hetalia oneshots || some kinds of night;
both these fics kind of started as something and ended up as something else :|
title: Promise
pairing: America X Japan
rating: PG?
summary: On an empty midnight street Japan feels full the rush of America's bright eyes.
♠PROMISE♠
It must have been only past ten but midnight was telling stories in the lily magic of cheap street lights; and it was only just past summer, but tell that to the autumn wind. The intersections seemed to be made of in-betweens as Japan walked behind America, taking in the scenery quietly. America was still on about something, walking windy, smile on his face and a light in his eyes that didn't seem to far away from this twilight feeling in the air.
America was giving Japan a grand tour of New York and now they were on a seedier leg of the trip; Manhattan was bright and clean and breathed history, but this part of New York seemed to be one huge back alley, dressed in industry and garbage. America seemed comfortable though, seemed to walk to its beat, and Japan supposed that on a night like this it was beautiful- there was something to these streets that he couldn't put his finger on, something that seemed to be moving...
"...and it's a little more realistic than the rest I guess, and- oh," America said, stopping in his tracks as they happened upon a building glowing artificial. Japan paused as well, looked up to the red-and-white awning, the red lit sign with the picture of a bearded man on it...America seemed to be on some slow thought; and then underneath the city light he flashed an outlaw smile to Japan. Japan tensed at the invasive white but looked steady at his eyes. "Japan."
"-Yes?" Japan responded, breaking eye contact.
The vagrant brightness of America's smile slowly became a grin. "Have you ever had KFC?"
"...No," Japan responded, eyes shaded in suspicion. That grin never meant anything good...
America's eyes turned a different shade of electric blue and he laughed brightly. "Holy crap no way," he said, and started to pull Japan across the deserted parking lot, "KFC is so freaking awesome! Wow, I'm glad we came here- imagine if I let you go back home without trying KFC?"
"O-oh," was all Japan could think to say.
"You'll like it! It's great," America said, nodding matter-of-factly. He let go of Japan's hand as they reached the door, and Japan felt a rise of light at the quick brushing of skin against skin; couldn't tell from America's excited expression whether that contact was accidental. A quick pause; America's mouth, cool and young under the puzzle of lights, turned up in a quick smile and he opened the door for Japan.
"Thank you," Japan said, and they went inside under different impressions.
It was late and so it was deserted; it felt strange and sterile- a medicine cabinet or an office, but vaguely chicken-and-spice-scented. Everything was bright but receded into its own tiredness. America ordered for him (as he usually did), and Japan's thoughts were clouded with America's movements.
And against his will Japan remembered some vague thought he'd had throughout this trip; that thought had been a stamp across his mind...Japan looked up from the shadows of his mind to America, smiling at the cashier, taking out his money, moving with fluidity, like music...something in Japan echoed through the anonymous space of his ribs.
He sighed; sometimes he couldn't understand himself. They waited for a bit. America smiled at Japan and Japan nodded, like it was some kind of agreement. Then the counter girl broke through their thoughts and passed them...a whole bucket of chicken. Japan rose an eyebrow. Did they really need that much chicken...?
Apparently so- America's hand immediately dove into the bucket and came up with a leg. He chewed away happily as they walked out. "Mm, you have something like this at your place, yeah?" America asked as the door pushed open.
Japan eyes the chicken briefly and nodded. "Yes- katsu," he answered, walking through into the sudden cool, "But that's only lightly breaded.
America's eyebrows furrowed. "Lightly..." he repeated, as though pondering the concept. Then he shrugged and took another bite; there was night drumming up the sidewalk and punctuating its vague beat America walked straight ahead- shadowed and shaped by a bright streetlight, and then plopped down onto the curb.
There was a little-boy grace to him as he happily ate his chicken; Japan stood back by the street lamp, wondering if it was normal to eat fried chicken on a curb. That seemed a bit off to him...America looked back at Japan and smiled, wiping his mouth with a swipe of the hand. "Hey, don't you want some?" he asked, waving a drumstick at Japan.
Japan nodded and sat down next to America, feeling the white sear the street. America passed the bucket to him and he rifled through it, looking for a small piece. "It's nice out," Japan observed, voice level, blanched.
America's posture suddenly seemed sullen and he let out an unhappy breath of air. "I don't like it," he pouted.
Japan looked at him curiously. "Why not?" he asked against a breeze.
"It just feels like winter's waiting to come," he replied, shuddering under the slight light. Japan smiled; America shook his head. "Well, you know. I just really hate winter. In New York especially." America bit off a piece of chiken thoughtfully. "How's it, by the way?" he drawled with a lazy gesture.
"Oh, good," Japan nodded, "Heavy. But good."
America laughed. "Heavy! I knew you'd say something like that. You're a skinny dude, though," he pointed out, and with a liquid movement wrapped his hand around Japan's wrist. "See?"
"Ah," Japan answered, some thought striking, and he shrank back slightly.
"...Not like I'm big, though. I'm just awesome," America responded, with a brief smile before he went back to pick another piece of chicken out of the bucket.
Japan nodded, looking at America under the loom of city gloom, and here these thoughts were striking again- America moving casual, America happy with something as everyday as fried chicken or chasing after endless stars. You could see it in American streets, Japan suddenly realized, in the buildings and the lights; that he was endlessly chasing something that was beyond fire and gold. Beyond the gutters and the choking. And, ah, he moved like a gun, like pull the trigger and stream bullets- to smile with kindness or to smile with conquest. A car whirled by with an electronic voice thumping out the speakers-
And Japan leaned forward, caught by the nervous night- wrist against neck, pulling forward, reached up to kiss America with the taste of darkness, of secrets, from Japan's mouth to his. Bloomed full against stars; America seemed surprised but leaned forward, like connecting the pieces. Like smoothing out the contours of the sky. Cloud against cloud, feeling against feeling. Japan really didn't understand himself,...
He pulled away and he felt the heat creeping up on his face immediately. Suddenly reason was flooding back to him and he turned his eyes to the street, as though to abandon the taste to memory, to leave it among the remnants of time. America laughed; Japan looked back to him. "Ehe," America coughed a bit nervously, with a smile, "-You should do that more often." America's voice was suddenly smaller, and Japan examined him with a fleeting glance. He guessed that, even for his strength and boldness, America was still much younger than he was.
Japan cleared his throat and nodded, felt small and so turned back to the street. America finished a bite of chicken and sidled closer to Japan. "You know," he said, "You did that before, in Chelsea- on the cheek- y'know. But you didn't do anything after that."
Japan flushed, stars crossed his mind. He looked back to America. "Yes," he admitted, remembering clearly.
"How come?"
Japan's eyes, heavy with radiant shadows, skimmed over America again- under light that seemed like snow, eyes blue and caught in wondering. "Because- you're always going somewhere," he finally said, as though in defense against America's incisive eyes.
"Eh?" America responded, but Japan could tell by the coolness of his mouth that he knew what he was talking about. America laughed. "I never know where I am with you," he said, putting his arm around Japan with a reckless grace as a car whizzed by.
Japan smiled. "America-san," he said, "You never know where you are."
"Nope, I don't," America replied with a sudden breaking laugh.
"-But," Japan began, fear in his hands, voice palpitating- full with some darkness as he looked up to America's eyes. "I suppose- wherever you're going- I'd like to be part of it, at some point- and that's why. What I mean is- to feel it as you rush by me-"
America laughed again, and he slipped his arm off Japan- took another piece from the bucket and looked out to the street. He seemed to ponder its lines, its story; and he got up, his body breathless against the darkness and the lily light. America was already on top of a star, America was already lonely in his atomic, radiant night. He already knew everything Japan was saying, and it was true- he didn't know where he was or where he was going to. "Don't think like that," he said, flashing a thumbs-up, looking down to Japan, "Wherever I'm going, you can come with me. I couldn't just go past you."
He turned off toward the darkness that lay untold down the street, and Japan smiled at the wind and sun in his determined eyes. He knew it probably wouldn't happen that way- perhaps America was already too far out of reach. But against the garbage and the street flowers America's mouth was filled with promise, and that brought light to Japan's mind as he got up from the curb to join in America's march into the stranger dark.
title: Your Heart Carries Mine
pairing/characters: Spamano with a healthy dose of France.
rating: PG?
summary: Romano gets drunk and feels his heart grasp for Spain.
♦YOUR HEART CARRIES MINE♦
Romano was drifting in and out of sleep in the back of the car as it whirled by Barcelona's twilight ancient streets; it was raining gold...Romano couldn't tell if he was still as drunk as he thought he was, or if he was coming up from under. "Ugh, stupid," he let out half-thinkingly, holding his head.
France and Spain gave him a sparing glance from the front seat. "Ah, he's sleeping," France said, looking back to the road.
"Awww, que lindo!" Spain responded with a tired laugh, and twisted around in his seat to look at Romano- curled up in the back seat, between staccato dreams.
"Sh-shut up," Romano spat, closing his eyes tighter.
Spain laughed again. In the car they could feel the shapes etched out by moonlight and street light, passing in the shadows; and the blood of Spanish streets never stopped thumping, not even this late at night. Romano thought vaguely that Spanish streets were strange and strong and something else, and then he began humming an Italian song as though to punctuate his sentiments.
France looked back to the back seat. "Mon dieu, with only two glasses of wine!" he observed, with a slant in his voice.
"Ah, yeah," Spain said brightly, "He's a lightweight."
"Ah, he is now? That could be useful," France replied. He looked at Spain briefly. "Not that I'm saying anything- or maybe I am..."
Spain laughed again. "Ah, que diablo," he responded, running a casual hand through his hair, sighing tiredly.
"Shut up- why are you yelling," Romano groaned in the back, kicking Spain's chair.
And then he floated back into baby sleep again, only feeling light and dark running through his mind; vaguely heard their voices up front, but then, he wasn't sure...he felt the car as its momentum slowed and quieted, as it pulled to a stop. He lifted up his eyes a little, looked out the window to the silent dark- this place felt familiar enough...
Hints of conversation, and then the door before Romano opened. Spain leaned down, looked at him- the dusky green in his glance curious and his sunny skin breathing some kind of warning to Romano's heart. Romano felt Spain's hands around his waist; felt the strength of his arms and how alive he was, and something in Romano rebelled. He immediately mistrusted the sweetness in Spain's grasp and started to kick him away. "Le'me alone," he grunted miserably, pushing Spain, "You jus' never leave me alone..."
"Come on, Romanito," Spain responded, hoisting him from his place on the seat, "Up you go."
"I hate you," Romano bit. Spain laughed. "Don't laugh at me, I mean it."
"Si, si," Spain responded. Romano began to protest but the words were suddenly helpless- he was about to tell him to leave him alone because he could tell by the dusty light in Spain's eyes that he was just as exhausted as he was...
Spain had almost gotten Romano out of the car when Romano reached up- grasped at Spain's shirt, clutching the fabric. "Hey- I been lookin' for you," he said, with determination in his eyes, with sharpness in his tongue, "-but I can't figure out whether you're too- good for me, or if I'm too good for you-"
Spain laughed loudly, the bells of his voice like light and rain. "Ah, mi alma, it's not that- we're perfect for each other," he said, with a wink, picking Romano up. Romano breathed in the subtle spice at his neck, yawned and clung tighter to him. Spain doubled back and kicked the car door closed with a reckless movement- Romano could make out Spain and France's goodbyes and the slight sneaky curve of France's words...
"Don't have too much fun, mes enfants!"
"Shut up you wino bastard!" Romano yelled, and France just laughed and dove back into the car. The quiet enveloped them...
"Yep," Spain chirped, on the way to the door, "We're good for each other, eh, Romanito?"
"You shut yer mouth- I'unno what you're on about-" Romano responded. And then he coughed; "Hey, listen- don't carry me if you're too tired, you stupid..."
Spain smiled. "Carrying you is never a problem," he said, and words like those meant many things, things that all went like strangers to hide in the night...
But they were always remembered in quiet hearts. Spain fumbled to get the door open, and when it did the darkness greeted them- Romano felt the flush of dark on his skin against Spain's light. He struggled, practically beat Spain and ordered him to let go. Spain set him on the ground and Romano turned around, quick as hearbeats, quick as shock, to hug Spain fiercely, to back him up against the wall in the heat of some cutting feeling. Spain responded happily, smoothed Romano's hair with a touch as kind as moon; his tired body through a wheel of light, and kissed Romano down to sleep.
A/N: /idk.
Thanks for reading! ;D
title: Promise
pairing: America X Japan
rating: PG?
summary: On an empty midnight street Japan feels full the rush of America's bright eyes.
♠PROMISE♠
It must have been only past ten but midnight was telling stories in the lily magic of cheap street lights; and it was only just past summer, but tell that to the autumn wind. The intersections seemed to be made of in-betweens as Japan walked behind America, taking in the scenery quietly. America was still on about something, walking windy, smile on his face and a light in his eyes that didn't seem to far away from this twilight feeling in the air.
America was giving Japan a grand tour of New York and now they were on a seedier leg of the trip; Manhattan was bright and clean and breathed history, but this part of New York seemed to be one huge back alley, dressed in industry and garbage. America seemed comfortable though, seemed to walk to its beat, and Japan supposed that on a night like this it was beautiful- there was something to these streets that he couldn't put his finger on, something that seemed to be moving...
"...and it's a little more realistic than the rest I guess, and- oh," America said, stopping in his tracks as they happened upon a building glowing artificial. Japan paused as well, looked up to the red-and-white awning, the red lit sign with the picture of a bearded man on it...America seemed to be on some slow thought; and then underneath the city light he flashed an outlaw smile to Japan. Japan tensed at the invasive white but looked steady at his eyes. "Japan."
"-Yes?" Japan responded, breaking eye contact.
The vagrant brightness of America's smile slowly became a grin. "Have you ever had KFC?"
"...No," Japan responded, eyes shaded in suspicion. That grin never meant anything good...
America's eyes turned a different shade of electric blue and he laughed brightly. "Holy crap no way," he said, and started to pull Japan across the deserted parking lot, "KFC is so freaking awesome! Wow, I'm glad we came here- imagine if I let you go back home without trying KFC?"
"O-oh," was all Japan could think to say.
"You'll like it! It's great," America said, nodding matter-of-factly. He let go of Japan's hand as they reached the door, and Japan felt a rise of light at the quick brushing of skin against skin; couldn't tell from America's excited expression whether that contact was accidental. A quick pause; America's mouth, cool and young under the puzzle of lights, turned up in a quick smile and he opened the door for Japan.
"Thank you," Japan said, and they went inside under different impressions.
It was late and so it was deserted; it felt strange and sterile- a medicine cabinet or an office, but vaguely chicken-and-spice-scented. Everything was bright but receded into its own tiredness. America ordered for him (as he usually did), and Japan's thoughts were clouded with America's movements.
And against his will Japan remembered some vague thought he'd had throughout this trip; that thought had been a stamp across his mind...Japan looked up from the shadows of his mind to America, smiling at the cashier, taking out his money, moving with fluidity, like music...something in Japan echoed through the anonymous space of his ribs.
He sighed; sometimes he couldn't understand himself. They waited for a bit. America smiled at Japan and Japan nodded, like it was some kind of agreement. Then the counter girl broke through their thoughts and passed them...a whole bucket of chicken. Japan rose an eyebrow. Did they really need that much chicken...?
Apparently so- America's hand immediately dove into the bucket and came up with a leg. He chewed away happily as they walked out. "Mm, you have something like this at your place, yeah?" America asked as the door pushed open.
Japan eyes the chicken briefly and nodded. "Yes- katsu," he answered, walking through into the sudden cool, "But that's only lightly breaded.
America's eyebrows furrowed. "Lightly..." he repeated, as though pondering the concept. Then he shrugged and took another bite; there was night drumming up the sidewalk and punctuating its vague beat America walked straight ahead- shadowed and shaped by a bright streetlight, and then plopped down onto the curb.
There was a little-boy grace to him as he happily ate his chicken; Japan stood back by the street lamp, wondering if it was normal to eat fried chicken on a curb. That seemed a bit off to him...America looked back at Japan and smiled, wiping his mouth with a swipe of the hand. "Hey, don't you want some?" he asked, waving a drumstick at Japan.
Japan nodded and sat down next to America, feeling the white sear the street. America passed the bucket to him and he rifled through it, looking for a small piece. "It's nice out," Japan observed, voice level, blanched.
America's posture suddenly seemed sullen and he let out an unhappy breath of air. "I don't like it," he pouted.
Japan looked at him curiously. "Why not?" he asked against a breeze.
"It just feels like winter's waiting to come," he replied, shuddering under the slight light. Japan smiled; America shook his head. "Well, you know. I just really hate winter. In New York especially." America bit off a piece of chiken thoughtfully. "How's it, by the way?" he drawled with a lazy gesture.
"Oh, good," Japan nodded, "Heavy. But good."
America laughed. "Heavy! I knew you'd say something like that. You're a skinny dude, though," he pointed out, and with a liquid movement wrapped his hand around Japan's wrist. "See?"
"Ah," Japan answered, some thought striking, and he shrank back slightly.
"...Not like I'm big, though. I'm just awesome," America responded, with a brief smile before he went back to pick another piece of chicken out of the bucket.
Japan nodded, looking at America under the loom of city gloom, and here these thoughts were striking again- America moving casual, America happy with something as everyday as fried chicken or chasing after endless stars. You could see it in American streets, Japan suddenly realized, in the buildings and the lights; that he was endlessly chasing something that was beyond fire and gold. Beyond the gutters and the choking. And, ah, he moved like a gun, like pull the trigger and stream bullets- to smile with kindness or to smile with conquest. A car whirled by with an electronic voice thumping out the speakers-
And Japan leaned forward, caught by the nervous night- wrist against neck, pulling forward, reached up to kiss America with the taste of darkness, of secrets, from Japan's mouth to his. Bloomed full against stars; America seemed surprised but leaned forward, like connecting the pieces. Like smoothing out the contours of the sky. Cloud against cloud, feeling against feeling. Japan really didn't understand himself,...
He pulled away and he felt the heat creeping up on his face immediately. Suddenly reason was flooding back to him and he turned his eyes to the street, as though to abandon the taste to memory, to leave it among the remnants of time. America laughed; Japan looked back to him. "Ehe," America coughed a bit nervously, with a smile, "-You should do that more often." America's voice was suddenly smaller, and Japan examined him with a fleeting glance. He guessed that, even for his strength and boldness, America was still much younger than he was.
Japan cleared his throat and nodded, felt small and so turned back to the street. America finished a bite of chicken and sidled closer to Japan. "You know," he said, "You did that before, in Chelsea- on the cheek- y'know. But you didn't do anything after that."
Japan flushed, stars crossed his mind. He looked back to America. "Yes," he admitted, remembering clearly.
"How come?"
Japan's eyes, heavy with radiant shadows, skimmed over America again- under light that seemed like snow, eyes blue and caught in wondering. "Because- you're always going somewhere," he finally said, as though in defense against America's incisive eyes.
"Eh?" America responded, but Japan could tell by the coolness of his mouth that he knew what he was talking about. America laughed. "I never know where I am with you," he said, putting his arm around Japan with a reckless grace as a car whizzed by.
Japan smiled. "America-san," he said, "You never know where you are."
"Nope, I don't," America replied with a sudden breaking laugh.
"-But," Japan began, fear in his hands, voice palpitating- full with some darkness as he looked up to America's eyes. "I suppose- wherever you're going- I'd like to be part of it, at some point- and that's why. What I mean is- to feel it as you rush by me-"
America laughed again, and he slipped his arm off Japan- took another piece from the bucket and looked out to the street. He seemed to ponder its lines, its story; and he got up, his body breathless against the darkness and the lily light. America was already on top of a star, America was already lonely in his atomic, radiant night. He already knew everything Japan was saying, and it was true- he didn't know where he was or where he was going to. "Don't think like that," he said, flashing a thumbs-up, looking down to Japan, "Wherever I'm going, you can come with me. I couldn't just go past you."
He turned off toward the darkness that lay untold down the street, and Japan smiled at the wind and sun in his determined eyes. He knew it probably wouldn't happen that way- perhaps America was already too far out of reach. But against the garbage and the street flowers America's mouth was filled with promise, and that brought light to Japan's mind as he got up from the curb to join in America's march into the stranger dark.
title: Your Heart Carries Mine
pairing/characters: Spamano with a healthy dose of France.
rating: PG?
summary: Romano gets drunk and feels his heart grasp for Spain.
♦YOUR HEART CARRIES MINE♦
Romano was drifting in and out of sleep in the back of the car as it whirled by Barcelona's twilight ancient streets; it was raining gold...Romano couldn't tell if he was still as drunk as he thought he was, or if he was coming up from under. "Ugh, stupid," he let out half-thinkingly, holding his head.
France and Spain gave him a sparing glance from the front seat. "Ah, he's sleeping," France said, looking back to the road.
"Awww, que lindo!" Spain responded with a tired laugh, and twisted around in his seat to look at Romano- curled up in the back seat, between staccato dreams.
"Sh-shut up," Romano spat, closing his eyes tighter.
Spain laughed again. In the car they could feel the shapes etched out by moonlight and street light, passing in the shadows; and the blood of Spanish streets never stopped thumping, not even this late at night. Romano thought vaguely that Spanish streets were strange and strong and something else, and then he began humming an Italian song as though to punctuate his sentiments.
France looked back to the back seat. "Mon dieu, with only two glasses of wine!" he observed, with a slant in his voice.
"Ah, yeah," Spain said brightly, "He's a lightweight."
"Ah, he is now? That could be useful," France replied. He looked at Spain briefly. "Not that I'm saying anything- or maybe I am..."
Spain laughed again. "Ah, que diablo," he responded, running a casual hand through his hair, sighing tiredly.
"Shut up- why are you yelling," Romano groaned in the back, kicking Spain's chair.
And then he floated back into baby sleep again, only feeling light and dark running through his mind; vaguely heard their voices up front, but then, he wasn't sure...he felt the car as its momentum slowed and quieted, as it pulled to a stop. He lifted up his eyes a little, looked out the window to the silent dark- this place felt familiar enough...
Hints of conversation, and then the door before Romano opened. Spain leaned down, looked at him- the dusky green in his glance curious and his sunny skin breathing some kind of warning to Romano's heart. Romano felt Spain's hands around his waist; felt the strength of his arms and how alive he was, and something in Romano rebelled. He immediately mistrusted the sweetness in Spain's grasp and started to kick him away. "Le'me alone," he grunted miserably, pushing Spain, "You jus' never leave me alone..."
"Come on, Romanito," Spain responded, hoisting him from his place on the seat, "Up you go."
"I hate you," Romano bit. Spain laughed. "Don't laugh at me, I mean it."
"Si, si," Spain responded. Romano began to protest but the words were suddenly helpless- he was about to tell him to leave him alone because he could tell by the dusty light in Spain's eyes that he was just as exhausted as he was...
Spain had almost gotten Romano out of the car when Romano reached up- grasped at Spain's shirt, clutching the fabric. "Hey- I been lookin' for you," he said, with determination in his eyes, with sharpness in his tongue, "-but I can't figure out whether you're too- good for me, or if I'm too good for you-"
Spain laughed loudly, the bells of his voice like light and rain. "Ah, mi alma, it's not that- we're perfect for each other," he said, with a wink, picking Romano up. Romano breathed in the subtle spice at his neck, yawned and clung tighter to him. Spain doubled back and kicked the car door closed with a reckless movement- Romano could make out Spain and France's goodbyes and the slight sneaky curve of France's words...
"Don't have too much fun, mes enfants!"
"Shut up you wino bastard!" Romano yelled, and France just laughed and dove back into the car. The quiet enveloped them...
"Yep," Spain chirped, on the way to the door, "We're good for each other, eh, Romanito?"
"You shut yer mouth- I'unno what you're on about-" Romano responded. And then he coughed; "Hey, listen- don't carry me if you're too tired, you stupid..."
Spain smiled. "Carrying you is never a problem," he said, and words like those meant many things, things that all went like strangers to hide in the night...
But they were always remembered in quiet hearts. Spain fumbled to get the door open, and when it did the darkness greeted them- Romano felt the flush of dark on his skin against Spain's light. He struggled, practically beat Spain and ordered him to let go. Spain set him on the ground and Romano turned around, quick as hearbeats, quick as shock, to hug Spain fiercely, to back him up against the wall in the heat of some cutting feeling. Spain responded happily, smoothed Romano's hair with a touch as kind as moon; his tired body through a wheel of light, and kissed Romano down to sleep.
A/N: /idk.
Thanks for reading! ;D