Ficlets: Ballad on the Streets of Vienna; New World
Two short fills from the kink meme, shared belatedly with you.
Title: Ballad on the Streets of Vienna
Author: Ish
Characters/Pairings: Austria/Hungary
Ratings: R
Warnings: A wee bit of smut?
Summary: Request was for a fill inspired by poetry that wasn`t by Shakespeare. Poem used was Ballad on the Streets of Buenos Aires by Yehuda Amichai. I can no longer read that poem without thinking of Hungary. (Poem attached at end.)
Ballad on the Streets of Vienna
He waits for her on the corner, despite the warning sirens blaring over the loudspeakers. The sound hurts his ears and his eyes keep flickering up to the skies anxiously, but he searches the crowd of people streaming towards the bomb shelters far more anxiously.
He’d offered to go out after the bread, but she had insisted. Her warrior’s spirit didn’t sit well with being cooped up, she’d argued. They might have been driven into a retreat, but that didn’t mean she was going to hide in her hole like a mouse so afraid of the cat that it starved to death.
He spies her at last, her hair tossed about by the wind. Her hat must have blown off, because she’s clutching it in her hand, along with a loaf of bread. He grabs her free hand when she reaches him, and together they run for the shelter.
Later, when they are safe (or as safe as they’re going to get with bombs falling outside), she lets him kiss her. She doesn’t let him undress her completely though. The shelter is small and cramped, and they might have to leave it at a moment’s notice. But she lets him remove her trousers, and he does so as respectfully as if they were the full skirts she’d worn once, made of satin and lace instead of rough wool. He thinks of the metronome on his piano as she clings to him, biting his shoulder to keep quiet. One-two-one-two-one-two, keeping perfect time amid the chaos.
Her teeth are holding tight to his shoulder, so he kisses her where he can - the top of her head, her tousled curls, her ear, her cheekbone, her eyelid. And if there is moisture on his lips when they left from the last, well, he knows not to speak of it.
After the war, he hears the rumors before the treaty is finalized, and he rushes to Berlin to be there before the ink dries. They are dividing up Germany, he has heard, dividing up the world between an East drowning in red and a West marching to the beat conducted by the stars and stripes of America. An iron curtain falling down across Europe…
He stops Prussia for a moment, just before Russia leads him away.
“You deserve this,” Austria hisses at him, anger an emotion that leaves him less vulnerable than any of the others tangled up in his chest. He won’t allow himself to feel sorry for Prussia. What sort of idiot sacrifices himself for another nation this way, even for a brother? “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you at all.”
Prussia snorts, seeming no more concerned than he ever did. But his eyes glitter hard and red, like rubies soaked in blood as they meet Austria’s. “Sure I do,” he agrees, taking a step back. His lips turn down, that gaze narrowing. “But you - you never deserved her.”
Austria wheels back from the venom in his voice. Like the bite of a cobra, it is so sudden and swift that he doesn’t understand the meaning of it right away. It is only when Hungary emerges, eyes uncharacteristically downcast that the full import of Prussia’s retort sinks in. She follows after the newly christened East Germany, after Russia, and only then does he begin to understand.
He wants to call out, to shout at her. To grab her arm and yank her back to him. But his voice dries up in his throat and all he can do is stare.
As if she can hear even his silent cries, she raises her eyes at last and looks over at him. It is a long look, and he feels himself swallowed by it, but she does not speak and she does not cry, and all too soon she turns and he has lost her.
That night, in his empty house, he sweeps the metronome off the piano in a hollow rage. It bounces on the floor and he hears it tick away - one-two-one-two-one-two. He sits on the bench and pounds away at the keys, desperate to drown out that even beat. Note after furious note spills into the air in a torrent of sound.
He plays until he is exhausted that night, and the next, and the next. He plays until his ears are deaf to the sound, and so he doesn’t hear the door open behind him.
Austria finds it in him to accept the help forced upon him as gracefully as he can. America brings food and supplies, and Germany is a source of silent companionship while Italy tries to dust the house. He thanks them, and thinks of Hungary, wondering if someone is bandaging her wounds, if her house is warm and her cupboard full. He listens for what little news leaks through the Curtain. She is too far away to hear his song, so he writes it down for her, ruining countless sheets of paper with ink in an attempt to capture his feelings in lines and bars.
He clutches these papers close when he sleeps, and he waits.
Ballad on the Streets of Buenos Aires
And a man waits in the street and meets a woman
precise and beautiful as the clock on the wall of her room
and sad and white as the wall that holds it
And she doesn't show him her teeth
And she doesn't show him her belly
but she shows him her time, precise and beautiful
And she lives on the ground floor next to the pipes
and the water that rises begins there in her wall
and he has decided on tenderness
And she knows the reasons for weeping
and she knows the reasons for holding back
and he begins to be like her, like her
And his hair will grow long and soft, like her hair
and the hard words of his language dissolve in her mouth
and his eyes will be filled with tears, like her eyes
And the traffic lights are reflected in her face
and she stands there amid the permitted and the forbidden
and he has decided on tenderness
And they walk in the streets that will soon appear in his dreams
and the rain weeps into them silently, as into a pillow,
and impatient time has made them both into prophets
And he will lose her at the red light
and he will lose her at the green and the yellow
and the light is always there to serve every loss
And he won't be there when soap and lotion run out
and he won't be there when the clock is set again
and he won't be there when her dress unravels to threads in the wind
And she will lock his wild letters away in a quiet drawer
and lie down to sleep beside the water in the wall
and she will know the reasons for weeping and for holding back
and he has decided on tenderness
Title: New World
Author: Ish
Characters/Pairings: Canada/America
Ratings: R
Warnings: Mpreg
Summary: Request was "mpreg = death of nation". This isn`t really my head canon, but I wanted to try and do my best for the requester anyways.
New World
They realize almost instantly when it happens. America knows first, his inner muscles clutching tight, the seed still hot within him as his entire world suddenly spins from the inside out. It hits Canada a second later, his eyes widening in horror as he stares down at his brother. His lips move, trying to spill out the apologies that he can`t produce the breath to form. He tries to pull out, an action of instinctive denial - maybe it`s not too late, maybe, maybe… But America won`t let him, reaches up and pulls his twin close, holds him there.
“It`s done already,” America murmurs, petting Canada`s hair, feeling his twin`s tears wet his neck. He feels insubstantial suddenly; the only sensations that are real are that weight and wetness, and the warm glow low in his abdomen. He`s not sure what`s happening outside of their immediate bubble, the dull roar in his ears blocking it out. He blinks a few times, finding his own lashes heavy with tears.
He`s not sure how much time passes, but when he finally is able to release Canada, the sweat on their bodies has dried and the seed inside him is cold. He should clean up, but that seems pointless somehow, considering that the damage has already been done.
America sits up and scrubs his eyes dry, reaching for his glasses to bring the world back into some kind of focus. He ignores Canada for the moment, needing to regain his own composure. How can he be the hero here if he loses it? His hand resting on his stomach is shaking though, no matter how much he tries to steady it.
He wonders how he knows. Wonders what made this one time different from all the other times. He`d slept with other nations before, and with Canada before as well. He wants to think that he`s wrong, because how is it possible he knows already? But he`s a nation, not a human, and he knows. It`s not something that`s ever discussed, not even among nations, but there are entire dissertations available in what`s not said. Egypt and Greece, who never talk of their memories but who guard the gifts left to them jealously. Korea`s mothers, Japan`s father, Spain`s dead and gone so long he remembers Rome as his only parent.
America floats back to himself and finds that his hand has stopped shaking. He is rubbing his stomach now, slow, wide circles over the still-flat surface. Canada is staring at him. He hasn`t bothered with his own glasses, and he looks young without them - too young, even to America who knows he could almost be looking in a mirror.
“Do you think this is how she felt?”
America`s question surprises himself. He hadn`t meant to ask it out loud. He and Canada never speak of their own mother either, but Canada knows at once who he means, and the shock seems to startle the words out of him.
“I`m sorry! Oh god, I`m so sorry. I didn`t know - I didn`t mean --! Oh god…”
America kisses him, because he needs to shut him up and it`s the only thing he can think of right then. The kiss turns hard and desperate, and breathing suddenly seems less important than trying to climb into each other`s skin. Their hearts beat in unison and America whimpers as something inside of him pulses at the same time.
Canada`s hand presses against his stomach and he breaks the kiss reluctantly to meet his brother`s gaze. He knows too, America realizes. Not only that there will be a child, and what that will mean for America, but that it will mean the same for both of them. There will be no leaving his child in Canada`s care. They came into the world together, and they will leave it the same way.
It`s only right, even if it isn`t entirely fair.
“What will we name her?” Canada asks, and although he speaks in a whisper his voice is the only sound America can hear over those heartbeats.
Despite everything, he feels a grin break over his face. He reaches out and squeezes his twin`s hand, glad at least that they`re in this together, selfish as that may be.
“How do you know it will be a her?”
His voice is hoarse, but gentle, and he imagines Canada is probably right. It will be a girl child and he starts to draw a picture of her in his mind. Hair the color of prairie wheat and eyes the clear blue of river water when the snow melts. And suddenly, it doesn`t feel like breaking apart at all, but rather like rays of sunlight and moonlight knitting together inside of him, the glow of a tiny star being born.
“We’ll leave her my Constitution,” he insists, scowling when Canada opens his mouth to protest. “I won’t have her being a monarchy, not even in name.”
Canada sighs but gives in with a reluctant nod. “All right.” His hand brushes over his brother’s stomach and an echo of a smile dances over his lips. “The true north, then, strong and free.”
“And the home of the brave,” America adds in agreement. It’s still an ending, but who says they can’t make it a happy one?
America opens his mouth and his heart, and begins making plans for their daughter.
Walk the good road my daughter,
and the buffalo herds wide and dark as cloud shadows
moving over the prairie will follow you….
Be dutiful, respectful, gentle and modest, my daughter.
And proud walking.
If the pride and virtue of the women are lost,
spring will come but the buffalo trails will turn to grass.
Be strong, with the warm, strong heart of the earth.
No people goes down until their women are weak and dishonored.
~words spoken at puberty ceremonies for Sioux maidens~
Title: Ballad on the Streets of Vienna
Author: Ish
Characters/Pairings: Austria/Hungary
Ratings: R
Warnings: A wee bit of smut?
Summary: Request was for a fill inspired by poetry that wasn`t by Shakespeare. Poem used was Ballad on the Streets of Buenos Aires by Yehuda Amichai. I can no longer read that poem without thinking of Hungary. (Poem attached at end.)
Ballad on the Streets of Vienna
He waits for her on the corner, despite the warning sirens blaring over the loudspeakers. The sound hurts his ears and his eyes keep flickering up to the skies anxiously, but he searches the crowd of people streaming towards the bomb shelters far more anxiously.
He’d offered to go out after the bread, but she had insisted. Her warrior’s spirit didn’t sit well with being cooped up, she’d argued. They might have been driven into a retreat, but that didn’t mean she was going to hide in her hole like a mouse so afraid of the cat that it starved to death.
He spies her at last, her hair tossed about by the wind. Her hat must have blown off, because she’s clutching it in her hand, along with a loaf of bread. He grabs her free hand when she reaches him, and together they run for the shelter.
Later, when they are safe (or as safe as they’re going to get with bombs falling outside), she lets him kiss her. She doesn’t let him undress her completely though. The shelter is small and cramped, and they might have to leave it at a moment’s notice. But she lets him remove her trousers, and he does so as respectfully as if they were the full skirts she’d worn once, made of satin and lace instead of rough wool. He thinks of the metronome on his piano as she clings to him, biting his shoulder to keep quiet. One-two-one-two-one-two, keeping perfect time amid the chaos.
Her teeth are holding tight to his shoulder, so he kisses her where he can - the top of her head, her tousled curls, her ear, her cheekbone, her eyelid. And if there is moisture on his lips when they left from the last, well, he knows not to speak of it.
After the war, he hears the rumors before the treaty is finalized, and he rushes to Berlin to be there before the ink dries. They are dividing up Germany, he has heard, dividing up the world between an East drowning in red and a West marching to the beat conducted by the stars and stripes of America. An iron curtain falling down across Europe…
He stops Prussia for a moment, just before Russia leads him away.
“You deserve this,” Austria hisses at him, anger an emotion that leaves him less vulnerable than any of the others tangled up in his chest. He won’t allow himself to feel sorry for Prussia. What sort of idiot sacrifices himself for another nation this way, even for a brother? “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you at all.”
Prussia snorts, seeming no more concerned than he ever did. But his eyes glitter hard and red, like rubies soaked in blood as they meet Austria’s. “Sure I do,” he agrees, taking a step back. His lips turn down, that gaze narrowing. “But you - you never deserved her.”
Austria wheels back from the venom in his voice. Like the bite of a cobra, it is so sudden and swift that he doesn’t understand the meaning of it right away. It is only when Hungary emerges, eyes uncharacteristically downcast that the full import of Prussia’s retort sinks in. She follows after the newly christened East Germany, after Russia, and only then does he begin to understand.
He wants to call out, to shout at her. To grab her arm and yank her back to him. But his voice dries up in his throat and all he can do is stare.
As if she can hear even his silent cries, she raises her eyes at last and looks over at him. It is a long look, and he feels himself swallowed by it, but she does not speak and she does not cry, and all too soon she turns and he has lost her.
That night, in his empty house, he sweeps the metronome off the piano in a hollow rage. It bounces on the floor and he hears it tick away - one-two-one-two-one-two. He sits on the bench and pounds away at the keys, desperate to drown out that even beat. Note after furious note spills into the air in a torrent of sound.
He plays until he is exhausted that night, and the next, and the next. He plays until his ears are deaf to the sound, and so he doesn’t hear the door open behind him.
Austria finds it in him to accept the help forced upon him as gracefully as he can. America brings food and supplies, and Germany is a source of silent companionship while Italy tries to dust the house. He thanks them, and thinks of Hungary, wondering if someone is bandaging her wounds, if her house is warm and her cupboard full. He listens for what little news leaks through the Curtain. She is too far away to hear his song, so he writes it down for her, ruining countless sheets of paper with ink in an attempt to capture his feelings in lines and bars.
He clutches these papers close when he sleeps, and he waits.
Ballad on the Streets of Buenos Aires
And a man waits in the street and meets a woman
precise and beautiful as the clock on the wall of her room
and sad and white as the wall that holds it
And she doesn't show him her teeth
And she doesn't show him her belly
but she shows him her time, precise and beautiful
And she lives on the ground floor next to the pipes
and the water that rises begins there in her wall
and he has decided on tenderness
And she knows the reasons for weeping
and she knows the reasons for holding back
and he begins to be like her, like her
And his hair will grow long and soft, like her hair
and the hard words of his language dissolve in her mouth
and his eyes will be filled with tears, like her eyes
And the traffic lights are reflected in her face
and she stands there amid the permitted and the forbidden
and he has decided on tenderness
And they walk in the streets that will soon appear in his dreams
and the rain weeps into them silently, as into a pillow,
and impatient time has made them both into prophets
And he will lose her at the red light
and he will lose her at the green and the yellow
and the light is always there to serve every loss
And he won't be there when soap and lotion run out
and he won't be there when the clock is set again
and he won't be there when her dress unravels to threads in the wind
And she will lock his wild letters away in a quiet drawer
and lie down to sleep beside the water in the wall
and she will know the reasons for weeping and for holding back
and he has decided on tenderness
Title: New World
Author: Ish
Characters/Pairings: Canada/America
Ratings: R
Warnings: Mpreg
Summary: Request was "mpreg = death of nation". This isn`t really my head canon, but I wanted to try and do my best for the requester anyways.
New World
They realize almost instantly when it happens. America knows first, his inner muscles clutching tight, the seed still hot within him as his entire world suddenly spins from the inside out. It hits Canada a second later, his eyes widening in horror as he stares down at his brother. His lips move, trying to spill out the apologies that he can`t produce the breath to form. He tries to pull out, an action of instinctive denial - maybe it`s not too late, maybe, maybe… But America won`t let him, reaches up and pulls his twin close, holds him there.
“It`s done already,” America murmurs, petting Canada`s hair, feeling his twin`s tears wet his neck. He feels insubstantial suddenly; the only sensations that are real are that weight and wetness, and the warm glow low in his abdomen. He`s not sure what`s happening outside of their immediate bubble, the dull roar in his ears blocking it out. He blinks a few times, finding his own lashes heavy with tears.
He`s not sure how much time passes, but when he finally is able to release Canada, the sweat on their bodies has dried and the seed inside him is cold. He should clean up, but that seems pointless somehow, considering that the damage has already been done.
America sits up and scrubs his eyes dry, reaching for his glasses to bring the world back into some kind of focus. He ignores Canada for the moment, needing to regain his own composure. How can he be the hero here if he loses it? His hand resting on his stomach is shaking though, no matter how much he tries to steady it.
He wonders how he knows. Wonders what made this one time different from all the other times. He`d slept with other nations before, and with Canada before as well. He wants to think that he`s wrong, because how is it possible he knows already? But he`s a nation, not a human, and he knows. It`s not something that`s ever discussed, not even among nations, but there are entire dissertations available in what`s not said. Egypt and Greece, who never talk of their memories but who guard the gifts left to them jealously. Korea`s mothers, Japan`s father, Spain`s dead and gone so long he remembers Rome as his only parent.
America floats back to himself and finds that his hand has stopped shaking. He is rubbing his stomach now, slow, wide circles over the still-flat surface. Canada is staring at him. He hasn`t bothered with his own glasses, and he looks young without them - too young, even to America who knows he could almost be looking in a mirror.
“Do you think this is how she felt?”
America`s question surprises himself. He hadn`t meant to ask it out loud. He and Canada never speak of their own mother either, but Canada knows at once who he means, and the shock seems to startle the words out of him.
“I`m sorry! Oh god, I`m so sorry. I didn`t know - I didn`t mean --! Oh god…”
America kisses him, because he needs to shut him up and it`s the only thing he can think of right then. The kiss turns hard and desperate, and breathing suddenly seems less important than trying to climb into each other`s skin. Their hearts beat in unison and America whimpers as something inside of him pulses at the same time.
Canada`s hand presses against his stomach and he breaks the kiss reluctantly to meet his brother`s gaze. He knows too, America realizes. Not only that there will be a child, and what that will mean for America, but that it will mean the same for both of them. There will be no leaving his child in Canada`s care. They came into the world together, and they will leave it the same way.
It`s only right, even if it isn`t entirely fair.
“What will we name her?” Canada asks, and although he speaks in a whisper his voice is the only sound America can hear over those heartbeats.
Despite everything, he feels a grin break over his face. He reaches out and squeezes his twin`s hand, glad at least that they`re in this together, selfish as that may be.
“How do you know it will be a her?”
His voice is hoarse, but gentle, and he imagines Canada is probably right. It will be a girl child and he starts to draw a picture of her in his mind. Hair the color of prairie wheat and eyes the clear blue of river water when the snow melts. And suddenly, it doesn`t feel like breaking apart at all, but rather like rays of sunlight and moonlight knitting together inside of him, the glow of a tiny star being born.
“We’ll leave her my Constitution,” he insists, scowling when Canada opens his mouth to protest. “I won’t have her being a monarchy, not even in name.”
Canada sighs but gives in with a reluctant nod. “All right.” His hand brushes over his brother’s stomach and an echo of a smile dances over his lips. “The true north, then, strong and free.”
“And the home of the brave,” America adds in agreement. It’s still an ending, but who says they can’t make it a happy one?
America opens his mouth and his heart, and begins making plans for their daughter.
Walk the good road my daughter,
and the buffalo herds wide and dark as cloud shadows
moving over the prairie will follow you….
Be dutiful, respectful, gentle and modest, my daughter.
And proud walking.
If the pride and virtue of the women are lost,
spring will come but the buffalo trails will turn to grass.
Be strong, with the warm, strong heart of the earth.
No people goes down until their women are weak and dishonored.
~words spoken at puberty ceremonies for Sioux maidens~