Fic: Vacillation Sequences [2/2]
Title: Vacillation Sequences
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Japan, China, Russia, Belarus, Ukraine, Spain, Veneziano, England, France, Hungary, Prussia, Lithuania, Holy Roman Empire, America, Austria, Turkey, Poland, Canada, Germany, Romano; mentions of Rome, Denmark, Norway, Belgium.
Pairings: Mostly gen; some Austria/Hungary, Germany/Veneziano, France/a woman, France -> Spain, Romano -> women.
Warnings: Language, sexual references, descriptions of gender-related trauma and gender dysphoria, descriptions of war and the effects of poison gas.
Notes: AU. Prussia as East Germany. Genderbending, as well as something else that I can only call “sexbending”. Genderqueer and non-binary gender identities.
Summary: The sex of a nation is not solid, but during childhood is in a state of flux beyond their control. As they grow up and gradually gain command over their own shape, the nations must try to come to terms with each other, their bodies and themselves.
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<- Back to part 1
xx.
“It’s not that it’s wrong,” Prussia says slowly, carefully. “We’re all like it - all us nations - as kids anyway. I mean, can anything that happened to me be wrong?” He attempts a grin, but it grates against the atmosphere in the room and cracks upon his lips.
The child, Germany, is wearing a sombre expression on its small strong face. Prussia does not like to think of his sibling as an “it” - but he is even now buttoning it into its shorts, and he has seen that this is what it is right now.
“But you don’t talk about it,” Germany says, extending its arms for Prussia to help it into its shirt.
Prussia moves around behind it, tugging the garment on. “It isn’t something we like to talk about. Unless you’re France or Spain or something, and those guys are weird anyway, and I don’t want you to spend time with them.”
“That’s all right,” Germany says as it fastens its shirt. “I don’t like them very much.”
“Hey!” Prussia exclaims, flicking his fingernail against Germany’s shoulder. “They are my friends, you know.”
Germany stares at him neutrally, eyes very blue and slightly incredulous. “You can’t be very good friends.”
“We’re very bad friends,” Prussia assures it, and tugs on the end of its sleeve to try and cover its wrist. “You’ve grown again, you know.”
It does not acknowledge this, buttoning its suspenders in silence.
To fill the silence, Prussia laughs loudly and claps the child on the back. “Getting stronger, huh? You’re going to be a great soldier one day.”
“Does that mean that I’m going to be a man?” Germany asks quietly.
Prussia stops, and stares down at it. Its head is bent, pale hair shielding its eyes, and its mouth is tense.
“Well,” Prussia says, suddenly uncomfortable and feeling annoyed that a mere child can make him feel that way, “I suppose you... you don’t have to be. But uh... don’t you want to?”
“I want to be an adult,” Germany says, voice suddenly so much louder, broadening yet still skinny shoulders beginning to shake. “I don’t want to keep changing any more. I - I don’t know who I am like this.”
Prussia, although he no longer needs to do so and has not for some time, kneels down to look at Germany in the face. “You’re my family,” he says. “And some day, you’re going to be the greatest nation ever.”
xxi.
Austria, ze knows, is lucky. Ze has been blessed with hir body: small breasts and slim hips when it is in the form of a woman, narrow shoulders and little body hair when it is in the form of a man. Austria, like Hungary, is forced to live the wrong life. But Austria, unlike Hungary, can at least live it in the right body.
Hungary has caused a storm amongst their human household by refusing to let his maidservants dress him; and at the news that today would be no exception, at least one of the women had been appalled. But Hungary has never lost an opportunity to inhabit a body as close as possible to his true self, and there is a lot that can be hidden under petticoats and a crinoline that would not do for the servants to see. It is a painful irony that both of them have become quite familiar with the intricacies of women’s clothing.
“I despise corsets,” Hungary mutters, one hand on his bodice.
“I despise all current fashions,” Austria offers, smiling slightly from in between hir collars.
Hungary steps close to hir, smoothing hir collar with a forefinger. “We should run away and live as hermits, and to Hell with our population.”
“You know I will never do that,” Austria murmurs.
“Yes,” Hungary admits, pulling back. “You care too much. What did humans do to deserve that?”
“What did I do to deserve you?” Austria says. Ze would not have said it out loud, except it wells up in hir and ze cannot hold it back, cannot stop hirself from wrapping hir arms around him and kissing his jaw.
“This is quite unorthodox,” Hungary laughs breathlessly, hands on hir shoulders. “You realise that I’m supposed to be virginal for this ceremony?”
Austria raises an eyebrow. “This is a strange time to be concerned about orthodoxy. What am I supposed to say when they ask me whether I take this woman?”
Hungary smiles, hands on hir lower back and leaning in to fit their lips together. “The same thing I say when they ask me if I take this man.”
xxii.
The sun is a white globe of promise, the wind catches clothing and flings it outwards into long proud banners, and Romano is sitting on the Scalinata della Trinità dei Monti with his little brother beside him. The country is shifting and warping, boundaries expanding around them. People and culture, memory and life come flooding into them, and where they touch, hand in hand, the energy passes between them.
Somewhere amongst it all, Romano feels a weight - heavy yet soft; solid and living - settle on his shoulder.
“I can feel what your people are thinking.”
“...Yeah.”
“Does this make us the same person now?”
“Hell no.”
Veneziano giggles, sighs, brings their clasped hands together up to his face where he brushes his lips against his brother’s knuckles. Romano, because it feels right to do it and because it feels wrong not to, turns his cheek towards that warm brown head, and presses a brief kiss into Veneziano’s hair.
xxiii.
Outside, women are chained to the railings in long irregular lines, placards lying scattered at their feet and sprouting from the bars like a paper, paint-daubed forest. The noise is incessant - chanting and exclamations, the shouts and shrieks of the passers-by and the furious rejoinders of the demonstrators, turned livid and wild by the freakish heat. Chain links are digging into the flesh of well-dressed ladies as they hang forwards, balanceless, suspended by the bindings. A boy stops on the corner to gawp, half-eaten plum in his hand.
Above, a waistcoated bald-headed man scowls sweatily at the street and pulls the window closed.
The office was smothering as it was, and now it is painful. England cringes at the loss of air, shifting in his damp suit. “They are not going to vanish, you understand.”
“Would that they will,” the man mutters, lowering himself back into the chair behind the desk.
“They will get what they demand, in the end,” England says calmly, and tugs a little at his collar to let some air onto his neck. “It is inevitable.”
The official glares at him from under the pocket handkerchief he is using to viciously wipe his brow. “The day that happens is the day this country abandons its principles.”
England raises an eyebrow, clasping his hands. “Surely, my good man, that is not within your power to declare?”
xxiv.
Back against mud, more mud below, dirt seeping into the seat of his trousers and crawling under his nails until they are more filth than flesh, Canada feels as if he is being forced out of his own body. The blasts and the bullets are pushing down from above, the sick heavy gas is accumulating below, and the men in between are compressed between violence and poison, death and death.
One of the soldiers nearby takes a shot in the forehead, a perfect circular hole blown right through his helmet - but Canada’s eyes are already red-raw and streaming from the chlorine, so it is impossible for her to shed any tears for the casualty.
Keeping her handkerchief clasped tightly over her nose and mouth (the smell of urine is nauseating but better, so much better, than slowly, never-endingly drowning in acid) Canada fumbles for the dead man’s fingers and squeezes them briefly. She does not know whether to offer thanks or apologies, but Canada can at least take a moment to offer his citizen some human comfort. Human comfort given to a dead person and by a person that is not human will have to suffice.
Soon - sooner than he would want, but Canada can feel the lines of defence crumbling on either side of him, soldiers heaving their bodies out of gas-filled graves to retreat, to run, to be torn apart by shrapnel and to descend again - Canada releases the corpse’s hand and seizes its rifle instead. Perhaps this weapon will not jam. Perhaps they will hold the line. Perhaps they will win the war, and then Canada can be back on his own land again, where the earth sings through her and she is all she sees and all she sees is her.
For now, though, Canada hauls herself onto her elbows and up the side of the trench, handkerchief at his face, rifle clutched close to his side like a lover, to lean its barrel on the ground and fire one-handed until he can no longer see.
xxv.
“I’m leaving.”
Austria allows a single finger to rest upon B flat. “I realised.”
“It’s not that I don’t love you,” Hungary says, leaning in the door with his trunk beside him.
Austria holds up one slim white hand. “Please.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Please,” Austria says, firmer this time, hir finger shifting to D, “you don’t have to explain.”
Hungary steps closer to hir just a little, hand curled up tight in his waistcoat pocket. “Do you honestly think it helps?”
Ze keeps hir eyes on the keyboard, holding on firmly to hir own breath and hir own poise. “I think it helps for a people to have a constant figurehead, and I think the more relatable that figurehead the better.”
“And you think that figurehead should live a lie then, do you?”
“Hungary,” Austria says, throat tight, fingers striking a discord, “please. We’ve talked about this.”
Hungary sighs, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes, arms wrapped around his stomach.
“You know how much I regret what I did to you when you first came into the household,” Austria says quietly. “And we have been able to live as we wish since we agreed to dismiss the servants.”
“Do you think that will make me stay?”
Austria looks over. “No.”
“It’s having to make public appearances as a woman,” Hungary says, tilting his head back against the wall. “It’s having to seem like a woman whenever I go out; it’s answering to ‘madam’. I appreciate the compromises you’ve made. But I don’t want to live this way.”
Austria lifts hir hands from the keyboard and places them in hir lap, where ze examines them closely. “Will you live in hiding?”
“No need for that,” Hungary says with a weak smile. “I’ll just live. People will forget about me.”
Austria’s shoulders tilt ever so slightly forwards. “Unlikely.”
Hungary sighs deeply, watching hir back, and then pushes off away from the wall and moves towards hir. “It’s not that I don’t love you, remember.” He wraps his arms around hir shoulders and presses his face to hir hair.
Austria places hir fingertips upon his arm, delicately, as if it is the first time they have touched.
xxvi.
It is America, far more than Poland, who forces Lithuania to give some more thought to that unique condition of the nations.
“I mean, why would a nation have a sex anyway?” she asks as they carry his trunk up the stairs between them. “Why would we exist at all might be the first question to ask, but why would we have sexes has got to be the second, right?”
“I thought it was because humans do,” Lithuania gasps, flushing a little at the topic of conversation and far more at the exertion.
America wrinkles her nose. “But humans need them to reproduce, and we can’t do that, can we? Here, you look like you’re struggling.” She tugs the trunk entirely out of his hands and steps nimbly backwards up the staircase to place it safely on the landing.
Lithuania stares at her, rubbing unconsciously at his aching shoulder.
“I guess it isn’t such a huge deal for me,” America confesses not long afterwards, sitting on the end of the bed in her biggest guest room and kicking her heels against the carpet. She is wearing slacks and a blouse with its sleeves rolled up, and there is a streak of dust across her left shoulder. “Partly I started living as a woman just to see England’s big purple face. But I suppose I like the feel of this body a little better than anything else.”
Lithuania does not pause where he is hanging up his clothing in the wardrobe, but he nods a little, feeling breathless and strangely dangerous. He cannot believe that America is talking so openly about something so personal, so intimate.
“See, England thinks it’s inappropriate for women to fight,” America says, musingly. “Which is weird when you consider that he knows how strong I am.”
“Maybe he doesn’t think you’re as strong as you could be, though?” Lithuania ventures tentatively, and winces when she whips her head around to face him.
Fortunately, she only stares at him for a while, a frown forming slowly beneath her short, tousled fringe. “Maybe not,” she says eventually, leaning back onto her hands. “But I think I’m plenty strong enough at the moment.”
xxvii.
Much sooner than he would prefer, England is forced to stop kicking the wall for fear of breaking his foot. This does not prevent him from continuing to loudly and emphatically curse those damned Italian brats. Being captured by them once had been embarrassing. This time, it feels as though the world is conspiring to mock him.
The plan, he had thought, was flawless. It is a well-known fact among the nations that Germany is repulsed and perturbed by the thought of altering his own sex. (To be more precise, England had heard a rumour off America, who heard it off Canada, who heard it off France, who heard it off Spain, who heard it off Prussia sometime in the nineteenth century - but the information had seemed so plausible that England never doubted it.) With that, and with England’s own natural disinclination towards anything of that kind, he had been convinced that he would never be recognised. Germany would simply not consider the possibility that England could have changed his sex in order to disguise himself.
All of which may yet be true, but England had made a significant oversight which rendered all up to that point meaningless.
As soon as they caught sight of England (with his uncomfortable shoes and even less comfortable breasts), the two Italians had let out identical bloodcurdling screams and began attempting to both hide behind Germany at the same time. With a reception like that, no wonder Germany had looked at him a little more closely.
Finally concluding his litany of curses against both halves of Italy, their ancestors, their spouses and their pets, England slumps against the bars. Trapped not only in his cell, but also in the clothes and (which he thought might be the least humiliating option, overall) the body of a woman, he grits his teeth and allows his anger to keep him sane.
xxviii.
America is waiting for him outside, leaning against the wall with one foot kicked forward to cross over the other and her bomber jacket, too broad for her, drooping at the shoulders. Japan emerges slowly, one leg appearing numb and dragging behind the rest of his body, seeming small within his bandages and Western-style suit and with his fingers too tight around the top of his cane. He walks past her, painfully but with cold control, without meeting her eyes.
She pushes off from the wall and moves to walk slightly behind him, arms folded over her chest. Her step remains light and her movements lithe and easy, no matter how she may try to restrain her stores of energy.
“So?” she says after a while, her voice too bright and too loud as Japan continues onwards, looking directly forwards and refusing to turn his head.
“It is done,” he says. “The legislation is in place.”
America smiles, pushes her hands into her uniform pockets. “Your female citizens will thank you. All your citizens will, in the end.”
The click of Japan’s cane and the scrape of his shoe continue in unchanging syncopated rhythm - click-scrape, click-scrape, click-scrape. America cannot see his face, so she watches the swing and interplay of fine dark hair over clean smooth bandages. It is like shadows on white sand, she thinks, or ink on paper. She rocks back and forth on her heels a little as she walks, affected by what she feels in the air.
She cocks her head at his back. “Do you feel more free?”
Japan stops suddenly - click - and turns his head enough that she can see part of his pale curved jawline. “Please stop talking to me.”
She stands there in the road, hands in her pockets and feet firm and apart on the ground, while he walks slowly and rigidly away from her.
xxix.
While Russia is, of course, aware of the fact that the nations have an emotional connection to all of their citizens, it is usually of no interest to him. It has always been that way and is therefore of little concern, just like the shape of the landscape and the way that everyone calls Russia “he”. It is the way things are, and Russia has never seen any reason not to go along with it, or even any reason to think about it at all.
But now, things are different. Because if a nation can sense what all their people are feeling, they can also share what one particular citizen is feeling. It is not easy, and it takes some concentration to filter through all the noise and single out the right thread, but sometimes it is worth it. Now, it is worth it.
Because now, Russia is leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and basking in the sensation of being without gravity. There is the sensation of victory too, another point scored against the capitalists - that feeling is his own, and he is enjoying it greatly. It is unfortunate that he will not be able to watch America’s face when she is told the news - or when he is told, now; Russia heard rumours to that effect, and it only served to prove once more that he will never understand the West. Still, he can imagine the look on the young brat’s face, and that is enough.
Thinking about America’s reaction makes Russia giggle. But the feeling of floating, of his wide unwieldy body borrowing another’s sensation of weightlessness, of being held and buoyed and suspended anchorless in the air, makes him curl his toes in their great broad boots and smile.
xxx.
When Romano left his house earlier tonight, all he wanted was to have sex with a beautiful woman and fall asleep in a feather bed. After the fifth bar full of unappealing or unreceptive girls, he had decided that she does not need to be all that beautiful - a six or a seven will do, really - and as long as he is not sleeping on the floor he will have little to complain about. At this stage, he will be satisfied merely with the knowledge that he will be waking up tomorrow.
“Fuck.” His blazer comes off, goes into the pile of junk and rubbish bags. It was expensive, too, fine leather and the perfect cut for him.
This would never have happened if there weren’t so few eligible female nations around. Even of those there are, some of them are on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain for relations to be feasible, and Easterners are intimidating anyway. Belgium has known him for a long time, but according to her that is exactly the problem. France and Spain are female sometimes - but one is a pervert and the other is, put quite simply, Spain. America went male a while back, something about it helping her fight her cause. Apparently being belligerent and fucking up other people’s national security is just too difficult as a woman - but Romano’ll be fucked if he knows; all that matters is that here he is, cornered in an alleyway attempting to calm down enough to do what needs to be done.
“Shit.” Luckily for him he is wearing a cloth belt. He tears it off and ties it around his neck.
And really, what sort of girl brings seemingly every one of her male relations to a bar with her? Romano had thought he was in with a chance until half the men in the building suddenly turned around as one to glare at him. And maybe he was getting slightly frustrated by that point, and maybe he had got a little aggressive, and maybe he had yelled at the lot of them to leave her the Hell alone why can’t you, she’s an adult and can make her own decisions, especially about who she fucks.
That was when they had started chasing him.
They have reached the head of the alleyway now. Romano crouches down behind the rubbish and concentrates.
The men falter at the head of the passageway. Romano hears their steps slowing as they take in the sight of the dead end, before speeding up again and calling to each other to search. One kicks indifferently at a drainpipe near the mouth of the alley while another, equally invested in the search, drops back onto the main road and leans on the wall there. Romano does not even feel the relief this could have caused: infinitely more worrying than either of them is the one who hauls a bag of rubbish aside somewhere alarmingly nearby. He tosses it into the middle of the alley and grabs another with startling swiftness, displacing a stack of empty crates; the structure teeters precariously for a moment, before collapsing on top of Romano’s legs.
Romano lets out a soft, stifled cry.
The man whirls around and immediately stiffens. He makes a blind lunge, the others running over to join him, and seizes Romano’s collar, hauling her up out of the trash and slamming her into the wall.
“Huh?”
The man blinks comically at her, the others halting abruptly as they see her properly.
“Niccolò, you idiot, this isn’t him.”
“Must have gone a different way.”
“That little bastard.”
Niccolò slowly lets her down, still staring disbelievingly at her. “But I felt something...”
One of the men snorts. “Yeah, you’re always feeling things.”
Romano’s heart has at last slowed down enough to risk saying something. “Hey, what’s going on here?” She resists the urge to add ‘you bastards’.
“Sorry, miss,” the man to Niccolò’s left says. “We thought you were someone else. You sure look a lot like him, though.”
“Maybe he was her brother,” says the one behind him.
“My brother’s an idiot,” Romano says automatically, and then grimaces when she realises that she just insulted herself.
“No kidding. C’mon, Nico, leave the lady alone.”
“There’s something weird about you,” Niccolò says, stepping slowly away but keeping his eyes narrowed at her. “Your brother, too. I felt it in the bar. You two aren’t right.”
Romano lifts her chin and glares imperiously. The man watches her over his shoulder all the way to the end of the alley.
xxxi.
Prussia has not left his side since they first spotted each other, and is now clinging to his arm just above the elbow as Germany stands like a rock in the middle of the street and feels the swirl and froth of the crowds around them, the noise, the elation, the people seizing each other and laughing and shouting in joy.
“We should live together, man!” says Prussia, eyes slightly too wide, smiling and smiling and gripping Germany’s bicep hard enough to hurt. Germany attempts to encourage his fingers to loosen a little - it cannot be comfortable for Prussia either - but his brother merely grabs hold of his hand and keeps it there. “We should! Wouldn’t it be great? It’d be great, wouldn’t it?”
“It will,” Germany says, turning his head to meet Prussia’s overly eager eyes; to attempt to give him something through that look alone.
Prussia’s laugh is a sudden, startled bark of precipitation. “We’ll have a house together, and we can get one newspaper and split it between the two of us, and take turns with the washing up.”
Germany, caught up in the wind of it and lifted off the ground, finds himself laughing too. “How domestic of you.”
“I don’t mind being domestic,” Prussia says with energetic sincerity, squeezing Germany’s fingers. “Fuck, we should be domestic. I can make you breakfast every morning, and it’ll be like I’m the mother.”
Germany’s eyebrows shoot up. Prussia does not seem to notice, continuing to stare bare-toothed and grinning now at the crowd, now at his brother.
“You’ve changed,” Germany says slowly.
Prussia jumps, looks at his mouth. “Huh?”
“You would never have said something like that, before.”
“Well,” says Prussia, and then, “Yeah, well. Maybe. Maybe I have changed. But Hell, West, everything’s changed.”
Germany smiles, to reassure him, and looks back at the crowd. “Yes,” he says. “I suppose it has.”
xxxii.
The only problem with this method, France thinks, pulling hir scarf up over hir mouth a little further, is that ze can only do it whilst ze is in the right... frame of mind, as ze puts it when ze is feeling especially flippant. It has its advantages, of course - improving hir success rate is evidently worth doing, whilst ze can - but even achieving one hundred percent success would not be worth it if it meant potentially having to assume the wrong form for hir current gender. France has had plenty of that in hir childhood, and ze is not exactly eager to return to those days.
Hooking hir thumbs in hir pockets, ze stands and surveys the stream of people past hir. Ze is not sure what ze is looking for today. As a connoisseur, hir experience is wide-ranging and hir tastes eclectic, but even so ze cannot categorise precisely what it is that ze wants. It will be in the person’s step, though, and in the way they hold their head.
France folds hir arms over hir chest and leans one foot against the wall behind hir. The season helps, too; the clothes ze wears in the summer, by necessity far more light and less substantial, are far less easy to utilise in this trick. Ze wears them well, of course, but they do not help hir. But the clothes ze is wearing now - straight-cut jeans, boxy spring jacket, the colourful spark of a scarf - are perfect.
Suddenly, France leans out away from the wall and into the crowd. Ze has seen something.
There, in the hips, in the way the heels snap smartly down onto the pavement; there in the poise of the chin, the angle of the jaw and neck.
France slides forwards into the street.
“Excuse me,” ze says smoothly, catching the woman by the arm.
The moment she meets hir eyes, France can see that she understands. Ze smiles a little: ze was right about the way she places her feet.
The woman steps to one side, out of the flow of the crowd, and they regard each other. She is brunette, with legs that taper dramatically after the satisfying fullness of her hips, and a gloriously moulded upper lip. She regards hir with a cool, reserved intensity, eyes lingering for the longest time upon France’s face while her brow gathers up in the centre, uncertain. France fluctuates a little, while she watches, just to see how she responds.
“Sorry,” she says at last, apparently having reached a conclusion, “but I’m not interested in men.”
France smiles with a private pleasure, settling like snow into the appropriate shape. “In that case, my darling, you are in luck.”
xxxiii.
Today, Italy is wearing a slim-cut, two-piece suit, a pure silk necktie, brand new leather loafers, pearlescent lip gloss, and nail polish in a shade that calls itself Venus Red. As Italy enters, bouncing up and down just a little as if the carpet is made of rubber, several nations look up; most of them turn immediately back to whatever it was that they were doing beforehand, a few roll their eyes, and several frown in disapproval. Italy sees China turn away, shaking his head, and England’s eyebrows form a united front in the middle of his face.
Finally, Germany says what everyone is thinking.
“You’re extremely late.”
“I’m sorry!” Italy chirps, bounding down the length of the conference table. “Only I saw a kitty outside and I just had to stroke it, except it didn’t really want me to and ran away so then I had to go after it! You forgot to shave this morning, Hungary?”
Hungary jumps, and there is some rearrangement of limbs as he hastily places both his hands on the table in clear sight and leans away from Austria. “Yes, well. I only had... so much time.”
“It looks very handsome. Good morning, France! Good morning, Japan!”
Japan offers a quick, faint smile before looking hastily away again.
“Good morning, Spain! I like your shirt.”
“God,” Romano growls suddenly, “would you just sit down already, you waste of oxygen?”
Italy sits, finally, in the empty chair beside Germany and turns to smile intimately at him. “Good morning, Germany.”
“Good morning,” Germany returns, and then clears his throat. “Please try not to be so late in future. You can stroke cats when you don’t have meetings to go to.”
“Aww,” Italy pouts, “but what if I only ever did nice things when I didn’t have anything else to do? Then I’d be like Germany and that wouldn’t be fun at all.”
Germany smiles. “I don’t think there’s much chance of that happening.”
“Hmm,” Italy says, face scrunching up into a faux-thoughtful expression, and then laughs, open and affable. “I think you’re right.”
Irresistibly, Germany feels himself beginning to chuckle too. They smile directly at each other for a moment before Italy looks away to glance around at the room - most people now breaking off into quiet conversations with their neighbours - and leans closer to Germany. “By the way, I got you a present.”
Germany raises an eyebrow and tilts his head nearer.
Italy reaches into a pocket and shows him under the table.
It is a bracelet, articulated gold with clusters of blue gems and swirling silver clinging along its length. As Italy tips it into his hand, Germany feels the weight of it, the coolness and smoothness of the metal. He runs his thumb around the edge of one of the gems, and swallows heavily.
“I thought you could wear it this weekend,” Italy whispers.
Germany finally finds his voice. “Thank you.” He swallows again, looks at the bracelet again, closes his fingers around it and leans towards Italy until their foreheads are touching. “Thank you.”
Italy giggles, strokes Germany’s cheekbone. “It’s kind of like a present for me too, you know. I know it’ll really suit you. But you’re welcome.”
Germany presses their lips together quickly, guiltily; he is not comfortable with kissing in public, everyone knows, so it is a rare gesture. Italy squeezes his hand tightly under the table, and then lets him go.
Turning back to the table, Germany takes a moment to allow his flush to go down, and then coughs conspicuously to get the room’s attention; the nations quieten marginally and glance at him.
“If everyone would turn to page 12 on the agenda for today...”
Italy leans forwards, chin resting on palm and eyes part-way closed, and lazily scans the room. America, still wearing her male body after all this time, intently watches a select few other nations. Belarus, today wearing a white dress, stares at Russia unblinkingly. Romano, his ears going red, shoves Spain away with one hand and mutters to hir not to be so ridiculous.
But Germany is adjusting his tie with one hand and slipping the bracelet into his jacket pocket with the other, and so Italy smiles on the inside, and lets out a sigh like the end of a prayer.
-
I’ve tried to keep this character-oriented with the history confined to the background. In some places I had to make the decision to prioritise my interpretation of the characters’ personalities and of the Hetalia canon over a strictly factual presentation of historical events. Likewise, I thought it would be best for the sake of simplicity to use the modern nation names throughout the fic, despite the inaccuracy involved in doing so.
Because of the fic’s length, I’ve only included notes of what I consider essential information. I hope you enjoyed reading it, and please do inform me if you have any concerns at all.
iv. - Post-Rome, the British Isles were targeted and partially conquered by Vikings, mostly of Danish but some of Norwegian origin.
vi. - After Kievan Rus' disintegrated, Belorussian land was acquired by Lithuania through conquest and diplomatic marriages.
vii. - In Japanese Buddhism, women were considered spiritually unclean, and menstrual blood was thought to defile the ground and pollute the gods.
xi. - In the 16th century, the Hapsburgs inherited the Hungarian throne.
xii. - The Zaporozhian Cossacks raided and razed parts of the Ottoman Empire, including areas on the outskirts of Constantinople.
xiii. - In 1569, Poland and Lithuania united to form the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.
xv. - There was a traditional belief in ancient China that the emperor possessed the divine right to rule over “all under heaven”. Both China and Japan went through periods of isolationism.
xvi. - The power of Russia and of the PLC had also been challenged by the Zaporozhian Cossacks.
xvii. - The War of the Spanish Succession was fought in order to prevent the thrones of Spain and France from unifying. On being defeated, Spain was forced to surrender various territories to Austria, including the Kingdom of Naples.
xviii. - The Treaty of Paris, ending the American War of Independence, was signed in the Hotel d’York.
xxi. - The dual monarchy of Austria-Hungary was created in 1867.
xxii. - The long process of Italian unification culminated with the capture of Rome in 1870.
xxiii. - In the autumn of 1906, Britain suffered a severe and unusual heatwave.
xxiv. -The Second Battle of Ypres marked the first occasion of large-scale gas warfare. The chlorine reacted with moisture to create hydrochloric acid, damaging the eyes, throat and lungs. The 1st Canadian Division, using handkerchiefs soaked in urine to neutralise the gas, was able to hold the Allied line despite the crumbling of French defences.
xxv. - After WWI, Austria-Hungary split apart into its various factions.
xxxviii. - Female suffrage was enacted in Japan in 1946, partially due to pressure from the occupying Americans.
xxxix. - The USSR won a significant victory in the Space Race in 1961, when Yuri Gagarin became the first person sent into space.
xxx. - From the late 1960’s till the early 1980’s, Italy suffered political terrorism from both left- and right-wing extremists. Some believed that this was thanks to a deliberate “strategy of tension” on the part of the USA.
xxxi. - In November 1989, enormous crowds of East Berliners crossed the Berlin Wall after it was mistakenly announced that borders had opened completely.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Japan, China, Russia, Belarus, Ukraine, Spain, Veneziano, England, France, Hungary, Prussia, Lithuania, Holy Roman Empire, America, Austria, Turkey, Poland, Canada, Germany, Romano; mentions of Rome, Denmark, Norway, Belgium.
Pairings: Mostly gen; some Austria/Hungary, Germany/Veneziano, France/a woman, France -> Spain, Romano -> women.
Warnings: Language, sexual references, descriptions of gender-related trauma and gender dysphoria, descriptions of war and the effects of poison gas.
Notes: AU. Prussia as East Germany. Genderbending, as well as something else that I can only call “sexbending”. Genderqueer and non-binary gender identities.
Summary: The sex of a nation is not solid, but during childhood is in a state of flux beyond their control. As they grow up and gradually gain command over their own shape, the nations must try to come to terms with each other, their bodies and themselves.
-
<- Back to part 1
xx.
“It’s not that it’s wrong,” Prussia says slowly, carefully. “We’re all like it - all us nations - as kids anyway. I mean, can anything that happened to me be wrong?” He attempts a grin, but it grates against the atmosphere in the room and cracks upon his lips.
The child, Germany, is wearing a sombre expression on its small strong face. Prussia does not like to think of his sibling as an “it” - but he is even now buttoning it into its shorts, and he has seen that this is what it is right now.
“But you don’t talk about it,” Germany says, extending its arms for Prussia to help it into its shirt.
Prussia moves around behind it, tugging the garment on. “It isn’t something we like to talk about. Unless you’re France or Spain or something, and those guys are weird anyway, and I don’t want you to spend time with them.”
“That’s all right,” Germany says as it fastens its shirt. “I don’t like them very much.”
“Hey!” Prussia exclaims, flicking his fingernail against Germany’s shoulder. “They are my friends, you know.”
Germany stares at him neutrally, eyes very blue and slightly incredulous. “You can’t be very good friends.”
“We’re very bad friends,” Prussia assures it, and tugs on the end of its sleeve to try and cover its wrist. “You’ve grown again, you know.”
It does not acknowledge this, buttoning its suspenders in silence.
To fill the silence, Prussia laughs loudly and claps the child on the back. “Getting stronger, huh? You’re going to be a great soldier one day.”
“Does that mean that I’m going to be a man?” Germany asks quietly.
Prussia stops, and stares down at it. Its head is bent, pale hair shielding its eyes, and its mouth is tense.
“Well,” Prussia says, suddenly uncomfortable and feeling annoyed that a mere child can make him feel that way, “I suppose you... you don’t have to be. But uh... don’t you want to?”
“I want to be an adult,” Germany says, voice suddenly so much louder, broadening yet still skinny shoulders beginning to shake. “I don’t want to keep changing any more. I - I don’t know who I am like this.”
Prussia, although he no longer needs to do so and has not for some time, kneels down to look at Germany in the face. “You’re my family,” he says. “And some day, you’re going to be the greatest nation ever.”
xxi.
Austria, ze knows, is lucky. Ze has been blessed with hir body: small breasts and slim hips when it is in the form of a woman, narrow shoulders and little body hair when it is in the form of a man. Austria, like Hungary, is forced to live the wrong life. But Austria, unlike Hungary, can at least live it in the right body.
Hungary has caused a storm amongst their human household by refusing to let his maidservants dress him; and at the news that today would be no exception, at least one of the women had been appalled. But Hungary has never lost an opportunity to inhabit a body as close as possible to his true self, and there is a lot that can be hidden under petticoats and a crinoline that would not do for the servants to see. It is a painful irony that both of them have become quite familiar with the intricacies of women’s clothing.
“I despise corsets,” Hungary mutters, one hand on his bodice.
“I despise all current fashions,” Austria offers, smiling slightly from in between hir collars.
Hungary steps close to hir, smoothing hir collar with a forefinger. “We should run away and live as hermits, and to Hell with our population.”
“You know I will never do that,” Austria murmurs.
“Yes,” Hungary admits, pulling back. “You care too much. What did humans do to deserve that?”
“What did I do to deserve you?” Austria says. Ze would not have said it out loud, except it wells up in hir and ze cannot hold it back, cannot stop hirself from wrapping hir arms around him and kissing his jaw.
“This is quite unorthodox,” Hungary laughs breathlessly, hands on hir shoulders. “You realise that I’m supposed to be virginal for this ceremony?”
Austria raises an eyebrow. “This is a strange time to be concerned about orthodoxy. What am I supposed to say when they ask me whether I take this woman?”
Hungary smiles, hands on hir lower back and leaning in to fit their lips together. “The same thing I say when they ask me if I take this man.”
xxii.
The sun is a white globe of promise, the wind catches clothing and flings it outwards into long proud banners, and Romano is sitting on the Scalinata della Trinità dei Monti with his little brother beside him. The country is shifting and warping, boundaries expanding around them. People and culture, memory and life come flooding into them, and where they touch, hand in hand, the energy passes between them.
Somewhere amongst it all, Romano feels a weight - heavy yet soft; solid and living - settle on his shoulder.
“I can feel what your people are thinking.”
“...Yeah.”
“Does this make us the same person now?”
“Hell no.”
Veneziano giggles, sighs, brings their clasped hands together up to his face where he brushes his lips against his brother’s knuckles. Romano, because it feels right to do it and because it feels wrong not to, turns his cheek towards that warm brown head, and presses a brief kiss into Veneziano’s hair.
xxiii.
Outside, women are chained to the railings in long irregular lines, placards lying scattered at their feet and sprouting from the bars like a paper, paint-daubed forest. The noise is incessant - chanting and exclamations, the shouts and shrieks of the passers-by and the furious rejoinders of the demonstrators, turned livid and wild by the freakish heat. Chain links are digging into the flesh of well-dressed ladies as they hang forwards, balanceless, suspended by the bindings. A boy stops on the corner to gawp, half-eaten plum in his hand.
Above, a waistcoated bald-headed man scowls sweatily at the street and pulls the window closed.
The office was smothering as it was, and now it is painful. England cringes at the loss of air, shifting in his damp suit. “They are not going to vanish, you understand.”
“Would that they will,” the man mutters, lowering himself back into the chair behind the desk.
“They will get what they demand, in the end,” England says calmly, and tugs a little at his collar to let some air onto his neck. “It is inevitable.”
The official glares at him from under the pocket handkerchief he is using to viciously wipe his brow. “The day that happens is the day this country abandons its principles.”
England raises an eyebrow, clasping his hands. “Surely, my good man, that is not within your power to declare?”
xxiv.
Back against mud, more mud below, dirt seeping into the seat of his trousers and crawling under his nails until they are more filth than flesh, Canada feels as if he is being forced out of his own body. The blasts and the bullets are pushing down from above, the sick heavy gas is accumulating below, and the men in between are compressed between violence and poison, death and death.
One of the soldiers nearby takes a shot in the forehead, a perfect circular hole blown right through his helmet - but Canada’s eyes are already red-raw and streaming from the chlorine, so it is impossible for her to shed any tears for the casualty.
Keeping her handkerchief clasped tightly over her nose and mouth (the smell of urine is nauseating but better, so much better, than slowly, never-endingly drowning in acid) Canada fumbles for the dead man’s fingers and squeezes them briefly. She does not know whether to offer thanks or apologies, but Canada can at least take a moment to offer his citizen some human comfort. Human comfort given to a dead person and by a person that is not human will have to suffice.
Soon - sooner than he would want, but Canada can feel the lines of defence crumbling on either side of him, soldiers heaving their bodies out of gas-filled graves to retreat, to run, to be torn apart by shrapnel and to descend again - Canada releases the corpse’s hand and seizes its rifle instead. Perhaps this weapon will not jam. Perhaps they will hold the line. Perhaps they will win the war, and then Canada can be back on his own land again, where the earth sings through her and she is all she sees and all she sees is her.
For now, though, Canada hauls herself onto her elbows and up the side of the trench, handkerchief at his face, rifle clutched close to his side like a lover, to lean its barrel on the ground and fire one-handed until he can no longer see.
xxv.
“I’m leaving.”
Austria allows a single finger to rest upon B flat. “I realised.”
“It’s not that I don’t love you,” Hungary says, leaning in the door with his trunk beside him.
Austria holds up one slim white hand. “Please.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Please,” Austria says, firmer this time, hir finger shifting to D, “you don’t have to explain.”
Hungary steps closer to hir just a little, hand curled up tight in his waistcoat pocket. “Do you honestly think it helps?”
Ze keeps hir eyes on the keyboard, holding on firmly to hir own breath and hir own poise. “I think it helps for a people to have a constant figurehead, and I think the more relatable that figurehead the better.”
“And you think that figurehead should live a lie then, do you?”
“Hungary,” Austria says, throat tight, fingers striking a discord, “please. We’ve talked about this.”
Hungary sighs, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes, arms wrapped around his stomach.
“You know how much I regret what I did to you when you first came into the household,” Austria says quietly. “And we have been able to live as we wish since we agreed to dismiss the servants.”
“Do you think that will make me stay?”
Austria looks over. “No.”
“It’s having to make public appearances as a woman,” Hungary says, tilting his head back against the wall. “It’s having to seem like a woman whenever I go out; it’s answering to ‘madam’. I appreciate the compromises you’ve made. But I don’t want to live this way.”
Austria lifts hir hands from the keyboard and places them in hir lap, where ze examines them closely. “Will you live in hiding?”
“No need for that,” Hungary says with a weak smile. “I’ll just live. People will forget about me.”
Austria’s shoulders tilt ever so slightly forwards. “Unlikely.”
Hungary sighs deeply, watching hir back, and then pushes off away from the wall and moves towards hir. “It’s not that I don’t love you, remember.” He wraps his arms around hir shoulders and presses his face to hir hair.
Austria places hir fingertips upon his arm, delicately, as if it is the first time they have touched.
xxvi.
It is America, far more than Poland, who forces Lithuania to give some more thought to that unique condition of the nations.
“I mean, why would a nation have a sex anyway?” she asks as they carry his trunk up the stairs between them. “Why would we exist at all might be the first question to ask, but why would we have sexes has got to be the second, right?”
“I thought it was because humans do,” Lithuania gasps, flushing a little at the topic of conversation and far more at the exertion.
America wrinkles her nose. “But humans need them to reproduce, and we can’t do that, can we? Here, you look like you’re struggling.” She tugs the trunk entirely out of his hands and steps nimbly backwards up the staircase to place it safely on the landing.
Lithuania stares at her, rubbing unconsciously at his aching shoulder.
“I guess it isn’t such a huge deal for me,” America confesses not long afterwards, sitting on the end of the bed in her biggest guest room and kicking her heels against the carpet. She is wearing slacks and a blouse with its sleeves rolled up, and there is a streak of dust across her left shoulder. “Partly I started living as a woman just to see England’s big purple face. But I suppose I like the feel of this body a little better than anything else.”
Lithuania does not pause where he is hanging up his clothing in the wardrobe, but he nods a little, feeling breathless and strangely dangerous. He cannot believe that America is talking so openly about something so personal, so intimate.
“See, England thinks it’s inappropriate for women to fight,” America says, musingly. “Which is weird when you consider that he knows how strong I am.”
“Maybe he doesn’t think you’re as strong as you could be, though?” Lithuania ventures tentatively, and winces when she whips her head around to face him.
Fortunately, she only stares at him for a while, a frown forming slowly beneath her short, tousled fringe. “Maybe not,” she says eventually, leaning back onto her hands. “But I think I’m plenty strong enough at the moment.”
xxvii.
Much sooner than he would prefer, England is forced to stop kicking the wall for fear of breaking his foot. This does not prevent him from continuing to loudly and emphatically curse those damned Italian brats. Being captured by them once had been embarrassing. This time, it feels as though the world is conspiring to mock him.
The plan, he had thought, was flawless. It is a well-known fact among the nations that Germany is repulsed and perturbed by the thought of altering his own sex. (To be more precise, England had heard a rumour off America, who heard it off Canada, who heard it off France, who heard it off Spain, who heard it off Prussia sometime in the nineteenth century - but the information had seemed so plausible that England never doubted it.) With that, and with England’s own natural disinclination towards anything of that kind, he had been convinced that he would never be recognised. Germany would simply not consider the possibility that England could have changed his sex in order to disguise himself.
All of which may yet be true, but England had made a significant oversight which rendered all up to that point meaningless.
As soon as they caught sight of England (with his uncomfortable shoes and even less comfortable breasts), the two Italians had let out identical bloodcurdling screams and began attempting to both hide behind Germany at the same time. With a reception like that, no wonder Germany had looked at him a little more closely.
Finally concluding his litany of curses against both halves of Italy, their ancestors, their spouses and their pets, England slumps against the bars. Trapped not only in his cell, but also in the clothes and (which he thought might be the least humiliating option, overall) the body of a woman, he grits his teeth and allows his anger to keep him sane.
xxviii.
America is waiting for him outside, leaning against the wall with one foot kicked forward to cross over the other and her bomber jacket, too broad for her, drooping at the shoulders. Japan emerges slowly, one leg appearing numb and dragging behind the rest of his body, seeming small within his bandages and Western-style suit and with his fingers too tight around the top of his cane. He walks past her, painfully but with cold control, without meeting her eyes.
She pushes off from the wall and moves to walk slightly behind him, arms folded over her chest. Her step remains light and her movements lithe and easy, no matter how she may try to restrain her stores of energy.
“So?” she says after a while, her voice too bright and too loud as Japan continues onwards, looking directly forwards and refusing to turn his head.
“It is done,” he says. “The legislation is in place.”
America smiles, pushes her hands into her uniform pockets. “Your female citizens will thank you. All your citizens will, in the end.”
The click of Japan’s cane and the scrape of his shoe continue in unchanging syncopated rhythm - click-scrape, click-scrape, click-scrape. America cannot see his face, so she watches the swing and interplay of fine dark hair over clean smooth bandages. It is like shadows on white sand, she thinks, or ink on paper. She rocks back and forth on her heels a little as she walks, affected by what she feels in the air.
She cocks her head at his back. “Do you feel more free?”
Japan stops suddenly - click - and turns his head enough that she can see part of his pale curved jawline. “Please stop talking to me.”
She stands there in the road, hands in her pockets and feet firm and apart on the ground, while he walks slowly and rigidly away from her.
xxix.
While Russia is, of course, aware of the fact that the nations have an emotional connection to all of their citizens, it is usually of no interest to him. It has always been that way and is therefore of little concern, just like the shape of the landscape and the way that everyone calls Russia “he”. It is the way things are, and Russia has never seen any reason not to go along with it, or even any reason to think about it at all.
But now, things are different. Because if a nation can sense what all their people are feeling, they can also share what one particular citizen is feeling. It is not easy, and it takes some concentration to filter through all the noise and single out the right thread, but sometimes it is worth it. Now, it is worth it.
Because now, Russia is leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and basking in the sensation of being without gravity. There is the sensation of victory too, another point scored against the capitalists - that feeling is his own, and he is enjoying it greatly. It is unfortunate that he will not be able to watch America’s face when she is told the news - or when he is told, now; Russia heard rumours to that effect, and it only served to prove once more that he will never understand the West. Still, he can imagine the look on the young brat’s face, and that is enough.
Thinking about America’s reaction makes Russia giggle. But the feeling of floating, of his wide unwieldy body borrowing another’s sensation of weightlessness, of being held and buoyed and suspended anchorless in the air, makes him curl his toes in their great broad boots and smile.
xxx.
When Romano left his house earlier tonight, all he wanted was to have sex with a beautiful woman and fall asleep in a feather bed. After the fifth bar full of unappealing or unreceptive girls, he had decided that she does not need to be all that beautiful - a six or a seven will do, really - and as long as he is not sleeping on the floor he will have little to complain about. At this stage, he will be satisfied merely with the knowledge that he will be waking up tomorrow.
“Fuck.” His blazer comes off, goes into the pile of junk and rubbish bags. It was expensive, too, fine leather and the perfect cut for him.
This would never have happened if there weren’t so few eligible female nations around. Even of those there are, some of them are on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain for relations to be feasible, and Easterners are intimidating anyway. Belgium has known him for a long time, but according to her that is exactly the problem. France and Spain are female sometimes - but one is a pervert and the other is, put quite simply, Spain. America went male a while back, something about it helping her fight her cause. Apparently being belligerent and fucking up other people’s national security is just too difficult as a woman - but Romano’ll be fucked if he knows; all that matters is that here he is, cornered in an alleyway attempting to calm down enough to do what needs to be done.
“Shit.” Luckily for him he is wearing a cloth belt. He tears it off and ties it around his neck.
And really, what sort of girl brings seemingly every one of her male relations to a bar with her? Romano had thought he was in with a chance until half the men in the building suddenly turned around as one to glare at him. And maybe he was getting slightly frustrated by that point, and maybe he had got a little aggressive, and maybe he had yelled at the lot of them to leave her the Hell alone why can’t you, she’s an adult and can make her own decisions, especially about who she fucks.
That was when they had started chasing him.
They have reached the head of the alleyway now. Romano crouches down behind the rubbish and concentrates.
The men falter at the head of the passageway. Romano hears their steps slowing as they take in the sight of the dead end, before speeding up again and calling to each other to search. One kicks indifferently at a drainpipe near the mouth of the alley while another, equally invested in the search, drops back onto the main road and leans on the wall there. Romano does not even feel the relief this could have caused: infinitely more worrying than either of them is the one who hauls a bag of rubbish aside somewhere alarmingly nearby. He tosses it into the middle of the alley and grabs another with startling swiftness, displacing a stack of empty crates; the structure teeters precariously for a moment, before collapsing on top of Romano’s legs.
Romano lets out a soft, stifled cry.
The man whirls around and immediately stiffens. He makes a blind lunge, the others running over to join him, and seizes Romano’s collar, hauling her up out of the trash and slamming her into the wall.
“Huh?”
The man blinks comically at her, the others halting abruptly as they see her properly.
“Niccolò, you idiot, this isn’t him.”
“Must have gone a different way.”
“That little bastard.”
Niccolò slowly lets her down, still staring disbelievingly at her. “But I felt something...”
One of the men snorts. “Yeah, you’re always feeling things.”
Romano’s heart has at last slowed down enough to risk saying something. “Hey, what’s going on here?” She resists the urge to add ‘you bastards’.
“Sorry, miss,” the man to Niccolò’s left says. “We thought you were someone else. You sure look a lot like him, though.”
“Maybe he was her brother,” says the one behind him.
“My brother’s an idiot,” Romano says automatically, and then grimaces when she realises that she just insulted herself.
“No kidding. C’mon, Nico, leave the lady alone.”
“There’s something weird about you,” Niccolò says, stepping slowly away but keeping his eyes narrowed at her. “Your brother, too. I felt it in the bar. You two aren’t right.”
Romano lifts her chin and glares imperiously. The man watches her over his shoulder all the way to the end of the alley.
xxxi.
Prussia has not left his side since they first spotted each other, and is now clinging to his arm just above the elbow as Germany stands like a rock in the middle of the street and feels the swirl and froth of the crowds around them, the noise, the elation, the people seizing each other and laughing and shouting in joy.
“We should live together, man!” says Prussia, eyes slightly too wide, smiling and smiling and gripping Germany’s bicep hard enough to hurt. Germany attempts to encourage his fingers to loosen a little - it cannot be comfortable for Prussia either - but his brother merely grabs hold of his hand and keeps it there. “We should! Wouldn’t it be great? It’d be great, wouldn’t it?”
“It will,” Germany says, turning his head to meet Prussia’s overly eager eyes; to attempt to give him something through that look alone.
Prussia’s laugh is a sudden, startled bark of precipitation. “We’ll have a house together, and we can get one newspaper and split it between the two of us, and take turns with the washing up.”
Germany, caught up in the wind of it and lifted off the ground, finds himself laughing too. “How domestic of you.”
“I don’t mind being domestic,” Prussia says with energetic sincerity, squeezing Germany’s fingers. “Fuck, we should be domestic. I can make you breakfast every morning, and it’ll be like I’m the mother.”
Germany’s eyebrows shoot up. Prussia does not seem to notice, continuing to stare bare-toothed and grinning now at the crowd, now at his brother.
“You’ve changed,” Germany says slowly.
Prussia jumps, looks at his mouth. “Huh?”
“You would never have said something like that, before.”
“Well,” says Prussia, and then, “Yeah, well. Maybe. Maybe I have changed. But Hell, West, everything’s changed.”
Germany smiles, to reassure him, and looks back at the crowd. “Yes,” he says. “I suppose it has.”
xxxii.
The only problem with this method, France thinks, pulling hir scarf up over hir mouth a little further, is that ze can only do it whilst ze is in the right... frame of mind, as ze puts it when ze is feeling especially flippant. It has its advantages, of course - improving hir success rate is evidently worth doing, whilst ze can - but even achieving one hundred percent success would not be worth it if it meant potentially having to assume the wrong form for hir current gender. France has had plenty of that in hir childhood, and ze is not exactly eager to return to those days.
Hooking hir thumbs in hir pockets, ze stands and surveys the stream of people past hir. Ze is not sure what ze is looking for today. As a connoisseur, hir experience is wide-ranging and hir tastes eclectic, but even so ze cannot categorise precisely what it is that ze wants. It will be in the person’s step, though, and in the way they hold their head.
France folds hir arms over hir chest and leans one foot against the wall behind hir. The season helps, too; the clothes ze wears in the summer, by necessity far more light and less substantial, are far less easy to utilise in this trick. Ze wears them well, of course, but they do not help hir. But the clothes ze is wearing now - straight-cut jeans, boxy spring jacket, the colourful spark of a scarf - are perfect.
Suddenly, France leans out away from the wall and into the crowd. Ze has seen something.
There, in the hips, in the way the heels snap smartly down onto the pavement; there in the poise of the chin, the angle of the jaw and neck.
France slides forwards into the street.
“Excuse me,” ze says smoothly, catching the woman by the arm.
The moment she meets hir eyes, France can see that she understands. Ze smiles a little: ze was right about the way she places her feet.
The woman steps to one side, out of the flow of the crowd, and they regard each other. She is brunette, with legs that taper dramatically after the satisfying fullness of her hips, and a gloriously moulded upper lip. She regards hir with a cool, reserved intensity, eyes lingering for the longest time upon France’s face while her brow gathers up in the centre, uncertain. France fluctuates a little, while she watches, just to see how she responds.
“Sorry,” she says at last, apparently having reached a conclusion, “but I’m not interested in men.”
France smiles with a private pleasure, settling like snow into the appropriate shape. “In that case, my darling, you are in luck.”
xxxiii.
Today, Italy is wearing a slim-cut, two-piece suit, a pure silk necktie, brand new leather loafers, pearlescent lip gloss, and nail polish in a shade that calls itself Venus Red. As Italy enters, bouncing up and down just a little as if the carpet is made of rubber, several nations look up; most of them turn immediately back to whatever it was that they were doing beforehand, a few roll their eyes, and several frown in disapproval. Italy sees China turn away, shaking his head, and England’s eyebrows form a united front in the middle of his face.
Finally, Germany says what everyone is thinking.
“You’re extremely late.”
“I’m sorry!” Italy chirps, bounding down the length of the conference table. “Only I saw a kitty outside and I just had to stroke it, except it didn’t really want me to and ran away so then I had to go after it! You forgot to shave this morning, Hungary?”
Hungary jumps, and there is some rearrangement of limbs as he hastily places both his hands on the table in clear sight and leans away from Austria. “Yes, well. I only had... so much time.”
“It looks very handsome. Good morning, France! Good morning, Japan!”
Japan offers a quick, faint smile before looking hastily away again.
“Good morning, Spain! I like your shirt.”
“God,” Romano growls suddenly, “would you just sit down already, you waste of oxygen?”
Italy sits, finally, in the empty chair beside Germany and turns to smile intimately at him. “Good morning, Germany.”
“Good morning,” Germany returns, and then clears his throat. “Please try not to be so late in future. You can stroke cats when you don’t have meetings to go to.”
“Aww,” Italy pouts, “but what if I only ever did nice things when I didn’t have anything else to do? Then I’d be like Germany and that wouldn’t be fun at all.”
Germany smiles. “I don’t think there’s much chance of that happening.”
“Hmm,” Italy says, face scrunching up into a faux-thoughtful expression, and then laughs, open and affable. “I think you’re right.”
Irresistibly, Germany feels himself beginning to chuckle too. They smile directly at each other for a moment before Italy looks away to glance around at the room - most people now breaking off into quiet conversations with their neighbours - and leans closer to Germany. “By the way, I got you a present.”
Germany raises an eyebrow and tilts his head nearer.
Italy reaches into a pocket and shows him under the table.
It is a bracelet, articulated gold with clusters of blue gems and swirling silver clinging along its length. As Italy tips it into his hand, Germany feels the weight of it, the coolness and smoothness of the metal. He runs his thumb around the edge of one of the gems, and swallows heavily.
“I thought you could wear it this weekend,” Italy whispers.
Germany finally finds his voice. “Thank you.” He swallows again, looks at the bracelet again, closes his fingers around it and leans towards Italy until their foreheads are touching. “Thank you.”
Italy giggles, strokes Germany’s cheekbone. “It’s kind of like a present for me too, you know. I know it’ll really suit you. But you’re welcome.”
Germany presses their lips together quickly, guiltily; he is not comfortable with kissing in public, everyone knows, so it is a rare gesture. Italy squeezes his hand tightly under the table, and then lets him go.
Turning back to the table, Germany takes a moment to allow his flush to go down, and then coughs conspicuously to get the room’s attention; the nations quieten marginally and glance at him.
“If everyone would turn to page 12 on the agenda for today...”
Italy leans forwards, chin resting on palm and eyes part-way closed, and lazily scans the room. America, still wearing her male body after all this time, intently watches a select few other nations. Belarus, today wearing a white dress, stares at Russia unblinkingly. Romano, his ears going red, shoves Spain away with one hand and mutters to hir not to be so ridiculous.
But Germany is adjusting his tie with one hand and slipping the bracelet into his jacket pocket with the other, and so Italy smiles on the inside, and lets out a sigh like the end of a prayer.
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I’ve tried to keep this character-oriented with the history confined to the background. In some places I had to make the decision to prioritise my interpretation of the characters’ personalities and of the Hetalia canon over a strictly factual presentation of historical events. Likewise, I thought it would be best for the sake of simplicity to use the modern nation names throughout the fic, despite the inaccuracy involved in doing so.
Because of the fic’s length, I’ve only included notes of what I consider essential information. I hope you enjoyed reading it, and please do inform me if you have any concerns at all.
iv. - Post-Rome, the British Isles were targeted and partially conquered by Vikings, mostly of Danish but some of Norwegian origin.
vi. - After Kievan Rus' disintegrated, Belorussian land was acquired by Lithuania through conquest and diplomatic marriages.
vii. - In Japanese Buddhism, women were considered spiritually unclean, and menstrual blood was thought to defile the ground and pollute the gods.
xi. - In the 16th century, the Hapsburgs inherited the Hungarian throne.
xii. - The Zaporozhian Cossacks raided and razed parts of the Ottoman Empire, including areas on the outskirts of Constantinople.
xiii. - In 1569, Poland and Lithuania united to form the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.
xv. - There was a traditional belief in ancient China that the emperor possessed the divine right to rule over “all under heaven”. Both China and Japan went through periods of isolationism.
xvi. - The power of Russia and of the PLC had also been challenged by the Zaporozhian Cossacks.
xvii. - The War of the Spanish Succession was fought in order to prevent the thrones of Spain and France from unifying. On being defeated, Spain was forced to surrender various territories to Austria, including the Kingdom of Naples.
xviii. - The Treaty of Paris, ending the American War of Independence, was signed in the Hotel d’York.
xxi. - The dual monarchy of Austria-Hungary was created in 1867.
xxii. - The long process of Italian unification culminated with the capture of Rome in 1870.
xxiii. - In the autumn of 1906, Britain suffered a severe and unusual heatwave.
xxiv. -The Second Battle of Ypres marked the first occasion of large-scale gas warfare. The chlorine reacted with moisture to create hydrochloric acid, damaging the eyes, throat and lungs. The 1st Canadian Division, using handkerchiefs soaked in urine to neutralise the gas, was able to hold the Allied line despite the crumbling of French defences.
xxv. - After WWI, Austria-Hungary split apart into its various factions.
xxxviii. - Female suffrage was enacted in Japan in 1946, partially due to pressure from the occupying Americans.
xxxix. - The USSR won a significant victory in the Space Race in 1961, when Yuri Gagarin became the first person sent into space.
xxx. - From the late 1960’s till the early 1980’s, Italy suffered political terrorism from both left- and right-wing extremists. Some believed that this was thanks to a deliberate “strategy of tension” on the part of the USA.
xxxi. - In November 1989, enormous crowds of East Berliners crossed the Berlin Wall after it was mistakenly announced that borders had opened completely.