[Fanfic]Meme - Angst theme
Here is the original meme, and hell yes I've finished all of it. \o/
Meme - Angst theme
For sariachian -
Gulf of Mexico Oil Spill Incident, Mexico-centered
Pedro looked at the sky and only saw a dim of light to inform him that twilight had now diminished into darkness. It would be better, he thought as he stared at the seascape, which was left nothing but deep, dark blue that was nearly black, so dark that he could not even see those damn oils if he didn’t know it was there.
It was good that he couldn’t see it now so he would not feel like finding Arthur and performing all of the secret skills of Lucha Libre on the damn Brit.
It was good that he would not feel like beating that damn Alfred up after the Brit. He could care fucking less that the American who stole his glasses ages ago was also the victim.
It was good just so that he would not fuss at all the people who came for help, especially that Asian girl who brought her best ship.
And he just wanted, just wanted… maybe he just wanted to see the sea back to its old colors instead of the now ugly black. He wanted to net the fish out from the water without worrying if any of the hydrocoles might be polluted. He just wanted to be able to walk on the beach and to enjoy the old scenery instead of… he just wanted…
There were so many things he wanted to say, needed to say, had to say, but all he could do was to stand there, watching the night ate rest of the light out, watching the moon stole the light from the stars but could not shine on the now black water, watching everything until the sky turns itself from dusk back to dawn.
Then maybe everything would be better. Pedro thought as he tried to close his eyes that were now too heavy to even keep opened.
He could stand at here just to watch the whole world ends due to it’s own foolishness.
Probably it would start with that damn American or Brit. He just knew it.
For elwenrin -
Br/Arg - Disappearance
A country could not have vanished just like that, could it?
Martin is gone. At least that’s how others have assumed since he just popped like a bobble and gone without a trace. There is only one place for countries to if their time is up, people say, which is to melt within the land that used to be theirs while the souls fly toward the sky.
But like Luciano will buy that. The Brazilian has been trained by the experience of how good and mean could that joking Argentinean be.
Sp he took off searching, from La Casa Rosada all the way to La Tierra de Fuego. That damn Argentinean has to hide in somewhere. He couldn’t have just disappeared like this. He is as determine to find Martin, to the point that Manuel has to come over routinely just to make sure that Luciano, full of stubbornness, has not turn into a Brazilian popsicle.
Then he went to Europe. First Spain then Italy, almost tore their houses down just to make sure that Martin wasn’t hiding in any of them, and barely spared Francis’ life after he swore under the name of that girl (the heroine who has been gone too long, hasn’t she?) that he had not seen Martin long before his disappearance.
But he has to be at somewhere, has to, must to.
So Luciano went back to the land now seems strange to him, searching, still searching. He has to keep looking for that irresponsible idiot before the idea of him never return drives him insane.
(But what if he is gone like everyone else said?)
The Brazilian will not hear this, will not hear will not listen will not believe.
(But he has to be, you know, gone if there are no more signs from him. He is a country after all, isn’t he?)
He cannot believe it. He will not believe it. He refuses to believe it.
Because once he listens to those words and believes in them, then the last shadow of Martin that’s still left in his retinas would be gone, and he doesn’t want that.
(What if…)
There’s no such thing as “if” exists.
Luciano looks at the sky and sees the stars in the night sky of La Tierra Fuego are still bright like how he remembers. The first time when he came with Martin by his side, the first time when that damn Argentinean looked at him with the expression that was almost shy, the first time…
It’s cold, it’s damn cold and one should not have been here alone.
(And if…)
That damn Argentinean has to come back. Luciano just knows it.
For berseker -
Br/Arg, loneliness
Once the status changed from “two people” back to “one person”, it usually required a huge time to adjust and maybe, just maybe, to fill up the giant gap that appeared from nowhere and could not be converted into anything else.
But he had enough of staring at the ceiling in the dark room just to watch the ceiling fan slowly spun and to pick up phone calls that meant the same thing. People, seriously it was like almost everybody, who was telling him that it was time to do laundry, because the sheets and the comforter and the pillows even the pillowcases were stained by that annoying scent of mate. The sense of smell that reminded him too much of that freaking Argentinean and which he had found no idea of how to get rid of, maybe never, who knew.
He could get over of it, no? Just another day that he would finally feel like doing his laundry because his washing machine could not bear that many loads. Things would get better, definitely better. He just needed to be left in his solitude for a while.
But maybe he did need to go out. It wouldn’t hurt, right? A little of sunshine could not do any harm on him.
He got off from the bed, decided that he would take a shower, put a fresh shirt on, and go out and have his life back, The water came out from the hose was a bit too cold but he could deal with it, especially when there was no one telling him that he needed a new water heater though he never felt like he needed a new one in the first place.
Life would be so much better, better, better without that idiot nagging next to his ears.
He picked up a shirt then dropped it back to the bed. Something just didn't feel right. He thought annoyingly. Things should not have been like this, not when he made the decision to change it.
Maybe it was because of the hair. He picked up the hairbrush that had been long forgotten on the dresser and was going to brush his scalp very hard with it then stopped all the motions without warning.
There were a few strings of blond hair left on the brush, gold as the wheat field in the fall.
He was not going to cry. Hell, he would not even give a single drop of tear just to bring out more of the Argentinean joy. Why must it be there and why had he not noticed it until now? Fuck it, oh, fuck it.
He just needed to be left alone for a while, maybe finding a dark closet to lock himself in so that he could not be distracted by the sun, something that reminded him too much of the Argentinean at the moment. Then maybe for the first time after all of these, he could finally cry.
For zulenha -
Br/Arg, sickness
The sky was spinning in the most unpleasant way, the speed of it was too fast that Martin felt dizzy, extremely dizzy, to the point that he had to lie down just to calm the now uncontrolled gray matter down. He took a deep breath as a way to clear the brain but was stopped by a violent cough, which paused his breathing for almost a minute.
This is not good, but he would kill himself before anyone else heard him say that.
The taste of blood then got his attention like someone punched him in the stomach and left the Argentinean nauseated. The flavor of rusty iron had never been his favorite in the first place.
To the hell of this, I am not going to let you beat me. Martin thought, still standing straight though barely keeping the balance. He had dealt with worse before, hadn’t he? And had successfully hiding it from the Brazilian for a good long period.
He had coughed so many times, to the point that he felt some of his internal organs might have been out of place. But all of these would eventually be fine, he just needed time to recover from it, and the very last thing he needed now was to be asked how did he feel, especially by Luciano.
What could he say in the first place? Sure I felt so fine like if someone had stolen everything else beside my kidneys and left me literally empty inside?
Of course not, though seeing that Brazilian’s tan face turning pale would be an awesome idea and was quite tempting. And hell, maybe he did want to see that stupid face after all.
But that didn’t mean that he would get up just to answer the door, especially when he already knew who might be the one knocking it. Martin thought as he buried his face into the pillow and felt that rusty iron taste was back to his throat.
Break the door if you must, but if you don’t, then I will just count that as if you don’t even care.
For b_what - Br(/Arg)+(Mex/)Chi, Intoxication
Luciano often finds Manuel a good drinking partner, even when the Chilean is quite infamous about his behavior once gets solemnly intoxicated, to the point that no one could guarantee what he might have done - though the Chilean will never admit since he prefers to be viewed as the cool one in the madness.
But to against all the odds, the final reason to make Manuel a good drinking friend is because he is the best one to have if Luciano is in need of someone to criticize Martin with, and Manuel never fails at this.
So they begin to drink. From plain beers to regular drinks to strong liquors. And Luciano is really complaining about Martin, about his Argentinean way of doing things and that arrogance that’s like deep down to the Argentinean soil and that damn temper and the inability to understand how other’s feel (the Chilean stops him at here, “so what? You should have getting used to this after so long” and the Brazilian ignores him and continues) and he wishes that he has friends who will listen and understand his pain instead of cutting whatever he is saying at the moment off (and Manuel shoots Luciano an exasperating look before splashes the drink that no one remembers the name that he only finishes half of it onto the Brazilian) and fine he is sorry that he drags the friend out then complain about their doing, can he now please continue?
Then Manuel says no, both the Argentinean and the Brazilian can go to hell for all he cares and orders another shot and drinks it down right at the spot and walks out and - and then the Brazilian hears a bellow that’s loud enough to be heard while still indoor.
And since Luciano has never heard the Chilean, now intoxicated, roaring into the starry sky about that Damn Mexican, who happens to be his friend, is a dumbass who could not tell his feelings from a fucking cactus when he should have put in more thoughts in since they have been sleeping together for that good long while, that he deserves more attentions than chili peppers plus guitars plus his fucking Chihuahua and he really wants to hit him like a piñata just to knock some sense into him and such before, and with his Brazilian brain which decides the best thing to do now is to shut up and listens to his friend complains about his other friend and to save all the grievances he has over his boyfriend until the next time.
What a good idea, maybe he will do it after another bottle of beer.
Meme - Angst theme
For sariachian -
Gulf of Mexico Oil Spill Incident, Mexico-centered
Pedro looked at the sky and only saw a dim of light to inform him that twilight had now diminished into darkness. It would be better, he thought as he stared at the seascape, which was left nothing but deep, dark blue that was nearly black, so dark that he could not even see those damn oils if he didn’t know it was there.
It was good that he couldn’t see it now so he would not feel like finding Arthur and performing all of the secret skills of Lucha Libre on the damn Brit.
It was good that he would not feel like beating that damn Alfred up after the Brit. He could care fucking less that the American who stole his glasses ages ago was also the victim.
It was good just so that he would not fuss at all the people who came for help, especially that Asian girl who brought her best ship.
And he just wanted, just wanted… maybe he just wanted to see the sea back to its old colors instead of the now ugly black. He wanted to net the fish out from the water without worrying if any of the hydrocoles might be polluted. He just wanted to be able to walk on the beach and to enjoy the old scenery instead of… he just wanted…
There were so many things he wanted to say, needed to say, had to say, but all he could do was to stand there, watching the night ate rest of the light out, watching the moon stole the light from the stars but could not shine on the now black water, watching everything until the sky turns itself from dusk back to dawn.
Then maybe everything would be better. Pedro thought as he tried to close his eyes that were now too heavy to even keep opened.
He could stand at here just to watch the whole world ends due to it’s own foolishness.
Probably it would start with that damn American or Brit. He just knew it.
For elwenrin -
Br/Arg - Disappearance
A country could not have vanished just like that, could it?
Martin is gone. At least that’s how others have assumed since he just popped like a bobble and gone without a trace. There is only one place for countries to if their time is up, people say, which is to melt within the land that used to be theirs while the souls fly toward the sky.
But like Luciano will buy that. The Brazilian has been trained by the experience of how good and mean could that joking Argentinean be.
Sp he took off searching, from La Casa Rosada all the way to La Tierra de Fuego. That damn Argentinean has to hide in somewhere. He couldn’t have just disappeared like this. He is as determine to find Martin, to the point that Manuel has to come over routinely just to make sure that Luciano, full of stubbornness, has not turn into a Brazilian popsicle.
Then he went to Europe. First Spain then Italy, almost tore their houses down just to make sure that Martin wasn’t hiding in any of them, and barely spared Francis’ life after he swore under the name of that girl (the heroine who has been gone too long, hasn’t she?) that he had not seen Martin long before his disappearance.
But he has to be at somewhere, has to, must to.
So Luciano went back to the land now seems strange to him, searching, still searching. He has to keep looking for that irresponsible idiot before the idea of him never return drives him insane.
(But what if he is gone like everyone else said?)
The Brazilian will not hear this, will not hear will not listen will not believe.
(But he has to be, you know, gone if there are no more signs from him. He is a country after all, isn’t he?)
He cannot believe it. He will not believe it. He refuses to believe it.
Because once he listens to those words and believes in them, then the last shadow of Martin that’s still left in his retinas would be gone, and he doesn’t want that.
(What if…)
There’s no such thing as “if” exists.
Luciano looks at the sky and sees the stars in the night sky of La Tierra Fuego are still bright like how he remembers. The first time when he came with Martin by his side, the first time when that damn Argentinean looked at him with the expression that was almost shy, the first time…
It’s cold, it’s damn cold and one should not have been here alone.
(And if…)
That damn Argentinean has to come back. Luciano just knows it.
For berseker -
Br/Arg, loneliness
Once the status changed from “two people” back to “one person”, it usually required a huge time to adjust and maybe, just maybe, to fill up the giant gap that appeared from nowhere and could not be converted into anything else.
But he had enough of staring at the ceiling in the dark room just to watch the ceiling fan slowly spun and to pick up phone calls that meant the same thing. People, seriously it was like almost everybody, who was telling him that it was time to do laundry, because the sheets and the comforter and the pillows even the pillowcases were stained by that annoying scent of mate. The sense of smell that reminded him too much of that freaking Argentinean and which he had found no idea of how to get rid of, maybe never, who knew.
He could get over of it, no? Just another day that he would finally feel like doing his laundry because his washing machine could not bear that many loads. Things would get better, definitely better. He just needed to be left in his solitude for a while.
But maybe he did need to go out. It wouldn’t hurt, right? A little of sunshine could not do any harm on him.
He got off from the bed, decided that he would take a shower, put a fresh shirt on, and go out and have his life back, The water came out from the hose was a bit too cold but he could deal with it, especially when there was no one telling him that he needed a new water heater though he never felt like he needed a new one in the first place.
Life would be so much better, better, better without that idiot nagging next to his ears.
He picked up a shirt then dropped it back to the bed. Something just didn't feel right. He thought annoyingly. Things should not have been like this, not when he made the decision to change it.
Maybe it was because of the hair. He picked up the hairbrush that had been long forgotten on the dresser and was going to brush his scalp very hard with it then stopped all the motions without warning.
There were a few strings of blond hair left on the brush, gold as the wheat field in the fall.
He was not going to cry. Hell, he would not even give a single drop of tear just to bring out more of the Argentinean joy. Why must it be there and why had he not noticed it until now? Fuck it, oh, fuck it.
He just needed to be left alone for a while, maybe finding a dark closet to lock himself in so that he could not be distracted by the sun, something that reminded him too much of the Argentinean at the moment. Then maybe for the first time after all of these, he could finally cry.
For zulenha -
Br/Arg, sickness
The sky was spinning in the most unpleasant way, the speed of it was too fast that Martin felt dizzy, extremely dizzy, to the point that he had to lie down just to calm the now uncontrolled gray matter down. He took a deep breath as a way to clear the brain but was stopped by a violent cough, which paused his breathing for almost a minute.
This is not good, but he would kill himself before anyone else heard him say that.
The taste of blood then got his attention like someone punched him in the stomach and left the Argentinean nauseated. The flavor of rusty iron had never been his favorite in the first place.
To the hell of this, I am not going to let you beat me. Martin thought, still standing straight though barely keeping the balance. He had dealt with worse before, hadn’t he? And had successfully hiding it from the Brazilian for a good long period.
He had coughed so many times, to the point that he felt some of his internal organs might have been out of place. But all of these would eventually be fine, he just needed time to recover from it, and the very last thing he needed now was to be asked how did he feel, especially by Luciano.
What could he say in the first place? Sure I felt so fine like if someone had stolen everything else beside my kidneys and left me literally empty inside?
Of course not, though seeing that Brazilian’s tan face turning pale would be an awesome idea and was quite tempting. And hell, maybe he did want to see that stupid face after all.
But that didn’t mean that he would get up just to answer the door, especially when he already knew who might be the one knocking it. Martin thought as he buried his face into the pillow and felt that rusty iron taste was back to his throat.
Break the door if you must, but if you don’t, then I will just count that as if you don’t even care.
For b_what - Br(/Arg)+(Mex/)Chi, Intoxication
Luciano often finds Manuel a good drinking partner, even when the Chilean is quite infamous about his behavior once gets solemnly intoxicated, to the point that no one could guarantee what he might have done - though the Chilean will never admit since he prefers to be viewed as the cool one in the madness.
But to against all the odds, the final reason to make Manuel a good drinking friend is because he is the best one to have if Luciano is in need of someone to criticize Martin with, and Manuel never fails at this.
So they begin to drink. From plain beers to regular drinks to strong liquors. And Luciano is really complaining about Martin, about his Argentinean way of doing things and that arrogance that’s like deep down to the Argentinean soil and that damn temper and the inability to understand how other’s feel (the Chilean stops him at here, “so what? You should have getting used to this after so long” and the Brazilian ignores him and continues) and he wishes that he has friends who will listen and understand his pain instead of cutting whatever he is saying at the moment off (and Manuel shoots Luciano an exasperating look before splashes the drink that no one remembers the name that he only finishes half of it onto the Brazilian) and fine he is sorry that he drags the friend out then complain about their doing, can he now please continue?
Then Manuel says no, both the Argentinean and the Brazilian can go to hell for all he cares and orders another shot and drinks it down right at the spot and walks out and - and then the Brazilian hears a bellow that’s loud enough to be heard while still indoor.
And since Luciano has never heard the Chilean, now intoxicated, roaring into the starry sky about that Damn Mexican, who happens to be his friend, is a dumbass who could not tell his feelings from a fucking cactus when he should have put in more thoughts in since they have been sleeping together for that good long while, that he deserves more attentions than chili peppers plus guitars plus his fucking Chihuahua and he really wants to hit him like a piñata just to knock some sense into him and such before, and with his Brazilian brain which decides the best thing to do now is to shut up and listens to his friend complains about his other friend and to save all the grievances he has over his boyfriend until the next time.
What a good idea, maybe he will do it after another bottle of beer.