when i say jingles, you say rock [hetalia/belarussia]
titled. i'm riding on a one-horse sleigh
pairings of. Belarus/Russia + Alfred and Matthew idek
rated. pg-13 because i'm a whore
warnings. stripping because you're a bigger whore
summary. and wherever you go, i'll be there at christmastime.
this reads like a drug trip i'm sorry
~1200 words written for merubear because I hate hate hate you. )))= merry christmas, mrs. lawrence. ♥
"I was born and raised in Belarus," the boy tells his teacher, "I lived in Minsk with my grandparents until I was ten years old."
"Ah," Professor Jones says, and he would be dismissing this student with his left hand had he not been holding onto a dripping Wendy's burger, "But you moved to America because you were afraid of the oppression there, right? Your parents were tired of the communist leaders and the backwards-style of thinking in the government. Believe me, I would know. Made a trip to Belarus in the late 90's, myself. Depressing, miserable place. Never seen anything like it. You know how it goes. Machines guns and armored vehicles patrolling up the streets. I wasn't even allowed to take commemorative photos! Can you imagine?"
A gasp kicks it off. "What the fuck?" someone (probably Romano) says loudly from the back of the room, and the rest of the class picks up the cue, provides Professor Jones with their best sympathetic laments and disproving pats on the back. In another moment, you can almost see the pained look spread across the first speaker's face, indignation and unspoken arguments and overtly-schadenfreude urges to wring his professor's greasy American neck, "That's not true. It's not like that, where I used to live."
It's not like that at all.
"Really?" Alfred says, shrugs his shoulders impatiently, "What's it like, then?"
02
Belarus forgets the real reason why she'd ever wanted to live with Russia. It's been nearly twenty years since they'd lived together in the same house, ten years since they've sat together under the same roof and eaten dinner together, eight years since she'd learned how to live on her own, nineteen since she'd figured out the reason why she still had a heart.
When Christmas passed in England, there were snowflakes in her hair.
When Christmas passed in America, she had stood outside the whole night, and her hair had turned white.
>>
So she opens her blouse, instead, smooths her fingers over the buttons, one by one by one by one until her hands reach the hem. The shirt opens easily and loosely; pools around her feet when she lets it fall behind her legs. And she can feel the sweat on her own palms, the lace of her bra scratch against her skin. This wasn't how it was supposed to work. She had imagined it differently in her head. The distance between them was too far and too close, sixty-degree angle stretched beyond her fingertips, a sketch and seven feet under the lights and the sky. She can see it all perfectly. The sprawl of his legs, smudged line of his cheekbones, curve of the lips, eyelashes to each tip. She knows better, now; she can calculate the distance she needs to maintain before he bolts; she'd learned to look for the first sign of discomfort the moment his face slips into panic.
(She had been wearing a beautiful blouse, gift from Finland in December. It's ironic and Christmas-themed, different from the light blue of her petticoats and very much the anachronism she had played it out to be, from a historian's point of view. On the right breast-pocket, there's a miniature reindeer embroidered on the lip. Jingle bells dangle on her collar, and when walks, she can pretend that she's riding on a sleigh.)
>>
"I'm just as beautiful as Ukraine," Russia sees the whisper before he hears it, listens to the tears on her cheeks before he sees them, smells the sobs and shakes his head back and forth. Like he'd need to clear up any misunderstandings. Like he'd need to stand up and accommodate her. He was a socialist at heart, she knew it was there and she knew she didn't have to look deep for it, either. He was a socialist at heart who believed in universal health care and utilitarianism. He wanted her to be happy, he wanted her to be happy the same way she wanted him to be happy, the same way she knew they would be happy together, eating Christmas dinner together and going to mass in the morning.
She knows it, and she knows that he knows it, too. She wants to say something sweet. You look handsome today, Russia, you look really handsome. Elegant limbs sprawled against the armchair. You look lonely, Russia, you look like you need someone there. Wants to say so much.
Says instead, "Look at my chest. Look at it. I'm nearly as big as her, too! See?"
She wants to say so much.
"Why are you showing me this?" Russia finally asks, smiles at her calmly. (She wants to kiss that smile off of his face. She wants to see his other side for herself, wants to straddle his hips and feel his hands against her legs, touch her skin, she wants him to set her on fire. She wants him to do so much.)
Says instead, "I wanted to show you before you left. I wanted...I wanted to. I just wanted to."
(She doesn't need a reason or a justification. She just needs to know that there is Christmas here, the reassurance that there's something cheerful and morally disabling waiting for her at home. She doesn't want to listen to Russia talk about Ukraine. She doesn't want to listen to Russia talk about Lithuania and Estonia and Latvia. She doesn't want it, she doesn't need it, she doesn't even care if they all start speaking French and marching to La Marseillaise. She doesn't love her sister; she'd long since given up her family ties to the government. She will always be loyal to his government.)
03
"No," the boy continues. His hand tightens on the edge of the desk, "I moved to America because we could celebrate Christmas together at the same time. It's just life, you know? Living in the same place or different places around the world, no matter where you are, you're still the same, you're still the same person. You don't change inside, and that's really all that matters."
"I think that makes sense," Professor Williams says softly, gives the boy a small smile, "I think that makes a lot of sense. Don't you think so, Alfred?"
Professor Jones grunts something unintelligible.
"Please forgive him," Matthew says again, "He didn't mean to insult you, really. I'm sorry, too. I'd love to visit your hometown someday. I hear there's a lot of snow there. We could go sleigh-riding!"
The boy from Minsk nods but doesn't lift his head, shuffles off to his next class.
<<
No matter where she is and when she celebrates Christmas, she will love Russia forever.
And that's really all that matters.
>>>>
LOL WHUT THAT WASN'T ABOUT JINGLE BELLS.
Click to viewoh right the original prompt was here, linked just so you can check how ridiculously off-topic i got. still accepting requests. you guys should start suing me, seriously. =)