![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
fic: drabbles
short stuff from Hetaliaholidays stocking exchange.
France was twirling his stupid gold hair and giving him that smug's cat look. England wasn't affected–at least, not affected in any way other than the same old irritation the frog had been giving him since he was a child.
Really.
The bar was half full and used to their arguments. England was ignoring the people around him, so he could properly give France the full attention of his scowl.
France considered his Le French Pretentious Wine or whatever the hell he'd ordered.
"You see, Angleterre, it is inevitable. You, me...no matter how many years pass, we'll still be here," Francis said.
"Nothing's inevitable," England snapped. "Except your idiocy."
"And your bad taste," France said. with a smile.
"And the fact that I am going to be sober tomorrow, but you will still be a lecherous Frenchman who will probably sleep with half the town by next week–not that I remotely care, mind you!"
"The lady doth protest too much," France said. "My, you sound a bit jealous."
"Don't you quote my bard at me!" England snapped.
France gave him that look, the one he gave to all the people and countries who eventually became conquests in bed, that determined, made of sex look that England was not entirely immune to. "I will quote anything I want at you. Shall we play the game of love?"
"Queen, too? Is nothing safe from your stupid sexy French lips?!"
That came out wrong.
France chuckled. "No. And especially not your profane English lips."
France leaned over and kissed him. England's head was swimming, he was warm, overheated, with so much sensation and heartbeat drumming that he could barely think straight.
As if he'd read his mind, France caught the punch England threw, caught his hand in his and smirked as he kissed England's knuckles. "Not this time, old enemy of mine."
"I hate you, by the way," England said.
"Your pants are saying otherwise," France said. England crossed his legs, but that didn't hide how tight his pants were feeling. "But I must leave. Enjoy your sexual frustration, rosbif."
"I really hate you!"
"Keep telling yourself that," France said, laughing as he went.
"I really do," England said sullenly as he drank a little more. "I really hate you most of all."
The wind outside roars, snow shifting white dust across the countryside. She's reminded of other times, when the walls weren't quite so thick. Thin sallow cheeks, the signs hunger have left on them.
But tonight is not such a night. Napoleon could not beat General Winter, but technology has gotten farther than leaders and tyrants ever could. Belarus looks ethereal, like Japan's lore of snow spirits who froze a man with a touch.
"Your cocoa is ready," Ukraine says.
Belarus doesn't care for sweet things much, but she puts up with it for Ukraine's sake. Ever since they were young, she's always been feeding them. Making borscht and kompot around the fire, spending holidays like the year wouldn't just overflow into a new reign of terror.
It's almost more for her sake than their sake. She needs to see them full and happy. Her cupboards are always filled to the point of almost overflowing. If they start to dwindle, she feels an unsettling twitch within her.
She just worries; it's what big sisters do. Belarus takes the cup with an almost suspicious glance. Ukraine still mourns for their innocence, for what they have become. But they are countries, so they keep living on, through tyranny and winter, hardship and losing any human they come close to.
She's stopped asking God why He is so cruel. She's run out of prayers to say.
She strokes Belarus's hair, and for once, Belarus does not shy away like a spooked cat, but allows Ukraine to comfort her.
"It will be better, tomorrow. You'll see," Ukraine says.
If life has taught her anything, it is how to lie to those she loves.
America doesn't focus on the strings of thoughts–impulses, ideals, ideas–that run through his mind. They simply come; they simply are. Sometimes he thinks of airships, or science and energy and space. Just as often, thoughts of England settle, as light as dust, soft as snow. If he closes his eyes, America can perfectly bring to mind England's smile (rare around him, he thinks, almost sad.)
He doesn't like to remember, for he is always in the moment, always active (and more often than not, the memories are unhappy ones) but sometimes they do come. In dreams of both waking and sleeping variety. He catches sight of England in the lilt of Sean Connery's Bond, and in TV commercials. When he has his daily Pumpkin scone at Starbucks, he remembers England, so determined and focused at the stove (and it wasn't that bad, he thinks. Not with England looking so eager, and so happy when America takes a bite.)
When another nation (usually France) comments on England's persnickety ways, America will most likely agree. Heartily, even. But somewhere deep inside, there's a fondness brewing over. He's laughing, but it's with happy memories.
But he never says these things, they just keep going on in a cycle as it starts again with a thought: England sure looks sad today.
Hetalia random prompt generator: Japan/Greece - Playing hard to get & Schmoop
Japan lays asleep in his lap. Usually it is the other way around, with Greece falling asleep on shoulders or laps, and Japan politely withstanding this, even if he drools.
It's rare for Japan to let his guard down like this. The last flight with all its turbulence and storms must've got to him. He's not a mortal, and he'd probably survive it, but it was still a stressful time, Greece thinks.
He's aloof in his politeness, like a cat. If you pursue him, he will gracefully evade with 'no comment's and apologetic refusals. Even when Greece, more than a bit smitten, has thought that he's caught Japan, Japan slips out of his grasp.
But if he doesn't pursue him,, if he stays quiet, Japan just might climb up and sleep on him and let Greece scratch him behind the ears. Philosophy and romance are just another form of cat studies to Greece. He's yet to find a better way to approach life.
France was twirling his stupid gold hair and giving him that smug's cat look. England wasn't affected–at least, not affected in any way other than the same old irritation the frog had been giving him since he was a child.
Really.
The bar was half full and used to their arguments. England was ignoring the people around him, so he could properly give France the full attention of his scowl.
France considered his Le French Pretentious Wine or whatever the hell he'd ordered.
"You see, Angleterre, it is inevitable. You, me...no matter how many years pass, we'll still be here," Francis said.
"Nothing's inevitable," England snapped. "Except your idiocy."
"And your bad taste," France said. with a smile.
"And the fact that I am going to be sober tomorrow, but you will still be a lecherous Frenchman who will probably sleep with half the town by next week–not that I remotely care, mind you!"
"The lady doth protest too much," France said. "My, you sound a bit jealous."
"Don't you quote my bard at me!" England snapped.
France gave him that look, the one he gave to all the people and countries who eventually became conquests in bed, that determined, made of sex look that England was not entirely immune to. "I will quote anything I want at you. Shall we play the game of love?"
"Queen, too? Is nothing safe from your stupid sexy French lips?!"
That came out wrong.
France chuckled. "No. And especially not your profane English lips."
France leaned over and kissed him. England's head was swimming, he was warm, overheated, with so much sensation and heartbeat drumming that he could barely think straight.
As if he'd read his mind, France caught the punch England threw, caught his hand in his and smirked as he kissed England's knuckles. "Not this time, old enemy of mine."
"I hate you, by the way," England said.
"Your pants are saying otherwise," France said. England crossed his legs, but that didn't hide how tight his pants were feeling. "But I must leave. Enjoy your sexual frustration, rosbif."
"I really hate you!"
"Keep telling yourself that," France said, laughing as he went.
"I really do," England said sullenly as he drank a little more. "I really hate you most of all."
The wind outside roars, snow shifting white dust across the countryside. She's reminded of other times, when the walls weren't quite so thick. Thin sallow cheeks, the signs hunger have left on them.
But tonight is not such a night. Napoleon could not beat General Winter, but technology has gotten farther than leaders and tyrants ever could. Belarus looks ethereal, like Japan's lore of snow spirits who froze a man with a touch.
"Your cocoa is ready," Ukraine says.
Belarus doesn't care for sweet things much, but she puts up with it for Ukraine's sake. Ever since they were young, she's always been feeding them. Making borscht and kompot around the fire, spending holidays like the year wouldn't just overflow into a new reign of terror.
It's almost more for her sake than their sake. She needs to see them full and happy. Her cupboards are always filled to the point of almost overflowing. If they start to dwindle, she feels an unsettling twitch within her.
She just worries; it's what big sisters do. Belarus takes the cup with an almost suspicious glance. Ukraine still mourns for their innocence, for what they have become. But they are countries, so they keep living on, through tyranny and winter, hardship and losing any human they come close to.
She's stopped asking God why He is so cruel. She's run out of prayers to say.
She strokes Belarus's hair, and for once, Belarus does not shy away like a spooked cat, but allows Ukraine to comfort her.
"It will be better, tomorrow. You'll see," Ukraine says.
If life has taught her anything, it is how to lie to those she loves.
America doesn't focus on the strings of thoughts–impulses, ideals, ideas–that run through his mind. They simply come; they simply are. Sometimes he thinks of airships, or science and energy and space. Just as often, thoughts of England settle, as light as dust, soft as snow. If he closes his eyes, America can perfectly bring to mind England's smile (rare around him, he thinks, almost sad.)
He doesn't like to remember, for he is always in the moment, always active (and more often than not, the memories are unhappy ones) but sometimes they do come. In dreams of both waking and sleeping variety. He catches sight of England in the lilt of Sean Connery's Bond, and in TV commercials. When he has his daily Pumpkin scone at Starbucks, he remembers England, so determined and focused at the stove (and it wasn't that bad, he thinks. Not with England looking so eager, and so happy when America takes a bite.)
When another nation (usually France) comments on England's persnickety ways, America will most likely agree. Heartily, even. But somewhere deep inside, there's a fondness brewing over. He's laughing, but it's with happy memories.
But he never says these things, they just keep going on in a cycle as it starts again with a thought: England sure looks sad today.
Hetalia random prompt generator: Japan/Greece - Playing hard to get & Schmoop
Japan lays asleep in his lap. Usually it is the other way around, with Greece falling asleep on shoulders or laps, and Japan politely withstanding this, even if he drools.
It's rare for Japan to let his guard down like this. The last flight with all its turbulence and storms must've got to him. He's not a mortal, and he'd probably survive it, but it was still a stressful time, Greece thinks.
He's aloof in his politeness, like a cat. If you pursue him, he will gracefully evade with 'no comment's and apologetic refusals. Even when Greece, more than a bit smitten, has thought that he's caught Japan, Japan slips out of his grasp.
But if he doesn't pursue him,, if he stays quiet, Japan just might climb up and sleep on him and let Greece scratch him behind the ears. Philosophy and romance are just another form of cat studies to Greece. He's yet to find a better way to approach life.