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[Hetalia: America and England] Glasses

Older Hetalia Blurbs

A few things, too small for their own post, and too big for a post with many others.

Summary: England (Arthur), Spain (Antonio) and written for the first song on random from my playlist. I just happened to be the song 'No Wedding Cake'. Silly and very much a picker-upper for myself. Don't take it seriously. References to the 'marriage' of the countries for a short time with Phillip II and Mary. Also gay marriage is legal in Spain so don't rain on my silly parade.

With a small sigh, Arthur readjusts his legs, leaning back against the bar with an edge of more viciousness, as if wishing he can break it with his weight and will alone. Antonio smiles at him from across the floor, guitar in hand- Arthur can see him even through the sweaty, writhing bodies, under the sporadic, dim, and multi-coloured lights. A passing thought that they are both too drunk for this filters through his mind, but he ignores it and waves back, only slightly begrudgingly. As the previous singer leaves the stage to a round of enthusiastic applause, Antonio takes it to an even louder round- he hadn’t been lying when he had said he was popular around here. Arthur downs his beer as he watches Antonio take a seat and tune his guitar, smiling right at him through the crowd.

“Friends. I have a very special song tonight! Written for someone who is very… special to me.” The light casts shadows onto his face. “I hope they’ll understand it.”

He strums the guitar, picking up a soft beat, and the crowd seems surprised- this isn’t his normal, loud style, the sort of thing they can dance to, but none the less they listen. Arthur too listens, as Antonio sings in a low, rich voice, his own tongue. Arthur can’t really understand it only bits and pieces coming through, but Antonio’s expression tells him the story that the words fail to. His expression is at first soft, morphing into angry, then sad and, by the end of the song, happy once more, though his eyebrows are knit together. The crowd explodes into applause as the last chord fades, to a phrase that Arthur does understand. He feels a stab of what's either nervousness or jealousy, though he pushes both down.

Antonio slips offstage without another word, though the applause doesn’t cease for a while. Arthur and Antonio have already left by the time it does. They walk side by side down an empty Madrid street, hands tight at their sides. Arthur finds himself leaning on the other man's shoulder.

“… Who was that song for?”

Antonio laughs. “I’m sure you know. Otherwise, I’ll be disappointed in you!”

Arthur grimaces and glances away. “Te quiero. Really?” His accent mars the words a bit, and he looks a bit embarrassed. Nonetheless, his hand slips out from his pocket and into Antonio’s, a physical, comfortable gesture. “We don’t even like each other, Antonio.”

“I like you, stubborn old man! Sometimes. And I know you like me, even if you don't admit it.” Antonio giggles, cheeks flushed with drink. “Te quiero, te amo, Inglaterra, haha. I love you, and if I could, oh, I would marry you.”

Arthur sputters, and it turns into a laugh. “You joke too much.”

“Who says I am joking though, but you? We should be married again.” Arthur sends him a glare and Antonio has the decency to seem shame-faced. “We'll do it right this time, yes? No trying to kill each other over silly things.”

Arthur balks. “You are serious! I always knew you were crazy. I-” he chokes on his words, “I can’t be expected to make such a rash decision- my people would never support it in any case, and certainly not the queen!” Arthur gesticulates wildly with his free hand, ears red.

Antonio practically guffaws, hand squeezing Arthur’s with a reassuring pressure. “You’re so difficult!” He leans over, kisses him on the cheek, his laugh then subsiding and his tone edged with something a bit more serious. “Just... answer me. Think for yourself, as yourself. No huge, binding affair. No, definitely not. Not England, not Spain- for once we will be as we are. Ourselves. Antonio.” He motions to himself. "Arthur." He smiles, places one hand over Arthur's heart, squeezing their hands again with the other. “Arthur Kirkland, the man.”

Arthur blinks, incredulous. Everything in his rational mind screams, how foolish, he can't be seriously considering this, Antonio is such an idiot, and we should have had less to drink (or maybe more) and…

Something breaks. “Yes. Alright.” He kisses Antonio hard, adding a punch to the ribs at the end for good measure, and they both laugh like the two young men they appear to be, and perhaps are.

“Tomorrow then! And don’t be late, or I won’t leave any wedding cake for you.”

“Tomorrow? How could we even--” Arthur sighs, and finally grins. “Just like you, always taking from me, isn't it. I thought we'd do it differently this time!”

“We’ll figure it out. It will just be us. That's all there needs to be.” And with a grin, Antonio runs off, dragging a swearing Arthur with him, their fingers intertwined.

Summary: Just before the Civil War, Alfred (America), mentions of England, torn between two sides. Slavery, general unpleasantness.

With a heavy sigh, Alfred reclines into his wicker chair, wiping the sweat from his brow. He hates nothing more than his hair lying flat against his forehead, for he feels it makes him look far too much like his dear estranged father, though he’d luckily never have such generous eyebrows. Despite the white, wooden over-hang of his porch and the willows that line his property, the southern September sun beats down mercilessly, the humidity making the air sweltering and moist. He scratches idly at his sideburns, itchy as they grow in, and rolls up the wrinkled white sleeves of his shirt. The cuffs are filthy with dust and sweat, and he makes a mind to have laundry done, later. Thirsty, he calls for a slave girl, asks for a sweet tea, but calls her back when he changes his mind. He needs comfort, and he wants whiskey.

Halfway through the bottle, he notices heavy thunderclouds approaching on the horizon, dark purple and heavy with hell. There's going to be a late summer storm, violent and harsh, and he marvels at how appropriate it seems for his mood. The election is so close, and he can feel his people splitting him at the seams as he takes another deep swig of the amber liquid.

He laughs, the sound morose, but immediately berates himself afterward. This is what he wants, right? The Great South to split and prevail and keep his rights- no, the other part of him reminds, they can‘t afford such idiocy, they were a union, and he was only doing what was best for all. But what right did the privileged North have to decide what was best, the first half argues-

His head fills with the screeching of a thousand thoughts, all his and not his and, as the noise reaches a tumultuous volume, he clutches his head and drops the bottle. It shatters, scattering bits of glass in every which direction, tiny shards glittering in the fading sun. For a long moment, he slumps in his chair, panting as his glasses slide slowly down the sweat drenched bridge of his nose, before he regains enough sense of self (whatever that meant to him now) to call the slave girl once more, to pick up the remainder of his drink.

Part of him pities her, for she is nothing but human. She winces as she accidentally cuts a finger, young and inexperienced, but she knows to continue for fear of retribution. The other part stares fiercely down at his property, at something he considers far below human. His posture eases when he realises how silly it almost is, considering he's not even human himself.

The girl shuffles away quickly once all has been collected in her apron, flecks of blood still dotting the faded white wood in her wake. Alfred wonders how much more will be spilt, both worries and yearns for it. He ignores everything, for he can barely tell his own thoughts apart from the host, aided by the whiskey swirling slowly through his veins. Instead of thinking, he merely leans back and watches the storm roll closer.

Summary: America (Alfred) and Canada (Matthew) fighting together in WWII, in the Devil's Brigade. Mentions of Ludwig (Germany) and Arthur (England, their father).Violence, unpleasantness, the horrors of war on all sides, and bad language.

“It's a Goddamned mess is what this is.” the soldier murmured, deep South accent heavy around his lit, almost finished cigarette. He took one puff, two, and brushed the dust and debris from his thick leather coat, taking special care to brush the red arrowhead on his shoulder gently.

The other soldier, smaller in build- which didn't say much, considering they were both the size of small hills- but identical in face, only nodded in agreement, turning over the corpse of a German with his standard issue. He whispered below his breath, face pale, too quiet to be heard.

“Speak up, won’t cha?” the first yelled across the field, pouting as his cig began to burn his lips, spent. He flicked it onto the ass of another corpse, where it sputtered and died, burning a hole in its wake and earning a laugh from the man.

“Nothing. Can’t you have a bit more respect, Alfred?”

“Respect? Fucking what? The fuckin’ krauts, the- the ones we killed, the ones that have killed our people? The fuck are you on about Matty? Ludwig is fucking dead. He knew what he was doing when he allowed this shit to go on. I'll put the bullet in him myself.”

Matthew sighed, kneeling beside the corpse. It was hardly that he wasn't angry, but more he hated to see things come to such ends. And, ultimately, he was fighting for his father, not himself. He said a small prayer, made a cross over his chest, and closed the soldier’s eyelids for his final rest. “Nothing, just nothing.” He made a move to stand, but paused and eyed the dead man’s balled fist.

“You’re such a fucking pussy, I swear.”

Matthew ignored his brother's insults, uncurling finger by cold finger until a small slip of paper fell from his palm and into the blood and mud below. He snatched it before it could soak through, drying it on the leg of his dark uniform and leaving yet another stain that would stay with him. A photo, a small girl, immortalised in black and white. Undoubtedly the soldier’s daughter, her nose and brow told, but she could just as easily be one of his own or of Alfred’s. He bit his lip and clutched it tight.

“What didja find?” Alfred inquired when Matthew did not move for a long moment.

“Nothing.” he whispered, tucking the photo into his breast pocket.

Alfred raised an eyebrow and approached the other, stepping on bodies, taking no notice of or enjoying the crunch of bone and flesh beneath his boots. Matthew really hoped it was the former. Within a second, Alfred had plucked the photo from his brother, observing it with distaste. “Fuckin’ pussy just like I said.” He tore it in two, without even blinking. “There’s no place for this shit here.”

Matthew stared, wide eyed, fingers clasping at his gun, at his trigger. With a sigh, his head merely fell forward, the lengthy breath fogging the glass of his spectacles. He took out a cigarette of his own, lit it, inhaled, and blew off a round into the dead soldier’s head. “I suppose you’re right.”

For a challenge. One sentence to write porn. The first one is England/Spain Elizabethan Era and also won me a most memorable entry where I posted it, the other Russia/America Cold War Era. Violence, sacrilege, sex sex sex. I also just realized they both end with neck. I like necks?

With a final moan, Spain finds himself arching against the other- the heavy, nearly identical crucifixes of their opposing faiths entangling between them- knowing that in the morning, England shall be gone, an enemy once more, and that there will be fresh bruises around his neck.

The metal of the gun presses harder against his skull with each harsh thrust, America gasping, sweating, for air through the thick cloth gag and digging his nails into the same wall he was pressed against, loathing- truly loathing- the Russian that left mocking kisses at the back his neck.

That's it for now.