all about the music.
First: Hetalia Cabaret, the all-musical Hetalia FST Mith and I put together.
Second: So I did this meme on the anon meme a few days ago:
* You give me a character or pairing, and a number from 1 to 1466.
* I find the song that matches the number on my iPod library, and write you something that incorporates both song and character/pairing.
And these are the first four I wrote. (I do plan on doing the others, but I wanted to share these now, because HAY LOOK I WROTE SOMETHING.) There were technically five in the first batch, but one is AHEW and is part of a much longer fic, so.)
Warnings, in order: Mongols, pirates, drunk!Prussia, and Germany in 1926.
February, 1238
"Sister," Russia whispers, his fingers trembling in her cupped hands. "Sister, I am so cold -- "
The irony's cruel, Ukraine thinks, though she can't help but suppress a shiver as well. The fire is roaring around them, and Ukraine feels the crumbling of the limestone in her bones, the flames licking Vladimir's gates. She remembers the stories they tell in the far North, tales about serpents whose fiery breath reaches high enough to scorch the sun, whose claws can rend even mountains. And the roaring outside, the awful shouts and the pounding of hooves on stone, again and again and again-
“It’s all right,” she whispers, and pulls him even closer, her mouth in Russia’s hair. But his body still shakes; hers isn’t enough to protect him. “They’ll be gone soon.”
And what will they leave behind?
“Have you seen your sister?” she asks him. Russia blinks up at her, shaking his head.
“Oh god.” Ukraine clutches him tighter. Belarus-no, she won’t lose them both. She’s lost so much today, and she won’t lose them, too.
She won’t cry, either. Not in front of Russia. She sniffs, swallows, and says, “Russia, will you wait here?”
Russia latches on to her sleeve. His fingers are still so small, and Ukraine wants to kiss each one until he laughs just the way he used to, before the troubles came. “Don’t leave me,” he says, and oh, he’s too young for his voice to crack like that.
“I won’t. I swear I won’t,” she says. More hooves thunder in the distance, or maybe that’s the sound of stone falling, and if Belarus is crushed under either-“Stay right here, and don’t let anyone in unless they tell you our special password. You remember our special password, don’t you?”
“Pravda,” Russia echoes, solemn.
“Good.” She kisses his forehead, and hopes he doesn’t feel how her lips shake. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”
***
All right, nobody's really asked Lithuania, but if they had, he'd say that maybe England should have used water in the grog instead of beer. It's nice to see some color in Latvia's cheeks for once, yes, but they're bright enough to navigate by at this point, and Estonia's smile is no less brilliant but also looks distinctly lopsided. They fling their arms around each other's shoulders, throw their heads back and sing, and Lithuania isn't sure where Latvia learned those words but he's not sure if he should be condoning them.
Something thwacks him soundly in the back. He starts, but it's only America. America's parrot looks a little frazzled, feathers askew, but America himself couldn't be beaming more brightly, and Lithuania has to smile, too.
"This," he says, far too articulately, "was the best idea I've ever had."
"I like the microchip," Lithuania says, "but this hasn't turned out so badly."
"Badly?" America frowns, or tries to. "We robbed the Vatican, Lithuania."
"Yes. We robbed the Vatican." He's going to be Our Fathering and Hail Marying for that for the next decade, at least, though perhaps the priest he confesses to will be too surprised to think up any really horrible penance. Poland used to use that strategy all the time.
"Yeah we did," and for a moment, America looks almost serene. "Hey, Lithuania?"
"Hm?"
America jerks his head over to where Estonia and Latvia are, well, carousing -- Poland's joined them now, and it looks like he's trying to teach them how to mazurka, but he keeps getting tangled in his skirts. "You're having a good time, right?"
"Hell with it," Poland shouts, "let's make up our own pirate dance!" And he and Latvia and Estonia link arms and whirl around in a circle until the three of them collapse in a heap, laughing. The sound carries over the water, and even the long stretch of sea before them seems to ripple.
"Yes," Lithuania says. "I am."
***
There's a sharp rap at the door, and Italy jolts awake. The little clock beside his bed tells him it's 02:15; it casts a strange greenish glow over Italy's covers but that's the only light he has to go by right now, so he's all right with it. He rubs his eyes, sets his feet on the floor and wriggles his toes. It can't be fratello, fratello has a key and he's always telling Italy to use his key instead of knocking at indecent hours, and besides, he's visiting Spain this weekend.
Whoever's at the door's still knocking, so Italy says "Coming!" and finds his way through the room and down the stairs by feel, and he remembers that the carpeting on the fifth step's coming loose so he hops over that one, just so. Finally he can sort-of-see the door, how the wood shines almost silver from the light that's spilled in.
Prussia's hair is the same shade. He's standing in the doorway and Italy can't really see much else besides his hair, so he squints and says "Eh?"
"Hey, Italien," Prussia says-almost-slurs, his teeth flashing briefly. Now Italy can see how he's slumped against the doorframe. Oh. "Mind letting me in?"
"Come in, come in," Italy says, and ushers him inside, where Prussia sags against the wall instead of the door but at least he's out of the cold. "You should have told me you were in town."
"Kinda a spur-of-the-moment thing." Prussia laughs, just once. "Bruder's got a whole bunch of people over this weekend -- you know, Austria, Hungary, France, fuck I think even Poland, so that makes me the -- " He holds up his hand to the sliver of light. " -- the fifth wheel? No. Sixth."
"And you came all the way here?"
"Why not, right? I mean. EuroTrain. Pretty cool, innit? You had that thing with trains -- "
"Let me get you something to eat," Italy says quickly. "Food's the best hangover remedy. Sit, sit!"
Prussia does. On the floor. Maybe Italy should have been more specific. Let's see, he has the ricotta from lunch, that shouldn't trouble Prussia's stomach too much --
"Italien?"
"Hm?"
" -- I forgot," Prussia says.
Italy tsks, very much the way his brother likes to. "You probably forgot to tell Germany where you are, too."
"Nah. Well, yeah, but. You know. He's got the, the fuckin' European Union over, he's fine -- "
"He's worrying himself sick," Italy says, crosses his arms, and if there was more light he'd be the picture of stubbornness right now. (Germany would be so proud. Maybe. Italy hopes he would, anyway.) "Germany worries about everything, Prussia, he worries when his sock drawer's out of order and he worries when one of his David Hasselhoff DVDs goes missing not that I'm supposed to talk about those but you are much more important to him than a David Hasselhoff DVD, and I know he's worrying about you!"
"Ha." Prussia tries to smile, and Italy smiles back.
"I'm going to make you ricotta -- well, heat it up -- and you're going to eat it, and then you're going to call Germany. Okay?" Prussia doesn't respond as well to the ordering-around part as Germany does, but they're brothers, and sometimes you have more in common with your brother than you think you do, and to prove his point, Prussia nods.
"Good." Italy scoots to the kitchen. "Make yourself at home!"
***
1926
This cabaret makes Germany feel considerably less uncomfortable than most of the others in the city. He feels he should give it a chance, as no one has solicited him yet, and the instrumentalists would meet with Austria's approval. That is, except that they are playing jazz at all, but then, Austria does not approve of jazz in any format, and Germany finds this tasteful. Austria would also certainly disapprove of the...traffic. Germany coughs, trying not to inhale too much of the smoke.
The instrumentalists are taking a five-minute break, and Germany wishes he had thought to bring a book. There are several people here with the same thought, apparently; the woman at the table next to his seems particularly absorbed. Germany clears his throat and reaches for his beer. He does not find it. He thought he ordered a second. Should he signal for a waiter? He would expect a cabaret to have them, or some similar form of service, but the only uniforms he sees in the crowd are those worn by the patrons: black that reveals as much as it conceals, faces powdered white.
The musicians return to their instruments, and a woman -- Germany thinks -- takes the stage. Her voice is soft and hoarse, as though she dare not sing above a whisper, and Germany strains to listen even as he looks away. It is her eyes: the black circles ringing them seem to darken the whites and hollow her cheeks, so what he sees resembles nothing more than a death's-head.
He should not be here.
He turns once more to his companions, if he can call them that. The woman at the table next to his has not ceased reading; the candle at her table gutters, but she squints at the page regardless. Germany clears his throat, and moments pass before she notices.
"What are you reading?" he asks, and hopes she will not take offense at the disturbance.
She tells him. "Take it," she says. "I've read it twice already."
He begins.
He does not stop reading until the manager taps him on the shoulder and informs him that it is almost dawn.
.
Song links and footnotes, in order:
Ukraine and Russia:
Grace of God Go I.
The destruction of Vladimir.
America and Lithuania:
Amazing Pirates - Rhapsody of Fire
The International Awesome Pirate Weekend, which this references.
Prussia and Italy:
Trains - Seven Nations
Germany:
Proof -- Jill Tracy
The German cabaret. Also, it's 1926. You know what that book is.
.
Second: So I did this meme on the anon meme a few days ago:
* You give me a character or pairing, and a number from 1 to 1466.
* I find the song that matches the number on my iPod library, and write you something that incorporates both song and character/pairing.
And these are the first four I wrote. (I do plan on doing the others, but I wanted to share these now, because HAY LOOK I WROTE SOMETHING.) There were technically five in the first batch, but one is AHEW and is part of a much longer fic, so.)
Warnings, in order: Mongols, pirates, drunk!Prussia, and Germany in 1926.
February, 1238
"Sister," Russia whispers, his fingers trembling in her cupped hands. "Sister, I am so cold -- "
The irony's cruel, Ukraine thinks, though she can't help but suppress a shiver as well. The fire is roaring around them, and Ukraine feels the crumbling of the limestone in her bones, the flames licking Vladimir's gates. She remembers the stories they tell in the far North, tales about serpents whose fiery breath reaches high enough to scorch the sun, whose claws can rend even mountains. And the roaring outside, the awful shouts and the pounding of hooves on stone, again and again and again-
“It’s all right,” she whispers, and pulls him even closer, her mouth in Russia’s hair. But his body still shakes; hers isn’t enough to protect him. “They’ll be gone soon.”
And what will they leave behind?
“Have you seen your sister?” she asks him. Russia blinks up at her, shaking his head.
“Oh god.” Ukraine clutches him tighter. Belarus-no, she won’t lose them both. She’s lost so much today, and she won’t lose them, too.
She won’t cry, either. Not in front of Russia. She sniffs, swallows, and says, “Russia, will you wait here?”
Russia latches on to her sleeve. His fingers are still so small, and Ukraine wants to kiss each one until he laughs just the way he used to, before the troubles came. “Don’t leave me,” he says, and oh, he’s too young for his voice to crack like that.
“I won’t. I swear I won’t,” she says. More hooves thunder in the distance, or maybe that’s the sound of stone falling, and if Belarus is crushed under either-“Stay right here, and don’t let anyone in unless they tell you our special password. You remember our special password, don’t you?”
“Pravda,” Russia echoes, solemn.
“Good.” She kisses his forehead, and hopes he doesn’t feel how her lips shake. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”
***
All right, nobody's really asked Lithuania, but if they had, he'd say that maybe England should have used water in the grog instead of beer. It's nice to see some color in Latvia's cheeks for once, yes, but they're bright enough to navigate by at this point, and Estonia's smile is no less brilliant but also looks distinctly lopsided. They fling their arms around each other's shoulders, throw their heads back and sing, and Lithuania isn't sure where Latvia learned those words but he's not sure if he should be condoning them.
Something thwacks him soundly in the back. He starts, but it's only America. America's parrot looks a little frazzled, feathers askew, but America himself couldn't be beaming more brightly, and Lithuania has to smile, too.
"This," he says, far too articulately, "was the best idea I've ever had."
"I like the microchip," Lithuania says, "but this hasn't turned out so badly."
"Badly?" America frowns, or tries to. "We robbed the Vatican, Lithuania."
"Yes. We robbed the Vatican." He's going to be Our Fathering and Hail Marying for that for the next decade, at least, though perhaps the priest he confesses to will be too surprised to think up any really horrible penance. Poland used to use that strategy all the time.
"Yeah we did," and for a moment, America looks almost serene. "Hey, Lithuania?"
"Hm?"
America jerks his head over to where Estonia and Latvia are, well, carousing -- Poland's joined them now, and it looks like he's trying to teach them how to mazurka, but he keeps getting tangled in his skirts. "You're having a good time, right?"
"Hell with it," Poland shouts, "let's make up our own pirate dance!" And he and Latvia and Estonia link arms and whirl around in a circle until the three of them collapse in a heap, laughing. The sound carries over the water, and even the long stretch of sea before them seems to ripple.
"Yes," Lithuania says. "I am."
***
There's a sharp rap at the door, and Italy jolts awake. The little clock beside his bed tells him it's 02:15; it casts a strange greenish glow over Italy's covers but that's the only light he has to go by right now, so he's all right with it. He rubs his eyes, sets his feet on the floor and wriggles his toes. It can't be fratello, fratello has a key and he's always telling Italy to use his key instead of knocking at indecent hours, and besides, he's visiting Spain this weekend.
Whoever's at the door's still knocking, so Italy says "Coming!" and finds his way through the room and down the stairs by feel, and he remembers that the carpeting on the fifth step's coming loose so he hops over that one, just so. Finally he can sort-of-see the door, how the wood shines almost silver from the light that's spilled in.
Prussia's hair is the same shade. He's standing in the doorway and Italy can't really see much else besides his hair, so he squints and says "Eh?"
"Hey, Italien," Prussia says-almost-slurs, his teeth flashing briefly. Now Italy can see how he's slumped against the doorframe. Oh. "Mind letting me in?"
"Come in, come in," Italy says, and ushers him inside, where Prussia sags against the wall instead of the door but at least he's out of the cold. "You should have told me you were in town."
"Kinda a spur-of-the-moment thing." Prussia laughs, just once. "Bruder's got a whole bunch of people over this weekend -- you know, Austria, Hungary, France, fuck I think even Poland, so that makes me the -- " He holds up his hand to the sliver of light. " -- the fifth wheel? No. Sixth."
"And you came all the way here?"
"Why not, right? I mean. EuroTrain. Pretty cool, innit? You had that thing with trains -- "
"Let me get you something to eat," Italy says quickly. "Food's the best hangover remedy. Sit, sit!"
Prussia does. On the floor. Maybe Italy should have been more specific. Let's see, he has the ricotta from lunch, that shouldn't trouble Prussia's stomach too much --
"Italien?"
"Hm?"
" -- I forgot," Prussia says.
Italy tsks, very much the way his brother likes to. "You probably forgot to tell Germany where you are, too."
"Nah. Well, yeah, but. You know. He's got the, the fuckin' European Union over, he's fine -- "
"He's worrying himself sick," Italy says, crosses his arms, and if there was more light he'd be the picture of stubbornness right now. (Germany would be so proud. Maybe. Italy hopes he would, anyway.) "Germany worries about everything, Prussia, he worries when his sock drawer's out of order and he worries when one of his David Hasselhoff DVDs goes missing not that I'm supposed to talk about those but you are much more important to him than a David Hasselhoff DVD, and I know he's worrying about you!"
"Ha." Prussia tries to smile, and Italy smiles back.
"I'm going to make you ricotta -- well, heat it up -- and you're going to eat it, and then you're going to call Germany. Okay?" Prussia doesn't respond as well to the ordering-around part as Germany does, but they're brothers, and sometimes you have more in common with your brother than you think you do, and to prove his point, Prussia nods.
"Good." Italy scoots to the kitchen. "Make yourself at home!"
***
1926
This cabaret makes Germany feel considerably less uncomfortable than most of the others in the city. He feels he should give it a chance, as no one has solicited him yet, and the instrumentalists would meet with Austria's approval. That is, except that they are playing jazz at all, but then, Austria does not approve of jazz in any format, and Germany finds this tasteful. Austria would also certainly disapprove of the...traffic. Germany coughs, trying not to inhale too much of the smoke.
The instrumentalists are taking a five-minute break, and Germany wishes he had thought to bring a book. There are several people here with the same thought, apparently; the woman at the table next to his seems particularly absorbed. Germany clears his throat and reaches for his beer. He does not find it. He thought he ordered a second. Should he signal for a waiter? He would expect a cabaret to have them, or some similar form of service, but the only uniforms he sees in the crowd are those worn by the patrons: black that reveals as much as it conceals, faces powdered white.
The musicians return to their instruments, and a woman -- Germany thinks -- takes the stage. Her voice is soft and hoarse, as though she dare not sing above a whisper, and Germany strains to listen even as he looks away. It is her eyes: the black circles ringing them seem to darken the whites and hollow her cheeks, so what he sees resembles nothing more than a death's-head.
He should not be here.
He turns once more to his companions, if he can call them that. The woman at the table next to his has not ceased reading; the candle at her table gutters, but she squints at the page regardless. Germany clears his throat, and moments pass before she notices.
"What are you reading?" he asks, and hopes she will not take offense at the disturbance.
She tells him. "Take it," she says. "I've read it twice already."
He begins.
He does not stop reading until the manager taps him on the shoulder and informs him that it is almost dawn.
.
Song links and footnotes, in order:
Ukraine and Russia:
Grace of God Go I.
The destruction of Vladimir.
America and Lithuania:
Amazing Pirates - Rhapsody of Fire
The International Awesome Pirate Weekend, which this references.
Prussia and Italy:
Trains - Seven Nations
Germany:
Proof -- Jill Tracy
The German cabaret. Also, it's 1926. You know what that book is.
.