(no subject)
This follows on from my other Hetalia WW1 fic - http://moredamnlies.livejournal.com/31767.html#cutid1
I'm not entirely happy with this, but I've fiddled with it over and over. If I do any more to it I'll completely cock it all up, I think, so here it is, flaws and all.
Title: Notes from the war to end all wars - Bring them back.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: America, Canada, England (human names used.)
Word Count: 2523
Rating: Teen-ish. Angsty. Slashy. A lot of swearing from Arthur.
Summary: Canada, England and America are in the trenches of Normandy during the April of 1918.
Author's Notes: I've not researched this beyond a little background reading so there may be some errors. Drop me a note in the comments and I'll try and fix any obvious clangers.
Dislaimer: Not my characters, Axis Powers Hetalia is property of Himaruya Hidekaz. I'm just borrowing them.
Alfred shucked on his new uniform, eyes shining in excitement at the glossy new buttons, savouring the crisp, stiff feel of brand new
fabric on his skin. He was finally going to Europe after years of trying to get his boss to capitulate. Arthur was probably going to gloat himself sick, especially since it was his boys who intercepted and deciphered the Zimmerman telegram. For some reason even that was not enough to quash Alfred's excitement though and he boarded the train, singing patriotic songs alongside his boys.
It was raining and their foxhole (a massive divot in the ground created by a German artillary shell) was getting even soggier than it usually was. He peered over the edge and sighed, before turning back to the three remaining lads. He didn't know whether the others had
survived or not, but he'd managed to collect and drive the three canucks to comparative safety, even screaming at them and nagging and forcing them to survive the mustard gas attack of the previous night, dragging them back from their last bolt-hole to this one, a little closer to the home trenches. The charge had not gone well, to put it mildly.
Teddy sighed and Arthur winced to see the livid chemical burns where he'd failed to get his hands protected in time. On his other side lay a softly wheezing Richard on next to him sat Dave. They'd come into first name terms very quickly when Arthur had almost bodily dragged Teddy and Rich by their uniforms to the bolthole two days ago. They'd picked up Dave the previous night in the chaos of the gas attack, grabbing the panicky, blundering man and dragging him to the hole. They were working their way back to the home trench, a distance a healthy man in a sane place could walk in less than half an hour even if he were strolling. Of course a strolling man didn't have to worry about artillery, getting shot into little bits (possibly by both sides) or gas attacks. Arthur still wasn't sure how the Hell they were going to manage the barbed wire.
Alfred arrived on the troop wagon, surrounded by his country-men, laughing and singing. They were a breath of fresh air to the desperate, filthy environment they entered. He couldn't wait to see the look on Arthur's face when he turned up with all his equipment and food and fresh troops. He'd show him! There was a tiny part of Alfred that he tried not to listen to because it made him feel a bit sad and needy and insecure that hoped that maybe it would make England proud. But he ignored that thought, because how could anyone think he wasn't awesome?
Matthew was there to greet him, shaking his hand and smiling a tired smile that didn't brighten his exhaustion-lined face as much as it should. 'It's good to see you, brother. I suppose in Arthur's absence it is my place to say 'about bloody time', I know he'd be thinking it. Francis likely enough sends you a molestation, but he'll have to do that himself when he gets back, he'd want to do it himself, after all.'
Wait, back up a second? 'In Arthur's absence?' Alfred hated the needy, childish tone in his voice.
'He went over the top nearly four days ago while I was taking Francis behind the lines to hospital. He never came back.' Matthew's eyes welled up. 'He was with my boys, it wasn't even his charge, but he promised to care for my lads while I was gone and....' He collapsed in
Alfred's arms and Alfred felt a stab of jealousy for the obvious affection his brother had for his... well, other brother. It only made sense after nearly four years of living in a mud hut together, he supposed, but he still didn't have to like it. Nonetheless he held his brother as Matthew sobbed, rubbing his back and trying to radiate strength.
There were two scones and now five men, although Arthur doubted Tommy would survive the night. Arthur had been carefully rationing their food, but all that remained were two very small scones from Arthur's own supply. Their water was also running low. He sighed and split both scones in twain, passing them to the boys. 'But Sir, you can't go hungry for us!' Dave argued, polite Canadian twang thick with distress.
'They're my bloody scones, I can do with them as I like.' Arthur replied expansively, giving another painful cough and spitting blood at their feet. 'I could shove 'em up my bum if I wanted to, because I've certainly no stomach for food right now. You need to keep your strength up. We could be here for another two days at this rate.'
The boys had become used to the British captain's strange way with words, all bark and no bite and merely accepted the rocklike lumps of food given to them. The food was horrible and they ate it slowly, making each bite last and hoping it would stop their bellies feel like they were turning inside out, gnawing at their own bodies for sustenance. Gradually night fell and as the last notes of light vanished Arthur went to tend Tommy, cursing as he realised the lad had already gone through both glass vials of morphine hanging from his own neck. He sighed and rummaged in his own shirt, pulling the twin glass vials up into the air, still warm from his body, injecting the kid so he could move and keep up with the team without his body going into lethal shock.
The guns gradually went quiet and Arthur poked his head over the top of that day's shelter. 'We'll go for it.' He paused for a moment and brought each man up in turn to show the route to their next hole. It was over a hundred yard away, mostly exposed. Teddy went first, legs still strong even as the burns on his hands seemed to fester. He had been a great morale booster, quietly starting a round of some Canadian folk song Arthur had never heard before, but the others had joined in, equally breathy, light shining in their eyes. It was a desperate light, true, but it was a sort of hope and comfort nonethless.
'Dave, can you support Tommy?' The other man nodded. 'Get going when Teddy gets to safety. 'Richard, go after they arrive, I'll bring up the rear. Cover the travellers with your rifles but for Christ's sake don't get all trigger happy or I'll wring your neck myself.'
His heart was in his mouth the entire time Dave and Tommy stumbled, half walking, half crawling across no man's land until at last they vanished, falling into the latest crater. At last Arthur gave a sigh of relief and turned to Richard, treating him to an encouraging smile and a paternal slap on the back. 'Your turn, kid.'
'I'm not a kid, Cap!' The boy tossed back as he clambered out of their grave and towards the newest one, leaving a snorting Arthur behind. If that boy was older than fifteen then Arthur was was Edward the bleedin' Confessor. He relaxed though, keeping his rifle up and scanning the surroundings. The shot caught him by surprise and he twisted, not to check on the kid, but to fire back, feeling bitterly vindicated when marksman skills honed by centuries of practice found their mark. He scrambled to his feet and dashed onward as if the hounds of Hell were trailing him. He barely broke stride to scoop Richard into his arms, dodging and weaving in the hopes that if the sharp-shooter had any mates they'd find him a hard target to fell.
He did fall, the ground at the edge of the crater sliding out from his feet and he fell, hacking up his lungs and cursing in the name of every saint he could think of, landing on top of the others.
'Fucking buggering wanking bastard cunts!' Arthur raged, reaching down and yanking his other puttee from his foot. He was going to have blisters on both feet. He wrapped the long strip of fabric around Richard's thigh, pulling it tight with hands and teeth until the boy moaned in pain at the pressure rather than the wound. He gave it several more turns around the limb to slow the blood-flow before tossing his tunic off and ripping the remains of his shirt from his back to bandage the wound properly and try to prevent it from getting infected. 'We're so fucking close!' Arthur suddenly realised he was on the verge of ranting like a madman, the shakes had returned in force again and he forcibly pulled himself together. The boys were looking at him with concern bright in their eyes, but he just shook his head and took several deep breaths, visibly calming down. They could see the barbed wire now. If the four boys survived, they'd thank him for this. At that moment they just stared at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses as he nagged them all back upright and outlined their route.
Arthur pulled his damaged and muddied tunic back on, buckling his Sam Browne belt and tugged his discarded boot back on. He squinted, scanning along the line of barbed wire and saw a sentry. A cracked voice rose in a rousing chorus of 'Oh Danny Boy' and he began to lead the way, having told them to throw themselves to the ground and not to be bloody heroes if it all went south. One by one, ragged voices picked up the song and they limped home, their only protection the dark and a hoary old folk-song.
Alfred ran the length of the trenches, pursued by a breathless Matthew, at last reaching the medical station. Arthur's stood (barely upright) outside it at the dugout entrance, drinking hot chocolate from a teaspoon with the intensity of a starving man, the spoon knocking loudly against the bottom of the mug as he scraped up every last drop. He was watching each spoonful as he lifted it from the tin mug, hungrily closing his mouth around the bowl of the spoon and licking it clean as a whistle, tongue playing over the metal in a little dance. Alfred was hit with a wall of relief and arousal, neither of which he really expected given his and Arthur's less than cordial relationship.
He looked up and caught them staring. 'I've not eaten in a week, the doctor told me not to waste perfectly good food by filling my face and promptly regurgitating it.' He answered the unspoken question with an easy knowledge that made Alfred realised just how well the man must have come to know Matthew's mind during their time together at war. Then there was a visible moment in his face as he counted the
Matthews. 'Bloody buggering fuck! What the fuck are you doing here, A-J-J-Jones?' He caught himself at the last moment, substituting the human surname for 'America'.
'Here to save the day, of course, Artie. I'm the hero of course!'Arthur glared at him, muttering that it was no bloody wonder no one liked America when the bloody Yanks were all like that. Instead he turned his gaze on Matthew. 'I brought as many back as I could. It was a massacre out there. Four came back with me, they're getting treatment now. Another half-dozen apparently made it back under their own steam, I'm told.' Something in Arthur's manner was pleading and he seemed almost guilty. It was not an emotion that suited Alfred's Arthur. He was visibly trembling, exhaustion and pain had pushed him to his limit. He looked at Matthew with a pleading look in his eyes Alfred couldn't interpret.
'Thank-you, Arthur.' Matthew stepped forward carefully, like he was approaching a wild animal and gradually, gently pulled Arthur into a hug. Over his head he addressed Alfred. 'With Francis out we've a spare bunk in our dug-out. Will you help me get Arthur there? I think he's run out of energy.' Alfred knew there was a spare bunk, he'd been sleeping there for four nights already, but he could see where this was going.
Alfred had learnt from his brother, the brash youngster was too shocked at the pale imitations of his brothers he was faced with to use his usual oblivious, energetic manner. He approached the pair cautiously and let Arthur slide an arm around his shoulders. I'm still strong. I can hold you before you fall. Let me help. He grasped Arthur's wrist to anchor him, increasing the pressure gradually and watching the other's reaction in case he was hurting him.
They all dropped onto the same bed and Arthur instinctively clung to Matthew with a ferocious neediness that shocked Alfred. Matthew noticed and grimaced bitterly. 'We've helped one another through this Hell, Alfred. I don't care if you think it's immoral or whatever. You Weren't here.'
Alfred just sighed and stretched up to press a slow, not quite romantic, not quite brotherly kiss to Matthew's temple. Arthur gradually sank back into Alfred's chest and Alfred stroked his front, coaxing his bow-string tense muscles to relax, willing the tremors to ease. He leaned forward to kiss Mattie properly. This was wrong. And yet, with the two people he loved most in the world he couldn't care, this was something precious in a world of mud and suffering. As one, Matthew and Alfred decided to pay attention to Arthur, ghosting kisses along the sides of his neck and caressing gently, taking care not to press too hard on the bruising all over his body.
They entwined, sharing heat and languid kisses and touches. There was no urgency or surge towards completion that Alfred had felt with the filles de joie he'd tried at Francis' insistence during a more innocent age. There was no war, no politics, no guilt or pain of past events at that moment, just the feel of Arthur's breath shivering up and down his side, followed by damp kisses and the sight of Matthew tenderly stroking his fingers along the skinny lines of Arthur's body which he watched from under heavy eyelids before he probed Matthew's mouth deeply with his tongue. It lasted until Arthur's breathing slowed and his body relinquished its overtuned tension as he collapsed into unconsciousness. Matthew stood to gently pull a blanket over the pair of them and tenderly kiss them goodnight. Alfred kissed back easily, as if he'd not been scandalised half an hour ago.
'What about you?' Alfred asked, worried for the other man, not wanting him to be alone. Matthew turned a gentle smile on them and Alfred's breath caught in his throat in sorrow at the plight of the gentle soul before him. 'There will be other nights. Tonight you two need each other,
tomorrow?' He shrugged, the gesture France and yet Canada too. It didn't bother Alfred that Francis has probably done this with the other two at some point. There is only Matthew's curiously fey face in the candlelight and Arthur's head resting on his shoulder, those slender limbs relaxed in sleep. Alfred is where he needs to be.
I'm not entirely happy with this, but I've fiddled with it over and over. If I do any more to it I'll completely cock it all up, I think, so here it is, flaws and all.
Title: Notes from the war to end all wars - Bring them back.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: America, Canada, England (human names used.)
Word Count: 2523
Rating: Teen-ish. Angsty. Slashy. A lot of swearing from Arthur.
Summary: Canada, England and America are in the trenches of Normandy during the April of 1918.
Author's Notes: I've not researched this beyond a little background reading so there may be some errors. Drop me a note in the comments and I'll try and fix any obvious clangers.
Dislaimer: Not my characters, Axis Powers Hetalia is property of Himaruya Hidekaz. I'm just borrowing them.
Alfred shucked on his new uniform, eyes shining in excitement at the glossy new buttons, savouring the crisp, stiff feel of brand new
fabric on his skin. He was finally going to Europe after years of trying to get his boss to capitulate. Arthur was probably going to gloat himself sick, especially since it was his boys who intercepted and deciphered the Zimmerman telegram. For some reason even that was not enough to quash Alfred's excitement though and he boarded the train, singing patriotic songs alongside his boys.
It was raining and their foxhole (a massive divot in the ground created by a German artillary shell) was getting even soggier than it usually was. He peered over the edge and sighed, before turning back to the three remaining lads. He didn't know whether the others had
survived or not, but he'd managed to collect and drive the three canucks to comparative safety, even screaming at them and nagging and forcing them to survive the mustard gas attack of the previous night, dragging them back from their last bolt-hole to this one, a little closer to the home trenches. The charge had not gone well, to put it mildly.
Teddy sighed and Arthur winced to see the livid chemical burns where he'd failed to get his hands protected in time. On his other side lay a softly wheezing Richard on next to him sat Dave. They'd come into first name terms very quickly when Arthur had almost bodily dragged Teddy and Rich by their uniforms to the bolthole two days ago. They'd picked up Dave the previous night in the chaos of the gas attack, grabbing the panicky, blundering man and dragging him to the hole. They were working their way back to the home trench, a distance a healthy man in a sane place could walk in less than half an hour even if he were strolling. Of course a strolling man didn't have to worry about artillery, getting shot into little bits (possibly by both sides) or gas attacks. Arthur still wasn't sure how the Hell they were going to manage the barbed wire.
Alfred arrived on the troop wagon, surrounded by his country-men, laughing and singing. They were a breath of fresh air to the desperate, filthy environment they entered. He couldn't wait to see the look on Arthur's face when he turned up with all his equipment and food and fresh troops. He'd show him! There was a tiny part of Alfred that he tried not to listen to because it made him feel a bit sad and needy and insecure that hoped that maybe it would make England proud. But he ignored that thought, because how could anyone think he wasn't awesome?
Matthew was there to greet him, shaking his hand and smiling a tired smile that didn't brighten his exhaustion-lined face as much as it should. 'It's good to see you, brother. I suppose in Arthur's absence it is my place to say 'about bloody time', I know he'd be thinking it. Francis likely enough sends you a molestation, but he'll have to do that himself when he gets back, he'd want to do it himself, after all.'
Wait, back up a second? 'In Arthur's absence?' Alfred hated the needy, childish tone in his voice.
'He went over the top nearly four days ago while I was taking Francis behind the lines to hospital. He never came back.' Matthew's eyes welled up. 'He was with my boys, it wasn't even his charge, but he promised to care for my lads while I was gone and....' He collapsed in
Alfred's arms and Alfred felt a stab of jealousy for the obvious affection his brother had for his... well, other brother. It only made sense after nearly four years of living in a mud hut together, he supposed, but he still didn't have to like it. Nonetheless he held his brother as Matthew sobbed, rubbing his back and trying to radiate strength.
There were two scones and now five men, although Arthur doubted Tommy would survive the night. Arthur had been carefully rationing their food, but all that remained were two very small scones from Arthur's own supply. Their water was also running low. He sighed and split both scones in twain, passing them to the boys. 'But Sir, you can't go hungry for us!' Dave argued, polite Canadian twang thick with distress.
'They're my bloody scones, I can do with them as I like.' Arthur replied expansively, giving another painful cough and spitting blood at their feet. 'I could shove 'em up my bum if I wanted to, because I've certainly no stomach for food right now. You need to keep your strength up. We could be here for another two days at this rate.'
The boys had become used to the British captain's strange way with words, all bark and no bite and merely accepted the rocklike lumps of food given to them. The food was horrible and they ate it slowly, making each bite last and hoping it would stop their bellies feel like they were turning inside out, gnawing at their own bodies for sustenance. Gradually night fell and as the last notes of light vanished Arthur went to tend Tommy, cursing as he realised the lad had already gone through both glass vials of morphine hanging from his own neck. He sighed and rummaged in his own shirt, pulling the twin glass vials up into the air, still warm from his body, injecting the kid so he could move and keep up with the team without his body going into lethal shock.
The guns gradually went quiet and Arthur poked his head over the top of that day's shelter. 'We'll go for it.' He paused for a moment and brought each man up in turn to show the route to their next hole. It was over a hundred yard away, mostly exposed. Teddy went first, legs still strong even as the burns on his hands seemed to fester. He had been a great morale booster, quietly starting a round of some Canadian folk song Arthur had never heard before, but the others had joined in, equally breathy, light shining in their eyes. It was a desperate light, true, but it was a sort of hope and comfort nonethless.
'Dave, can you support Tommy?' The other man nodded. 'Get going when Teddy gets to safety. 'Richard, go after they arrive, I'll bring up the rear. Cover the travellers with your rifles but for Christ's sake don't get all trigger happy or I'll wring your neck myself.'
His heart was in his mouth the entire time Dave and Tommy stumbled, half walking, half crawling across no man's land until at last they vanished, falling into the latest crater. At last Arthur gave a sigh of relief and turned to Richard, treating him to an encouraging smile and a paternal slap on the back. 'Your turn, kid.'
'I'm not a kid, Cap!' The boy tossed back as he clambered out of their grave and towards the newest one, leaving a snorting Arthur behind. If that boy was older than fifteen then Arthur was was Edward the bleedin' Confessor. He relaxed though, keeping his rifle up and scanning the surroundings. The shot caught him by surprise and he twisted, not to check on the kid, but to fire back, feeling bitterly vindicated when marksman skills honed by centuries of practice found their mark. He scrambled to his feet and dashed onward as if the hounds of Hell were trailing him. He barely broke stride to scoop Richard into his arms, dodging and weaving in the hopes that if the sharp-shooter had any mates they'd find him a hard target to fell.
He did fall, the ground at the edge of the crater sliding out from his feet and he fell, hacking up his lungs and cursing in the name of every saint he could think of, landing on top of the others.
'Fucking buggering wanking bastard cunts!' Arthur raged, reaching down and yanking his other puttee from his foot. He was going to have blisters on both feet. He wrapped the long strip of fabric around Richard's thigh, pulling it tight with hands and teeth until the boy moaned in pain at the pressure rather than the wound. He gave it several more turns around the limb to slow the blood-flow before tossing his tunic off and ripping the remains of his shirt from his back to bandage the wound properly and try to prevent it from getting infected. 'We're so fucking close!' Arthur suddenly realised he was on the verge of ranting like a madman, the shakes had returned in force again and he forcibly pulled himself together. The boys were looking at him with concern bright in their eyes, but he just shook his head and took several deep breaths, visibly calming down. They could see the barbed wire now. If the four boys survived, they'd thank him for this. At that moment they just stared at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses as he nagged them all back upright and outlined their route.
Arthur pulled his damaged and muddied tunic back on, buckling his Sam Browne belt and tugged his discarded boot back on. He squinted, scanning along the line of barbed wire and saw a sentry. A cracked voice rose in a rousing chorus of 'Oh Danny Boy' and he began to lead the way, having told them to throw themselves to the ground and not to be bloody heroes if it all went south. One by one, ragged voices picked up the song and they limped home, their only protection the dark and a hoary old folk-song.
Alfred ran the length of the trenches, pursued by a breathless Matthew, at last reaching the medical station. Arthur's stood (barely upright) outside it at the dugout entrance, drinking hot chocolate from a teaspoon with the intensity of a starving man, the spoon knocking loudly against the bottom of the mug as he scraped up every last drop. He was watching each spoonful as he lifted it from the tin mug, hungrily closing his mouth around the bowl of the spoon and licking it clean as a whistle, tongue playing over the metal in a little dance. Alfred was hit with a wall of relief and arousal, neither of which he really expected given his and Arthur's less than cordial relationship.
He looked up and caught them staring. 'I've not eaten in a week, the doctor told me not to waste perfectly good food by filling my face and promptly regurgitating it.' He answered the unspoken question with an easy knowledge that made Alfred realised just how well the man must have come to know Matthew's mind during their time together at war. Then there was a visible moment in his face as he counted the
Matthews. 'Bloody buggering fuck! What the fuck are you doing here, A-J-J-Jones?' He caught himself at the last moment, substituting the human surname for 'America'.
'Here to save the day, of course, Artie. I'm the hero of course!'Arthur glared at him, muttering that it was no bloody wonder no one liked America when the bloody Yanks were all like that. Instead he turned his gaze on Matthew. 'I brought as many back as I could. It was a massacre out there. Four came back with me, they're getting treatment now. Another half-dozen apparently made it back under their own steam, I'm told.' Something in Arthur's manner was pleading and he seemed almost guilty. It was not an emotion that suited Alfred's Arthur. He was visibly trembling, exhaustion and pain had pushed him to his limit. He looked at Matthew with a pleading look in his eyes Alfred couldn't interpret.
'Thank-you, Arthur.' Matthew stepped forward carefully, like he was approaching a wild animal and gradually, gently pulled Arthur into a hug. Over his head he addressed Alfred. 'With Francis out we've a spare bunk in our dug-out. Will you help me get Arthur there? I think he's run out of energy.' Alfred knew there was a spare bunk, he'd been sleeping there for four nights already, but he could see where this was going.
Alfred had learnt from his brother, the brash youngster was too shocked at the pale imitations of his brothers he was faced with to use his usual oblivious, energetic manner. He approached the pair cautiously and let Arthur slide an arm around his shoulders. I'm still strong. I can hold you before you fall. Let me help. He grasped Arthur's wrist to anchor him, increasing the pressure gradually and watching the other's reaction in case he was hurting him.
They all dropped onto the same bed and Arthur instinctively clung to Matthew with a ferocious neediness that shocked Alfred. Matthew noticed and grimaced bitterly. 'We've helped one another through this Hell, Alfred. I don't care if you think it's immoral or whatever. You Weren't here.'
Alfred just sighed and stretched up to press a slow, not quite romantic, not quite brotherly kiss to Matthew's temple. Arthur gradually sank back into Alfred's chest and Alfred stroked his front, coaxing his bow-string tense muscles to relax, willing the tremors to ease. He leaned forward to kiss Mattie properly. This was wrong. And yet, with the two people he loved most in the world he couldn't care, this was something precious in a world of mud and suffering. As one, Matthew and Alfred decided to pay attention to Arthur, ghosting kisses along the sides of his neck and caressing gently, taking care not to press too hard on the bruising all over his body.
They entwined, sharing heat and languid kisses and touches. There was no urgency or surge towards completion that Alfred had felt with the filles de joie he'd tried at Francis' insistence during a more innocent age. There was no war, no politics, no guilt or pain of past events at that moment, just the feel of Arthur's breath shivering up and down his side, followed by damp kisses and the sight of Matthew tenderly stroking his fingers along the skinny lines of Arthur's body which he watched from under heavy eyelids before he probed Matthew's mouth deeply with his tongue. It lasted until Arthur's breathing slowed and his body relinquished its overtuned tension as he collapsed into unconsciousness. Matthew stood to gently pull a blanket over the pair of them and tenderly kiss them goodnight. Alfred kissed back easily, as if he'd not been scandalised half an hour ago.
'What about you?' Alfred asked, worried for the other man, not wanting him to be alone. Matthew turned a gentle smile on them and Alfred's breath caught in his throat in sorrow at the plight of the gentle soul before him. 'There will be other nights. Tonight you two need each other,
tomorrow?' He shrugged, the gesture France and yet Canada too. It didn't bother Alfred that Francis has probably done this with the other two at some point. There is only Matthew's curiously fey face in the candlelight and Arthur's head resting on his shoulder, those slender limbs relaxed in sleep. Alfred is where he needs to be.