July 4, 1784
Title: July 4, 1784
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's the first Fourth of July in the UK family household. It goes as one would predict.
Timeframe: July 4th, 1784
Word Count: 1300, including footnotes
Notes/Warnings: An OC, bad accents, drinking to excess, England's drunkard mouth.
She really did love her little brother. She was Ireland, family was the most important thing to her, even little brothers who seemed determined to take complete control of her and her people.
So when the first anniversary of America leaving England came around, she made her way towards his house still wary of any attempt to capture her. Her twin was the one to answer the door, frowning as she slipped in. “Ye don’t want t’be here today, Erin,” he muttered, looking down the corridor to England’s study. She sighed and nodded, tucking a flyaway lock of hair behind an ear.
“Aye, like as nay. But I’m needin’ t’be. A lad’s sometimes needin’ the closest thing he’s comin’ t’a mum.” Scotland shook his head, long hair swinging free of its tie.
“Yer devotion t’th’lot of us will be what does ye in, Erin.” He tugged on the lock of hair she’d tucked behind her ear, the two of them wearing matching smiles as she reached up and tugged on the bit of his that had come free.
“Aye, perhaps ‘twill. Still, he’s needin’ someone and I’m similar enough t’Ailill t’do th’job.” Douglas looked at her solemnly and shook his head again.
“Aye, and ‘tis that resemblance that worries me.” He patted her shoulder and went back… to messing about with his bagpipes. She sighed and shook her head. Of course, what better time to practice ear-killing music than when the second youngest brother was potentially having an emotional breakdown? She was starting to be glad she’d left Conchobhar at home; between the noise from one way down the hall and the smell of alcohol coming from the other it would have been completely inappropriate.
She leaned against the door to the study when she reached it, ears sharp for any sound within that would indicate that right now would be a very bad time to enter. Not hearing anything she opened the door a crack, just before the point that the old door would squeak on its hinges. All she could see from her angle was England slumped across his desk, completely disheveled, one hand gripping a bottle so tightly she thought it was scant seconds from breaking. She sighed and pushed the door the rest of the way open, the squeak making Arthur raise his head, eyes bloodshot with either alcohol or tears; with him she was never really able to tell. “Sasana?” she asked quietly, quickly slipping in and shutting the door behind her.
Her immediate answer was the bottle flying towards her head, which was quickly followed by “Irish bitch!” She ducked, looking back at the bottle, now shattered against the wall. Spanish sherry then, must have been a holdover from his pirating days. She clucked her tongue and shook her head.
“’Tis that any way t’be greeting yer older sister now?” she asked, ignoring the rather vicious stream of Old English curses that were being sent her way. “And when I’d come all this way t’be seein’ ye.”
“Go to hell! It’s your fault anyway!” She huffed, blowing a bit of air towards her hair, making it pop up in agitation.
“Aye, and do be tellin’ me, how is it bein’ me own fault again?” She crossed her arms, hands near the hilts of her knives, just in case. “From where I be sittin’, ye did a fine job o’runnin’ th’lad off by yerself.”
“You’re a goddamned rebel and you encouraged him!” Arthur slammed his fist on his desk, sending inkwells and candle sticks rattling but thankfully not tipping over. With as much alcohol that seemed to be floating in the air it was a wonder that the house hadn’t burned down yet. “All those bloody visits, I should have known you were just plotting to help him overthrow me! You and goddamned Prussia! I should have seen this coming the moment you took up with him!” That was followed up by another stream of Old English curses and even a few words that sounded almost like Brythonic but she wasn’t completely sure.
She waited until he paused for a breath and then a drink from a new bottle -- rum this time from the looks of things -- that he’d pulled from a drawer in his desk. “Ye quite finished, aye?” she asked sourly, taking a bit of skirt in each hand and advancing on the desk. “Now be listenin’ t’me, Sasana,” she started when she stood in front of it. “Th’most I did was listen t’th’poor lad, was there when ye weren’t. Ye did far more damage, far more to inspire th'lad -- who still loves ye, by th’by -- int’leavin’ ye.”
England glared bleary-eyed at his sister a long moment, as though waiting for the words to make it through the copious layer of drink thrumming through his system before reacting. And react he did, reaching across the desk in an attempt to… well, Ireland thought it was an attempt to strike her, he had become rather fond of that recently, but his aim, not to mention his motor skills were completely off, only connecting with the air. Brigid caught his wrist anyway, mostly to keep him from falling across the way and landing on the candles -- and if the air hadn’t gone up in flames he certainly would -- making her way quickly around the desk and letting him fall on her instead. Instead of fighting further as she expected him to do, he crumpled and curled into her arms, burying his face in her chest as he once did shortly after their mother passed. The heaving of his shoulders told her he was crying, but he would never admit to it and she would never mention it. Instead she stroked his hair and rubbed his back, letting him cry it out.
Even through the centuries it never got any easier to see her brother break down every year because he lost one small boy who meant the world to him.
Footnotes:
Takes place in 1784, the first year after the American Revolutionary War. Fourteen years later Ireland would start the Rebellion of 1798, inspired both by the ARW and the French Revolution (which was also inspired by the ARW). This was of course a massive backfire as it lead to the 1801 Act of Union, forming the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.
Ireland didn't actually do anything with the ARW, but headcanon states that Ireland is America's aunt and so he got a lot of traits from her. Rebellion being one of them. Irish is the second most commonly self-reported ethnicity in America, okay? It works. (The first one, for those curious, is German.) America is also one of the "Irish Diaspora" countries, along with Canada, Australia, and Argentina of all places, among others.
You don't hear all that much about it for some reason (Probably because it doesn't make us look as good, but that's a bitchfest for another time), but America was helped out in the whole revolution thing by France (If you've ever heard the phrase "Lafayette we are here!", this is where it's from, Marquis Lafayette was a French military officer that apparently America-the-country became very enamored with), Spain, and this supremely awesome Prussian military fellow named Baron von Steuben. Seriously, if you ever wonder how America got its army, look at that guy. That's all you need to know.
Erin: One of the poetic names for Ireland, also rendered as "Éireann." I've taken it as one of Ireland's names, so Scotland tends to call her that.
Conchobhar: The childhood name of Connor, Northern Ireland. Ireland still insists on calling him that, of course, as she still considers it his "proper" name instead of the Anglicization of it.
Aillil: "Elf," Ireland's nickname for America
Sasana: Gaelic for "England."
Brythonic: One of the very early languages of the British Isles, or so the Arthur myth tells me.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's the first Fourth of July in the UK family household. It goes as one would predict.
Timeframe: July 4th, 1784
Word Count: 1300, including footnotes
Notes/Warnings: An OC, bad accents, drinking to excess, England's drunkard mouth.
She really did love her little brother. She was Ireland, family was the most important thing to her, even little brothers who seemed determined to take complete control of her and her people.
So when the first anniversary of America leaving England came around, she made her way towards his house still wary of any attempt to capture her. Her twin was the one to answer the door, frowning as she slipped in. “Ye don’t want t’be here today, Erin,” he muttered, looking down the corridor to England’s study. She sighed and nodded, tucking a flyaway lock of hair behind an ear.
“Aye, like as nay. But I’m needin’ t’be. A lad’s sometimes needin’ the closest thing he’s comin’ t’a mum.” Scotland shook his head, long hair swinging free of its tie.
“Yer devotion t’th’lot of us will be what does ye in, Erin.” He tugged on the lock of hair she’d tucked behind her ear, the two of them wearing matching smiles as she reached up and tugged on the bit of his that had come free.
“Aye, perhaps ‘twill. Still, he’s needin’ someone and I’m similar enough t’Ailill t’do th’job.” Douglas looked at her solemnly and shook his head again.
“Aye, and ‘tis that resemblance that worries me.” He patted her shoulder and went back… to messing about with his bagpipes. She sighed and shook her head. Of course, what better time to practice ear-killing music than when the second youngest brother was potentially having an emotional breakdown? She was starting to be glad she’d left Conchobhar at home; between the noise from one way down the hall and the smell of alcohol coming from the other it would have been completely inappropriate.
She leaned against the door to the study when she reached it, ears sharp for any sound within that would indicate that right now would be a very bad time to enter. Not hearing anything she opened the door a crack, just before the point that the old door would squeak on its hinges. All she could see from her angle was England slumped across his desk, completely disheveled, one hand gripping a bottle so tightly she thought it was scant seconds from breaking. She sighed and pushed the door the rest of the way open, the squeak making Arthur raise his head, eyes bloodshot with either alcohol or tears; with him she was never really able to tell. “Sasana?” she asked quietly, quickly slipping in and shutting the door behind her.
Her immediate answer was the bottle flying towards her head, which was quickly followed by “Irish bitch!” She ducked, looking back at the bottle, now shattered against the wall. Spanish sherry then, must have been a holdover from his pirating days. She clucked her tongue and shook her head.
“’Tis that any way t’be greeting yer older sister now?” she asked, ignoring the rather vicious stream of Old English curses that were being sent her way. “And when I’d come all this way t’be seein’ ye.”
“Go to hell! It’s your fault anyway!” She huffed, blowing a bit of air towards her hair, making it pop up in agitation.
“Aye, and do be tellin’ me, how is it bein’ me own fault again?” She crossed her arms, hands near the hilts of her knives, just in case. “From where I be sittin’, ye did a fine job o’runnin’ th’lad off by yerself.”
“You’re a goddamned rebel and you encouraged him!” Arthur slammed his fist on his desk, sending inkwells and candle sticks rattling but thankfully not tipping over. With as much alcohol that seemed to be floating in the air it was a wonder that the house hadn’t burned down yet. “All those bloody visits, I should have known you were just plotting to help him overthrow me! You and goddamned Prussia! I should have seen this coming the moment you took up with him!” That was followed up by another stream of Old English curses and even a few words that sounded almost like Brythonic but she wasn’t completely sure.
She waited until he paused for a breath and then a drink from a new bottle -- rum this time from the looks of things -- that he’d pulled from a drawer in his desk. “Ye quite finished, aye?” she asked sourly, taking a bit of skirt in each hand and advancing on the desk. “Now be listenin’ t’me, Sasana,” she started when she stood in front of it. “Th’most I did was listen t’th’poor lad, was there when ye weren’t. Ye did far more damage, far more to inspire th'lad -- who still loves ye, by th’by -- int’leavin’ ye.”
England glared bleary-eyed at his sister a long moment, as though waiting for the words to make it through the copious layer of drink thrumming through his system before reacting. And react he did, reaching across the desk in an attempt to… well, Ireland thought it was an attempt to strike her, he had become rather fond of that recently, but his aim, not to mention his motor skills were completely off, only connecting with the air. Brigid caught his wrist anyway, mostly to keep him from falling across the way and landing on the candles -- and if the air hadn’t gone up in flames he certainly would -- making her way quickly around the desk and letting him fall on her instead. Instead of fighting further as she expected him to do, he crumpled and curled into her arms, burying his face in her chest as he once did shortly after their mother passed. The heaving of his shoulders told her he was crying, but he would never admit to it and she would never mention it. Instead she stroked his hair and rubbed his back, letting him cry it out.
Even through the centuries it never got any easier to see her brother break down every year because he lost one small boy who meant the world to him.
Footnotes:
Takes place in 1784, the first year after the American Revolutionary War. Fourteen years later Ireland would start the Rebellion of 1798, inspired both by the ARW and the French Revolution (which was also inspired by the ARW). This was of course a massive backfire as it lead to the 1801 Act of Union, forming the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.
Ireland didn't actually do anything with the ARW, but headcanon states that Ireland is America's aunt and so he got a lot of traits from her. Rebellion being one of them. Irish is the second most commonly self-reported ethnicity in America, okay? It works. (The first one, for those curious, is German.) America is also one of the "Irish Diaspora" countries, along with Canada, Australia, and Argentina of all places, among others.
You don't hear all that much about it for some reason (Probably because it doesn't make us look as good, but that's a bitchfest for another time), but America was helped out in the whole revolution thing by France (If you've ever heard the phrase "Lafayette we are here!", this is where it's from, Marquis Lafayette was a French military officer that apparently America-the-country became very enamored with), Spain, and this supremely awesome Prussian military fellow named Baron von Steuben. Seriously, if you ever wonder how America got its army, look at that guy. That's all you need to know.
Erin: One of the poetic names for Ireland, also rendered as "Éireann." I've taken it as one of Ireland's names, so Scotland tends to call her that.
Conchobhar: The childhood name of Connor, Northern Ireland. Ireland still insists on calling him that, of course, as she still considers it his "proper" name instead of the Anglicization of it.
Aillil: "Elf," Ireland's nickname for America
Sasana: Gaelic for "England."
Brythonic: One of the very early languages of the British Isles, or so the Arthur myth tells me.