Axis Powers Hetalia - America & England - PG - Cleaning Out the Storage
Title: Cleaning Out the Storage
Author: Ema (lightningrapier)
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing: Uh, none really. Maybe USxUK if you squint.
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 2,144
Notes: I'm novelizing the comic strips for mars_of_war because he can't understand manga. :D I'm... actually not much better at it, honestly! :D I don't know, something about the way it's presented is difficult for me to follow, because I'm a complete retard. It doesn't help that EVERYONE IN THIS FANDOM LOOKS THE SAME, but I'm trying, here. >>
Disclaimer: APH is owned by Hidekaz and not be me. This was done so I could have a friend in the fandom, not to rip off of his storylines. This was also done from the lovely scanslation by youkofujima, which you can find here. Thank you for the translation!
Clutter.
The entire house, from top to bottom, was full of clutter. America knew that he needed to clean, but it seemed like every time he started, he didn't really get anywhere at all. The outside of the house was nice -- the flowers and shrubs were well-trimmed and well-kept, and if America was good at anything, he was good at keeping up outside appearances -- but the inside of the house? Well, it could use a little work. Particularly in getting rid of some things that, honestly, America hadn't needed in quite some time.
Really, America reasoned, every nation needed to tidy up every once in a while.
He had Lithuania at the house, today, and the two strode down the spacious hallway together. He mentioned, briefly, that he'd been thinking of cleaning up, and he jumped at the opportunity.
"America," he said, eyes shining, "if it's cleaning, I can do it!" Lithuania would, honestly, do whatever America asked her to do. It was almost cute, in a way, but America shook his head, smiling some.
"Oh, I'm just cleaning the storage," he murmured, "so I'll have you do what you usually do." Lithuania would usually dust, trim the aforementioned greenery, and generally make sure the old house kept its New England charm. America wasn't so good at that kind of thing, himself. "We won't know what to keep or what to throw away if I'm not the one on the job."
Lithuania nodded. "I see. I'll go put on a pot of coffee, then!" He turned, lifting a hand in a wave, and disappeared down a corner of the hallway.
"Thanks," America called after him. He stopped just short of the storage room door, sighing at the task ahead of him.
"Now then," he murmured, "let's try to tidy up this room that I haven't touched for a century."
He opened the door, and just a whiff of the stale, musky air that had been trapped inside was enough to make him take a step back. He stared at the dark shapes from within and sighed again, dread mounting. There was so much junk! How had he gotten so. much. junk!?
And it wasn't really even the amount of junk that gave him pause...
"It's a pain to clean this room," America murmured to himself. "I've tried over and over but I always end up remembering all the memories tied to every little thing..."
He leaned against the door frame, his gaze falling on one item in particular... he could easily remember how he'd gotten it; could see, even though it had been so long ago, the glow of the lighting in the room, the way it fell across the floor, the curve of the shadow of the bed linens and the arch of light over England's cheek that turned into a sparkle that hit his eye when he'd seen America's smile. America had been just a child back then, he mused, nothing more than a colony, something that had been England's responsibility to take care of. The memory was warm, and America smiled as he recalled the way he'd stumbled across England's room to the small playhouse castle and picked it up -- he'd played with it for hours! And when England had seen how much America had liked it...
"I can really have this?!" The young America had asked, his bright, glowing blue eyes shooting up to look at England, judging if the man was serious or not by the expression on his face -- a warm, kind smile that made America's stomach burst into butterflies. England nodded, and America reached over to pick the castle up, lifting it into his small arms. "Wow! It's so cool! Thank you, England!"
"Take good care of it, now," England chided, a little nervous already to see America picking up the heavy playhouse with so little concern. America set the castle back down, but not because of England's words -- more because he wanted to look at his new toy even further, inspect every detail. He picked up one of the small wood soldiers and held it to his face, grinning appreciatively.
"Whoa, there are all sorts of soldiers here! Everyone's face is different!"
England bent down beside him, picking up another soldier and admiring it himself. "That's because it's custom-made," he answered matter-of-factly.
The two had played with the castle into the night...
America sighed, shaking his head and pushing himself off the door frame. He really needed to get to work on cleaning... he couldn't just spend all day reminiscing.
"Not using it anymore," he murmured, moving towards the playhouse castle, now thick with dust. "Might as well chuck it..."
America set the castle aside, in a space he mentally designated as his "get rid of" pile. He turned back to the mess at hand, noticing that, under the castle, there had been a wrinkled suit -- completely with white dress shirt and black bow tie, still in place.
"And this," he said, his eyes widening a bit. "What's with this suit?"
But then he remembered. He remembered the day he got it well. He'd been a bit older by then -- older and more mature, he'd liked to think -- and he and England had been planning on going out somewhere, but England had fussed over his clothes, had gone over his entire wardrobe, and then, finally, had presented America with the suit -- classy, sure, but not something that suited him one bit.
England had stood there after he'd thrusted the suit into America's hands, an eyebrow cocked, waiting for a response. Finally, America had used his open mouth to form words.
"Looks... expensive," he said, at first, "and it's not like I wear these..."
"No," England had remarked, quickly, "you certainly do not. Your wardrobe has become a complete mess lately!"
America had sighed. Seemed like nothing he did was really good enough for England, anymore... and jeez, was his mouth still going?
"--If you don't dress properly, it's troublesome for me, too!"
"It's fine!" America had protested, trying to convince England that he didn't need to concern himself with what he wore. Still, England had shoved him into the small changing room. "I like my clothes now!" America had cried. But he'd tried them on, anyway -- no sense in making England go through all that trouble for nothing -- and when he'd emerged, England had looked quite satisfied with himself.
"See?" he asked. "You do look better like this!"
America gawked at himself in the mirror. Did England really expect him to go gallivanting around in those kinds of clothes all the time?
"I'm poor," he'd objected. "I can't wear these things unless there's a special occasion..." America had turned to face England, a frown on his face, and England had sighed, crossing arms over his chest...
America stared down at the dusty, wrinkled dress clothes clenched in his fingers, his face blushing red for a moment as he recalled the event. How embarrassing.
After a moment, he finally murmured, "It's pretty old. I'll chuck this, too," as he set the suit aside, into the pile with England's old castle playhouse.
"God," America murmured, beginning to dig through things in the mess of knick knacks, "this whole room is just filled with a ton of upsetting stuff! Isn't there anything in here worth keep--" he stopped, suddenly, as his fingers brushed over the smooth, polished wooden handle of a colonial-era musket. "There we go!" he said, appreciation in his voice. "It's old, but I can put this musket up as a decora--" he stopped as his finger ran over a break in the wood. "Hm? ...This scratch mark... could it be..."
America held the musket to his chest, suddenly, his gaze shooting up as he recalled exactly how that scratch had emblazoned itself over the wooden frame. "Th- this is from... that time...?"
It had been raining, hard, and America had been in the fields for days. Every part of him was soaked, and he hadn't known what it was like to be properly dry in quite some time. His expression had been troubled, locked in a tired, angry, worried, sick, upset mixture that stuck on his face like he was a disturbed teenager. The long blue coat had hung unimpressively off his thin frame. He had readied his musket with shaking hands, his gaze not quite meeting the man he was preparing to shoot. England stood before him, thick brows knotted in a look reserved solely for those who had been bitterly betrayed, teeth gritted, eyes flooded in tears. Or had that been the rain? To this day, America wasn't quite sure...
"Hey, England," America had growled, fumbling with the cock of the musket, pulling the small metal bar back, "I will choose liberty, after all. I-I'm no longer your child or your... your baby brother." The words were almost spat with venom. "From now on, I"m... independent." He moved as if he were going to place the musket against his shoulder and fire, but instead he suddenly whipped towards England, crying, "Acknowledge it!". Just as quickly as America had moved, England had taken the offensive, sending his musket hurtling towards America, fingers gripped tight on the gun in the rain. England's bayonet shot towards America's heart, the metal flashing in the rain, and America moved just fast enough to block England's blow with the side of his own musket, the bayonet burying into the wood and cracking it. America almost cried out -- he hadn't expected the move at all.
"You were always so naive, you fool," England growled, his eyes flashing, and the rows of troops standing behind him, all decked in identical red coats, readied their muskets, readying to fire--
But America didn't move. He'd lowered his cracked musket, his shocked eyes locked with England's, ignoring the sharp blade of England's bayonet and even the barrell of the musket pointed straight at him, only inches from his chest. He stared into England's eyes, noting the flush of England's face, the wide, panicked look in his eyes -- England looked more hurt than angry...
"T-there's no point in firing, is there..." he gasped, suddenly, and America couldn't respond, couldn't think of anything to say. "Fool..."
And he dropped his musket into the mud with a splash, collapsing on his knees, one hand going to cover a side of his face, his eyes squeezing shut -- those were tears running down his face, America could remember now, could suddenly see everything in perfect clarity--
"Why... why... damnit..." England's shoulders slumped forward, his head hanging... what had he done wrong? Why was America rejecting him? Why...
"England," America had whispered, his heart sinking into his chest. "You used to be... so big..."
America stared down at the cracked musket, at the remnant from that day with a sick feeling in his stomach. For a long, long moment, he lingered on that last image, on that last scene, replaying it through his mind...
Slowly setting the musket down, America stood, backing from the room, closing the door, and locking away the memories once again, for now.
It didn't take long for him to wander down the hall and out to the garden, where Lithuania was busy at work. He looked up when he heard America approaching, and smiled. "Oh! America, there you are."
America lifted a hand in a wave. "Hey." He paused, knowing he wanted to know how the cleaning was coming. He sighed, trying to manage a grin. "Man," he said, his tone sounding a bit fake, "there was a ton of trash and dust... I couldn't get any cleaning done, so I'll stop for today."
"Hmm," Lithuania said, coming to a stand. "Sounds hectic." He paused, thinking. "You want to go ahead and have your coffee out here, then?"
"Yeah," America agreed, his smile turning a bit more genuine, "let's."
It wasn't long before Lithuania returned with the coffee and mugs, and the two sat at the bench in the garden, enjoying the scenery and the coffee together. America took a drink, then sighed, suddenly beginning conversation.
"When I see old stuff, I end up remembering a lot of things and end up not throwing much of anything away..." He laughed, shaking his head. "I feel like I'm becoming an old geezer."
Lithuania laughed. "You're becoming an adult," he corrected.
"Hm." America closed his eyes, warm mug of coffee in hand, and relaxed against the park bench, breathing in the pleasant smell of the fresh garden around him. It was a stark contrast from the cold rain and mud of the memory he'd just been so deeply immersed in, and, America thought, that much was definitely for the best. He couldn't tackle the room of clutter just yet. Perhaps he needed more time to properly pack away the moments in his head first, to pack away the look of hurt and betrayal that had cut through England so deep -- but he would, in time, and for now, that was what really mattered.
Author: Ema (lightningrapier)
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing: Uh, none really. Maybe USxUK if you squint.
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 2,144
Notes: I'm novelizing the comic strips for mars_of_war because he can't understand manga. :D I'm... actually not much better at it, honestly! :D I don't know, something about the way it's presented is difficult for me to follow, because I'm a complete retard. It doesn't help that EVERYONE IN THIS FANDOM LOOKS THE SAME, but I'm trying, here. >>
Disclaimer: APH is owned by Hidekaz and not be me. This was done so I could have a friend in the fandom, not to rip off of his storylines. This was also done from the lovely scanslation by youkofujima, which you can find here. Thank you for the translation!
Clutter.
The entire house, from top to bottom, was full of clutter. America knew that he needed to clean, but it seemed like every time he started, he didn't really get anywhere at all. The outside of the house was nice -- the flowers and shrubs were well-trimmed and well-kept, and if America was good at anything, he was good at keeping up outside appearances -- but the inside of the house? Well, it could use a little work. Particularly in getting rid of some things that, honestly, America hadn't needed in quite some time.
Really, America reasoned, every nation needed to tidy up every once in a while.
He had Lithuania at the house, today, and the two strode down the spacious hallway together. He mentioned, briefly, that he'd been thinking of cleaning up, and he jumped at the opportunity.
"America," he said, eyes shining, "if it's cleaning, I can do it!" Lithuania would, honestly, do whatever America asked her to do. It was almost cute, in a way, but America shook his head, smiling some.
"Oh, I'm just cleaning the storage," he murmured, "so I'll have you do what you usually do." Lithuania would usually dust, trim the aforementioned greenery, and generally make sure the old house kept its New England charm. America wasn't so good at that kind of thing, himself. "We won't know what to keep or what to throw away if I'm not the one on the job."
Lithuania nodded. "I see. I'll go put on a pot of coffee, then!" He turned, lifting a hand in a wave, and disappeared down a corner of the hallway.
"Thanks," America called after him. He stopped just short of the storage room door, sighing at the task ahead of him.
"Now then," he murmured, "let's try to tidy up this room that I haven't touched for a century."
He opened the door, and just a whiff of the stale, musky air that had been trapped inside was enough to make him take a step back. He stared at the dark shapes from within and sighed again, dread mounting. There was so much junk! How had he gotten so. much. junk!?
And it wasn't really even the amount of junk that gave him pause...
"It's a pain to clean this room," America murmured to himself. "I've tried over and over but I always end up remembering all the memories tied to every little thing..."
He leaned against the door frame, his gaze falling on one item in particular... he could easily remember how he'd gotten it; could see, even though it had been so long ago, the glow of the lighting in the room, the way it fell across the floor, the curve of the shadow of the bed linens and the arch of light over England's cheek that turned into a sparkle that hit his eye when he'd seen America's smile. America had been just a child back then, he mused, nothing more than a colony, something that had been England's responsibility to take care of. The memory was warm, and America smiled as he recalled the way he'd stumbled across England's room to the small playhouse castle and picked it up -- he'd played with it for hours! And when England had seen how much America had liked it...
"I can really have this?!" The young America had asked, his bright, glowing blue eyes shooting up to look at England, judging if the man was serious or not by the expression on his face -- a warm, kind smile that made America's stomach burst into butterflies. England nodded, and America reached over to pick the castle up, lifting it into his small arms. "Wow! It's so cool! Thank you, England!"
"Take good care of it, now," England chided, a little nervous already to see America picking up the heavy playhouse with so little concern. America set the castle back down, but not because of England's words -- more because he wanted to look at his new toy even further, inspect every detail. He picked up one of the small wood soldiers and held it to his face, grinning appreciatively.
"Whoa, there are all sorts of soldiers here! Everyone's face is different!"
England bent down beside him, picking up another soldier and admiring it himself. "That's because it's custom-made," he answered matter-of-factly.
The two had played with the castle into the night...
America sighed, shaking his head and pushing himself off the door frame. He really needed to get to work on cleaning... he couldn't just spend all day reminiscing.
"Not using it anymore," he murmured, moving towards the playhouse castle, now thick with dust. "Might as well chuck it..."
America set the castle aside, in a space he mentally designated as his "get rid of" pile. He turned back to the mess at hand, noticing that, under the castle, there had been a wrinkled suit -- completely with white dress shirt and black bow tie, still in place.
"And this," he said, his eyes widening a bit. "What's with this suit?"
But then he remembered. He remembered the day he got it well. He'd been a bit older by then -- older and more mature, he'd liked to think -- and he and England had been planning on going out somewhere, but England had fussed over his clothes, had gone over his entire wardrobe, and then, finally, had presented America with the suit -- classy, sure, but not something that suited him one bit.
England had stood there after he'd thrusted the suit into America's hands, an eyebrow cocked, waiting for a response. Finally, America had used his open mouth to form words.
"Looks... expensive," he said, at first, "and it's not like I wear these..."
"No," England had remarked, quickly, "you certainly do not. Your wardrobe has become a complete mess lately!"
America had sighed. Seemed like nothing he did was really good enough for England, anymore... and jeez, was his mouth still going?
"--If you don't dress properly, it's troublesome for me, too!"
"It's fine!" America had protested, trying to convince England that he didn't need to concern himself with what he wore. Still, England had shoved him into the small changing room. "I like my clothes now!" America had cried. But he'd tried them on, anyway -- no sense in making England go through all that trouble for nothing -- and when he'd emerged, England had looked quite satisfied with himself.
"See?" he asked. "You do look better like this!"
America gawked at himself in the mirror. Did England really expect him to go gallivanting around in those kinds of clothes all the time?
"I'm poor," he'd objected. "I can't wear these things unless there's a special occasion..." America had turned to face England, a frown on his face, and England had sighed, crossing arms over his chest...
America stared down at the dusty, wrinkled dress clothes clenched in his fingers, his face blushing red for a moment as he recalled the event. How embarrassing.
After a moment, he finally murmured, "It's pretty old. I'll chuck this, too," as he set the suit aside, into the pile with England's old castle playhouse.
"God," America murmured, beginning to dig through things in the mess of knick knacks, "this whole room is just filled with a ton of upsetting stuff! Isn't there anything in here worth keep--" he stopped, suddenly, as his fingers brushed over the smooth, polished wooden handle of a colonial-era musket. "There we go!" he said, appreciation in his voice. "It's old, but I can put this musket up as a decora--" he stopped as his finger ran over a break in the wood. "Hm? ...This scratch mark... could it be..."
America held the musket to his chest, suddenly, his gaze shooting up as he recalled exactly how that scratch had emblazoned itself over the wooden frame. "Th- this is from... that time...?"
It had been raining, hard, and America had been in the fields for days. Every part of him was soaked, and he hadn't known what it was like to be properly dry in quite some time. His expression had been troubled, locked in a tired, angry, worried, sick, upset mixture that stuck on his face like he was a disturbed teenager. The long blue coat had hung unimpressively off his thin frame. He had readied his musket with shaking hands, his gaze not quite meeting the man he was preparing to shoot. England stood before him, thick brows knotted in a look reserved solely for those who had been bitterly betrayed, teeth gritted, eyes flooded in tears. Or had that been the rain? To this day, America wasn't quite sure...
"Hey, England," America had growled, fumbling with the cock of the musket, pulling the small metal bar back, "I will choose liberty, after all. I-I'm no longer your child or your... your baby brother." The words were almost spat with venom. "From now on, I"m... independent." He moved as if he were going to place the musket against his shoulder and fire, but instead he suddenly whipped towards England, crying, "Acknowledge it!". Just as quickly as America had moved, England had taken the offensive, sending his musket hurtling towards America, fingers gripped tight on the gun in the rain. England's bayonet shot towards America's heart, the metal flashing in the rain, and America moved just fast enough to block England's blow with the side of his own musket, the bayonet burying into the wood and cracking it. America almost cried out -- he hadn't expected the move at all.
"You were always so naive, you fool," England growled, his eyes flashing, and the rows of troops standing behind him, all decked in identical red coats, readied their muskets, readying to fire--
But America didn't move. He'd lowered his cracked musket, his shocked eyes locked with England's, ignoring the sharp blade of England's bayonet and even the barrell of the musket pointed straight at him, only inches from his chest. He stared into England's eyes, noting the flush of England's face, the wide, panicked look in his eyes -- England looked more hurt than angry...
"T-there's no point in firing, is there..." he gasped, suddenly, and America couldn't respond, couldn't think of anything to say. "Fool..."
And he dropped his musket into the mud with a splash, collapsing on his knees, one hand going to cover a side of his face, his eyes squeezing shut -- those were tears running down his face, America could remember now, could suddenly see everything in perfect clarity--
"Why... why... damnit..." England's shoulders slumped forward, his head hanging... what had he done wrong? Why was America rejecting him? Why...
"England," America had whispered, his heart sinking into his chest. "You used to be... so big..."
America stared down at the cracked musket, at the remnant from that day with a sick feeling in his stomach. For a long, long moment, he lingered on that last image, on that last scene, replaying it through his mind...
Slowly setting the musket down, America stood, backing from the room, closing the door, and locking away the memories once again, for now.
It didn't take long for him to wander down the hall and out to the garden, where Lithuania was busy at work. He looked up when he heard America approaching, and smiled. "Oh! America, there you are."
America lifted a hand in a wave. "Hey." He paused, knowing he wanted to know how the cleaning was coming. He sighed, trying to manage a grin. "Man," he said, his tone sounding a bit fake, "there was a ton of trash and dust... I couldn't get any cleaning done, so I'll stop for today."
"Hmm," Lithuania said, coming to a stand. "Sounds hectic." He paused, thinking. "You want to go ahead and have your coffee out here, then?"
"Yeah," America agreed, his smile turning a bit more genuine, "let's."
It wasn't long before Lithuania returned with the coffee and mugs, and the two sat at the bench in the garden, enjoying the scenery and the coffee together. America took a drink, then sighed, suddenly beginning conversation.
"When I see old stuff, I end up remembering a lot of things and end up not throwing much of anything away..." He laughed, shaking his head. "I feel like I'm becoming an old geezer."
Lithuania laughed. "You're becoming an adult," he corrected.
"Hm." America closed his eyes, warm mug of coffee in hand, and relaxed against the park bench, breathing in the pleasant smell of the fresh garden around him. It was a stark contrast from the cold rain and mud of the memory he'd just been so deeply immersed in, and, America thought, that much was definitely for the best. He couldn't tackle the room of clutter just yet. Perhaps he needed more time to properly pack away the moments in his head first, to pack away the look of hurt and betrayal that had cut through England so deep -- but he would, in time, and for now, that was what really mattered.