ficlets100 - number seven.

[rawri]

001. Guilt
002. New
003.Solitude
004. Content
005. Tale

006. Distort
007. Luxury
008. Listen
009. Party
010. Scent

011. Storm
012. Lessons
013.Apology
014. Relief
015. Breeze

016.Fading
017. Passion
018. Stay
019.Rain
020. Within

021.Dread
022.Revenge
023.Time
024.Perfect
025.Eyes

026.Bloom
027.Beginning
028. Bath
029. Object
030. Lost

031.Pride
032. Death
033

Comments

axis powers hetalia -> ⌈o4.⌋ content.

[rawri]

It wasn't as if they'd been drinking hard so much as they'd been drinking, swinging a keg and an arm over shoulders with the rubble all around them, no man's land crossed by many a man - hey, West, wasn't it great they took out those land mines? isn't it great they took down this wall? - and many more a shovel, cement knocked about.

There was still only gravel where they met, in between the anti-tank slabs and paths where wild dogs had been let loose, in between the two fighting forces - the single fighting force, up against the double walls, tearing, shredding, destroying, joyous. East claimed he was toasting it all, green bottle see-through from the distant street lights, and West nearly bit his tongue when grey-white-not-blond hair shoved itself under his chin.

"Keh, keh, they thought this'd hold up forever, y'know? Goddamn, almost want t' thank that Hungarian monster--"

The blond pushed at the albino's shoulders, ever aware of the increasing grip around his midline. A few moments ago, it had been nearly suffocating, and he wasn't one for dying, not when the sun was setting like in one of Amerika's movies, or what Japan always spoke of.

"-- Thank y' first, though, West."

There's more saliva and teeth than an actual kiss placed sloppily along his jaw line, but there's a certain glow to the Nation's eyes, a sheen across the black and red that might be rolling down his cheeks to the edge of his chin; and gravel is uncomfortable to be pinned to, even with a fine buzz around the mind, but West finds that at least he can grip back without the threat of broken ribs or having to acknowledge the fact that his grasp is slipping.