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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When Alfred was Just Alfred and not ‘America’, he didn’t really have anything remotely close to a birthday. And neither did Arthur, which was just fine back then. But when things changed and Alfred became’ America’ it was no longer ok. Because, in his eyes, it was not fair for him to have something Arthur did not.
Despite the war, in spite of walking out on Arthur... Despite all the tings he took away from the Brit leaving.
Hence, Alfred thought, Arthur must have his birthday somewhere around the year; he just didn’t like to brag about it - which seemed a common trait for all the Islanders. But to the man’s great displeasure, there was not a soul that could tell him for sure. Even the Frenchman - Arthur’s mortal enemy and reluctantly trusted companion for as long as Alfred could remember - had no idea when, or even how long ago Arthur was born. He had just been there all the time, which Alfred, ever the just one, thought extremely unfair. And holding the birthday present - the real one, not just an outdated booby trap - he felt that unfairness more than ever.
But he had a plan already forming in his head.
Which is the main reason he is now knocking on Arthur’s door - not quite sure the address is correct since the last time he visited the Brit’s home seemed slightly more impressive, and with a bigger lawn at that. But the one opening the door is none other than Arthur; gray, lightly chequered trousers, white cotton shirt and unmistakable eyebrows - when still a child, Alfred used to wonder why he lacked those - with a frown settling firmly between them the moment he recognizes his ‘guest’.
“I see you’re still alive”, he grunts without much enthusiasm but moves aside to let the American in, “You ‘ave to make do with mint tea with lemon and biscuits... Just made ‘um, but there ain’t much”, he adds then, accent so thick Alfred can barely decipher the words. He just nods and follows his host to the living room.
“Don’t get angry, but... Weren’t you living a bit more, umm, spaciously? Something bad happened? Did France...”
“Hah! As if he were ever able to threaten me!... No, no, it’s not that. They have those constant family issues and the whole place is a mess”, he responds matter-of-factly and Alfred thinks he can hear him muttering something along the lines of ‘kids these days’, which makes him all the more uneasy. He hides his confusion behind a polite nod, willing to appear supportive. He then takes a seat and watches Arthur head for the kitchen, wondering if he should lend a hand or wait and try not to become a nuisance.
The moment he lost sight of the Brit, however, he gets up with a sharp jerk and begins to pace back and forth, back and forth across the room, winding and unwinding his fingers nervously. He has been nurturing that single idea for quite some time now, his last birthday party being just the final push towards the realization, still... He just can’t calm down. What if Arthur laughs? Or brushes it off as another of his redundant ideas... Or worse even, misinterpret it as an act of maliciousness? Maybe he should just give it up... After all, they’re not doing that bad as they are, so why change it, possibly for worse?
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Alfred stops in front of the fireplace and shakes his head violently. No, that’s not the way a hero like him should think! He came here on a purpose and does certainly not intend to back away and flee, like some... Italians! Right. Besides, he felt this one day, a new celebration invented by his people, has probably been his best idea so far.
He glances at the pictures on the mantelpiece and stops in wonder.
They’re all here - Arthur’s colonies, his step-children; the ones he wished to raise according to his own wishes, strongly believing he’d do it right this time and not fail.
Like he did with a child that was not-yet-America.
‘Are five kids better than one, Iggy..?’, he quotes in his mind a song, the lyrics of which he can barely remember, as he takes one of the pictures in his hands.
There are several people he recognizes among the pictured faces; most notably, Japan - Arthur’s second favourite - and Canada, bashfully hiding behind his white teddy; yet the frame he holds contains a photo of a dark-skinned woman, glossy black hair flowing gently over her arm, the whole figure adorned in oranges and reds, a musical instrument in her hennaed hands. Smiling.
“India”, Alfred smiles back as he remembers, back in those happier times, the amazing bedtime stories Arthur used to tell him; about India’s lands, the Brit’s beloved place as he said many a time and always with that fond, loving smile. About elephants, tigers and flying carpets and thousands of wonders the tiny Alfred’s head could barely contain and half the time failed to imagine... That distant land seemed something truly otherworldly, something only Arthur, so accustomed to fairies and unicorns Alfred could never see, was allowed to explore freely and safely return to tell all those breath-taking stories, making his ‘child’ wish he could see such wonders one day himself...
But then Alfred grew up and stopped believing in fairy-tales, despite Arthur’s protests and reminders of fairies dying because of him, and called the Brit a fool, time after time after time...
There is a gentle rattle of china against china behind his back and Alfred fidgets like a kid caught red-handed stealing cookies from the cookie jar. He gently puts down the picture, stirring the dust on the mantelpiece into motion, then, casually as ever, he takes his place all the time avoiding the searching gaze of those vivid green orbs that are Arthur’s eyes.
And he doesn’t ask about the missing picture, the one he’d love to see just as much as he’d hate to look at since he knows and the Brit knows as well - as if their minds were connected, as if they’re actually related thanks to it - that even the happiest and sunniest pictures of them being together were stained with pain and bad recollections and soaked with the rain of that day, just like his riffle and toy soldiers and empty tea crates he finds around the house searching for something else entirely.
Oh, what a good boy he used to be, Arthur’s eyes seem to say wistfully when he thinks Alfred is looking the other way and not paying attention.
Click. Sip. Click. Arthur stares at him questioningly, like a severe teacher which in turn makes the American’s hands sweat because he knows it’s time for questions and feels he has all the wrong answers.
“So, what brings you here, anyway?”, the Brit asks not sure himself whether to enjoy the presence of the other or keep at a distance, should Alfred present him with yet another of his dim-witted insanities.
“Umm... you don’t have to frown like that, it’s nothing really that serious”, how he wishes he could just brush it off like that, get up, leave this very moment; because those piercing eyes say that, yes, his plan is just plain stupid, before he even says it out loud. But he goes on finally, still wondering how on earth was he able to keep the pep and arrogance in his voice while leading the World Conferences under that stare.
“I’ve been just thinking... Have you heard of a... celebration of sorts, one of mine, so I won’t be surprised if you haven’t”, he waves a hand and tries to stay composed but there’s already that small hitch in his voice and Arthur would have to be deaf not to hear it.
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You are more important to me than Washington, Lincoln, hell, the whole friggin’ Mt. Rushmore!
Is what he’d like to say but his voice betrays him and it ends up as a defeated mumble. The show’s over and all Alfred can do is stare dumbly at the floor, too paralyzed to clear his throat even. Waiting.
(Which feels like waiting for the Judgement Day only without bells and trumpets, just the frantic pounding of his own heart and a single Angel occupied more with his mint tea with lemon.)
Click. Sip. Pause.
“You”, the Brit sighs, “You just can’t acknowledge it, can you? That people might learn about something coming from your country without being told?”, the voice is stern but there’s that tiny hint of amusement Alfred believes - wants to believe - he can hear that makes the American look up at the man having his afternoon tea opposite to him, “Besides, you’re almost a month late, Alfred.”
No change in his voice, just the bright spark in his eyes as he says his boy’s name - and for that splendid moment Alfred believes he saw a real fairy.
The next, he’s back on track again.
“Soo, are belated wishes ok with you or will you call me a delinquent, hmm?”, he gives Arthur a cocky grin, reaching out for his tea - he needs it badly, since he’s left empty-headed and weak in his knees, but all in a good way. The best way.
“I don’t need to remind you of your basic nature every time we meet, do I now?”, he mutters around the white rim of his cup. And behind it he smiles that timid smile that makes Alfred feel butterflies in his stomach, the Brit knowing he needs to do little more than that - for the grin that comes as a reply is always bright enough for the two of them.
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There, on the bedside table, he makes yet another curious discovery - two pictures of himself and Arthur. But, unlike what he feared the previous day, there’s not a trace of that cheerful boy he used to be and who he has believed to be much more cherished by Arthur than a person the American has become. One is a photograph clipped out of a newspaper, commemorating the union of the Entante and United States against the Axis; while the other... Alfred gapes, then chuckles breathlessly, making Arthur groan and fidget against the taller man’s chest. He strokes the short strands of hair, causing the Brit to fall back into his slumber, breath coming out in tiny snores (Alfred notes to tease him about those after he wakes up).
But honestly, the American muses as he carefully extends one hand to grab hold of the frame and examine the photo closely, they should be more careful during the G8s - with Francis around even the most innocent scene might develop into a worldwide kiss-and-tell sort of affair.
Because, without a shade of doubt, the French is to be blamed for that candid photo - the addition in form of a tiny pink heart pasted above their heads and with ‘l’amour’ scribbled with a familiar flourish is really enough of a give away. But the photo itself really makes Alfred smile - not because of the way both apparently sleeping figures lean against one another, resting between conferences; but for the small detail, the way Arthur’s hand is ever so lightly clasped around his own, calloused one.
The gesture is so endearing that the American simply can’t hold back - he bows his head and kisses Arthur’s eyelids, one at a time.
“Electra complex, they call it”, a hoarse groan reaches his ears.
“Huh?”
“Or Daddy Issues, or however you want”, the Brit stretches in his loose embrace, rubbing at his eyes to chase the sleep away; but when he finally looks up at Alfred, his gaze is still bleary and unfocused, “Being attracted physically to one’s father that is.”
“But England... I’m not a girl!”, the other rolls eyes, “And while we’re at that, you’re not really my father, right?”
Arthur, always nitpicky when it comes to smart words and definitions, answers with a lazy, comfortable smile which has just the edge of dare to make the American swallow hard.
Because, of course, the Brit knows and acknowledges the fact there is a difference between ‘father’ and ‘father-figure’ - about the same as between an ungrateful child and a child of a man he has become fond of in a quite different way.
Hope you enjoyed~
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Enjoy this, I DID!
Thank you for this sweet piece, anon~<333
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