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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She'd tried, more than once, to explain the price of fame; how being famous meant being loved, but also meant being less of a person. Alfred was sincerely shocked to find that some people hated Marilyn because she was something they could never be, and others because she was only human after all-- And Alfred was uncomfortable with how familiar that sounded. She talked, sometimes, about how hard it got when you didn't want to perform, when you were tired and hurt and just plain sick of making others feel good when you didn't, and Alfred nodded and tightened his arms around her just a little, because god knows that acting stopped being fun after a while.
Marilyn said, more than once, that it seemed like people were always pulling her in different directions, and she'd asked Alfred directly if he didn't feel like that sometimes too. Alfred didn't like lying any more than he had to, but he didn't like admitting anything either, so Marilyn just gifted him that sad-pretty smile and kissed him softly, lips against lips, and the curve of her mouth was pretty-beautiful because it was still just a little sad.
She said that more often after she married that playwright, and a little less after they divorced.
At the Golden Globes of 1962, Marilyn Monroe was the Female World Film Favorite and no-one was surprised, although Alfred was surprised at how nonchalant, in private, she seemed to be. There was rumors about her now, some vicious, about how her beauty won her the ear of the Mob or the attentions of the Kennedy Clan, and Alfred didn't think it was right to ask her, but although the world still saw their vivacious Marilyn, those who knew her well could see that she was slowly losing her will to shine. On July 3rd of that same year, Alfred found himself exhausted and pleasantly so, the night an almost surreal blur of Marilyn's famous satin sheets and her famous, famous beauty, and Alfred couldn't shake the feeling that making love to Marilyn was like making love in a movie, each tiny movement perfected to the point of being almost fake. But there was something fragile in this night, a teetering edge that set the mood and drew it taut from start to finish and start again, until the clock struck one on her bedside and Marilyn smiled up at him from where she was sprawled in languid splendor across his chest, and said something completely unexpected.
"You know, when I was a girl..." Marilyn paused, bit lightly at her lower lip in a nervous habit rarely seen; Alfred, half-sitting against her pillows, tilted his head in curiosity, ghosting the pad of his thumb across her lush mouth until she half-smiled again. "When I just got here," she said, "I'd look out of my apartment and think, There are a thousand other girls right now dreaming about being a star. But it doesn't matter, because I'm dreaming harder than all of them.'"
"And you made it," reminded Alfred, his fingertips trailing over her cheek. "You're bigger than all of them. You're top of the heap, Frankie'd say. A-Number-One." And as she took her hands in his, pressing it to her cheek as though for warmth, Marilyn shook her head, those golden locks no less beautiful for being mussed by activity.
"It's all make-believe, isn't it?"
Alfred didn't know what to say, and Marilyn only smiled again, and this time his heart broke, it was so sad and so lovely. Reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck, their bodies pressed together as though she wanted to sink into his skin, Marilyn buried her face in the crook of his bare neck and whispered "Happy Birthday, Mister Jones."
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Many years later, after the Cold War had come to an end and America had emerged as the world's only superpower, Alfred found himself at Marilyn's grave with a bundle of lilies in hand, looking no older in body but much older in spirit. He had been forced, by the times and by his own people, to face the half-truths that he had been carrying for so long; he had, in turn, come to admit that he'd always known what Marilyn had been talking about, that he'd probably known since that first day on the Radio Plane Munitions factory floor, because what had drawn him to Marilyn (then Norma Jean) was that they were very much alike: If any one person embodied the heartbreaking truth about the American Dream, it was the woman behind the legend of Marilyn Monroe, who had come so far and worked so hard only to find herself a prisoner of the legend she'd worked to build. Now harshly aware of the realities facing his country in its so-called victory, Alfred could see that being a legend... or a hero... always looks different from the inside. Sometimes, it wasn't always a good place to be.
He left the lilies on her grave, and could only be sorry that he hadn't been able to admit that truth before.
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Argh. Damn the inability to edit a post! *shakes fist*
Ah well. Hope you like it, and there may yet be an Elvis entry yet to come. ^^
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Requesting OP is a puddle. A PUDDLE. There's just not enough ;_; in me for this (these!) beautiful fic(s). The whole... *words failing...* kaleidoscope effect of all the film and music rushing together, and it drowns them out but still it makes them... The lines about Alfred not being able to go the the funeral kill me, and the fact that he does come to understand her through the retrospective breaks my heart. This fic is a historical commentary AND it's powerfully written AND it's heartbreakingly romantic. Awesome, awesome work, anon! ♥
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... I'm sorry for the ramblings. ;_; Thank you for the kind words!
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Even if they have no idea what APH is, EVERYONE MUST READ THIS FIC. It's like everything you could possibly want to know about understanding celebrity culture, in literary form. Bravo, Anon!
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I only wish I'd have edited this more! I would've done so if I knew people would actually be reading it! ORZ
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The ending gave me shivers.
It's almost freaky how well-connected this story is. The American Dream, the image of a legend... it's as if 'even America's image is cracked beneath the surface'.
Not to mention, the spirit of America was incredibly well portrayed through Alfred's thoughts and actions.
I love the idea of Al being so vulnerable beneath his Heroic Self. *_*
In simpler words, PLEASE HAVE THE INTERNETS. OR MAYBE 10 OF THEM.
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... Rent them out to the rest of the world, to defray our national debt? XD;
But in all seriousness, thank you. It makes me fell all WAFF-y inside to know that someone else thinks my version of Alfred isn't completely OOC. ^_^ I just think the image of America (and its stars!) as broken-but-forging-on is a lot more interesting (and maybe true?) than the simple 'wacky/delusional/obnoxious/simple-minded Eaglelander.' ^^
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