[FIC] she stops my bones from wondering just who I am
Title: she stops my bones from wondering just who I am
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England/(Fem)Portugal
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Very vague allusions to sex and violence
Summary: When England is out at sea as a pirate, he thinks of magic, and he
thinks of her.
Notes: Written for a friend for her birthday.
The title is a line from the song "Some Nights" by fun. which kind of ended up being the theme tune of this fic while I was writing it.
Portugal's human name is Anita de Santiago. Additional notes at the end.
Can also be read on FF.net
When England is out at sea he thinks of magic, sometimes.
He wonders if he is still connected to the old magic like he used to be. He used to feel it within him always, running through his veins, tying him to nature and making him powerful. It has dulled throughout the years, dulled as technology grew and his people drifted away from nature.
But out here, where the sea seemingly stretched on forever and the air smelled like salt, he can still feel it out here sometimes.
He thinks of the magic in names.
***
They hold a mock trial on the ship, and he is the accused. It is a game he and the other pirates play, mocking their potential fates if the navy catches them, because making it a game is the only way they can survive with the knowledge that one day they will die, and it will likely be at the end of a rope when they do.
England always plays the accused.
“Arthur Kirkland,” says the judge, who is really a man named Thomas who has been a part of England’s crew for almost three years. “That is your name?”
“It is.” His head is hung, and he has been stripped of any livery as Captain. He is bare before the court, before everything.
“Arthur Kirkland, you are charged with counts of sedition, capital treason, capital murder, and piracy. How do you plead?”
England looks up, looks into Thomas’s hard, green eyes.
“Guilty.”
He does not listen to the rest of the trial. He is tried and sentenced to hanging, as he always is. Another mate is the hangman, and they lead him to the noose. England remains quiet and numb as the loop is slipped around his neck. (A trick loop, that will not choke or break his neck, not that such petty human things could kill him.)
The crew is playing the English people in this little play they perform, and they cheer when the pirate is hung.
(England always plays the accused. He plays it because they all know this will not be his fate.)
***
“A pirate?” she had snapped at him the last time they met. She was braiding her long, chestnut hair tightly, not looking at England as he stood in her bedroom. “You come into my private bedchambers, before I am even dressed, to inform me of your intended treason?”
She had indeed not been dressed. She was wearing a loose nightshirt, shock white against her tanned skin, tanned from her own times at sea. Her legs were exposed, long and strong, and if had not been such a somber moment between them he would have been admiring them, thinking less then holy thoughts about them.
“You don’t understand...” he had sighed, and in her looking glass he had seen her face contort with anger before she whirled around, slamming her hand on her vanity, her braid abandoned and once again slipping loose.
“Understand? Understand? You are a nation, England, an empire! And you intend to become a pirate, you intended to be one of the leeches hurting the empires!” Her eyes grew dark, and she was never one to show sadness, but England had thought she might appear sad. “How could you betray your status as a nation this way?”
He wanted to explain it to her. But he had not. He had not said anything.
She hung her head. “This is your decision.” Then she raised her head again, green eyes hard. “Leave my presence, pirate.”
“Portugal...” He breathed, but she had lunged forward slightly, gripping the edge of her chair as if she intended to throw it at him.
“Leave!”
England had left, and it was not but a few hours until he was climbing onto a ship, leaving behind his loyalty to his King, leaving behind his land, leaving behind her.
***
Sometimes, when he knows no one will be listening, he says her name.
***
He ends up in a port when he next sees her. He sees her in the dark corner of a tavern, and wonders about magic and the alignment of stars and the power of names.
He then decides that a coincidence is safer and he approaches her.
“Well well, what is Miss Portugal doing in a pirate bar of all places?” he asks, feigning confidence the way the outlaw life taught him to as he sits on the stool beside her.
She does not look up at him, nor does she seem particularly surprised to see him. He would never admit that he feels a sting of disappointment at his inability to take her off guard, but that is what he likes about her isn’t it? Portugal is strong, powerful. If he is the sea, inconsistent and and tied to a magic that flows like water, she is the earth, steady and sure and no less magical, just in a different way.
“The spirits are cheaper,” she says to her glass. “Have you heard?”
He has not heard anything. He has been at sea, and has not seen her in... he does not know how long it has been. She has not changed though. She is wearing simple trousers and a man’s shirt, and she must have been at sea until recently. He has not often seen her dress to highlight her femininity, but she does not hide it either, as her tight, whip-like braid hangs down her back, longer than any man would wear it. She does not need to hide. They are nations. The rules are not the same for them.
“Heard what?”
Her laugh is harsh and barking and tinged with liquor. “Haven’t heard? Surely you know of your war England.”
He goes silent. He knows of his war. They pick up news of it in the ports they stop in, but it would not matter. He might not know the details, but he can feel the core of it in his bones, a dull yet persistent ache of battles and death and politics.
She breaks into his thoughts, looking up at him for the first time, green eyes hard as they meet his. “Spain has attacked. He intends to invade me.”
England sucks in his breath. “Why-”
“Why do you think?” She slams her cup on the table, her voice raising to be heard sharply over all of the crowd, but no one turns to look at them. England does not know if they honestly do not notice them, or if they are too scared to pry into the private conversations of nations.
“Because of-”
“Because of you, tolo! Everything is always because of you!” She stands suddenly, bumping the table and knocking over her cup, pungent liquid spilling over the table, which Portugal ignores as she whips around and storms away. England reaches out to stop her, but it suddenly feels like he cannot touch her, cannot reach her at all, even if her were to touch her he could never be close enough...
He stands to follow her out of the bar.
He catches sight of her again her in the street, which is empty except for a few prostitutes and drunkards who likely do not have the money in their pockets or the sense in their heads to give the women any business.
“Portugal!” he calls after her.
She falters in her brisk pace, but in the end she does not stop. It is enough though. He catches up to her and catches her sleeve just as she is turning into an alleyway, which is even emptier and darker than the street.
“Portugal,” he whispers, and his voice breaks as he says it. She says nothing, but turns, and he can see the low light from the street lamps reflecting off her eyes.
Her eyes draw the words out of him as if by magic, and really who is to say it isn’t a kind of magic. “It was never about you, you know. I didn’t... I didn’t want to leave you.”
“But you did.” Her voice is almost a growl, low and menacing. “You left me, you left everyone.”
“I shouldn’t have, not when you needed me-”
“Need you?” The fire is back in her eyes, and she jerks her arm out of his grasp, and she takes a step back into the alley. “I don’t need you England! I am Reino de Portugal! I am the first empire! Why on earth would I need you?”
England is quiet. “It wasn’t about you. I was tired, that’s all. Tired of being a nation. Tired of the responsibility and the wars...”
“You can’t just do that,” she whispers. “You can’t just stop-”
“I know that. But I wanted to pretend.”
She looks at him and he looks at her and he thinks she might understand. It is different for them. They do not live by the same rules as humans, and sometimes that is painful.
“I love you,” he says, and he can’t really name why he says it other than that it is true.
Her face twists. “We... We are good allies. Beneficial. Politically our relationship-”
“No.” He grasps her shoulders and their eyes meet. “I love you.”
***
“Anita,” is the name he whispered into the wind, late at night, sea air stinging his eyes.
He whispers it again now before their lips meet.
(He thinks he might hear his own name whispered in between kisses, but he cannot be sure.)
***
Neither of them are weak, but in each others arms they let each other feel vulnerable, raw.
They let each other feel human.
***
At some point in the night they end up on his anchored ship, dismissing the young man who is on watch duty, and together they stare out at the inky black sea beyond the harbour.
“I’ll send you support against the Spanish,” he says. “If I have to turn myself in and demand it myself-”
“I’m sure you won’t have to do that.” She swallows thickly. “Thank you though.”
They fall into silence.
Portugal is the first to break it. “The world is changing again. It’s always changing but now it...” She stops and ducks her head, and England looks at her, watching her bangs shift softly in the light wind. “Humans are lucky. They have a few decades and then they can rest. We... We can’t, you know?”
England thinks of the trick noose and the cheering crowd and Thomas’ hard, green eyes.
“Yes, I know.”
Slowly his hand slips into hers. It is calloused from sword-fighting, but it is warm, and he feels the magic rush though him with a clarity he almost never feels.
“I do think there are some advantages to being us though.”
(Their kiss tastes like salt and liquor and hope.)
AN: The war mentioned is the Seven Year War, and the invasion mentioned was the 1762 Spanish Invasion of Portugal. Basically all you need to know is that Spain attacked Portugal because since Portugal and Great Britain were pretty closely tied, it would be a pretty big loss for Britain. (From what I understand. I am not a historian.)
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England/(Fem)Portugal
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Very vague allusions to sex and violence
Summary: When England is out at sea as a pirate, he thinks of magic, and he
thinks of her.
Notes: Written for a friend for her birthday.
The title is a line from the song "Some Nights" by fun. which kind of ended up being the theme tune of this fic while I was writing it.
Portugal's human name is Anita de Santiago. Additional notes at the end.
Can also be read on FF.net
When England is out at sea he thinks of magic, sometimes.
He wonders if he is still connected to the old magic like he used to be. He used to feel it within him always, running through his veins, tying him to nature and making him powerful. It has dulled throughout the years, dulled as technology grew and his people drifted away from nature.
But out here, where the sea seemingly stretched on forever and the air smelled like salt, he can still feel it out here sometimes.
He thinks of the magic in names.
***
They hold a mock trial on the ship, and he is the accused. It is a game he and the other pirates play, mocking their potential fates if the navy catches them, because making it a game is the only way they can survive with the knowledge that one day they will die, and it will likely be at the end of a rope when they do.
England always plays the accused.
“Arthur Kirkland,” says the judge, who is really a man named Thomas who has been a part of England’s crew for almost three years. “That is your name?”
“It is.” His head is hung, and he has been stripped of any livery as Captain. He is bare before the court, before everything.
“Arthur Kirkland, you are charged with counts of sedition, capital treason, capital murder, and piracy. How do you plead?”
England looks up, looks into Thomas’s hard, green eyes.
“Guilty.”
He does not listen to the rest of the trial. He is tried and sentenced to hanging, as he always is. Another mate is the hangman, and they lead him to the noose. England remains quiet and numb as the loop is slipped around his neck. (A trick loop, that will not choke or break his neck, not that such petty human things could kill him.)
The crew is playing the English people in this little play they perform, and they cheer when the pirate is hung.
(England always plays the accused. He plays it because they all know this will not be his fate.)
***
“A pirate?” she had snapped at him the last time they met. She was braiding her long, chestnut hair tightly, not looking at England as he stood in her bedroom. “You come into my private bedchambers, before I am even dressed, to inform me of your intended treason?”
She had indeed not been dressed. She was wearing a loose nightshirt, shock white against her tanned skin, tanned from her own times at sea. Her legs were exposed, long and strong, and if had not been such a somber moment between them he would have been admiring them, thinking less then holy thoughts about them.
“You don’t understand...” he had sighed, and in her looking glass he had seen her face contort with anger before she whirled around, slamming her hand on her vanity, her braid abandoned and once again slipping loose.
“Understand? Understand? You are a nation, England, an empire! And you intend to become a pirate, you intended to be one of the leeches hurting the empires!” Her eyes grew dark, and she was never one to show sadness, but England had thought she might appear sad. “How could you betray your status as a nation this way?”
He wanted to explain it to her. But he had not. He had not said anything.
She hung her head. “This is your decision.” Then she raised her head again, green eyes hard. “Leave my presence, pirate.”
“Portugal...” He breathed, but she had lunged forward slightly, gripping the edge of her chair as if she intended to throw it at him.
“Leave!”
England had left, and it was not but a few hours until he was climbing onto a ship, leaving behind his loyalty to his King, leaving behind his land, leaving behind her.
***
Sometimes, when he knows no one will be listening, he says her name.
***
He ends up in a port when he next sees her. He sees her in the dark corner of a tavern, and wonders about magic and the alignment of stars and the power of names.
He then decides that a coincidence is safer and he approaches her.
“Well well, what is Miss Portugal doing in a pirate bar of all places?” he asks, feigning confidence the way the outlaw life taught him to as he sits on the stool beside her.
She does not look up at him, nor does she seem particularly surprised to see him. He would never admit that he feels a sting of disappointment at his inability to take her off guard, but that is what he likes about her isn’t it? Portugal is strong, powerful. If he is the sea, inconsistent and and tied to a magic that flows like water, she is the earth, steady and sure and no less magical, just in a different way.
“The spirits are cheaper,” she says to her glass. “Have you heard?”
He has not heard anything. He has been at sea, and has not seen her in... he does not know how long it has been. She has not changed though. She is wearing simple trousers and a man’s shirt, and she must have been at sea until recently. He has not often seen her dress to highlight her femininity, but she does not hide it either, as her tight, whip-like braid hangs down her back, longer than any man would wear it. She does not need to hide. They are nations. The rules are not the same for them.
“Heard what?”
Her laugh is harsh and barking and tinged with liquor. “Haven’t heard? Surely you know of your war England.”
He goes silent. He knows of his war. They pick up news of it in the ports they stop in, but it would not matter. He might not know the details, but he can feel the core of it in his bones, a dull yet persistent ache of battles and death and politics.
She breaks into his thoughts, looking up at him for the first time, green eyes hard as they meet his. “Spain has attacked. He intends to invade me.”
England sucks in his breath. “Why-”
“Why do you think?” She slams her cup on the table, her voice raising to be heard sharply over all of the crowd, but no one turns to look at them. England does not know if they honestly do not notice them, or if they are too scared to pry into the private conversations of nations.
“Because of-”
“Because of you, tolo! Everything is always because of you!” She stands suddenly, bumping the table and knocking over her cup, pungent liquid spilling over the table, which Portugal ignores as she whips around and storms away. England reaches out to stop her, but it suddenly feels like he cannot touch her, cannot reach her at all, even if her were to touch her he could never be close enough...
He stands to follow her out of the bar.
He catches sight of her again her in the street, which is empty except for a few prostitutes and drunkards who likely do not have the money in their pockets or the sense in their heads to give the women any business.
“Portugal!” he calls after her.
She falters in her brisk pace, but in the end she does not stop. It is enough though. He catches up to her and catches her sleeve just as she is turning into an alleyway, which is even emptier and darker than the street.
“Portugal,” he whispers, and his voice breaks as he says it. She says nothing, but turns, and he can see the low light from the street lamps reflecting off her eyes.
Her eyes draw the words out of him as if by magic, and really who is to say it isn’t a kind of magic. “It was never about you, you know. I didn’t... I didn’t want to leave you.”
“But you did.” Her voice is almost a growl, low and menacing. “You left me, you left everyone.”
“I shouldn’t have, not when you needed me-”
“Need you?” The fire is back in her eyes, and she jerks her arm out of his grasp, and she takes a step back into the alley. “I don’t need you England! I am Reino de Portugal! I am the first empire! Why on earth would I need you?”
England is quiet. “It wasn’t about you. I was tired, that’s all. Tired of being a nation. Tired of the responsibility and the wars...”
“You can’t just do that,” she whispers. “You can’t just stop-”
“I know that. But I wanted to pretend.”
She looks at him and he looks at her and he thinks she might understand. It is different for them. They do not live by the same rules as humans, and sometimes that is painful.
“I love you,” he says, and he can’t really name why he says it other than that it is true.
Her face twists. “We... We are good allies. Beneficial. Politically our relationship-”
“No.” He grasps her shoulders and their eyes meet. “I love you.”
***
“Anita,” is the name he whispered into the wind, late at night, sea air stinging his eyes.
He whispers it again now before their lips meet.
(He thinks he might hear his own name whispered in between kisses, but he cannot be sure.)
***
Neither of them are weak, but in each others arms they let each other feel vulnerable, raw.
They let each other feel human.
***
At some point in the night they end up on his anchored ship, dismissing the young man who is on watch duty, and together they stare out at the inky black sea beyond the harbour.
“I’ll send you support against the Spanish,” he says. “If I have to turn myself in and demand it myself-”
“I’m sure you won’t have to do that.” She swallows thickly. “Thank you though.”
They fall into silence.
Portugal is the first to break it. “The world is changing again. It’s always changing but now it...” She stops and ducks her head, and England looks at her, watching her bangs shift softly in the light wind. “Humans are lucky. They have a few decades and then they can rest. We... We can’t, you know?”
England thinks of the trick noose and the cheering crowd and Thomas’ hard, green eyes.
“Yes, I know.”
Slowly his hand slips into hers. It is calloused from sword-fighting, but it is warm, and he feels the magic rush though him with a clarity he almost never feels.
“I do think there are some advantages to being us though.”
(Their kiss tastes like salt and liquor and hope.)
AN: The war mentioned is the Seven Year War, and the invasion mentioned was the 1762 Spanish Invasion of Portugal. Basically all you need to know is that Spain attacked Portugal because since Portugal and Great Britain were pretty closely tied, it would be a pretty big loss for Britain. (From what I understand. I am not a historian.)