he has his own colors locked in a chest somewhere
title: june twelve, july four
author: konbini @ rihiten
fandom: axis powers hetalia
characters/pairings: america, philippines, hong kong, mentions of england
rating/warnings: swearing? a lot of switching between country names and character names
summary: Yes, but that is not his birthday. I'm calling PH-tan Juan because I suck at naming lolol.
Little Hong Kong watches the young man sew pieces of scrap cloth together. He has all the quality silk he could offer to the not-quite-nation right before him, but not one of this not-quite-nation's men are able to purchase anything that made a rich man's clothing. Stitch after stitch on mismatched fabric, his enthusiasm grows. Determined. Hong Kong glances at those hands and what they had - red, white, blue. Stripes. Someone comes to mind, but it isn't
(I'm making it for America. See? He's done a lot for me; I can never thank him enough.)
No one fights battles for Hong Kong - perhaps that is why Hong Kong is reluctant to give him a smile. The boy has met men who thirst for power only once, maybe twice, and they have already lost his trust. Here is the Philippines, definitely older, taken time and again, wounds from Antonio never healing, yet he finds the capacity to believe in someone who calls himself a hero. How could his neighbor be so blind? Is Alfred any better than Arthur? The resemblance is uncanny. Then again, everyone from the West looks the same to him: tall, oppressive, merciless. America is strong, Spain is at his limit, yet for Spain to lose skirmishes so easily - (The Philippines pricks his finger with the needle, he jolts; a stitch comes undone.) There is something odd in the way America is acting. (Pretending.) The initial kindness, the halfhearted promises - it is very much like
(Do you think he will like it?)
He purses his lips, gives the man not much older than he a nod - isn't what they do when they say yes?
His boss tells him. He knows what's been happening behind his back. The battle will be bloodless, they say. (Dirty tricks, lying, cheating bastards--) Blood is boiling, reaches his ears - damnit, Carriedo, you coward. Damn you, Alfred, you traitor, traitor, traitor.
Then there was Paris, where Francis held him back while they-
(Do you think he will like it?)
Fuck.
On Aguinaldo's signal, fuego.
It is his birthday.
Not his own, but Philippines doesn't understand why he's enjoying the parades, he fireworks, the slew of Old Glories he passes by as he walks along the streets of Manila. Red, white, blue - hues that once inspired him. He has his own colors locked in a chest somewhere; Alfred doesn't want to see them. Red, white, blue. He remembers the Union Jack at the time Arthur was here, and when he closes his eyes, Alfred has his face, spouting the same promises of liberation without much conviction. Then there was Paris.
But Arthur wasn't Alfred, who bought him for twenty million, committed genocide, made him doubt if he was ever going to keep his word, but given more time, he might as well have been.
He almost calls him Arthur once. Stops himself. Not on the fourth of July.
America comes in with a cake bigger than anything Spain put on his table. They sing Happy Birthday and America blows out the candles on his cake in one breath - all two hundred and thirty-three of them - and the Philippines is wondering where all the air's coming from. Then it hits him (oh, right) but he realizes he's in no position to insult the intelligence of the man who taught him how to speak the world's language.
Feliz cumpleaños! Alfred hates it when he speaks Antonio. Instead, happy birthday. He greets him with that and a small box wrapped in paper Alfred's never seen before. Not on his side of the world, at least.
"Thanks!" He pats his ward's head - more of brushes his hand against the tips of his hair, really - and tugs at the cord keeping the package together. Juan hopes he likes yo-yos. His feet are swinging from the edge of his seat - he's excited.
Hey. Before taking the lid off, America has a nagging question at the back of his mind that he's decided to let out. When's your birthday?
Last month. Juan's grin falters a bit. You promised to give me chocolate this year.
Really? America scratches his head. I forget.
You always do.
"A promise is a promise. And hey, this way I won't forget your birthday anymore! Isn't that great?"
It is July 4, 1946. Alfred makes a cake for the both of them. It tastes bad, but it's nothing like Arthur's cooking, which relieves Juan. (Hong Kong's been getting thinner since 1895.) There is a single candle in the icing, flame flickering.
America grants him freedom. He can finally fly his own colors again. Blue over red, not red over white over red over white cast behind a star-studded sky. Blue over red, then white, yellow - heavenly bodies that served as a symbol, a reminder.
(Do you think he will like it?)
The crowd cheers.
Maybe, if it had been a little earlier -
The blond lets him blow the candle out. He's always wanted to try it. Happy Independence Day, for he's a jolly good fellow. Alfred gives him a bar of chocolate. Juan is happy, if only for a while.
Nineteen sixty-two.
"Do you know what day it is today?"
"That," Juan drops a small package wrapped in the same paper America's gotten used to into Alfred's hands. "would be the day I act civil with you, America."
"Oh, right." America eyes the flag that isn't his, hides the present that isn't his. Wouldn't want to put red over blue, Alfred. "Right."
"Hey, you're not," America pauses to swallow. "mad, are you?"
"I think Clark rings a bell." Mine now, not yours. Alfred has just as much trouble letting go as Arthur, it seems.
"So uh," America changes the topic. "oh yeah, when's your birthday, again?"
"Last month. Don't worry, you don't have to remember."
But it'd be nice if you did.
Emilio Aguinaldo (considered the Philippines' first president) was exiled to Hong Kong after the signing of the Pact of Biak-na-Bato. Why Hong Kong, I have no idea, but he and his men made preparations for the revolution there. Conceptualizing the flag was one of them.
After the Battle of Manila in 1762, the British occupied the Philippines for a while during the Seven Years War. When the Treaty of Paris was signed, since they were unaware that the Philippines was being run as a British colony at the time, the colony was returned to Spain.
History repeats itself. The Battle of Manila in 1898 is widely believed to be staged. The Treaty of Paris ends the Spanish-American War, and Spain hands over its colonies to the US.
Clark Air Base. And this. Hmm, I want to go to Subic.
The Philippine flag indicates a state of war when the red stripe is displayed above the blue stripe.
Independence Day.
fuego = fire
I hate how these footnotes are so long.
author: konbini @ rihiten
fandom: axis powers hetalia
characters/pairings: america, philippines, hong kong, mentions of england
rating/warnings: swearing? a lot of switching between country names and character names
summary: Yes, but that is not his birthday. I'm calling PH-tan Juan because I suck at naming lolol.
Little Hong Kong watches the young man sew pieces of scrap cloth together. He has all the quality silk he could offer to the not-quite-nation right before him, but not one of this not-quite-nation's men are able to purchase anything that made a rich man's clothing. Stitch after stitch on mismatched fabric, his enthusiasm grows. Determined. Hong Kong glances at those hands and what they had - red, white, blue. Stripes. Someone comes to mind, but it isn't
(I'm making it for America. See? He's done a lot for me; I can never thank him enough.)
No one fights battles for Hong Kong - perhaps that is why Hong Kong is reluctant to give him a smile. The boy has met men who thirst for power only once, maybe twice, and they have already lost his trust. Here is the Philippines, definitely older, taken time and again, wounds from Antonio never healing, yet he finds the capacity to believe in someone who calls himself a hero. How could his neighbor be so blind? Is Alfred any better than Arthur? The resemblance is uncanny. Then again, everyone from the West looks the same to him: tall, oppressive, merciless. America is strong, Spain is at his limit, yet for Spain to lose skirmishes so easily - (The Philippines pricks his finger with the needle, he jolts; a stitch comes undone.) There is something odd in the way America is acting. (Pretending.) The initial kindness, the halfhearted promises - it is very much like
(Do you think he will like it?)
He purses his lips, gives the man not much older than he a nod - isn't what they do when they say yes?
His boss tells him. He knows what's been happening behind his back. The battle will be bloodless, they say. (Dirty tricks, lying, cheating bastards--) Blood is boiling, reaches his ears - damnit, Carriedo, you coward. Damn you, Alfred, you traitor, traitor, traitor.
Then there was Paris, where Francis held him back while they-
(Do you think he will like it?)
Fuck.
On Aguinaldo's signal, fuego.
It is his birthday.
Not his own, but Philippines doesn't understand why he's enjoying the parades, he fireworks, the slew of Old Glories he passes by as he walks along the streets of Manila. Red, white, blue - hues that once inspired him. He has his own colors locked in a chest somewhere; Alfred doesn't want to see them. Red, white, blue. He remembers the Union Jack at the time Arthur was here, and when he closes his eyes, Alfred has his face, spouting the same promises of liberation without much conviction. Then there was Paris.
But Arthur wasn't Alfred, who bought him for twenty million, committed genocide, made him doubt if he was ever going to keep his word, but given more time, he might as well have been.
He almost calls him Arthur once. Stops himself. Not on the fourth of July.
America comes in with a cake bigger than anything Spain put on his table. They sing Happy Birthday and America blows out the candles on his cake in one breath - all two hundred and thirty-three of them - and the Philippines is wondering where all the air's coming from. Then it hits him (oh, right) but he realizes he's in no position to insult the intelligence of the man who taught him how to speak the world's language.
Feliz cumpleaños! Alfred hates it when he speaks Antonio. Instead, happy birthday. He greets him with that and a small box wrapped in paper Alfred's never seen before. Not on his side of the world, at least.
"Thanks!" He pats his ward's head - more of brushes his hand against the tips of his hair, really - and tugs at the cord keeping the package together. Juan hopes he likes yo-yos. His feet are swinging from the edge of his seat - he's excited.
Hey. Before taking the lid off, America has a nagging question at the back of his mind that he's decided to let out. When's your birthday?
Last month. Juan's grin falters a bit. You promised to give me chocolate this year.
Really? America scratches his head. I forget.
You always do.
"A promise is a promise. And hey, this way I won't forget your birthday anymore! Isn't that great?"
It is July 4, 1946. Alfred makes a cake for the both of them. It tastes bad, but it's nothing like Arthur's cooking, which relieves Juan. (Hong Kong's been getting thinner since 1895.) There is a single candle in the icing, flame flickering.
America grants him freedom. He can finally fly his own colors again. Blue over red, not red over white over red over white cast behind a star-studded sky. Blue over red, then white, yellow - heavenly bodies that served as a symbol, a reminder.
(Do you think he will like it?)
The crowd cheers.
Maybe, if it had been a little earlier -
The blond lets him blow the candle out. He's always wanted to try it. Happy Independence Day, for he's a jolly good fellow. Alfred gives him a bar of chocolate. Juan is happy, if only for a while.
Nineteen sixty-two.
"Do you know what day it is today?"
"That," Juan drops a small package wrapped in the same paper America's gotten used to into Alfred's hands. "would be the day I act civil with you, America."
"Oh, right." America eyes the flag that isn't his, hides the present that isn't his. Wouldn't want to put red over blue, Alfred. "Right."
"Hey, you're not," America pauses to swallow. "mad, are you?"
"I think Clark rings a bell." Mine now, not yours. Alfred has just as much trouble letting go as Arthur, it seems.
"So uh," America changes the topic. "oh yeah, when's your birthday, again?"
"Last month. Don't worry, you don't have to remember."
But it'd be nice if you did.
Emilio Aguinaldo (considered the Philippines' first president) was exiled to Hong Kong after the signing of the Pact of Biak-na-Bato. Why Hong Kong, I have no idea, but he and his men made preparations for the revolution there. Conceptualizing the flag was one of them.
After the Battle of Manila in 1762, the British occupied the Philippines for a while during the Seven Years War. When the Treaty of Paris was signed, since they were unaware that the Philippines was being run as a British colony at the time, the colony was returned to Spain.
History repeats itself. The Battle of Manila in 1898 is widely believed to be staged. The Treaty of Paris ends the Spanish-American War, and Spain hands over its colonies to the US.
Clark Air Base. And this. Hmm, I want to go to Subic.
The Philippine flag indicates a state of war when the red stripe is displayed above the blue stripe.
Independence Day.
fuego = fire
I hate how these footnotes are so long.