(no subject)
Also, guys? To those who friended emesisbowl - you can unfriend it, oh ho. It's just gonna be for my personal use, I guess?
Title:: Guerrilla
Author: anasyrma
Rating: PG?
Series/Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: Alfred (America) & Jun ( OC - Philippines )
Warnings: language, violence, racism?
Summary: The guerrilla warfare portion of the Philippine American War.
Dedications: paperonigiri! The worst birthday present ever, I'm afraid.
This isn't like any other war he's ever fought before. Disease hangs onto the dew drops of damning humidity that suffocate his pores. Bombs fly into his barracks, never enough to annihilate him, never enough to get the job done (he’s too strong -) but enough to weaken him, slowly, slowly.
This is irritating.
This shouldn't be so hard compared to the mess that is unfolding in China, yet there he stands, bleeding and clutching onto a perpetually aching chest. He walks with a slight limp on this foreign ground, and so do his men.
Jun doesn't fight the rest of them do, the Europeans or even his stupid brother. He battles like the Natives, the red devils.
Like a savage.
Alfred's smile falters behind all the paint and sweat, but then he aims his rifle into enemy lines and it widens again, sober at the edges.
'I'm sorry,' he wants to say, 'But I'm going to have to save you.'
-
He pulls the trigger.
In the end, a war is a war.
-
Jun, Alfred thinks, looks a lot like Antonio. Same dark complexion, same muss of black curly hair. They even have the same type of laugh, the friendly kind that takes up the entire face and shakes the body with tiny tremors. But Jun's not doing so much of that any more. Jun is always angry.
Alfred clenches and unclenches his fist as he watches a village fall in flame. Flecks of ash cling to the surface of his pure, clear glasses. Every few seconds, he wipes them off with the tip of his uniform, leaving snail trials of gray smudges on the stiff, itchy fabric. He frowns an invisible frown at that, behind the stained red bandanna that filters his breathing. Under the cloth, he licks the top set of his teeth.
He's hungry.
Somewhere, in that damned jungle, Jun hacks up his lungs and already sparse lunch all over his pair of old shoes.
Antonio's a jerk, anyway.
-
Scream. Jun does a lot of that, though. No laughter, just screams and curses. All this violent nonsense directed at him.
'Don’t be dumb,' Alfred says with his gun, 'You have no idea what you're talking about.'
Bang, bang, bang.
-
It's not like he wished for things to be this way. They had been friends once, allies even, not so long ago.
Together they sat by the ocean side when their days would allow it, rifles across their laps. Jun would complain to him about Antonio, and Alfred, of course, would agree to everything he said over a hot handful of rice.
Fuck Antonio.
That stupid bastard.
Yeah?
Yeah.
When the weather wasn't so harsh, Jun leaned against him, and Alfred told stories him about his home, about himself. The wild of the West, the factories springing up in the East, and the trains that linked them both - almost everything.
Once in a while, Alfred shrugged off his jacket and lifted his shirt to show Jun just how amazing his ingenuity really was. On his human body, the railroads in tattoo form crisscrossed along his chest, up and over the scorched scars of the South.
"Extraordinario!" Jun exclaimed, and he'd trace the pathway with the tip of his pinky finger. “When I am liberated, I will be like that too?”
“Sure,” chuckled Alfred, through his wide grin, “Why not.”
-
Alfred had always liked Jun's food and jokes.
It was a shame Jun always overreacted.
-
Lucky he has gloves on, leather and thick. When Alfred reaches to grab Jun by the wrist, his fingers can't help but dig into flesh to leave marks. It's thin, the appendage under his grasps, a whole lot smaller and weaker than he thought it would be.
That's a good thing.
"Give up yet?" quips Alfred, tilting his head with a sheepish expression. "Your Mister Aguinaldo is already on our side."
Jun tells him that his accent is horrible in broken Spanish, that it wasn't Angoon-aldo, can you please at least get that right? and spits at the space between Alfred's combat boots.
Alfred sighs, and Jun bites his lips to suppress a yell from the sudden increase pressure in his joints. The concentration camps are growing, as is Alfred’s strength against his skin.
"Your children are suffering," scolds Alfred, the man with the Treaty of Paris on his side, "Because of the silly way you're actin' -"
But then Jun wrenches free and kicks at the larger man's knees. With an exasperated expression, Alfred lets him, simply rolls with the hit and moves to the side. Mud splashes onto the front of his pants when Jun's feet dig in the ground to run, away, far away, but never far enough.
Alfred still has land to burn.
Title:: Guerrilla
Author: anasyrma
Rating: PG?
Series/Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: Alfred (America) & Jun ( OC - Philippines )
Warnings: language, violence, racism?
Summary: The guerrilla warfare portion of the Philippine American War.
Dedications: paperonigiri! The worst birthday present ever, I'm afraid.
This isn't like any other war he's ever fought before. Disease hangs onto the dew drops of damning humidity that suffocate his pores. Bombs fly into his barracks, never enough to annihilate him, never enough to get the job done (he’s too strong -) but enough to weaken him, slowly, slowly.
This is irritating.
This shouldn't be so hard compared to the mess that is unfolding in China, yet there he stands, bleeding and clutching onto a perpetually aching chest. He walks with a slight limp on this foreign ground, and so do his men.
Jun doesn't fight the rest of them do, the Europeans or even his stupid brother. He battles like the Natives, the red devils.
Like a savage.
Alfred's smile falters behind all the paint and sweat, but then he aims his rifle into enemy lines and it widens again, sober at the edges.
'I'm sorry,' he wants to say, 'But I'm going to have to save you.'
-
He pulls the trigger.
In the end, a war is a war.
-
Jun, Alfred thinks, looks a lot like Antonio. Same dark complexion, same muss of black curly hair. They even have the same type of laugh, the friendly kind that takes up the entire face and shakes the body with tiny tremors. But Jun's not doing so much of that any more. Jun is always angry.
Alfred clenches and unclenches his fist as he watches a village fall in flame. Flecks of ash cling to the surface of his pure, clear glasses. Every few seconds, he wipes them off with the tip of his uniform, leaving snail trials of gray smudges on the stiff, itchy fabric. He frowns an invisible frown at that, behind the stained red bandanna that filters his breathing. Under the cloth, he licks the top set of his teeth.
He's hungry.
Somewhere, in that damned jungle, Jun hacks up his lungs and already sparse lunch all over his pair of old shoes.
Antonio's a jerk, anyway.
-
Scream. Jun does a lot of that, though. No laughter, just screams and curses. All this violent nonsense directed at him.
'Don’t be dumb,' Alfred says with his gun, 'You have no idea what you're talking about.'
Bang, bang, bang.
-
It's not like he wished for things to be this way. They had been friends once, allies even, not so long ago.
Together they sat by the ocean side when their days would allow it, rifles across their laps. Jun would complain to him about Antonio, and Alfred, of course, would agree to everything he said over a hot handful of rice.
Fuck Antonio.
That stupid bastard.
Yeah?
Yeah.
When the weather wasn't so harsh, Jun leaned against him, and Alfred told stories him about his home, about himself. The wild of the West, the factories springing up in the East, and the trains that linked them both - almost everything.
Once in a while, Alfred shrugged off his jacket and lifted his shirt to show Jun just how amazing his ingenuity really was. On his human body, the railroads in tattoo form crisscrossed along his chest, up and over the scorched scars of the South.
"Extraordinario!" Jun exclaimed, and he'd trace the pathway with the tip of his pinky finger. “When I am liberated, I will be like that too?”
“Sure,” chuckled Alfred, through his wide grin, “Why not.”
-
Alfred had always liked Jun's food and jokes.
It was a shame Jun always overreacted.
-
Lucky he has gloves on, leather and thick. When Alfred reaches to grab Jun by the wrist, his fingers can't help but dig into flesh to leave marks. It's thin, the appendage under his grasps, a whole lot smaller and weaker than he thought it would be.
That's a good thing.
"Give up yet?" quips Alfred, tilting his head with a sheepish expression. "Your Mister Aguinaldo is already on our side."
Jun tells him that his accent is horrible in broken Spanish, that it wasn't Angoon-aldo, can you please at least get that right? and spits at the space between Alfred's combat boots.
Alfred sighs, and Jun bites his lips to suppress a yell from the sudden increase pressure in his joints. The concentration camps are growing, as is Alfred’s strength against his skin.
"Your children are suffering," scolds Alfred, the man with the Treaty of Paris on his side, "Because of the silly way you're actin' -"
But then Jun wrenches free and kicks at the larger man's knees. With an exasperated expression, Alfred lets him, simply rolls with the hit and moves to the side. Mud splashes onto the front of his pants when Jun's feet dig in the ground to run, away, far away, but never far enough.
Alfred still has land to burn.