In order to celebrate HETALIA'S anime adaptation. AXIS POWERS HETALIA KINK MEME
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hetalia kink meme
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Okay, let's make history and be more epic than these people, shall we?
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The curator is nothing short of ecstatic about the new display. It's not particularly extravagant-a few yellowing pieces of paper, creased where they've been folded and unfolded, read and reread-but he and the equally pleased workers know enough to realize that it doesn't need to be. It's the content, the meaning behind it that is important-any curator, worker, museum goer worth their salt would know that. It is in this regard that they are particularly fond of the first paper; a letter, written during the 1940's, and penned by a most prominent-and living, bless him-member of their society:
Dear Poland,
(This is the only line clearly written with confidence. The rest of the letter is littered with spots where the writer held the pen too long, too concerned with his next words to worry over aesthetics.)
I have to begin by saying I still have not forgiven you. Despite what you seem to think, you are in no way entitled to Vilnius. Nor, for that matter, are you entitled to any other territory of mine simply because it was under the rule of the Commonwealth. The fact that you never once apologized, or made any reparations, or even seemed to notice that you were doing something wrong is infuriating. Even now, I can barely tolerate it, and can just tame the compulsion to abandon this letter and swear you off entirely.
Be that as it may, there is something that prevents me from doing just that, no matter how intelligent of a move it may be. I will elaborate on that later. I must build up to it, I suppose, for my own benefit. I don't believe I'll be able to communicate it at all, let alone properly, without that.
I hope, despite recent events, that you are doing well. Russia is as he always was, but I am fine nonetheless. His influence grows stronger with each passing day, and he claims that soon, this union of ours will become the world's greatest superpower. Given the state of the world, I can't help but think that he just might be right.
For this reason, there is a very real chance that this letter will never reach you. As you know, Russia is still very (there is a particularly impressive spot of black, here; one can only imagine how long the writer was, say, gazing off into space before he noticed it) personally interested in me, so it is entirely possible that he will have this apprehended before it reaches the border. However, I still have to try. I must, because there is something I must tell you, Poland.
It has been several years, now, since the annexation of your territory to Russia, and Vilnius' return to me. At the time, I must admit I felt a sense of bitter satisfaction at the whole state of affairs. You must admit it was strangely ironic. At the time, I tried to justify things to myself this way, to say that you got what you deserved out of this whole mess. It was distressingly simple at first, with my rage over your actions still fresh in my mind.
However, as the years passed and my anger cooled, I found I was less and less satisfied with this arrangement. I would deny it, of course, to Russia and particularly to myself. Things were not perfect, but they were the best I could hope for. That was what I told myself.
My heart knew better, of course. I began having dreams then, of a much better time. I remember I would see the blue sky adorned with the tips of rye stalks, could hear their swishing, smell the earth they grew from (unlikely, notes the curator, since this is not the way of dreams; however, they must all admit that it is a lovely concept).
That was not all there was, of course. There was also you, smiling, laughing. About what, I could never tell (though I somehow suspect that it was at my expense), but I took great comfort in it, nonetheless. Wakefulness would usually eliminate such pleasant feelings, for I would be reminded of your misdeeds, and my still present anger. However, with every time the dream reoccurred, I would surrender myself more and more fully to it, and to you.
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For a long time, I could not put what I was feeling into words. My bitterness no doubt assisted that inability, as did my confusion, sadness, and circumstances. But now that I am too far away to tell you with anything other than a pen, now that the words may never reach you, I know what I must say.
I love you. My partner, my friend, my comrade, and the best of everything that I cannot be. Poland. If fate is kind, she will let me find you again, to tell you that with everything I am, for the rest of our lives. For now, (here, the ink is splotched, paper made stiff by minuscule water damage, and the workers have a distinct, solemn idea what has caused it) all I can do is write, say it for myself to hear, and hope that somehow, you will know.
I love you, Poland, and I always have.
Forever yours,
Lithuania
The general consensus is that the second letter is altogether lacking in quality, by comparison. However, in the name of maintaining historical neutrality and continuity, it nonetheless sits beside the first, lovely and proud as the writer himself:
Dear Liet,
You're lame. You don't think I already know that? Jeez, you're slow.
In case you missed it, I LOVE YOU, LIET. Duh.
LOVE, and will see you soon,
Poland
P.S. I'd totally say sorry about Vilnius, but you totally have it back. So, yeah.
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Looking away from an old, worn shoe that was probably the most interesting thing in this whole museum (and was totally boring, so what did that say?), Poland glanced over his shoulder, toward what seemed to be a very distraught Lithuania.
The man had his nose and palms pressed up against the glass of some display, putting almost his whole body into the act of being distressed. Striding over, Poland was about to do his best hoity-toity Liet impression and say that that wasn't proper, you should know better when he caught sight of what Liet was so worked up over, and stopped in his tracks.
“They-they have our letters! Poland! They have. Our letters.”
“Oh wow,” Poland replied, leaning over to get a better look at those infinitely familiar pages, “they totally do, don't they? I was wondering where those went to.”
“How did they get these, Poland?” Lithuania demanded, practically clawing at the glass and not once taking his eyes off the papers behind it. “How!”
“Maybe they, like, snuck into our houses or something,” Poland suggested. “Or maybe they found them. Didn't you bury yours, or something?”
“Oh God,” Lithuania said by way of an answer, hand flying to his face and covering his impressive blush. “Oh merciful Lord.”
Laughing at his partner's expense (which Liet didn't seem to appreciate at all, groaning into his hand in agony), Poland leaned forward, glancing over the papers briefly before letting his eyes wander to the plaque beside them. His smile only grew, then. “Hey, Liet, it looks like they have a bunch more downstairs,” Poland said, poking at the glass. Turning, he wrapped am arm around Lithuania's slumped form, the edges of his smirk getting progressively closer to his ears. “Think they have the hot ones, too?”
With that and a yelp of utter humiliation, Lithuania speedily headed off to find the museum curator. Poland, hand in his, made a point of slowing him down the entire way.
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You're not anon to me, but you still rule my heart~ ;p
THIS WAS BASICALLY COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY AMAZING. SO PERFECT. YOU NAILED THEM EPICALLY. IT WAS SO LITHUANIA, AND SO POLAND. AND YOU SO ABUSE ALL THE INFORMATION I GIVE YOU. XDDD And, and, like, this: “Hey, Liet, it looks like they have a bunch more downstairs,” Poland said, poking at the glass. Turning, he wrapped am arm around Lithuania's slumped form, the edges of his smirk getting progressively closer to his ears. “Think they have the hot ones, too?” <-- ...CAN WE SET A DATE FOR THE WEDDING, Y/Y? ;__;
YOU ARE MY FAVORITE NON-ANON BFF EVER, FOREVER AND EVER. I DON'T CARE IF THE WHOLE MEME KNOWS.
<3 <3 <3 <3 <3
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♥
I. have. no. words.
i... i want the hot ones...
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I love you so much, Anon. ♥
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Great job, though. I loved the contrast of Lithuania's eloquency to Poland's . . . bluntness.
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