(no subject)
Title: Desert rain.
Fandom: Hetalia.
Genre: Hurt/comfort.
Pairing(s): Arthur, Matthew.
Rating/Warnings: PG, minor rudeness.
Wordcount: 897.
Summary: Afghanistan war related. A little sad and depressing due to the fact war isn't pleasant.
Arthur rubbed the side of his face wearily as he shouldered open the door to the pokey little broom cupboard they called his office. He already felt lightheaded from the heat that drove down on you as soon as you stepped out into the dusty Afghan summer and he'd only walked some five minutes in it. He was surprised to discover that someone was already there. Arthur paused in the doorway, taking in the blond hair, blue eyes, glasses and the fact he'd not pissed Arthur off and made an educated guess. 'Matthew.'
'Arthur, I'm sorry to intrude, but....' He trailed off, allowing Arthur to concentrate on his dishevelled appearance.
Arthur turned away to pour bottled water into his tiny electric kettle and pull a pair of chipped mugs from the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, dropping a teabag in each. 'The roadside checkpoint bomb.' He stated evenly.
Matthew nodded dumbly, accepting the mug of tea Arthur placed in his hand and watching the older nation shed his helmet and body armour, leaning his rifle against the edge of his desk. He fussed with the tidy placement of his body armour, clearly at a loss for words and Matthew felt a little prick of guilt as he saw how tired the older nation was. 'I'm sorry, I'll just go and let you get on with some work.' He hurriedly excused himself, donning helmet and flack jacket, all set to bolt when he was yanked back by a strong hand grabbing the scruff of his shirt collar.
'Don't be ridiculous, Matt!' Arthur barked testily, shoving him towards the rickety seat before his over-full desk. 'Sit down and drink your tea! I'll make time for you. Good grief! You're family, my boy.' Thick eyebrows drew together and he clattered about, rummaging through the papers stacked high on his desk to glare vaguely at the flight-plan for the Hercules coming in with fresh troops that night.
Matthew had seen Arthur with his brothers Scotland, Ireland and Wales and wasn't sure whether Arthur calling him family was a good or a bad thing. Nonetheless he obediently crumpled into the chair and sipped his tea, grimacing at the taste of the sterilised milk Arthur had added to it. He couldn't get used to the foul taste, even if sterilised was the only milk available. The sour taste lingered on his tongue and the silence was vaguely awkward. At length Arthur put down his papers and looked directly at Matthew.
'You can cry if you want. I shan't mock you for it.'
'I don't think I could cry at this moment if my life depended on it.' Matthew admitted guiltily, eyes dry.
'That's alright too, lad.' Arthur told him quietly, holding the younger nation in his steady gaze. He stood and moved around the table to clumsily pat Matthew on the shoulder. His cheeks were bright red and he didn't look at Matthew, even as England silently lent Canada his strength, an ancient, self-assured, arrogant solid power that suffused the younger country. 'You feel this way because your people are not toy soldiers or pawns to be thrown away carelessly as a gambit. They are you, your strength and... your heart.' The last was said very quietly, through a throat thick with embarassment and grief.
Matthew leaned into the standing Arthur at that, burying his face in his waist and shutting his eyes at that tacit granting of permission. It had triggered the wave of pain he'd been trying not to acknowledge, but also allowed him to take comfort and strength from another.
'Shh shh, there's a lad.' Arthur stroked Matthew's hair automatically as Canada buried his face in England's shirtfront and sobbed like a lost child, grieving not only for his soldiers and their families, but for all troops killed in the name of peacekeeping. Arthur just carried on stroking his hair soothingly and mumbling comforting nonsense, long-dormant paternal skills rearing their head easily.
At last Matthew pulled away and sat back in his seat, hiccoughing slightly. Worldessly Arthur passed him a handkerchief and watch the lad wipe his face and blow his nose, regaining his breath and composure. He suddenly turned on his heel to switch the kettle back on. 'Oh dear, the tea's gone cold, I'll brew us up a fresh 'un.'
Matthew breathed deeply, obediently drinking his horrible tea in a companiable silence with Arthur. He had to wonder how Arthurt dealt with the deaths and maimings of his own troops, but didn't quite dare ask. He'd imposed quite enough already.
Eventually though Arthur shifted and cleared his throat. 'I'm afraid I'm going to have to chuck you out now Matthew.' He said apologetically. 'This bloody paperwork isn't going to do itself.'
'No, that's quite alright.' Matthew told Arthur as he tightened his chinstrap and donned flack jacket once more. Arthur stood with him, walking him the bare two paces to the door. He paused for a moment, glaring at his boots as if they'd offended him for a moment before lunging forward to hug Matthew tightly, thumping him hard on the back before releasing him just as suddenly.
'Take care o' yersen, lad.'
Matthew paused in the doorway to smile over his shoulder at his somewhat parental figure. 'Thank-you, Arthur.'
Fandom: Hetalia.
Genre: Hurt/comfort.
Pairing(s): Arthur, Matthew.
Rating/Warnings: PG, minor rudeness.
Wordcount: 897.
Summary: Afghanistan war related. A little sad and depressing due to the fact war isn't pleasant.
Arthur rubbed the side of his face wearily as he shouldered open the door to the pokey little broom cupboard they called his office. He already felt lightheaded from the heat that drove down on you as soon as you stepped out into the dusty Afghan summer and he'd only walked some five minutes in it. He was surprised to discover that someone was already there. Arthur paused in the doorway, taking in the blond hair, blue eyes, glasses and the fact he'd not pissed Arthur off and made an educated guess. 'Matthew.'
'Arthur, I'm sorry to intrude, but....' He trailed off, allowing Arthur to concentrate on his dishevelled appearance.
Arthur turned away to pour bottled water into his tiny electric kettle and pull a pair of chipped mugs from the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, dropping a teabag in each. 'The roadside checkpoint bomb.' He stated evenly.
Matthew nodded dumbly, accepting the mug of tea Arthur placed in his hand and watching the older nation shed his helmet and body armour, leaning his rifle against the edge of his desk. He fussed with the tidy placement of his body armour, clearly at a loss for words and Matthew felt a little prick of guilt as he saw how tired the older nation was. 'I'm sorry, I'll just go and let you get on with some work.' He hurriedly excused himself, donning helmet and flack jacket, all set to bolt when he was yanked back by a strong hand grabbing the scruff of his shirt collar.
'Don't be ridiculous, Matt!' Arthur barked testily, shoving him towards the rickety seat before his over-full desk. 'Sit down and drink your tea! I'll make time for you. Good grief! You're family, my boy.' Thick eyebrows drew together and he clattered about, rummaging through the papers stacked high on his desk to glare vaguely at the flight-plan for the Hercules coming in with fresh troops that night.
Matthew had seen Arthur with his brothers Scotland, Ireland and Wales and wasn't sure whether Arthur calling him family was a good or a bad thing. Nonetheless he obediently crumpled into the chair and sipped his tea, grimacing at the taste of the sterilised milk Arthur had added to it. He couldn't get used to the foul taste, even if sterilised was the only milk available. The sour taste lingered on his tongue and the silence was vaguely awkward. At length Arthur put down his papers and looked directly at Matthew.
'You can cry if you want. I shan't mock you for it.'
'I don't think I could cry at this moment if my life depended on it.' Matthew admitted guiltily, eyes dry.
'That's alright too, lad.' Arthur told him quietly, holding the younger nation in his steady gaze. He stood and moved around the table to clumsily pat Matthew on the shoulder. His cheeks were bright red and he didn't look at Matthew, even as England silently lent Canada his strength, an ancient, self-assured, arrogant solid power that suffused the younger country. 'You feel this way because your people are not toy soldiers or pawns to be thrown away carelessly as a gambit. They are you, your strength and... your heart.' The last was said very quietly, through a throat thick with embarassment and grief.
Matthew leaned into the standing Arthur at that, burying his face in his waist and shutting his eyes at that tacit granting of permission. It had triggered the wave of pain he'd been trying not to acknowledge, but also allowed him to take comfort and strength from another.
'Shh shh, there's a lad.' Arthur stroked Matthew's hair automatically as Canada buried his face in England's shirtfront and sobbed like a lost child, grieving not only for his soldiers and their families, but for all troops killed in the name of peacekeeping. Arthur just carried on stroking his hair soothingly and mumbling comforting nonsense, long-dormant paternal skills rearing their head easily.
At last Matthew pulled away and sat back in his seat, hiccoughing slightly. Worldessly Arthur passed him a handkerchief and watch the lad wipe his face and blow his nose, regaining his breath and composure. He suddenly turned on his heel to switch the kettle back on. 'Oh dear, the tea's gone cold, I'll brew us up a fresh 'un.'
Matthew breathed deeply, obediently drinking his horrible tea in a companiable silence with Arthur. He had to wonder how Arthurt dealt with the deaths and maimings of his own troops, but didn't quite dare ask. He'd imposed quite enough already.
Eventually though Arthur shifted and cleared his throat. 'I'm afraid I'm going to have to chuck you out now Matthew.' He said apologetically. 'This bloody paperwork isn't going to do itself.'
'No, that's quite alright.' Matthew told Arthur as he tightened his chinstrap and donned flack jacket once more. Arthur stood with him, walking him the bare two paces to the door. He paused for a moment, glaring at his boots as if they'd offended him for a moment before lunging forward to hug Matthew tightly, thumping him hard on the back before releasing him just as suddenly.
'Take care o' yersen, lad.'
Matthew paused in the doorway to smile over his shoulder at his somewhat parental figure. 'Thank-you, Arthur.'