Hetalia drabbles.
(Spain-- Spanish Inquisition)
It's not guilt that eats him up.
It's the whispers. He doesn't know why he should feel guilty, why he should have to hang his head. So it's not the guilt. It's the way France and Italy look at him, then look away. It's the way England swallows too loudly and leaves the room whenever he comes in.
He remembers when he was an altar boy. He used to stand as straight as he could, hold the candle as steady as he could. Breathe through his nose, and make sure the candle didn't go out. He sang his Ave Marias as loud as he dared, and afterwards, when he stepped into the daylight, everything felt a little lighter.
Not like this. It's not guilt. But it's almost like a shame, and he doesn't know why, because God never told him to feel ashamed. And he's doing God's work. The rest of them, they've all forgotten God's work. They're too easy, too complacent, and they let the sin sink in. And she's told him, reminded him about how dangerous it is.
So he bites his lip when he lights a prayer candle, and he crosses himself when he rises. And when he puts on his robe, he blinks hard and fast, and tells himself he doesn't feel guilty.
(Austria-- Assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand)
He likes cakes. Cakes, coffee, the piano in the background. Nice, sweet things. Frothy.
The mountains are too cold, and the forests are too dark, and everyone's a little too serious. He's too serious, too. He knows it, because he looks at Germany, and he knows he looks the same, the same, the same. Just a little more high class, just a little more polished. Icicle instead of ice.
So he likes the soft, frothy things. He likes to lean against the door and chat to Italy when Italy's passing by. Ask about Italy's newest painting, talk about France's newest food. Frothy things. Frothy conversations, like the whipped milk poured over coffee, white with just a little swirl of dark.
It tickles his throat when he drinks it down, and when Hungary asks him how it was, he smiles. He likes these frothy things.
But there are less frothy things. Germany's looking colder and Italy's walking faster, and France looks over his shoulder more often. And England's coming to visit less and less.
Maybe he's just making it up. Maybe he's just a little too tired, too bored. Too old, surrounded by so many young people. Maybe it's just the mountains, with their icy lakes and dark forests. The places all the fairytales took place when he was a boy, so many years ago. Before Italy started painting, before Germany was cold.
When the shot's fired, it feels like it cuts through him. He hears the plate shatter, sees his fork skitter across the floor. Hungary's wringing her hands, asking him what's wrong, and it feels like there's something lodged in his throat.
Maybe this new century isn't a time for frothy things.
(Italy and Germany-- WWII)
Italy's a flighty thing. He's got this weird way of floating by, oblivious of everything but his own appetites. When Germany watches him, Germany gets the strange feeling that Italy's a little lost in the world (or his own, probably his own), and that if he had a chance, he'd pull Germany in with him.
"Kissing," Italy's saying, like this is a normal conversation, like this is the kind of conversation they should be having when they're stuck in the trenches like this, bowed over by the shaking of explosions, "is the best thing. But not better than tomatoes."
"What," Germany asks, and he's trying not to grind his teeth, but his head is throbbing and his feet are wet and muddy, and Italy looks like he's daydreaming, like he'll walk across the lines without a thought. Like he'll get shot down without noticing the gunfire. "What does kissing have to do with a war?"
Italy laughs, giggles, something strange and effeminate and entirely not suited for combat, entirely not suited for a place where men are screaming and dying and calling for their mothers and God, save me, save me, save me.
"Kissing is what I do best. Kissing, and eating."
"And why," the ground is shaking again, and it's a roar in the air, he has to scream to be heard. But better to scream the words than to just scream, because if he starts screaming to drown out the roar, he'll never stop, and he'll lose Italy, a flighty thing falling over the lines, like a downed bird or a dandelion blown away by the mortar, "do I need to learn how to kiss?"
"Because," Italy says, and his smile is daydreamy, and his eyes are the color of the trench walls, "Italy is the place lovers go to die."
(Japan-- Shut-in Syndrome (Hikkikomori))
He flips open the phone, then closes it. Flips it open again.
"And you can scan barcodes with it? That's incredible." He flips it open, turns it over in his hand. "I wonder-- can I get one?"
Japan looks at him, face blank, and America feels suddenly awkard, ungainly with the tiny phone in what suddenly feel like giant's hands.
"Um, I mean. If you ever feel like making one." He holds out, feels himself grin wildly when Japan takes the phone back. Like playing with fire, maybe, never knowing when Japan's happy, when he's going to get burned.
"Why would you want one?" Japan asks, and he's slipping the phone into the sleeve of his-- what was it-- kimimo? America shrugs, grins wilder.
"I think it'd be nice. Nifty. It'd be useful. We could make them and sell them to everyone else, England and France and Italy--"
"But why," and Japan's sliding his hands into his sleeves, looking down at the ground like he can't stand to look at America, "would you want one, when you can still look at people?"
(America-- American Hero)
He likes to pretend he's a super-hero. Likes to daydream while he's brushing his teeth in his underwear, while he's crawling into his cold sheets. Thinks about how he'll save France, or Japan, or England-- He likes to think about how they'll thank him, how they'll like him. How they'll become friends.
He likes to dream about talking, about making Italy and Spain laugh. Drinking coffee, bickering over candy, making fun of each other without having to worry, are they right, are they right, are they right. He likes to think about having friends, about having people who trust him and look up to him and think he's a hero. He likes to dream of life.
Sometimes, he wakes up at night, and his sheets are damp, and the room is cold. He can hear his house groan around him, like it was never put together right, or like he never fixed it when it broke. He can hear cracks spreading, and he can never look at the walls, because he doesn't know what he'd do if he saw his house fall down around him, split apart because he couldn't keep it together by himself.
He can feel the dead slink past his bed, because America's never dealt well with the dead.
America likes to dream of having someone sleep beside him, so he won't be alone. He likes to think about how nice it'd be, a warm body next to his, so when he wakes up at night, he won't listen to the dead alone. How he could roll over and press his face against a pillow and feel someone's hand press against his shoulder, smooth away the pain and the cracks and the scratches from the dead soldiers and weeping mothers and angry lovers.
But he can't do it right. He always blunders in at the wrong moment, makes a wrong move. Says something wrong, does something wrong, and watches everyone turn away. And maybe it's best he doesn't have a friend, not a real friend, because if he did, maybe it'd crack around him, just like his house.
It's not guilt that eats him up.
It's the whispers. He doesn't know why he should feel guilty, why he should have to hang his head. So it's not the guilt. It's the way France and Italy look at him, then look away. It's the way England swallows too loudly and leaves the room whenever he comes in.
He remembers when he was an altar boy. He used to stand as straight as he could, hold the candle as steady as he could. Breathe through his nose, and make sure the candle didn't go out. He sang his Ave Marias as loud as he dared, and afterwards, when he stepped into the daylight, everything felt a little lighter.
Not like this. It's not guilt. But it's almost like a shame, and he doesn't know why, because God never told him to feel ashamed. And he's doing God's work. The rest of them, they've all forgotten God's work. They're too easy, too complacent, and they let the sin sink in. And she's told him, reminded him about how dangerous it is.
So he bites his lip when he lights a prayer candle, and he crosses himself when he rises. And when he puts on his robe, he blinks hard and fast, and tells himself he doesn't feel guilty.
(Austria-- Assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand)
He likes cakes. Cakes, coffee, the piano in the background. Nice, sweet things. Frothy.
The mountains are too cold, and the forests are too dark, and everyone's a little too serious. He's too serious, too. He knows it, because he looks at Germany, and he knows he looks the same, the same, the same. Just a little more high class, just a little more polished. Icicle instead of ice.
So he likes the soft, frothy things. He likes to lean against the door and chat to Italy when Italy's passing by. Ask about Italy's newest painting, talk about France's newest food. Frothy things. Frothy conversations, like the whipped milk poured over coffee, white with just a little swirl of dark.
It tickles his throat when he drinks it down, and when Hungary asks him how it was, he smiles. He likes these frothy things.
But there are less frothy things. Germany's looking colder and Italy's walking faster, and France looks over his shoulder more often. And England's coming to visit less and less.
Maybe he's just making it up. Maybe he's just a little too tired, too bored. Too old, surrounded by so many young people. Maybe it's just the mountains, with their icy lakes and dark forests. The places all the fairytales took place when he was a boy, so many years ago. Before Italy started painting, before Germany was cold.
When the shot's fired, it feels like it cuts through him. He hears the plate shatter, sees his fork skitter across the floor. Hungary's wringing her hands, asking him what's wrong, and it feels like there's something lodged in his throat.
Maybe this new century isn't a time for frothy things.
(Italy and Germany-- WWII)
Italy's a flighty thing. He's got this weird way of floating by, oblivious of everything but his own appetites. When Germany watches him, Germany gets the strange feeling that Italy's a little lost in the world (or his own, probably his own), and that if he had a chance, he'd pull Germany in with him.
"Kissing," Italy's saying, like this is a normal conversation, like this is the kind of conversation they should be having when they're stuck in the trenches like this, bowed over by the shaking of explosions, "is the best thing. But not better than tomatoes."
"What," Germany asks, and he's trying not to grind his teeth, but his head is throbbing and his feet are wet and muddy, and Italy looks like he's daydreaming, like he'll walk across the lines without a thought. Like he'll get shot down without noticing the gunfire. "What does kissing have to do with a war?"
Italy laughs, giggles, something strange and effeminate and entirely not suited for combat, entirely not suited for a place where men are screaming and dying and calling for their mothers and God, save me, save me, save me.
"Kissing is what I do best. Kissing, and eating."
"And why," the ground is shaking again, and it's a roar in the air, he has to scream to be heard. But better to scream the words than to just scream, because if he starts screaming to drown out the roar, he'll never stop, and he'll lose Italy, a flighty thing falling over the lines, like a downed bird or a dandelion blown away by the mortar, "do I need to learn how to kiss?"
"Because," Italy says, and his smile is daydreamy, and his eyes are the color of the trench walls, "Italy is the place lovers go to die."
(Japan-- Shut-in Syndrome (Hikkikomori))
He flips open the phone, then closes it. Flips it open again.
"And you can scan barcodes with it? That's incredible." He flips it open, turns it over in his hand. "I wonder-- can I get one?"
Japan looks at him, face blank, and America feels suddenly awkard, ungainly with the tiny phone in what suddenly feel like giant's hands.
"Um, I mean. If you ever feel like making one." He holds out, feels himself grin wildly when Japan takes the phone back. Like playing with fire, maybe, never knowing when Japan's happy, when he's going to get burned.
"Why would you want one?" Japan asks, and he's slipping the phone into the sleeve of his-- what was it-- kimimo? America shrugs, grins wilder.
"I think it'd be nice. Nifty. It'd be useful. We could make them and sell them to everyone else, England and France and Italy--"
"But why," and Japan's sliding his hands into his sleeves, looking down at the ground like he can't stand to look at America, "would you want one, when you can still look at people?"
(America-- American Hero)
He likes to pretend he's a super-hero. Likes to daydream while he's brushing his teeth in his underwear, while he's crawling into his cold sheets. Thinks about how he'll save France, or Japan, or England-- He likes to think about how they'll thank him, how they'll like him. How they'll become friends.
He likes to dream about talking, about making Italy and Spain laugh. Drinking coffee, bickering over candy, making fun of each other without having to worry, are they right, are they right, are they right. He likes to think about having friends, about having people who trust him and look up to him and think he's a hero. He likes to dream of life.
Sometimes, he wakes up at night, and his sheets are damp, and the room is cold. He can hear his house groan around him, like it was never put together right, or like he never fixed it when it broke. He can hear cracks spreading, and he can never look at the walls, because he doesn't know what he'd do if he saw his house fall down around him, split apart because he couldn't keep it together by himself.
He can feel the dead slink past his bed, because America's never dealt well with the dead.
America likes to dream of having someone sleep beside him, so he won't be alone. He likes to think about how nice it'd be, a warm body next to his, so when he wakes up at night, he won't listen to the dead alone. How he could roll over and press his face against a pillow and feel someone's hand press against his shoulder, smooth away the pain and the cracks and the scratches from the dead soldiers and weeping mothers and angry lovers.
But he can't do it right. He always blunders in at the wrong moment, makes a wrong move. Says something wrong, does something wrong, and watches everyone turn away. And maybe it's best he doesn't have a friend, not a real friend, because if he did, maybe it'd crack around him, just like his house.