The Center for the Holy Wars (part 1)
Title: The Center for the Holy Wars
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: America, China, Russia, France, Spain, South Italy, Turkey, Greece, Japan, England, Cuba, and Canada.
Pairing: None. Alternately, America whores himself out to everyone so he can be popular.
Rating: PG
Warning: Inexperience writing these characters, I guess.
Summary: The United States of America does damage control. (America-centric.)
Notes: I struggled writing this and then it took about a month for me to work up the courage to post this. I didn't want it to present as a sob-fest for the US. I also didn't want him to be overly sympathetic or unsympathetic. I didn't want this to read like a political manifesto, but I fear it may have turned out that way. I was more interested in illustrating the changing and evolving foreign relations between the United States and its allies/enemies. Most of the dialogue was borrowed from articles I read about the subject, in particular Spain and Russia.
Edited as of January 14, 2010, to correct grammatical errors.
“Okay, this isn’t so bad,” America said to himself, head lolling to rest against the window, looking out at the blue ocean below him. “Flying commercial is nice every once in a while. And saves money and resources and all that.”
He glanced up and noticed the person he was sitting next to was giving him an odd look over the edge of his newspaper. They blinked at one another before America released a sigh.
“You know what I mean?”
The man stared at him a moment before speaking in slow, calculated English, tinged with a thick Chinese accent. “I’m not sure I understood what you said.”
“Oh, you’re one of China’s guys,” America muttered under his breath before smiling and waving his hand, racking his brain for the Chinese he’d collected over the years. It was sloppy, mispronounced, and lacking in proper grammatical fundamentals, but at least his point seemed to be getting across. He waved his hands to illustrate his point more. “I just saying it is good to fly coach some days, because it save money. Yeah?”
The Chinese man nodded. “It is a good idea.”
“Been long time since going to China. You from China?” America waited for the man to nod before continuing, even if he knew the answer already. “I barely got to see during Olympics.”
“I see,” the man said politely, eyebrows knitting as he tried to work out what, exactly, America was saying in midst of sloppily spoken Chinese and spastically waving hands.
“I’m going lots different places,” America said with a sigh. “China is the first stop!”
“How many different places?”
America counted on his hands but then realized that he wasn’t sure, exactly, how many stops he’d be making. He also probably wouldn’t have known how to say the numbers anyway. “Hmm… lots!”
“Why so much traveling?” the man surveyed the bomber jacket as he spoke, covering America’s pressed suit. He felt stupid wearing a suit on a plane, but it was easier to just wear it, otherwise it could just get wrinkled in his luggage (and his boss had warned him to look presentable on these trips). “Business?”
“Something like that,” America said, cracking a smile. “I gotta do some damage control.”
---
China’s house was always really warm, but lately it felt even warmer. He walked up towards the front door, his feet kicking up some grime left over from coal and ash. He shifted, shoved his hands into his pockets, and rocked back and forth from the balls of his feet to the heels. He felt entirely too warm in his jacket and suit.
He knew what he had to do but damn it all if it wasn’t hard as hell to do it.
America wasn’t used to this whole humility thing, but he’d made a promise to his boss, after all. And it wasn’t like he wanted the country to fail-they had more than enough problems as is. Everybody did.
When China came to greet him, he smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his face but still somehow seemed at least a bit genuine. He wore traditional Chinese clothing, unlike the suits he always wore to the world meetings. He moved through his house with ease, America traveling behind him. When he offered tea and America declined, he didn’t seem upset by it. They sat together in China’s backyard, surveying China’s garden, thick with bamboo and blossoming flowers. America started the meeting off as quickly as possible, leaning back against some cushions China had brought with him outside, a pot of tea between them, though only China drank.
The afternoon drifted by as America discussed global climate change and carbon dioxide admissions. He still didn’t understand it all himself, but his boss had made sure he knew the basics, and had a briefcase of information sent with him-a briefcase which America had left in his rental car. But China seemed to understand what he was saying, in his sloppy, stuttering Chinese, and remained silent and didn’t interrupt as America collected his words.
“I mean, you and I together produce the most…” he had to pause for the fifth time that conversation, because already he’d forgotten the word China had taught him for it. Swallowing his guilt, because he didn’t want to show such weakness to a country like China, he switched to English, “carbon dioxide and gases that cause climate change.” America, earnest, leaned forward and once again attempted to speak Chinese. “You and I… to need to work together. We can stop this so it not gets too far out of control.”
“Well, you are filled with quite a bit of hot air,” China quipped, seemingly fed up with America’s pathetic attempts at Chinese and switching to English. America felt his eyebrow twitch but then China cracked a small smile before America could get used to the feeling of insult settling in the pit of his stomach. “But you’re right. It wouldn’t do for the world to see me resisting something so serious.”
America grunted, unsure whether he should be insulted by the joke. Or if he should be insulted by the fact that China was doing it for international standing and not because of him. He agreed to do it to save face, not because he wanted to do what America wanted to do.
But then again. He couldn’t really blame him. He would do the same thing, if it meant that maybe these countries wouldn’t hate him quite as much. He was shaking. He hated this whole diplomacy thing, but he also hated feeling hated.
“Its’ a strange world we live in now,” China mused. “This modern era…”
“Huh?”
“I suppose you’re too young,” China continued absently and America had to bite back the urge to tell him that age had nothing to do with it-he was still great-but China continued, “It’s easier to notice things when you have more experience.”
“I-”
“When you’ve lived longer, time just moves slower,” he said and sipped his tea. “I wonder how many of us really are eternal?”
“Well…” America said and wasn’t sure if China was honestly asking or if this was some elaborate set up for a proverb. “If we don’t change how things are, who knows how long this world will last?”
China angled him with a look, but didn’t deny that. He downed the rest of his tea and glanced out at his garden, where the bamboo seemed thinner than in recent years.
“Offerings like this, America, are like rays of sunshine in a cloudy sky,” he said slowly, and then just as slowly turned back to look at America, his face hinting at a wan smile. “Perhaps we can make this world last longer.”
America bit his lip, then gave him a rather awkward smile back.
God. This was hard.
---
The flight out of China’s house, moving north and west towards Russia, was filled in relative silence. America felt like he couldn’t breathe, like his hands were shaking. His ears were ringing and for all he knew, the plane could be crashing and he wouldn’t have the slightest clue. Things seemed foggy. He wasn’t prepared for this. He thought he had been, thought he’d been prepared to grovel before these countries and let them know he was changing, for the better.
When he glanced down, he saw the white knuckles grasping his knees and forced himself to relax. He clenched his eyes shut.
Humility, he reminded himself. You can’t afford to be arrogant anymore.
He breathed out, slowly. “Shit.”
The person he sat beside him glanced at him but said nothing. America gripped his hands together and tried to focus his mind away from China and towards Russia-
How the hell was that supposed to be comforting?
---
They’d been sitting in the room together for fifteen minutes, neither saying a word. Russia regarded him silently from across the table, cheek resting against a slightly curled fist. America sat on his hands, wondering when they’d started to feel sweaty.
“A drink?” Russia offered.
America shook his head. Thankfully for his nerves, his Russian was much better than his Chinese. “Still feel kind of sick from the plane ride over.”
“I thought you liked to fly,” Russia said lightly and as in the nature of Russia, it sounded as if he were saying something entirely different, veiled underneath his simple words. “You enjoyed it well enough during the war.”
“Yeah,” America admitted and wondered why he shared that weakness in the first place. He was supposed to be strong, to show all these countries that he was just as good as them and-
Humble. He had to be humble. (He always had to remind himself of that.)
America coughed into his hand. Weighed his words and wondered how much weight they actually did have. “There was more turbulence than usual.”
Russia nodded, accepting this explanation before standing to pour himself a drink. He moved away, turning his back on America. America remained sitting, watching the way that Russia moved with careful, deliberate calm, yet with tensed shoulders. There was an open breeze filtering in through an open window and it brushed back Russia’s hair and scarf, making it look as if he were moving too far away, impossible to catch up to.
“Did you mean it, when you said you wanted to restart our relations?” Russia asked after a lengthy silence, returning to his chair, newfound drink in hand.
America’s lips straightened into a rather thin line, but he did nod.
“I thought as much,” Russia said with a throaty laugh that almost didn’t sound disbelieving.
America felt his lips thin further. “Why do you laugh?”
“You’ll forgive me for being ambivalent,” Russia said, but sighed, taking a long drink from his glass. The smell of alcohol invaded America’s nose.
“I get the feeling I’ll be getting that a lot,” America muttered to himself, in English.
Russia gave him an all-knowing look and said in his thick accent, “Yes, I believe so.”
America restrained his cringe. He couldn’t afford to show such weakness to Russia, who, while no longer his rival in the fight for the free world, was still just as mysterious and dangerous as he’d always been. Even if he wanted to make the relations between the two of them, America wasn’t so optimistic that he could let his guard down completely.
“I am very ambivalent about your intentions,” Russia said, calm and careful in his words to the point where they almost sounded gentle. The smile was always unnerving on that face, as innocent and as cruel as any child. His eyes were as cold as his winters, and yet in the sunlight they looked as if they were struggling for a warmth that they’d once had. The air was thick with the sound of America’s beating heart and the stench of Russia’s liquor. Russia mulled over his words, nursing his drink with the care of a father for a son. “I am very ambivalent about your reasoning, and about whether you will follow through with your promises.”
“I know my promises must not mean much to you,” America offered, folding his hands together and wishing they didn’t feel as sweaty and slick as they were.
“For all your bravado and simplicity, you are a hard person-country-to understand at times,” Russia mused, swirling the vodka in his glass.
“How’s…”
“And your standards go beyond double standards,” Russia continued as if America had not spoken. He slanted a look towards America, face innocent but words calculated and deliberate, “It’s a complete lack of standards.”
“H-hey…” America began.
“And even so. I don’t have very many choices. I don’t… have many friends.”
America managed to bite back the And you wonder why? But just so.
“But my people don’t trust you,” Russia continued on, and if he noticed the barely suppressed aggravation on America’s face, he didn’t let on. His hand passed over his scarf, tugging and tightening it around his neck, like a noose. “They believe you abuse your power and don’t have the ability to make right decisions.”
“Look,” America said, swallowing down his anger and his shame-when had he learned to be ashamed-and trying to find the words he needed to say and hating that he had to say them in front of Russia of all people (countries). “Look I… I know that I’ve messed up a lot in the past and all that.”
Russia didn’t say anything when America paused and he realized that Russia was waiting for him to continue. He wondered if Russia expected him to grovel.
“I’ve messed up and I’m trying to fix it as best I can. There are some people in my country who think that I shouldn’t give in, that I should remain strong and independent but…” America bit his lip, worried it between his teeth before continuing, “There are more people who are sick of being hated.”
“It may not be an issue of hatred more than it is indifference or displeasure. Rest assured that my people do not care about you,” Russia watched him over the rim of his glass as he pulled it up to his lips, draining it of the clear liquid he drank like water. “And it is similar for many in this world. There is hatred. There is love. But mostly, there is indifference. And in some ways, indifference can be worse.”
America stared at him.
Russia sighed. “I, too, know what it is like to be hated, America. Do not forget that.”
“… I know,” America said, and knew that he was one who’d hated Russia. They both knew it (the Cold War was too fresh). “Look,” he began, weighing his words once again. “I’m not doing this because I have some kind of self-esteem issue.” Maybe a little. “I’m doing this because it’s what my people want and what my new administration wants. I’m doing this because I think that you want it, too. You know… friends.”
“We are not friends,” Russia pointed out and rose to pour himself more vodka.
America nodded. “I know.”
Russia laughed into his glass, and the sound was soft and almost not there at all.
“I know the last few years have seen that we’ve had a lot of disagreements,” America began, cautious and for once trying to find the proper words before he just blurted them out. “But I think that… if we start over, it could get better.”
“It doesn’t always work like that,” Russia warned, but he didn’t sound like he disagreed, either. He closed his eyes for a moment before smiling slowly, and it somehow lacked that razor’s edge of danger he’d become accustomed to seeing on Russia’s face. “But it’s a nice thought.”
---
“Well, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” France announced with a flourish when America knocked on his door. He learned forward and kissed both his cheeks and under normal circumstances, America would have had some kind of quid at weird Europeans and most especially France’s weirdness, but he was too tired to fight anymore.
America’s face betrayed nothing but jetlag. “I just met with Russia.”
“That’ll explain that, then,” France said with a small, overly dramatic sigh. “Come in, boy, come in.”
The hand France placed on his back strayed a bit too low, but America was too tired to notice or to really care, so he let France usher him inside while groping various parts of his body.
“Oh, mon petit chou,” France said with a small sigh. “So good to see you!”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I’m just pleased to see you come to visit me after so long,” France dismissed with a wave of his hand, hand straying over the small of his back, over his ass, and finally curling around his hip and pinning him to France’s side. America gave him a half-hearted elbow to the side but otherwise didn’t do much of anything else.
“Yeah,” America said and almost sounded apologetic. But America did not apologize. Not easily, at least. And he let France usher him to his parlor, where warm sunshine filtered through soft white curtains, lapping in the breeze.
As much as America would never admit, he actually liked Paris. Sometimes France himself annoyed him to no end, but at least his cities were pretty. Though last time he came to Paris he stepped in more dog shit than he thought was natural, but that was another story entirely.
“It’s nice to see you, in any case,” France said, then added with a rather loud laugh, “We’re buddies after all! Want some freedom fries?”
America scratched the back of his neck and looked down, grunting a bit. At least France didn’t seem to get so uptight about things. He remembered why he liked the guy, annoyances aside. France could understand the difference between jokes and seriousness.
“I’m fine,” America said and cracked a smile as France continued to chuckle at his own joke. “Got any of that weird orange drink you like so much?”
“Orangina?” France asked and when America nodded his smile widened. “But of course I do!”
A few moments later found them sitting out on France’s balcony, the bottle of the orange drink sitting between them. It was early morning in France, and it was relaxing to not have to put on façades like he did with Russia and China. Though the relationship with France had been difficult for a while, it seemed to be slowly thawing out, and that was reassuring. Plus, Orangina was delicious, and he didn’t ever feel comfortable enough to drink with Russia or China. France was different. And he only had to slap France’s hand away from his inner thigh three times.
“So, why were you visiting Russia?” France asked casually, combing his fingers through his hair idly.
America sighed and stared at the bottom of his cup before leaning over to refill it. “My boss wants me to go around talking to some of the other countries to… you know… try to clear the waters.”
“Is that so?” France asked, rhetorically.
“Yeah… he wants to make it better,” America said, swirling his finger along the rim of his glass. “Because, you know, back in 2001, everybody came together and we were unified. And just.” God, he was bad at this, hated to admit he was wrong or weak or lonely. Or that maybe he was beginning to realize that he wasn’t as perfect as he’d once thought he was. “I just got sidetracked because of Iraq and because I’m…”
“Foolish? Stupid? Selfish? Arrogant?” France offered.
America gave him a sidelong glance, eyebrows knitting together. “I was going to say impulsive.”
“That works, too.”
France moved to his breast pocket, pulling out a carton of cigarettes. America eyed them warily. “God, France. It’s ten in the morning.”
France gave him a look, but relented, tucking them back into his breast pocket. America rubbed the spot just above his eye and under his eyebrow with the base of his palm, sighing and nodding his thanks.
“Anyway,” America continued, rubbing his hands together now because he wasn’t sure what else he should do with them. “Just… my boss told me that I have to be honest with myself. That because of how I was so… stubborn,” he paused and glanced at France to make sure he wasn’t about to throw in his own word choice, “And because of that, I allowed my alliances and friends to drift away.”
“It happens with all of us from time to time,” France admitted, reaching for his breast pocket again before realizing what he was doing and shifting so he could drape his arm over the back of America’s chair instead. “What matters is that you’re doing your best to fix it, I suppose.”
“I guess,” America muttered and his eyebrows knitted together.
France eyed him before crossing his legs, balancing one ankle on his thigh, just above his knee, jiggling his foot a moment before surveying the Paris skyline, old buildings glowing golden in the early morning sun.
“Something else on your mind?” France asked and America shrugged. “I like to think that perhaps our relationship has moved to a point where we could be able to be honest with one another.”
“Yeah,” America sighed and eyed France’s hand, rubbing his shoulder gently. “But you know, everybody’s got responsibility in this, and it’s really damn irritating when people don’t meet me halfway.”
“America, mon cher,” France soothed, clapping the same hand on his shoulder, ceasing the rubbing. “You should know that politics are never that easy. And that once a bad relation has formed, it’s hard to fix that. Anyone on the planet can tell you that.”
“Yeah well,” America said, looking down and refusing to admit that he felt like he was pouting. “I hate how everybody just so easily dismisses me because I’m me. I’m trying to change, I’m trying to do good. Damn it. I thought with this new boss, things would get easier but it doesn’t seem like anybody likes me any better.”
“These things take time,” France reassured. “And you did just visit Russia, of all people.”
America watched France suppress a shiver before saying, “And China.”
“My point exactly. They certainly won’t make you feel the most welcomed,” France said with a shrug. “It’s in their manner. You can’t blame them for being wary and isolated around you.”
“Fixing relations is supposed to be a joint job, damn it. A joint effort.”
“It’s hard to put pride aside, America,” France said and America realized dimly that France was stroking the back of his neck, not in his typical touchy-feely manner but more as something akin to comfort. America hated to admit it was kind of nice. “And if someone feels as if they’ve been wronged, it’s understandable that they’ll be distant, defensive.”
“I guess,” America relented.
“Just don’t give up,” France continued. “No matter how much you are loved, there will be people who will not like you. And though it may seem like the entire world is against you, there are people, and countries, who know there is more to you than what is, essentially, a stereotype.”
“You know,” America said, recoiling a bit to give France a rather disbelieving look and swallowing the fact that France, in effect, just gave the same advice as Russia (he wasn’t sure how the blond would react if he shared that information), “When you get past the fact that you’re an idiot, you’re actually pretty smart.”
France raised one eyebrow.
“I mean,” America said, backpedalling as his boss’ voice continued to shout in his head humility, honesty, integrity, and don’t insult your host. “I mean, you act really… strange, I guess. So I guess I forget you actually know what you’re talking about.”
France curled his hand around America’s chin, drawing him forward with a slow, sultry smirk. “I know many things, it’s true.”
“Urk,” America said, somewhat unintelligently, before ducking his head to capture the bottle between them and pouring himself a liberal amount of orange juice.
France, for his part, seemed used to such a reaction and only laughed. “And where are you off to, next?”
“I was thinking Spain, since he’s close by.”
France nodded. “That’s logical, yes.” His grin widened. “Until then, how about I show you around Paris, yes? I’ll even take you to the Eifel Tower. I know how much you like-what is it-your phallic imagery.”
America blushed. “I do not.”
“Of course not,” France said.
“You’re the one obsessed with things like that.”
“I am not obsessed, I just have an appreciation.”
“Uh huh.”
France sniffed. “It’s that ridiculous person across the channel who’s utterly obsessed and perverted.”
“Who, England?”
“Who else?” France said, his familiar flair and dramatics reemerging, now that the serious topic of politics and world standings had dissolved away along with the orange juice. The conversation quickly descended into insulting England’s Integrity When He Isn’t Around to Freak Out, but it only lasted for so long. It wasn’t nearly as much fun to make fun of England when he wasn’t around to be pissy about it. (America hoped his boss would forgive some teasing, at least. Especially since France wouldn’t fib about it, he hoped.)
So in the end the two men went to the Eifel Tower.
---
After seeing France and staying for breakfast and the Eifel Tower, America flew south, to Spain.
He was sad that he didn’t get to drive, because he liked the French countryside, and the Spanish scenery. But the trip between Paris to Madrid was too long for his frayed nerves.
Next time, he vowed to himself, and liked the idea of a next time.
---
This post was too large for one post, so it's been split off into two parts. For the second part, or for any comments, please go to part two!
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: America, China, Russia, France, Spain, South Italy, Turkey, Greece, Japan, England, Cuba, and Canada.
Pairing: None. Alternately, America whores himself out to everyone so he can be popular.
Rating: PG
Warning: Inexperience writing these characters, I guess.
Summary: The United States of America does damage control. (America-centric.)
Notes: I struggled writing this and then it took about a month for me to work up the courage to post this. I didn't want it to present as a sob-fest for the US. I also didn't want him to be overly sympathetic or unsympathetic. I didn't want this to read like a political manifesto, but I fear it may have turned out that way. I was more interested in illustrating the changing and evolving foreign relations between the United States and its allies/enemies. Most of the dialogue was borrowed from articles I read about the subject, in particular Spain and Russia.
Edited as of January 14, 2010, to correct grammatical errors.
“Okay, this isn’t so bad,” America said to himself, head lolling to rest against the window, looking out at the blue ocean below him. “Flying commercial is nice every once in a while. And saves money and resources and all that.”
He glanced up and noticed the person he was sitting next to was giving him an odd look over the edge of his newspaper. They blinked at one another before America released a sigh.
“You know what I mean?”
The man stared at him a moment before speaking in slow, calculated English, tinged with a thick Chinese accent. “I’m not sure I understood what you said.”
“Oh, you’re one of China’s guys,” America muttered under his breath before smiling and waving his hand, racking his brain for the Chinese he’d collected over the years. It was sloppy, mispronounced, and lacking in proper grammatical fundamentals, but at least his point seemed to be getting across. He waved his hands to illustrate his point more. “I just saying it is good to fly coach some days, because it save money. Yeah?”
The Chinese man nodded. “It is a good idea.”
“Been long time since going to China. You from China?” America waited for the man to nod before continuing, even if he knew the answer already. “I barely got to see during Olympics.”
“I see,” the man said politely, eyebrows knitting as he tried to work out what, exactly, America was saying in midst of sloppily spoken Chinese and spastically waving hands.
“I’m going lots different places,” America said with a sigh. “China is the first stop!”
“How many different places?”
America counted on his hands but then realized that he wasn’t sure, exactly, how many stops he’d be making. He also probably wouldn’t have known how to say the numbers anyway. “Hmm… lots!”
“Why so much traveling?” the man surveyed the bomber jacket as he spoke, covering America’s pressed suit. He felt stupid wearing a suit on a plane, but it was easier to just wear it, otherwise it could just get wrinkled in his luggage (and his boss had warned him to look presentable on these trips). “Business?”
“Something like that,” America said, cracking a smile. “I gotta do some damage control.”
---
China’s house was always really warm, but lately it felt even warmer. He walked up towards the front door, his feet kicking up some grime left over from coal and ash. He shifted, shoved his hands into his pockets, and rocked back and forth from the balls of his feet to the heels. He felt entirely too warm in his jacket and suit.
He knew what he had to do but damn it all if it wasn’t hard as hell to do it.
America wasn’t used to this whole humility thing, but he’d made a promise to his boss, after all. And it wasn’t like he wanted the country to fail-they had more than enough problems as is. Everybody did.
When China came to greet him, he smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his face but still somehow seemed at least a bit genuine. He wore traditional Chinese clothing, unlike the suits he always wore to the world meetings. He moved through his house with ease, America traveling behind him. When he offered tea and America declined, he didn’t seem upset by it. They sat together in China’s backyard, surveying China’s garden, thick with bamboo and blossoming flowers. America started the meeting off as quickly as possible, leaning back against some cushions China had brought with him outside, a pot of tea between them, though only China drank.
The afternoon drifted by as America discussed global climate change and carbon dioxide admissions. He still didn’t understand it all himself, but his boss had made sure he knew the basics, and had a briefcase of information sent with him-a briefcase which America had left in his rental car. But China seemed to understand what he was saying, in his sloppy, stuttering Chinese, and remained silent and didn’t interrupt as America collected his words.
“I mean, you and I together produce the most…” he had to pause for the fifth time that conversation, because already he’d forgotten the word China had taught him for it. Swallowing his guilt, because he didn’t want to show such weakness to a country like China, he switched to English, “carbon dioxide and gases that cause climate change.” America, earnest, leaned forward and once again attempted to speak Chinese. “You and I… to need to work together. We can stop this so it not gets too far out of control.”
“Well, you are filled with quite a bit of hot air,” China quipped, seemingly fed up with America’s pathetic attempts at Chinese and switching to English. America felt his eyebrow twitch but then China cracked a small smile before America could get used to the feeling of insult settling in the pit of his stomach. “But you’re right. It wouldn’t do for the world to see me resisting something so serious.”
America grunted, unsure whether he should be insulted by the joke. Or if he should be insulted by the fact that China was doing it for international standing and not because of him. He agreed to do it to save face, not because he wanted to do what America wanted to do.
But then again. He couldn’t really blame him. He would do the same thing, if it meant that maybe these countries wouldn’t hate him quite as much. He was shaking. He hated this whole diplomacy thing, but he also hated feeling hated.
“Its’ a strange world we live in now,” China mused. “This modern era…”
“Huh?”
“I suppose you’re too young,” China continued absently and America had to bite back the urge to tell him that age had nothing to do with it-he was still great-but China continued, “It’s easier to notice things when you have more experience.”
“I-”
“When you’ve lived longer, time just moves slower,” he said and sipped his tea. “I wonder how many of us really are eternal?”
“Well…” America said and wasn’t sure if China was honestly asking or if this was some elaborate set up for a proverb. “If we don’t change how things are, who knows how long this world will last?”
China angled him with a look, but didn’t deny that. He downed the rest of his tea and glanced out at his garden, where the bamboo seemed thinner than in recent years.
“Offerings like this, America, are like rays of sunshine in a cloudy sky,” he said slowly, and then just as slowly turned back to look at America, his face hinting at a wan smile. “Perhaps we can make this world last longer.”
America bit his lip, then gave him a rather awkward smile back.
God. This was hard.
---
The flight out of China’s house, moving north and west towards Russia, was filled in relative silence. America felt like he couldn’t breathe, like his hands were shaking. His ears were ringing and for all he knew, the plane could be crashing and he wouldn’t have the slightest clue. Things seemed foggy. He wasn’t prepared for this. He thought he had been, thought he’d been prepared to grovel before these countries and let them know he was changing, for the better.
When he glanced down, he saw the white knuckles grasping his knees and forced himself to relax. He clenched his eyes shut.
Humility, he reminded himself. You can’t afford to be arrogant anymore.
He breathed out, slowly. “Shit.”
The person he sat beside him glanced at him but said nothing. America gripped his hands together and tried to focus his mind away from China and towards Russia-
How the hell was that supposed to be comforting?
---
They’d been sitting in the room together for fifteen minutes, neither saying a word. Russia regarded him silently from across the table, cheek resting against a slightly curled fist. America sat on his hands, wondering when they’d started to feel sweaty.
“A drink?” Russia offered.
America shook his head. Thankfully for his nerves, his Russian was much better than his Chinese. “Still feel kind of sick from the plane ride over.”
“I thought you liked to fly,” Russia said lightly and as in the nature of Russia, it sounded as if he were saying something entirely different, veiled underneath his simple words. “You enjoyed it well enough during the war.”
“Yeah,” America admitted and wondered why he shared that weakness in the first place. He was supposed to be strong, to show all these countries that he was just as good as them and-
Humble. He had to be humble. (He always had to remind himself of that.)
America coughed into his hand. Weighed his words and wondered how much weight they actually did have. “There was more turbulence than usual.”
Russia nodded, accepting this explanation before standing to pour himself a drink. He moved away, turning his back on America. America remained sitting, watching the way that Russia moved with careful, deliberate calm, yet with tensed shoulders. There was an open breeze filtering in through an open window and it brushed back Russia’s hair and scarf, making it look as if he were moving too far away, impossible to catch up to.
“Did you mean it, when you said you wanted to restart our relations?” Russia asked after a lengthy silence, returning to his chair, newfound drink in hand.
America’s lips straightened into a rather thin line, but he did nod.
“I thought as much,” Russia said with a throaty laugh that almost didn’t sound disbelieving.
America felt his lips thin further. “Why do you laugh?”
“You’ll forgive me for being ambivalent,” Russia said, but sighed, taking a long drink from his glass. The smell of alcohol invaded America’s nose.
“I get the feeling I’ll be getting that a lot,” America muttered to himself, in English.
Russia gave him an all-knowing look and said in his thick accent, “Yes, I believe so.”
America restrained his cringe. He couldn’t afford to show such weakness to Russia, who, while no longer his rival in the fight for the free world, was still just as mysterious and dangerous as he’d always been. Even if he wanted to make the relations between the two of them, America wasn’t so optimistic that he could let his guard down completely.
“I am very ambivalent about your intentions,” Russia said, calm and careful in his words to the point where they almost sounded gentle. The smile was always unnerving on that face, as innocent and as cruel as any child. His eyes were as cold as his winters, and yet in the sunlight they looked as if they were struggling for a warmth that they’d once had. The air was thick with the sound of America’s beating heart and the stench of Russia’s liquor. Russia mulled over his words, nursing his drink with the care of a father for a son. “I am very ambivalent about your reasoning, and about whether you will follow through with your promises.”
“I know my promises must not mean much to you,” America offered, folding his hands together and wishing they didn’t feel as sweaty and slick as they were.
“For all your bravado and simplicity, you are a hard person-country-to understand at times,” Russia mused, swirling the vodka in his glass.
“How’s…”
“And your standards go beyond double standards,” Russia continued as if America had not spoken. He slanted a look towards America, face innocent but words calculated and deliberate, “It’s a complete lack of standards.”
“H-hey…” America began.
“And even so. I don’t have very many choices. I don’t… have many friends.”
America managed to bite back the And you wonder why? But just so.
“But my people don’t trust you,” Russia continued on, and if he noticed the barely suppressed aggravation on America’s face, he didn’t let on. His hand passed over his scarf, tugging and tightening it around his neck, like a noose. “They believe you abuse your power and don’t have the ability to make right decisions.”
“Look,” America said, swallowing down his anger and his shame-when had he learned to be ashamed-and trying to find the words he needed to say and hating that he had to say them in front of Russia of all people (countries). “Look I… I know that I’ve messed up a lot in the past and all that.”
Russia didn’t say anything when America paused and he realized that Russia was waiting for him to continue. He wondered if Russia expected him to grovel.
“I’ve messed up and I’m trying to fix it as best I can. There are some people in my country who think that I shouldn’t give in, that I should remain strong and independent but…” America bit his lip, worried it between his teeth before continuing, “There are more people who are sick of being hated.”
“It may not be an issue of hatred more than it is indifference or displeasure. Rest assured that my people do not care about you,” Russia watched him over the rim of his glass as he pulled it up to his lips, draining it of the clear liquid he drank like water. “And it is similar for many in this world. There is hatred. There is love. But mostly, there is indifference. And in some ways, indifference can be worse.”
America stared at him.
Russia sighed. “I, too, know what it is like to be hated, America. Do not forget that.”
“… I know,” America said, and knew that he was one who’d hated Russia. They both knew it (the Cold War was too fresh). “Look,” he began, weighing his words once again. “I’m not doing this because I have some kind of self-esteem issue.” Maybe a little. “I’m doing this because it’s what my people want and what my new administration wants. I’m doing this because I think that you want it, too. You know… friends.”
“We are not friends,” Russia pointed out and rose to pour himself more vodka.
America nodded. “I know.”
Russia laughed into his glass, and the sound was soft and almost not there at all.
“I know the last few years have seen that we’ve had a lot of disagreements,” America began, cautious and for once trying to find the proper words before he just blurted them out. “But I think that… if we start over, it could get better.”
“It doesn’t always work like that,” Russia warned, but he didn’t sound like he disagreed, either. He closed his eyes for a moment before smiling slowly, and it somehow lacked that razor’s edge of danger he’d become accustomed to seeing on Russia’s face. “But it’s a nice thought.”
---
“Well, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” France announced with a flourish when America knocked on his door. He learned forward and kissed both his cheeks and under normal circumstances, America would have had some kind of quid at weird Europeans and most especially France’s weirdness, but he was too tired to fight anymore.
America’s face betrayed nothing but jetlag. “I just met with Russia.”
“That’ll explain that, then,” France said with a small, overly dramatic sigh. “Come in, boy, come in.”
The hand France placed on his back strayed a bit too low, but America was too tired to notice or to really care, so he let France usher him inside while groping various parts of his body.
“Oh, mon petit chou,” France said with a small sigh. “So good to see you!”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I’m just pleased to see you come to visit me after so long,” France dismissed with a wave of his hand, hand straying over the small of his back, over his ass, and finally curling around his hip and pinning him to France’s side. America gave him a half-hearted elbow to the side but otherwise didn’t do much of anything else.
“Yeah,” America said and almost sounded apologetic. But America did not apologize. Not easily, at least. And he let France usher him to his parlor, where warm sunshine filtered through soft white curtains, lapping in the breeze.
As much as America would never admit, he actually liked Paris. Sometimes France himself annoyed him to no end, but at least his cities were pretty. Though last time he came to Paris he stepped in more dog shit than he thought was natural, but that was another story entirely.
“It’s nice to see you, in any case,” France said, then added with a rather loud laugh, “We’re buddies after all! Want some freedom fries?”
America scratched the back of his neck and looked down, grunting a bit. At least France didn’t seem to get so uptight about things. He remembered why he liked the guy, annoyances aside. France could understand the difference between jokes and seriousness.
“I’m fine,” America said and cracked a smile as France continued to chuckle at his own joke. “Got any of that weird orange drink you like so much?”
“Orangina?” France asked and when America nodded his smile widened. “But of course I do!”
A few moments later found them sitting out on France’s balcony, the bottle of the orange drink sitting between them. It was early morning in France, and it was relaxing to not have to put on façades like he did with Russia and China. Though the relationship with France had been difficult for a while, it seemed to be slowly thawing out, and that was reassuring. Plus, Orangina was delicious, and he didn’t ever feel comfortable enough to drink with Russia or China. France was different. And he only had to slap France’s hand away from his inner thigh three times.
“So, why were you visiting Russia?” France asked casually, combing his fingers through his hair idly.
America sighed and stared at the bottom of his cup before leaning over to refill it. “My boss wants me to go around talking to some of the other countries to… you know… try to clear the waters.”
“Is that so?” France asked, rhetorically.
“Yeah… he wants to make it better,” America said, swirling his finger along the rim of his glass. “Because, you know, back in 2001, everybody came together and we were unified. And just.” God, he was bad at this, hated to admit he was wrong or weak or lonely. Or that maybe he was beginning to realize that he wasn’t as perfect as he’d once thought he was. “I just got sidetracked because of Iraq and because I’m…”
“Foolish? Stupid? Selfish? Arrogant?” France offered.
America gave him a sidelong glance, eyebrows knitting together. “I was going to say impulsive.”
“That works, too.”
France moved to his breast pocket, pulling out a carton of cigarettes. America eyed them warily. “God, France. It’s ten in the morning.”
France gave him a look, but relented, tucking them back into his breast pocket. America rubbed the spot just above his eye and under his eyebrow with the base of his palm, sighing and nodding his thanks.
“Anyway,” America continued, rubbing his hands together now because he wasn’t sure what else he should do with them. “Just… my boss told me that I have to be honest with myself. That because of how I was so… stubborn,” he paused and glanced at France to make sure he wasn’t about to throw in his own word choice, “And because of that, I allowed my alliances and friends to drift away.”
“It happens with all of us from time to time,” France admitted, reaching for his breast pocket again before realizing what he was doing and shifting so he could drape his arm over the back of America’s chair instead. “What matters is that you’re doing your best to fix it, I suppose.”
“I guess,” America muttered and his eyebrows knitted together.
France eyed him before crossing his legs, balancing one ankle on his thigh, just above his knee, jiggling his foot a moment before surveying the Paris skyline, old buildings glowing golden in the early morning sun.
“Something else on your mind?” France asked and America shrugged. “I like to think that perhaps our relationship has moved to a point where we could be able to be honest with one another.”
“Yeah,” America sighed and eyed France’s hand, rubbing his shoulder gently. “But you know, everybody’s got responsibility in this, and it’s really damn irritating when people don’t meet me halfway.”
“America, mon cher,” France soothed, clapping the same hand on his shoulder, ceasing the rubbing. “You should know that politics are never that easy. And that once a bad relation has formed, it’s hard to fix that. Anyone on the planet can tell you that.”
“Yeah well,” America said, looking down and refusing to admit that he felt like he was pouting. “I hate how everybody just so easily dismisses me because I’m me. I’m trying to change, I’m trying to do good. Damn it. I thought with this new boss, things would get easier but it doesn’t seem like anybody likes me any better.”
“These things take time,” France reassured. “And you did just visit Russia, of all people.”
America watched France suppress a shiver before saying, “And China.”
“My point exactly. They certainly won’t make you feel the most welcomed,” France said with a shrug. “It’s in their manner. You can’t blame them for being wary and isolated around you.”
“Fixing relations is supposed to be a joint job, damn it. A joint effort.”
“It’s hard to put pride aside, America,” France said and America realized dimly that France was stroking the back of his neck, not in his typical touchy-feely manner but more as something akin to comfort. America hated to admit it was kind of nice. “And if someone feels as if they’ve been wronged, it’s understandable that they’ll be distant, defensive.”
“I guess,” America relented.
“Just don’t give up,” France continued. “No matter how much you are loved, there will be people who will not like you. And though it may seem like the entire world is against you, there are people, and countries, who know there is more to you than what is, essentially, a stereotype.”
“You know,” America said, recoiling a bit to give France a rather disbelieving look and swallowing the fact that France, in effect, just gave the same advice as Russia (he wasn’t sure how the blond would react if he shared that information), “When you get past the fact that you’re an idiot, you’re actually pretty smart.”
France raised one eyebrow.
“I mean,” America said, backpedalling as his boss’ voice continued to shout in his head humility, honesty, integrity, and don’t insult your host. “I mean, you act really… strange, I guess. So I guess I forget you actually know what you’re talking about.”
France curled his hand around America’s chin, drawing him forward with a slow, sultry smirk. “I know many things, it’s true.”
“Urk,” America said, somewhat unintelligently, before ducking his head to capture the bottle between them and pouring himself a liberal amount of orange juice.
France, for his part, seemed used to such a reaction and only laughed. “And where are you off to, next?”
“I was thinking Spain, since he’s close by.”
France nodded. “That’s logical, yes.” His grin widened. “Until then, how about I show you around Paris, yes? I’ll even take you to the Eifel Tower. I know how much you like-what is it-your phallic imagery.”
America blushed. “I do not.”
“Of course not,” France said.
“You’re the one obsessed with things like that.”
“I am not obsessed, I just have an appreciation.”
“Uh huh.”
France sniffed. “It’s that ridiculous person across the channel who’s utterly obsessed and perverted.”
“Who, England?”
“Who else?” France said, his familiar flair and dramatics reemerging, now that the serious topic of politics and world standings had dissolved away along with the orange juice. The conversation quickly descended into insulting England’s Integrity When He Isn’t Around to Freak Out, but it only lasted for so long. It wasn’t nearly as much fun to make fun of England when he wasn’t around to be pissy about it. (America hoped his boss would forgive some teasing, at least. Especially since France wouldn’t fib about it, he hoped.)
So in the end the two men went to the Eifel Tower.
---
After seeing France and staying for breakfast and the Eifel Tower, America flew south, to Spain.
He was sad that he didn’t get to drive, because he liked the French countryside, and the Spanish scenery. But the trip between Paris to Madrid was too long for his frayed nerves.
Next time, he vowed to himself, and liked the idea of a next time.
---
This post was too large for one post, so it's been split off into two parts. For the second part, or for any comments, please go to part two!