I think saying it out loud to him was the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. It would’ve been so much easier if he’d just see that I always try to treat him different from everybody else. It always works in the movies. I wish life were more like a movie. But even then you hifalutin Europeans would probably ruin it with your tragic endings. Sorry, but Americans will always prefer happy endings.
To let the meeting continue in such a manner would be highly undignified, so England stands and inquires if his fellow nations have looked over their agendas. The subsequent flurry of hand movement and paper shuffling answers his question. There are several housekeeping items they need to discuss regarding their new organization...
“Greece, are you awake? I say...Greece?”
France lightly pats Greece’s back. “One cannot blame him - he must be dreaming of when this dreadfully boring meeting is finally over.”
“Shut your gob, frog.”
“In fact,” France continues, “the more I hear you speak, Angleterre, the less likely I am to ever try invading you again. I would rather let you keep this lonely island of yours than have to put up with lectures like this every day.”
England angrily points a finger at France. “You just try invading again, you wine-loving tool, and you’ll see what happens.”
“Ah! Still such a sore spot, even after all these years, mon petit lapin?”
“You know, France,” Turkey says, scratching his stubbly cheek with his thumb, “I never did get the appeal of some ugly, rainy little island.”
“Hey, now…” America warns.
“Oh my God, I totally agree!” Poland chirps. “Like, why are we even having this meeting here? My place isn’t nearly as drab and boring.”
“It’s not drab and boring here,” America insists.
“Seriously, those are the only two words I think of when I think of England. Ugh. If it’s not drab and boring, then what is it?”
America shrugs. “It’s...nice here.”
Poland blinks. “Nice?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s so nice about it?”
America’s laugh is a little higher than normal, a little nervous. “Come on, man,” he implores, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and glancing around, “why are you Freuding me all of a sudden?”
“It is a simple question,” Norway interjects. “Try, if you can, to tell us why you like it here so much.”
“I...I just...”
Norway rolls his eyes. “England is still rationing. Please stop wasting air.”
Russia leans in toward Poland and smiles. “Next time, we should be having the meeting at my place. It is not so cold when you are sitting next to the fire, and people always smell so good sitting next to a fire.”
Part VII, cont.
anonymous
November 30 2011, 04:43:36 UTC
Don’t be discouraged. Fortune favors the bold! Be the hero you are always claiming to be! You could always do what big brother would do...
What’s that?
Get him alone with you in a broom closet and...non, on second thought, neither of you are ready for that just yet.
“Please, countries, focus,” England pleads, his head dully, steadily throbbing. “Can we please stay on track and pay attention to what’s really at hand here? What would our bosses say if they could hear us right now? With the way you lot are going on, it’s hard to believe we just clawed our way out of a world war - a second one, mind you.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Denmark cries, almost comically wounded. “We aren’t pretending the war didn’t happen or anything.”
“Yeah,” Poland agrees. “That would be totally disrespectful.”
“It’s just that…” Denmark bows his head. “We know what happened. We lived it, yeah? We lived it every single day for years. So…I think we’ve maybe earned the right to go back to our normal way of doing things.”
Poland’s ever-present smirk fades. “It’s one thing to accept what happened - and, oh my God, a lot happened - but it’s another to, like, dwell on it. We have to move on or else we’ll all go batshit crazy.”
In the ensuing silence, the nations somberly reflect not only on the devastation of their lands, but also on how many of their people, especially civilians, they lost during the war - a far greater tragedy to them. At this point, their governments’ official numbers of the dead can only be estimates; the unspoken assumption is that these numbers are far too low. Time heals all wounds, but for them, time will only cut the wounds deeper.
“I am sorry,” England says, his voice sincere. “I did not mean to imply - ”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Cuba interrupts. “This agenda says we’re supposed to talk about atomic energy? Like what was used in the bomb?”
“Yeah,” America says softly, thumbing the corner of his agenda. “Like what was used in the bomb…”
No other country dares speak as America’s voice trails off.
Except Russia. “I would like a bomb!”
“No, you wouldn’t,” America says. “Trust me.”
“No one tells my brother no,” Belarus hisses.
“Look, the agenda says we’re supposed to be outlining peaceful uses for atomic energy and making efforts to eliminate weapons of mass destruction from the world, and honestly, Russia, you ain’t been the most stable guy around the past few years...”
Belarus tilts her head to the side and smiles sweetly. “Do you touch yourself at night with your right hand or your left hand, America? Because that is the hand whose fingers I will start with first.”
Russia proclaims America a capitalist pig, America derides Russia as a commie, and Belarus declares America a dead man.
Belgium looks at England with pleading eyes. “I realize we were assigned seats alphabetically, but would it bother you greatly if I moved away from Belarus?”
Part VII, cont.
anonymous
November 30 2011, 04:45:40 UTC
You know...you guys are always putting him down and laughing at him, and yeah, sure, y’all have known him longer than me, but I think there’s a lot of things you all don’t know about him - a lot of things you guys don’t see in him.
I am so free with my opinions of him because we grew up together, mon cher! I know him better than most, though he will deny it. In fact...go, run and fetch your bottle and blanket. There is a story about Angleterre I think you should hear.
“Seriously, you guys,” Poland whines, “we’re not getting anything done. I could be doing so many other things.”
“Like what?” Russia asks.
Poland gives him a scathing look. “Like helping my people rebuild our country?” Contempt drips from every word.
Russia pats Poland’s head. “What an honorable little nation you are!” His eyes widen as he strokes Poland’s hair. “Such pretty hair,” he whispers. “I would like to be making blanket out of it one day.”
America throws up his hands. “Russia, man, enough! England, can’t you bar him from the meeting or something?”
Cuba grins. “Aw, does pobrecito always go crying to England?”
“No!”
“Actually...”
“Shut up, Canada, and stop taking his side on things. It’s getting annoying.”
“Hey ese, don’t you let that gringo bully you!”
Canada smiles at America. “So sorry, I forgot you don’t like to be interrupted. Must be a side effect from always interrupting everyone yourself.”
“It doesn’t bother me if they actually have something to contribute to the conversation. Gonna speak up and contribute for once, bro?”
“Well, you always do such a nice job of telling other countries what to think for them, so I probably don’t need to.”
“America, Canada,” England sighs, “please, keep your sibling squabbles to a minimum while in public.”
“He’s just jealous because people remember me, because I stand out in a crowd. And you know why, bro? Because I have personality, that’s why.”
“Amérique...”
Canada’s expression remains serenely passive. “The only reason you have a personality is because England raised you well and gave you one, you ass. Funny how now you hardly respect him at all.” He shrugs. “Maybe it’s just me, but I call bullshit.”
“That’s not true at all! I love - !”
Both America and England blush crimson, and neither looks at the other.
“ - I really love the way you can turn something around! How many times did I have to listen to you complain during the war that no one would recognize your accomplishments because they’d all go under England’s belt, hmm? And now you wanna say that I don’t respect him? That’s rich! Hello, pot? This is kettle calling, just wanted to introduce myself. Just admit that you weren’t hugged enough as a baby and get over it already! I can’t help that England and I - that he - that I - ”
Under the table, England kicks America’s leg so hard he will find a gloriously colored bruise there come morning.
Above the table, Poland asks Russia, “How long have you been braiding my hair?”
Part VII, cont.
anonymous
November 30 2011, 04:48:12 UTC
You see, Angleterre likes to pretend that he hates those around him, even myself, but the truth of the matter is that he cares too much. He has a way of attaching himself to a lucky few - if he allows himself to, and so long as they are never aware of it. I know, I know. I do not understand it either, but c’est la vie. Love is meant to be celebrated and shared, non? But the thing about dear Angleterre is that he is stubborn. As stubborn as a mule and twice as -
Wait, that’s it!
That’s what? What did I say?
“Belarus,” England says sometime later, “I am loath to ask this, but did you just throw a knife across the table?”
“That was no knife. That was a warning.”
He throws his head back. “Devil take it!”
“England?”
“Yes, Belgium?”
Belgium cannot hide the worry in her eyes. “This United Nations is supposed to replace the League of Nations, correct?”
“That is the intent, yes.”
“Do you think it will work this time, though? After all, the League was supposed to prevent the very war we just fought. I worry that history will repeat itself. It always does.”
“Yeah, man,” Turkey drawls. “How’re we supposed to know we’re not just wastin’ our time here? Or settin’ ourselves up for another war? I don’t wanna be part of something that’s just gonna assrape me in the end.”
“Surely the commitment to preventing war is always a noble endeavor?”
“You cannot argue Belgium’s point,” Norway counters. “We will never be without war.”
“I cannot make any promises,” England says, a little sad. “The League itself should stand as a testament to how embarrassing such lofty promises can become in just a generation’s time. But we have to try. And, I know what some of you may be thinking - that may sound out of character for me considering my history, but these past thirty years have certainly shown us that there is no longer any glory in war.”
Australia, who always smiles, doesn’t. “I think you live too much in the past, old man.”
“Yeah,” Denmark agrees. “This kind of stuffy, old-fashioned talk won’t work anymore. Sitting around in a room badmouthing war won’t stop it from creeping up on us, or stop us from falling into its bed. War may be a bitch, but it’s an awful nice lookin’ one at first. Think about it - there are times when we can feel the world has changed, am I right? This is another one of those times, and when the world changes, you have to change with it, yeah? To keep doing things the old-fashioned way just seems...silly. And not enough.”
“What is the point?” China asks. “We will never stop fighting each other. We have even been fighting with each other during this whole meeting!”
The silence in the room is oppressive. Everyone is uneasy because none of them have any answers - and certainly not the right answer.
America huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Guys, guys...come on, everyone, what’s with the doom and gloom?” He smiles warmly at all of them. “Doesn’t anyone here besides me believe in destiny? That fate brings people together at certain times for certain reasons? I think we all have a chance to turn this organization into something great and substantial, but like Poland and Denmark said, we can’t get lost in the past. We’ve got to allow it to teach us and make us better, not bitter.”
France smiles wistfully and rests his cheek on the back of his hand. “You surprise me with your maturity, Amérique, but sadly, the world does not spin on good intentions.”
Part VII, cont.
anonymous
November 30 2011, 04:49:32 UTC
“Well, you’re right there. And morality alone won’t deter aggression. I wasn’t part of the League, but I paid attention. We may have to take stronger stances on certain issues than the League did. There might be times when we have to use force, and not be afraid to use it. But there are things that are worth protecting at any cost.” He claps England on the shoulder. “Like England said, we have to at least try. If a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand, remember? One of my favorite presidents added on to that and said, ‘I do not expect the house to fall, but I do expect it will cease to be divided.’ That’s how I see the world, at any rate - a big house with lots of rooms and lots of families, but we bicker too much and don’t sit down together for Sunday dinner as often as we should. Together we can accomplish anything. Look to the stars, guys!”
The room is silent again, and America fears he has said something inappropriate or childish. But smiles break upon the other nations’ faces, a few even clap and holler, and America lets out the breath he has been holding. He turns and bestows upon England the biggest smile he can stretch his lips into. England smiles back.
“America,” Ukraine exclaims, “that was so beautiful!”
Here England half expects America to wink and utter some rot about “America the beautiful” - he’s done it before - but America thanks Ukraine sincerely, leans over and affectionately clasps her hand. The nations begin to chatter amongst themselves, some even rising from their seats to converse with those they are not sitting by. England is surprised to see America forgoing all this, choosing instead to sit alone. He picks up his pen and circles something on his agenda, and England notices there are several notes written in the margins, as well as other circled items.
What England realizes about America - what Arthur realizes about Alfred - is that he cannot remember him as being so serious. He most easily categorizes Alfred as obnoxious and loud, a jokester, a show off. He was very serious during the war, of course, but they all were. With a pang of guilt, Arthur wonders if he has not been giving Alfred enough credit. Alfred, after all, did not merely claim independence, he earned it, and the nation he raised up has yielded a great people. Alfred’s great experiment could never have succeeded were he anyone other than the person Arthur saw today.
Why, Arthur wonders, has he been so blind to this all these years? And if he’s not mistaken about this, then there might also be the possibility that Alfred really and truly does - maybe - perhaps -
Alfred looks up suddenly and catches Arthur staring at him. Arthur quickly turns his head away, his cheeks on fire, and does not see Alfred’s soft, barely-there smile.
Part VII, cont.
anonymous
November 30 2011, 04:51:56 UTC
Amérique, be careful. Don’t assume you can change him or his way of thinking. He has his reasons for thinking as he does, though we may not understand.
But see? That’s it! He probably does like me - he can be really sweet to me when he wants to be - he just thinks he’s got to hide it for some reason, maybe even from himself. I know I can make his life better if he’d just let me, if he just gave me a chance! Be bold, right?
That is not - ! Mon Dieu...
Heracles vomited after eating some of Yao’s snacks, though no one is sure whether this was due to a bad ingredient or his simply eating too many. Whatever the case may be, Arthur considers this as good a time as any for them to break for lunch.
He locates the janitorial closet and fills a bucket with soap and water. He hears the door click shut behind him as he turns off the tap, and turns to find himself alone with Alfred.
“Hullo, Alfred,” he mumbles.
“Arthur,” Alfred says, holding out upturned, empty hands, “I love you.”
Arthur does not allow his eyes to meet Alfred’s as he reaches for the mop. “So you’ve said.”
“Well, it’s as true now as it was when I first said it, but you can’t run away from me this time.”
“I do not run away!” Arthur shouts.
“What would you call it, then?” When Arthur does not give him an answer, Alfred continues: “It really hurt, whatever it was.”
“I did not mean to hurt you.”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
“Oh, come off it!” Arthur casually tosses the mop handle against the wall. “What would I possibly stand to gain from intentionally hurting you, Alfred?”
“I don’t know,” Alfred concedes, “but what I do know is that you hardly ever talk about your feelings - ”
“Vile, mutinous things,” Arthur mutters.
“ - and you lash out a lot, so...”
Arthur finds he has no wish to continue this conversation. “Move out of the way. Someone’s got to clean up that mess.”
“No.” Alfred widens his stance in front of the door, narrows his eyes.
“Well, now - a show of force, is it?” Arthur crosses his arms over his chest and smirks dangerously - dangerous because Alfred is unsure if Arthur actually wants to fight or if he’s just mocking him.
“That’s not - I wouldn’t - fuckin’ hell, Artie! Why do you always do that?!”
“Do what?”
“Try to fight somebody! Geez, that pisses me off so bad. Not everything is always a fight. Just...lay down your arms for once.”
Arthur laughs, but there is little humor in his eyes. “What would you have me do? If a person could change so easily, don’t you think I would have saved myself a world of grief and struggle and done it years ago?” He sighs, and he sounds tired, because he is. “You are waiting for a person who shall never exist, you stupid git.”
Alfred’s eyes widen and he takes a step toward Arthur. “Hey, this is progress! You’re not running away, and you didn’t yell at me.”
“I…” Arthur reaches out a hand toward Alfred, but stops - remembers himself, remembers who he is. He is an empire protected by walls on all sides, heavily fortified for a bloody good reason, thank you very much (build it up with stone so strong, stone so strong). Empires do not go gentle into that good night; they rage, rage.
He is not an empire. He is empire.
Arthur pulls his hand back, tightens it into a fist. “You are walking into subjects I have no wish to expound upon. If you’ll excuse me.” He grabs the bucket and the mop and makes to leave.
But Alfred reaches out his hand and gently laces his fingers around Arthur’s arm. His fingers do not force Arthur to stay; rather, they beg him not to leave. Alfred is not holding him back, and Arthur is not flinching away.
Part VII, cont.
anonymous
November 30 2011, 04:53:35 UTC
“You are very proud of yourself and proud of the things you have, but being proud is not the same as being happy,” he whispers. “You could be happy again, and that’s what I want to see more than anything, Artie. But…please don’t play with my feelings just because you’re unsure of your own. I need you - really need you - not to do that. Sometimes I think, ‘Hey, he’s acting like he likes me, maybe he wants to be with me, and I’m not that bad of a guy, right? We could have a cottage with a garden if he wanted, or a farm with chickens, even though I think that’s stupid because chickens are annoying as all get out, but I’d be willing to raise some stupid chickens if he really wanted them.’ But then...you can be so cruel sometimes, you know that?”
Alfred swallows thickly around the lump in his throat and lowers his fingers, his thumb coming to rest against Arthur’s wrist. Francis was right, and the hero is starting to falter: If he can’t change Arthur or his way of thinking, he’s unsure if he’s selfless enough to simply step aside and leave him be, especially since he knows Arthur deserves so much more.
A nasally voice fills the hall beyond the door and floats over to them (“Angleterre, is everything alright? What is taking you so long?”). The voice grows louder, the doorknob turns, and Francis pokes his head in.
“Do you need some help?” It only takes a moment before a shameless grin breaks across his face. “O-ho, what have I found here?” he squeals. “Maybe you do need some help, oui? Even numbers are overrated!”
“Go die, frog,” Arthur murmurs as he brushes past Francis and out of the closet.
Francis is a little disappointed and turns up his nose - Angleterre’s time-honored slur is lacking its usual sting. “His insults are as uninspired as his food and his fashion.”
He expects to hear Alfred chuckle or flash him a grin, but Alfred says nothing, only lets his head droop a little. Francis leans forward and peers up at him. “Poor, poor Amérique,” he sighs, and brushes some of Alfred’s hair out of his eyes. “Things did not go well, I take it.”
Alfred shakes his head and sniffs.
Francis Bonnefoy is of what one could politely describe as a theatrical nature; his love of romance only intensifies this disposition, his reputation enables it. He hears Alfred sniffling and imagines him gracelessly falling into his arms and sobbing about his unquenchable, unrequited love (which is to say, the very best kind of love).
“Oh, Francis!” Alfred would cry, “you can’t possibly understand because you are so handsome and sexy and no one could ever refuse you! All that is left for me now is to die of a broken heart, for my one true love has crushed mine into a million pieces! Oh, oh! Woe is me!”
“Hush now,” Francis would soothe, gently petting Alfred’s hair and rocking him back and forth, gallantly refusing to draw attention to the fact that Alfred is positively ruining his shirt with his tears, because there are matters of the heart at hand! And these are matters of the highest importance! “You are a handsome, sweet boy, and anyone would be lucky to call you their own!”
“But they wouldn’t be Arthur!”
“You are a beautiful, gorgeous butterfly,” Francis would say, grabbing Alfred’s face and forcing him to make eye contact. “Do not let him take that from you! Now go, butterfly! Spread your wings and fly!”
“No!” Alfred would shout, and violently throw himself against the wall, the back of his hand raised to his forehead. “If my love for Arthur is not meant to be, then I have nothing left to live for! I will end it all!” Alfred would make for the nearest window and try to throw himself out of it, and Francis would try to stop him, but alas, his effort will be in vain. And only then, when it is all too late, would Arthur realize his love for the boy, and tragically fall upon Alfred’s silk-lined coffin, sobbing, before bringing the vial of poison to his lips -
Part VII, cont. and notes
anonymous
November 30 2011, 04:56:41 UTC
But Francis has never actually seen Alfred cry. And, he realizes, he has absolutely no wish to. Alfred has fashioned himself the hero and has come through on his promise with remarkable regularity - he is courageous, fair, has a heart made of gold for all his faults (dear as he is to Francis, he is still as fallible as any other country, as any other man). To see such a bastion of strength fall would be utterly dispiriting. Perhaps, for once, the hero is in need of a hero himself?
“Come,” he says, throwing an arm around Alfred’s shoulder and leading him out into the hall. “You must eat something, dear boy, you will feel better when you do. Though what there is to eat in this atrocious city that won’t completely offend your sense of taste, I have no idea.”
“You know, maybe it was stupid of me to think that he...”
“Non, none of that, mon cher. Not now. Enjoy your lunch first. It is never advisable to wage war or make love on an empty stomach. Go, clear your head.”
He gives Alfred an encouraging look before he leaves - which is to say, big brother Francis has a plan.
If he does not know London quite like the back of his hand, he at least knows it well enough, and he knows Arthur even better. Francis can think of a few good places he would run off to during their lunch break, and finding him will be the easy part. The tricky part has always been getting Arthur to take him seriously.
L’histoire de ma vie, he thinks, and imagines it bound in the finest leather, a silk ribbon marking this particular moment.
---------------------
Preview for Part VIII: Francis sits Arthur down for a come to Jesus meeting. Inside a church. LAWD A MERCY.
Hey guys! I missed y’all! I’m sorry for how long it took me to update this time. But holy macaroni, this part was long...
Thank you again to all the reviewers! You guys are awesome, thank you very much for your kind words. I’m not that great at comedy but I hope you enjoyed this at least a little (omg, so much dialogue, why am I trying to kill you guys with dialogue? lmao). I’m trying to hit all my lovely OP’s bonuses…albeit in a roundabout kinda way. But there is crack! And there is Francis! Hahaaaa…I’m excited to show you all what I have planned for the next chapter! : >
*Not that many historical notes this time! Just that the first meeting of the United Nations General Assembly was held in London on January 10, 1946 and 51 nations were present (I’m uncomfortable with using OC nations though…).
*It felt really awkward to use the term “weapons of mass destruction” in a story that takes place in the ’40s, but I found out that despite its recent vogue, the term is actually older than I assumed. Apparently the first use of the term was by the Archbishop of Canterbury in 1937 regarding the bombing of Guernica during the Spanish Civil War.
*The president Alfred is referring to is Abe “the Babe” Lincoln.
*“Do not go gentle into that good night,/Old age should burn and rave at close of day;/Rage, rage against the dying of the light” from Welsh poet Dylan Thomas’ Do not go gentle into that good night
*Not even gonna front, I love the crap outta the dub. “Wine-loving tool” has always been one of my favorite lines, bahaha. Scott Freeman you can say whatever you want in your sexy fake English accent mmhmm. Now if I can only find an appropriate place to sneak in “I’ve always wanted a brother, or at least a pet sugar glider”…
*As stubborn as a mule and twice as - ...Anybody wanna try and fill in the blank? XD
*l’histoire de ma vie (hopefully) translates into “the story of my life”
Take care everyone, stay in touch, and I will see you soon! <3
Re: Part VII, cont. and notes
anonymous
November 30 2011, 14:12:39 UTC
This anon here is very happy to see an update for this fill! I was waiting for it! Anyway, you don't have to worry for taking long, A!A, this was well worth the wait :) I surely have told you before how much I love the way you portray both America and Englad, but you did an awesome job with France too. Actually, you did great with everybody. Russia and Poland hair made me LOL, and Greece vomiting after eating China snack was gross and funny at the same time. Poor guy should have stayed asleep XD
Now, if you are excited about next chapter (you tease, you ;) ), how long will it take for me to self combust?
Re: Part VII, cont. and notes
anonymous
November 30 2011, 22:17:54 UTC
Except Russia. “I would like a bomb!”
“No, you wouldn’t,” America says. “Trust me.”
I love how you maintained the serious tone but sprinkled it with humor and all the nations were totally in character. I loved Russia braiding Poland's hair (oh Russia). Alfred was also very romantic in this and Arthur's stubborness was perfectly expressed. And France, how I love him so.
Re: Part VII, cont. and notes
anonymous
December 1 2011, 13:37:35 UTC
I want to start by saying that I love this fanfic and this part was great. It was just like reading the hetalia webcomic. Goes to show you're multitalented and can write many different genres (including comedy) with success.
My only problem is I feel this installment did not complement what has gone on so far in the fanfic - in the sense that in the previous parts I felt you really went beyond Hetalia's simple interpretation of the characters and gave them the depth one expects from having such a rough history. You included many literary references in the previous chapters, and set up a lot of scenes with wonderful imagery. Consider the time when England was outside and the nightinggale was singing and then stops after Alfred's confession and the writing itself along with the events evoke so many emotions.
And then contrast it to Alfred and Arthur stereotypically meeting in a janitorial closet. And the meeting a little too reminiscent of the world meeting in modern day. I think the aftermath of WW2 would not have people acting this comical, despite wanting to forget about war. I think they would care a little less about how England's food would taste bad. I'm not sure how many stereotypes these other countries they would know back in the 1940's as opposed to the modern day. After being so sensitive with history and really integrating it in the fanfic with previous chapters, after the level of depth in emotions, with Arthur wondering how Ludwig feels, and Alfred's heartbreak, and France's anger after WW1, I was confused as to why this part divorced completely away from what you had done with the story so far.
Don't get me wrong. I still love this fanfic. This comical take on a United Nations meeting was brilliant. It just doesn't flow with the rest of the story, in my opinion. Even your writing of the previous chapters echoed segments throughout the story by copying the format of the beginning paragraph, and repeating certain phrases for it to flow wonderfully. Now, it feels like a different (brilliant) writer picked it up and only continued the concept of Arthur feeling like it's impossible to be loved.
If you take the comic root with the rest of the story, I will keep reading it. You're too good an author for me to not pay attention to. I hope you do keep writing for the fandom too - there's not too many good fanfics out there, anymore. But I hope you don't sacrifice the level of depth and seriousness you introduced in the first chapters for comedy. I don't think they necessarily can't work together - but maybe balancing the seriousness/comedy/history/literary references a bit better could work.
Author anon here
anonymous
December 2 2011, 01:30:52 UTC
Oh goodness, thank you for taking the time to leave such a long comment. I had several reservations about this chapter, most of which you hit right on the head. Thank you for your compliments and thank you for being so kind in your concrit. : )
I also felt it was a serious shift in tone from previous chapters, which I was initially uncomfortable with. I want to try and fulfill the OP's bonuses, but at the same time I also realize it needs to flow with the previous chapters. (I don't think bonuses should be fulfilled just for the sake of fulfilling bonuses.) This was why I decided to have the world meeting bookended by more serious moments -- to give the reader a breather in between all the drama (while still using the comedy as a means to further develop Arthur and Alfred's relationship) but hopefully leave them with a sense that the story is still about Arthur's insecurities and his (budding) romance with Alfred.
I struggled with the other countries at the meeting (none of whom I have ever written before, and after writing so much of Arthur, and to a certain extent Alfred, I went through a kind of mental roadblock. This roadblock intimidated me like crazy and is part of the reason why this chapter took so long for me to write!). Do I keep them cracky like they are in the show/manga? Or should I write them all with a serious temperament? In the end I tried to do a little of both, but whether I succeeded or not is entirely up to the readers! The nations are all changed by the war, of course, but they're still themselves, they're still going to make fun of each other and show out during a meeting. I was going for a kind of "hidden depths" vibe in this chapter, which is why I picked Denmark and Poland to be the nations to counter Arthur when he scolded them for not taking the meeting seriously, and America to give a shot of hope at the end when they're all feeling less than optimistic about the UN's future.
And, I also have trouble when I shift the focus of the story off of Arthur and onto other characters. I feel like I'm at my best when I write only him. The way I've written Arthur, he's serious-minded and has several internal struggles; for the most of the story the focus has been on him, so changing the focus to other characters (or even including other characters) seems a little jarring while I'm writing, but I have to remind myself that not everyone has been through what he's been through and they have different temperaments as a result. I've been trying hard to make it as seamless as possible, though, but I still struggle.
There are several instances where I look back at what I've written and think, "I shouldn't have done that! I should have done this instead!" but I would never give you guys a chapter that I wasn't (mostly) satisfied with. I'm my own worst critic and looked over this chapter several times before posting it. In the end, I decided it did what it needed to do, which was: introduce Francis as a major player, have Arthur see past Alfred's irreverent exterior and realize that Alfred's feelings for him are quite possibly genuine, and set up the upcoming conversation (and flashback! Oh how I love a flashback...) between Arthur and Francis. And because I felt it did what it needed to do, I felt more confident about it and decided it was time to stop hemming and hawing and just post the darn thing already. : )
The way the rest of the story is planned out, there won't be any more comedy. The next chapters will be more serious in tone and will definitely be a return to my usual style, with more history and more literary references. I hope to see you there, anon! And thank you again! <3
Re: Author anon here
anonymous
December 2 2011, 12:55:58 UTC
I'm glad to hear that. I was afraid you were catering more to the readers than what you had started out with. And yes, I admit that you only wrote Arthur up until this chapter and the shift in narrative would definitely make this part seem a bit different. I also acknowledge how hard it is to balance seriousness with hetalia's comedy (I've been planning to write something for a while and realized I will struggle with the same thing you did this chapter in the fanfic because I want it to be likeable and fun at parts but also cover very serious episodes in history).
So, I think rather than being disappointed I was more confused when I read this part because it was so different. I'm glad we're shifting back to Arthur's perspective and more serious topics just because it'll bridge what happened so far... but I definitely would love it if you took a stab at humour/crack in another fanfic. Well, I'd probably stalk anything you read. /Planning to de-anon, after? *teary, hopeful eyes*
I’ve tried that, too. I tried that first, in fact, but he never got the hint. So that’s when I told him...
Ah.
You know, I think saying it out loud to him was the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. It would’ve been so much easier if he’d just see that I always try to treat him different from everybody else. It always works in the movies. I wish life were more like a movie. But even then you hifalutin Europeans would probably ruin it with your tragic endings. Sorry, but Americans will always prefer happy endings.
To let the meeting continue in such a manner would be highly undignified, so England stands and inquires if his fellow nations have looked over their agendas. The subsequent flurry of hand movement and paper shuffling answers his question. There are several housekeeping items they need to discuss regarding their new organization...
“Greece, are you awake? I say...Greece?”
France lightly pats Greece’s back. “One cannot blame him - he must be dreaming of when this dreadfully boring meeting is finally over.”
“Shut your gob, frog.”
“In fact,” France continues, “the more I hear you speak, Angleterre, the less likely I am to ever try invading you again. I would rather let you keep this lonely island of yours than have to put up with lectures like this every day.”
England angrily points a finger at France. “You just try invading again, you wine-loving tool, and you’ll see what happens.”
“Ah! Still such a sore spot, even after all these years, mon petit lapin?”
“You know, France,” Turkey says, scratching his stubbly cheek with his thumb, “I never did get the appeal of some ugly, rainy little island.”
“Hey, now…” America warns.
“Oh my God, I totally agree!” Poland chirps. “Like, why are we even having this meeting here? My place isn’t nearly as drab and boring.”
“It’s not drab and boring here,” America insists.
“Seriously, those are the only two words I think of when I think of England. Ugh. If it’s not drab and boring, then what is it?”
America shrugs. “It’s...nice here.”
Poland blinks. “Nice?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s so nice about it?”
America’s laugh is a little higher than normal, a little nervous. “Come on, man,” he implores, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and glancing around, “why are you Freuding me all of a sudden?”
“It is a simple question,” Norway interjects. “Try, if you can, to tell us why you like it here so much.”
“I...I just...”
Norway rolls his eyes. “England is still rationing. Please stop wasting air.”
Russia leans in toward Poland and smiles. “Next time, we should be having the meeting at my place. It is not so cold when you are sitting next to the fire, and people always smell so good sitting next to a fire.”
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What’s that?
Get him alone with you in a broom closet and...non, on second thought, neither of you are ready for that just yet.
“Please, countries, focus,” England pleads, his head dully, steadily throbbing. “Can we please stay on track and pay attention to what’s really at hand here? What would our bosses say if they could hear us right now? With the way you lot are going on, it’s hard to believe we just clawed our way out of a world war - a second one, mind you.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Denmark cries, almost comically wounded. “We aren’t pretending the war didn’t happen or anything.”
“Yeah,” Poland agrees. “That would be totally disrespectful.”
“It’s just that…” Denmark bows his head. “We know what happened. We lived it, yeah? We lived it every single day for years. So…I think we’ve maybe earned the right to go back to our normal way of doing things.”
Poland’s ever-present smirk fades. “It’s one thing to accept what happened - and, oh my God, a lot happened - but it’s another to, like, dwell on it. We have to move on or else we’ll all go batshit crazy.”
In the ensuing silence, the nations somberly reflect not only on the devastation of their lands, but also on how many of their people, especially civilians, they lost during the war - a far greater tragedy to them. At this point, their governments’ official numbers of the dead can only be estimates; the unspoken assumption is that these numbers are far too low. Time heals all wounds, but for them, time will only cut the wounds deeper.
“I am sorry,” England says, his voice sincere. “I did not mean to imply - ”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Cuba interrupts. “This agenda says we’re supposed to talk about atomic energy? Like what was used in the bomb?”
“Yeah,” America says softly, thumbing the corner of his agenda. “Like what was used in the bomb…”
No other country dares speak as America’s voice trails off.
Except Russia. “I would like a bomb!”
“No, you wouldn’t,” America says. “Trust me.”
“No one tells my brother no,” Belarus hisses.
“Look, the agenda says we’re supposed to be outlining peaceful uses for atomic energy and making efforts to eliminate weapons of mass destruction from the world, and honestly, Russia, you ain’t been the most stable guy around the past few years...”
Belarus tilts her head to the side and smiles sweetly. “Do you touch yourself at night with your right hand or your left hand, America? Because that is the hand whose fingers I will start with first.”
Russia proclaims America a capitalist pig, America derides Russia as a commie, and Belarus declares America a dead man.
Belgium looks at England with pleading eyes. “I realize we were assigned seats alphabetically, but would it bother you greatly if I moved away from Belarus?”
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I am so free with my opinions of him because we grew up together, mon cher! I know him better than most, though he will deny it. In fact...go, run and fetch your bottle and blanket. There is a story about Angleterre I think you should hear.
“Seriously, you guys,” Poland whines, “we’re not getting anything done. I could be doing so many other things.”
“Like what?” Russia asks.
Poland gives him a scathing look. “Like helping my people rebuild our country?” Contempt drips from every word.
Russia pats Poland’s head. “What an honorable little nation you are!” His eyes widen as he strokes Poland’s hair. “Such pretty hair,” he whispers. “I would like to be making blanket out of it one day.”
America throws up his hands. “Russia, man, enough! England, can’t you bar him from the meeting or something?”
Cuba grins. “Aw, does pobrecito always go crying to England?”
“No!”
“Actually...”
“Shut up, Canada, and stop taking his side on things. It’s getting annoying.”
“Hey ese, don’t you let that gringo bully you!”
Canada smiles at America. “So sorry, I forgot you don’t like to be interrupted. Must be a side effect from always interrupting everyone yourself.”
“It doesn’t bother me if they actually have something to contribute to the conversation. Gonna speak up and contribute for once, bro?”
“Well, you always do such a nice job of telling other countries what to think for them, so I probably don’t need to.”
“America, Canada,” England sighs, “please, keep your sibling squabbles to a minimum while in public.”
“He’s just jealous because people remember me, because I stand out in a crowd. And you know why, bro? Because I have personality, that’s why.”
“Amérique...”
Canada’s expression remains serenely passive. “The only reason you have a personality is because England raised you well and gave you one, you ass. Funny how now you hardly respect him at all.” He shrugs. “Maybe it’s just me, but I call bullshit.”
“That’s not true at all! I love - !”
Both America and England blush crimson, and neither looks at the other.
“ - I really love the way you can turn something around! How many times did I have to listen to you complain during the war that no one would recognize your accomplishments because they’d all go under England’s belt, hmm? And now you wanna say that I don’t respect him? That’s rich! Hello, pot? This is kettle calling, just wanted to introduce myself. Just admit that you weren’t hugged enough as a baby and get over it already! I can’t help that England and I - that he - that I - ”
Under the table, England kicks America’s leg so hard he will find a gloriously colored bruise there come morning.
Above the table, Poland asks Russia, “How long have you been braiding my hair?”
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Wait, that’s it!
That’s what? What did I say?
“Belarus,” England says sometime later, “I am loath to ask this, but did you just throw a knife across the table?”
“That was no knife. That was a warning.”
He throws his head back. “Devil take it!”
“England?”
“Yes, Belgium?”
Belgium cannot hide the worry in her eyes. “This United Nations is supposed to replace the League of Nations, correct?”
“That is the intent, yes.”
“Do you think it will work this time, though? After all, the League was supposed to prevent the very war we just fought. I worry that history will repeat itself. It always does.”
“Yeah, man,” Turkey drawls. “How’re we supposed to know we’re not just wastin’ our time here? Or settin’ ourselves up for another war? I don’t wanna be part of something that’s just gonna assrape me in the end.”
“Surely the commitment to preventing war is always a noble endeavor?”
“You cannot argue Belgium’s point,” Norway counters. “We will never be without war.”
“I cannot make any promises,” England says, a little sad. “The League itself should stand as a testament to how embarrassing such lofty promises can become in just a generation’s time. But we have to try. And, I know what some of you may be thinking - that may sound out of character for me considering my history, but these past thirty years have certainly shown us that there is no longer any glory in war.”
Australia, who always smiles, doesn’t. “I think you live too much in the past, old man.”
“Yeah,” Denmark agrees. “This kind of stuffy, old-fashioned talk won’t work anymore. Sitting around in a room badmouthing war won’t stop it from creeping up on us, or stop us from falling into its bed. War may be a bitch, but it’s an awful nice lookin’ one at first. Think about it - there are times when we can feel the world has changed, am I right? This is another one of those times, and when the world changes, you have to change with it, yeah? To keep doing things the old-fashioned way just seems...silly. And not enough.”
“What is the point?” China asks. “We will never stop fighting each other. We have even been fighting with each other during this whole meeting!”
The silence in the room is oppressive. Everyone is uneasy because none of them have any answers - and certainly not the right answer.
America huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Guys, guys...come on, everyone, what’s with the doom and gloom?” He smiles warmly at all of them. “Doesn’t anyone here besides me believe in destiny? That fate brings people together at certain times for certain reasons? I think we all have a chance to turn this organization into something great and substantial, but like Poland and Denmark said, we can’t get lost in the past. We’ve got to allow it to teach us and make us better, not bitter.”
France smiles wistfully and rests his cheek on the back of his hand. “You surprise me with your maturity, Amérique, but sadly, the world does not spin on good intentions.”
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The room is silent again, and America fears he has said something inappropriate or childish. But smiles break upon the other nations’ faces, a few even clap and holler, and America lets out the breath he has been holding. He turns and bestows upon England the biggest smile he can stretch his lips into. England smiles back.
“America,” Ukraine exclaims, “that was so beautiful!”
Here England half expects America to wink and utter some rot about “America the beautiful” - he’s done it before - but America thanks Ukraine sincerely, leans over and affectionately clasps her hand. The nations begin to chatter amongst themselves, some even rising from their seats to converse with those they are not sitting by. England is surprised to see America forgoing all this, choosing instead to sit alone. He picks up his pen and circles something on his agenda, and England notices there are several notes written in the margins, as well as other circled items.
What England realizes about America - what Arthur realizes about Alfred - is that he cannot remember him as being so serious. He most easily categorizes Alfred as obnoxious and loud, a jokester, a show off. He was very serious during the war, of course, but they all were. With a pang of guilt, Arthur wonders if he has not been giving Alfred enough credit. Alfred, after all, did not merely claim independence, he earned it, and the nation he raised up has yielded a great people. Alfred’s great experiment could never have succeeded were he anyone other than the person Arthur saw today.
Why, Arthur wonders, has he been so blind to this all these years? And if he’s not mistaken about this, then there might also be the possibility that Alfred really and truly does - maybe - perhaps -
Alfred looks up suddenly and catches Arthur staring at him. Arthur quickly turns his head away, his cheeks on fire, and does not see Alfred’s soft, barely-there smile.
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But see? That’s it! He probably does like me - he can be really sweet to me when he wants to be - he just thinks he’s got to hide it for some reason, maybe even from himself. I know I can make his life better if he’d just let me, if he just gave me a chance! Be bold, right?
That is not - ! Mon Dieu...
Heracles vomited after eating some of Yao’s snacks, though no one is sure whether this was due to a bad ingredient or his simply eating too many. Whatever the case may be, Arthur considers this as good a time as any for them to break for lunch.
He locates the janitorial closet and fills a bucket with soap and water. He hears the door click shut behind him as he turns off the tap, and turns to find himself alone with Alfred.
“Hullo, Alfred,” he mumbles.
“Arthur,” Alfred says, holding out upturned, empty hands, “I love you.”
Arthur does not allow his eyes to meet Alfred’s as he reaches for the mop. “So you’ve said.”
“Well, it’s as true now as it was when I first said it, but you can’t run away from me this time.”
“I do not run away!” Arthur shouts.
“What would you call it, then?” When Arthur does not give him an answer, Alfred continues: “It really hurt, whatever it was.”
“I did not mean to hurt you.”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
“Oh, come off it!” Arthur casually tosses the mop handle against the wall. “What would I possibly stand to gain from intentionally hurting you, Alfred?”
“I don’t know,” Alfred concedes, “but what I do know is that you hardly ever talk about your feelings - ”
“Vile, mutinous things,” Arthur mutters.
“ - and you lash out a lot, so...”
Arthur finds he has no wish to continue this conversation. “Move out of the way. Someone’s got to clean up that mess.”
“No.” Alfred widens his stance in front of the door, narrows his eyes.
“Well, now - a show of force, is it?” Arthur crosses his arms over his chest and smirks dangerously - dangerous because Alfred is unsure if Arthur actually wants to fight or if he’s just mocking him.
“That’s not - I wouldn’t - fuckin’ hell, Artie! Why do you always do that?!”
“Do what?”
“Try to fight somebody! Geez, that pisses me off so bad. Not everything is always a fight. Just...lay down your arms for once.”
Arthur laughs, but there is little humor in his eyes. “What would you have me do? If a person could change so easily, don’t you think I would have saved myself a world of grief and struggle and done it years ago?” He sighs, and he sounds tired, because he is. “You are waiting for a person who shall never exist, you stupid git.”
Alfred’s eyes widen and he takes a step toward Arthur. “Hey, this is progress! You’re not running away, and you didn’t yell at me.”
“I…” Arthur reaches out a hand toward Alfred, but stops - remembers himself, remembers who he is. He is an empire protected by walls on all sides, heavily fortified for a bloody good reason, thank you very much (build it up with stone so strong, stone so strong). Empires do not go gentle into that good night; they rage, rage.
He is not an empire. He is empire.
Arthur pulls his hand back, tightens it into a fist. “You are walking into subjects I have no wish to expound upon. If you’ll excuse me.” He grabs the bucket and the mop and makes to leave.
But Alfred reaches out his hand and gently laces his fingers around Arthur’s arm. His fingers do not force Arthur to stay; rather, they beg him not to leave. Alfred is not holding him back, and Arthur is not flinching away.
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Alfred swallows thickly around the lump in his throat and lowers his fingers, his thumb coming to rest against Arthur’s wrist. Francis was right, and the hero is starting to falter: If he can’t change Arthur or his way of thinking, he’s unsure if he’s selfless enough to simply step aside and leave him be, especially since he knows Arthur deserves so much more.
A nasally voice fills the hall beyond the door and floats over to them (“Angleterre, is everything alright? What is taking you so long?”). The voice grows louder, the doorknob turns, and Francis pokes his head in.
“Do you need some help?” It only takes a moment before a shameless grin breaks across his face. “O-ho, what have I found here?” he squeals. “Maybe you do need some help, oui? Even numbers are overrated!”
“Go die, frog,” Arthur murmurs as he brushes past Francis and out of the closet.
Francis is a little disappointed and turns up his nose - Angleterre’s time-honored slur is lacking its usual sting. “His insults are as uninspired as his food and his fashion.”
He expects to hear Alfred chuckle or flash him a grin, but Alfred says nothing, only lets his head droop a little. Francis leans forward and peers up at him. “Poor, poor Amérique,” he sighs, and brushes some of Alfred’s hair out of his eyes. “Things did not go well, I take it.”
Alfred shakes his head and sniffs.
Francis Bonnefoy is of what one could politely describe as a theatrical nature; his love of romance only intensifies this disposition, his reputation enables it. He hears Alfred sniffling and imagines him gracelessly falling into his arms and sobbing about his unquenchable, unrequited love (which is to say, the very best kind of love).
“Oh, Francis!” Alfred would cry, “you can’t possibly understand because you are so handsome and sexy and no one could ever refuse you! All that is left for me now is to die of a broken heart, for my one true love has crushed mine into a million pieces! Oh, oh! Woe is me!”
“Hush now,” Francis would soothe, gently petting Alfred’s hair and rocking him back and forth, gallantly refusing to draw attention to the fact that Alfred is positively ruining his shirt with his tears, because there are matters of the heart at hand! And these are matters of the highest importance! “You are a handsome, sweet boy, and anyone would be lucky to call you their own!”
“But they wouldn’t be Arthur!”
“You are a beautiful, gorgeous butterfly,” Francis would say, grabbing Alfred’s face and forcing him to make eye contact. “Do not let him take that from you! Now go, butterfly! Spread your wings and fly!”
“No!” Alfred would shout, and violently throw himself against the wall, the back of his hand raised to his forehead. “If my love for Arthur is not meant to be, then I have nothing left to live for! I will end it all!” Alfred would make for the nearest window and try to throw himself out of it, and Francis would try to stop him, but alas, his effort will be in vain. And only then, when it is all too late, would Arthur realize his love for the boy, and tragically fall upon Alfred’s silk-lined coffin, sobbing, before bringing the vial of poison to his lips -
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“Come,” he says, throwing an arm around Alfred’s shoulder and leading him out into the hall. “You must eat something, dear boy, you will feel better when you do. Though what there is to eat in this atrocious city that won’t completely offend your sense of taste, I have no idea.”
“You know, maybe it was stupid of me to think that he...”
“Non, none of that, mon cher. Not now. Enjoy your lunch first. It is never advisable to wage war or make love on an empty stomach. Go, clear your head.”
He gives Alfred an encouraging look before he leaves - which is to say, big brother Francis has a plan.
If he does not know London quite like the back of his hand, he at least knows it well enough, and he knows Arthur even better. Francis can think of a few good places he would run off to during their lunch break, and finding him will be the easy part. The tricky part has always been getting Arthur to take him seriously.
L’histoire de ma vie, he thinks, and imagines it bound in the finest leather, a silk ribbon marking this particular moment.
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Preview for Part VIII: Francis sits Arthur down for a come to Jesus meeting. Inside a church. LAWD A MERCY.
Hey guys! I missed y’all! I’m sorry for how long it took me to update this time. But holy macaroni, this part was long...
Thank you again to all the reviewers! You guys are awesome, thank you very much for your kind words. I’m not that great at comedy but I hope you enjoyed this at least a little (omg, so much dialogue, why am I trying to kill you guys with dialogue? lmao). I’m trying to hit all my lovely OP’s bonuses…albeit in a roundabout kinda way. But there is crack! And there is Francis! Hahaaaa…I’m excited to show you all what I have planned for the next chapter! : >
*Not that many historical notes this time! Just that the first meeting of the United Nations General Assembly was held in London on January 10, 1946 and 51 nations were present (I’m uncomfortable with using OC nations though…).
*It felt really awkward to use the term “weapons of mass destruction” in a story that takes place in the ’40s, but I found out that despite its recent vogue, the term is actually older than I assumed. Apparently the first use of the term was by the Archbishop of Canterbury in 1937 regarding the bombing of Guernica during the Spanish Civil War.
*The president Alfred is referring to is Abe “the Babe” Lincoln.
*“Do not go gentle into that good night,/Old age should burn and rave at close of day;/Rage, rage against the dying of the light” from Welsh poet Dylan Thomas’ Do not go gentle into that good night
*Not even gonna front, I love the crap outta the dub. “Wine-loving tool” has always been one of my favorite lines, bahaha. Scott Freeman you can say whatever you want in your sexy fake English accent mmhmm. Now if I can only find an appropriate place to sneak in “I’ve always wanted a brother, or at least a pet sugar glider”…
*As stubborn as a mule and twice as - ...Anybody wanna try and fill in the blank? XD
*l’histoire de ma vie (hopefully) translates into “the story of my life”
Take care everyone, stay in touch, and I will see you soon! <3
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I surely have told you before how much I love the way you portray both America and Englad, but you did an awesome job with France too. Actually, you did great with everybody. Russia and Poland hair made me LOL, and Greece vomiting after eating China snack was gross and funny at the same time. Poor guy should have stayed asleep XD
Now, if you are excited about next chapter (you tease, you ;) ), how long will it take for me to self combust?
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“No, you wouldn’t,” America says. “Trust me.”
I love how you maintained the serious tone but sprinkled it with humor and all the nations were totally in character. I loved Russia braiding Poland's hair (oh Russia). Alfred was also very romantic in this and Arthur's stubborness was perfectly expressed. And France, how I love him so.
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My only problem is I feel this installment did not complement what has gone on so far in the fanfic - in the sense that in the previous parts I felt you really went beyond Hetalia's simple interpretation of the characters and gave them the depth one expects from having such a rough history. You included many literary references in the previous chapters, and set up a lot of scenes with wonderful imagery. Consider the time when England was outside and the nightinggale was singing and then stops after Alfred's confession and the writing itself along with the events evoke so many emotions.
And then contrast it to Alfred and Arthur stereotypically meeting in a janitorial closet. And the meeting a little too reminiscent of the world meeting in modern day. I think the aftermath of WW2 would not have people acting this comical, despite wanting to forget about war. I think they would care a little less about how England's food would taste bad. I'm not sure how many stereotypes these other countries they would know back in the 1940's as opposed to the modern day. After being so sensitive with history and really integrating it in the fanfic with previous chapters, after the level of depth in emotions, with Arthur wondering how Ludwig feels, and Alfred's heartbreak, and France's anger after WW1, I was confused as to why this part divorced completely away from what you had done with the story so far.
Don't get me wrong. I still love this fanfic. This comical take on a United Nations meeting was brilliant. It just doesn't flow with the rest of the story, in my opinion. Even your writing of the previous chapters echoed segments throughout the story by copying the format of the beginning paragraph, and repeating certain phrases for it to flow wonderfully. Now, it feels like a different (brilliant) writer picked it up and only continued the concept of Arthur feeling like it's impossible to be loved.
If you take the comic root with the rest of the story, I will keep reading it. You're too good an author for me to not pay attention to. I hope you do keep writing for the fandom too - there's not too many good fanfics out there, anymore. But I hope you don't sacrifice the level of depth and seriousness you introduced in the first chapters for comedy. I don't think they necessarily can't work together - but maybe balancing the seriousness/comedy/history/literary references a bit better could work.
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I also felt it was a serious shift in tone from previous chapters, which I was initially uncomfortable with. I want to try and fulfill the OP's bonuses, but at the same time I also realize it needs to flow with the previous chapters. (I don't think bonuses should be fulfilled just for the sake of fulfilling bonuses.) This was why I decided to have the world meeting bookended by more serious moments -- to give the reader a breather in between all the drama (while still using the comedy as a means to further develop Arthur and Alfred's relationship) but hopefully leave them with a sense that the story is still about Arthur's insecurities and his (budding) romance with Alfred.
I struggled with the other countries at the meeting (none of whom I have ever written before, and after writing so much of Arthur, and to a certain extent Alfred, I went through a kind of mental roadblock. This roadblock intimidated me like crazy and is part of the reason why this chapter took so long for me to write!). Do I keep them cracky like they are in the show/manga? Or should I write them all with a serious temperament? In the end I tried to do a little of both, but whether I succeeded or not is entirely up to the readers! The nations are all changed by the war, of course, but they're still themselves, they're still going to make fun of each other and show out during a meeting. I was going for a kind of "hidden depths" vibe in this chapter, which is why I picked Denmark and Poland to be the nations to counter Arthur when he scolded them for not taking the meeting seriously, and America to give a shot of hope at the end when they're all feeling less than optimistic about the UN's future.
And, I also have trouble when I shift the focus of the story off of Arthur and onto other characters. I feel like I'm at my best when I write only him. The way I've written Arthur, he's serious-minded and has several internal struggles; for the most of the story the focus has been on him, so changing the focus to other characters (or even including other characters) seems a little jarring while I'm writing, but I have to remind myself that not everyone has been through what he's been through and they have different temperaments as a result. I've been trying hard to make it as seamless as possible, though, but I still struggle.
There are several instances where I look back at what I've written and think, "I shouldn't have done that! I should have done this instead!" but I would never give you guys a chapter that I wasn't (mostly) satisfied with. I'm my own worst critic and looked over this chapter several times before posting it. In the end, I decided it did what it needed to do, which was: introduce Francis as a major player, have Arthur see past Alfred's irreverent exterior and realize that Alfred's feelings for him are quite possibly genuine, and set up the upcoming conversation (and flashback! Oh how I love a flashback...) between Arthur and Francis. And because I felt it did what it needed to do, I felt more confident about it and decided it was time to stop hemming and hawing and just post the darn thing already. : )
The way the rest of the story is planned out, there won't be any more comedy. The next chapters will be more serious in tone and will definitely be a return to my usual style, with more history and more literary references. I hope to see you there, anon! And thank you again! <3
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So, I think rather than being disappointed I was more confused when I read this part because it was so different. I'm glad we're shifting back to Arthur's perspective and more serious topics just because it'll bridge what happened so far... but I definitely would love it if you took a stab at humour/crack in another fanfic. Well, I'd probably stalk anything you read. /Planning to de-anon, after? *teary, hopeful eyes*
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