FOR THE LOVE OF PASTA, READ THE DAMN WARNING!
IT IS THERE FOR A REASON…..
Warning: Some of these stories(not all) in the coming chapters will contain Yaoi. Yaoi is boy x boy love, man meat on man meat, all wieners-no buns. If you are not into that, do not read or complain. You have been fairly warned.
…
If you are driving the short bus and still don't get it, Yaoi=Gay.
This story and Axis Powers Hetalia depicts people and persons as the direct personification of that nation/country, so if this concept bothers you, this might not be the right story for you, especially if you are unable to mentally grasp that these nations are centuries years old despite their outward appearance.
All people, persons, nations, and whatever represented in these stories are of legal age. No minors of any kind are depicted in these stories by the author, personal perception(s) of the reader(s) aside. Keep walking pedobears, nothing for you here.
It boils down to this-
IF YOU DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ. IT'S THAT FREAKING SIMPLE!
"FACEPALM"…FOR THE LOVE OF DOITSU AND BEER…..
I have nothing against any characters/states/nations of Hetalia. I understand that everyone has their favorite characters/pairing. I know I do. If you don't like how a character(s) is portrayed, please don't be a hater about it. If you think the writing is shit(I don't know what you expect-it already states I'm a hack on my profile), then write your own damn story about the nations. It is a lot easier to critic that create. Please keep that in mind. And once again-
IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, DON'T READ! NOT A HARD CONCEPT!
Enjoy. 3
APH UsUk Wishlist-Red
Arthur had not worn red for centuries…..which was a real shame in of itself because the nation looked positively smashing in the bright color. He was vaguely considering this concept while looking at winter coats.
Arthur had lost Alfred already to some video game store there in the mall so he was perusing the clothing stores all by his lonesome. It was just as well though. He could now take his time without Alfred hovering over him, complaining constantly about being bored, hungry, horny, or all three.
His long fingers found themselves lingering over some crimson fabric, velvety soft to his touch. It was a jacket that caught his full attention against his will. The garment was in an older style that was making the fashion rounds again. Everything old was new again apparently. Arthur snorted at the particular thought, studying the jacket further. It would hit him mid-thigh and cinch nicely at his slender waist, almost reminiscent of his Victorian frock coats. The front was double breasted in the style he preferred with smart jet black buttons and detailing upon it for decoration. He just knew it would look stunning on him, Arthur pausing in his examination to press it up to his shoulders in mock fitting.
It really was a damn shame…
He sat in the mud that had come up to his ankles standing and wept openly to the falling sky. England had just lost everything he had held dear to him…
…..everything he had ever truly loved…
His pirate coats had been the best, always made of the highest quality damask and decorated with real gold accents. He had been so enamored with the color of blood and fine wine that when Arthur finally kicked Spain off of his ocean for good, one of his conditions with the exodus was that the Spaniard could never wear red at sea again.
His officer's coats were more of a scarlet but no less impressive. They had always been made of the finest silk and starched cottons, so precise and refined in their executions.
Arthur's personal apparel though had been the true things of tailored beauty. Tunics in fiery shades, cloaks saturated with rouge, and robes so soft they seemed spun of gossamer and down. All in shades of scarlet and gold, always the two….his colors…
…his symbols….
…..…his loss.
Rain pelted him relentlessly, the weather even lacking in mercy on this dark day of days. The battlefield was empty save for the victorious dead. The living had trailed away a long time ago to seek out warm shelter when all was said and done, some broken, some triumphant, all cold and very tired.
They left the nations there, one standing and one kneeling, in the middle of wasteland that had once been a wheat field, until all that could be heard was the continuous fall of rain and the random calls of birds.
England didn't bother speaking. America had already said more than enough for them both. His colony…..no, a new nation conceived in liberty….now stood uneasily before him, shifting his weight from boot to boot as water streamed off of him in rivulets. England continued to stare down at his hands, his silent tears mixing seamlessly with the sky's own. It was America of course who broke their heavy silence and began their farewells first, as they were.
"You have to go."
England flinched as if struck. His treacherous mind remembered a much younger voice instead, begging him to stay.
"I won…..you have to leave Ar….England."
England made himself look up into his former colony's face. It was thin from the hardships of winter that had threatened to ruin him. It was filthy with dirt and blood as well but England expected his own visage was not looking much better in comparison. His expression was a fragile thing though, filled with a mixture of conflicting emotions. His lips said 'stay'…..but his eyes….
His eyes…they were resolved…and so cold.
War had made America lose the summer of his eyes. They were still that incredible blue that made England's breathe catch in his throat, there was no doubt about that. The warmth and light that had made every dangerous journey across an angry Atlantic sea worth it was gone though. All that was left was winter of the heart, and ice in those too blue orbs.
England felt a lesser being for it, having had a hand in its demise. His child of spring and golden wheat fields was gone forever, lost to the tides of time, shed blood, and foolish pride.
"Leave now and take your damn redcoats with you. I'm tired of seeing them…..like bloodstains on my lands…"
When England made no move to leave, America left him without another word, perhaps too tired to continue. England watched him walk away, his emerald eyes never straying from the blue of his uniform until it merged seamlessly with the weather from sight.
England had left soon afterward but not before stripping off his coat to leave it there on the field of the fallen.
Upon his somber return, England had purged his closets, his bedroom, his house, of anything and everything in the shade of red. His wardrobe went into mourning. Black and silver were now his colors, in solemn hues of raven, midnight, and soot accented only with the coldness of the moon's metal.
Fashion followed his example eventually, the Victorian Age further enforcing the trend. England avoided red like the plague, downright refusing to wear it. He cited any excuse and even used his influence as a nation to make exception to his case in times of conflict when his services were needed by crown and country.
By the time a real war came around again, the tactics of battle had changed considerably. Much to England's relief, so had the uniforms. His attire was green now. Green was good. It was safe. It meant life. He could live with that.
And then America came wandering back into his life, not once but twice, the Isolationist dragged practically kicking and screaming into European conflicts that threatened to engulf the globe into chaos. Their World War I meetings had been brief and awkward. They stayed focused on the business at hand and when it was all said and done, America left without even so much as a goodbye or fare thee well.
Funny thing was though the second time round and against all odds, he stayed.
Surprisingly, England found his home invaded not with Germans, but by an American who could be found more reliably at his own London home than on the air bases or in the offices. England of course told at him to leave, ignored him when he didn't, and then threw things as at the American when all that failed as well.
America just kept coming back though, for whatever reason….to annoy him from paperwork, to make fun of his eyebrows though he couldn't stop looking at them, to insult his cooking though he ate every bite of it even the scones and marmite….and refusing to leave his side no matter how nasty they got with each other or how long they fought for.
Sometime during all of this, England realized that America had gotten the summer back into his eyes, and just like before they were only looking at him.
Arthur sighed, a sound of happiness mingled bittersweet with melancholy, a sad smile to help company it. He still didn't wear red but now it seemed worth it.
He put the crimson coat back and moved on.
If one were to ask Alfred what his number one guilty pleasure was in life, they would be quite surprised to find out it was not burger binging. Watching Arthur came above all else, mostly because the ancient English nation was a truly funny being to observe in secret. Habits and certain behaviors were so engrained into him that half the time, Arthur wasn't even aware of them.
Simply put, Alfred loved to spy on Arthur.
'Absence makes the heart grow fonder' were truer words never spoken. It also made for some fascinating rediscoveries as well between the past and present. For one thing, Arthur still slept light…and armed as Alfred had found out pointedly with a knife pressed to his throat on more than one memorable occasion. He always announced himself to bed now no matter how late it was. Newer quirks Alfred noticed though were at meetings. When bored, Arthur would twirl his pen around his long nimble fingers and hold it like he would a weapon, gripping the writing implement as he would a sword or dagger with his thumb and forefinger firmly in place while keeping the other three digits relaxed and flexible. Alfred found himself worrying for France occasionally based solely on how Arthur was holding his fountain pen that day.
Or the way Arthur would talk to himself when he trying to work out something in his head, running endless scenarios and outcomes through his mind. He would converse with himself softly, mumbling out random things. It was completely different than from when he was speaking with his imaginary friends. It was far more subtle and was sometimes accompanied with small hand gestures as notions were dismissed or granted further leeway.
Alfred especially loved when Arthur would sing to himself. They were ancient songs, long forgotten by anyone living and sung softly in languages far older than the American. That or the English nation would sing random punk songs at the oddest of moments. Arthur only sang for his own amusement though so actually getting to hear it was the rarity of rainbows.
Game hunting was only a false pretext so that Alfred could follow Arthur through the mall and into a men's clothing store unnoticed. Normally, Alfred was in and out of those kind of places. He was far too busy to browse, but Arthur was so focused on what he was buying it was adorable to Alfred. He watched intently as Arthur paused in his perusal on a particular jacket, stunning in of itself by its deep shade of crimson alone. Complex expressions flitted across Arthur's face as he looked at it, absently stroking the sleeve of the garment. He even went so far as to take it off of the rack, placing it to his shoulders for sizing.
Alfred hummed to himself in appreciation of the selection. He remembered Arthur in red. Nothing was better or brighter than the old pirate disembarking from his ship still clad in his captain's coat, like a ruby clasped in glittering gold smelling of sea salt and strange rain. Alfred would always greet him on the dock, burying his face in the thick damask as he hugged his keeper in welcome.
While he stayed with America and the pair were getting ready for bed, Arthur had worn this robe of woven silk fringed with delicate gold embroidery, detailing roses and ivy across its supple expanses. Alfred could still perfectly remember how the scarlet of the fabric had turned Arthur's skin from just pale to alabaster and made his spiky messy hair glitter in new shades of precious metallic. It brought out his eyes the best though, Arthur's clover eyes made surreally green from the contrast in colors. Alfred also remembered the way the silk clung to Arthur slender form, accentuating the effortless grace of it.
Alfred shivered in light of his memories, fully appreciating them now in his maturity. Arthur simply emitted sex and power while dressed in red as no other nation could…
…..but he hadn't seen him wear it in centuries, not even once during their sixty plus years of dating.
Alfred let out a huff of dismay as he watched Arthur put the coat back were he had found it with a strange expression of strained longing on his face. Arthur wanted the damn thing, that much was obvious so why the hell did he put it back?
Now that he was really thinking about it, when was the last time he had seen Arthur wearing anything red? Alfred wracked his brain, scrunching up his face in thought. The last time was …..
…oh….
Alfred felt his lower gut clenched painfully tight in memory, remembering words he had said as clear as the day they were uttered. They had been spoken out of stress, lingering anger, but most of all ,worry from his troubled head, not his heart.
"Aw, sheeeeeee-it!…..I gotta fix this.", Alfred mumbled. Slapping a carefree grin on his face, Alfred managed to sneak up on his Brit who had become deeply involved with another jacket though this one was nowhere as nice ,being black and very plain in comparison.
"Find anything, babe?", Alfred asked overly loud, making Arthur jump. His thoughts must have been haunting him because Alfred noticed Arthur didn't even bother to snap at him about the term of endearment. A blush painted itself over his pale cheeks though, Arthur merely shrugging in answer, not trusting his voice at the moment. He turned away from the American in an effort to collect himself. Alfred pressed his advantage though, leaning bodily over his lover to look at the jacket in his hands with an exaggeratedly bored expression.
"Is that what you are gettin'?", Alfred asked, wrapping his arms around Arthur's shoulders.
"It's pronounced 'getting', you illiterate git, and yes.", Arthur said dismissively, squirming under the public display of affection as he scowled up at the American. He was treated to one of Alfred's long suffering faces.
"Boring!", Alfred groaned, "You always buy black. Live a little, dude, and do us all a favor. Discover color."
"Says the nation who has been wearing the same abysmal bomber jacket since the 1940's if I'm not mistaken.", Arthur said dryly, shrugging off Alfred to move out from under him. His efforts were awarded with a full kicked puppy dog pout.
"Hey babe, this is vintage. The real deal here. None of that fake hipster BS.", Alfred countered, flicking his fingers at the trademark coat's brown leather.
"Yes, yes. You are on the bloody pulse of the industry.", Arthur smirked, "I'm not about to take any fashion tips from you, oh wearer of jeans and supposedly clever t-shirts.".
"My t-shirts are wicked clever. Don't be a hater about it just cause I find them first.", Alfred maturely stuck out his tongue, "Anyway, I bet I can still find something better than that." Arthur rolled his eyes in response to the bating, gesturing toward the rest of the store.
"Please. By all means then. Astound me.", Arthur mocked flatly. Alfred grinned, seeing his opening. He feigned looking through the racks until he came to that gorgeous coat.
"Boo Yaw! Like this!", Alfred cheered, "This would look great on you!". As he presented the garment, Alfred watched Arthur's face pale noticeably, his fingers nervously working into the fabric of the dark coat his held.
"B-but black is good enough…..It's durable…..doesn't stain….", Arthur started to trot out all of the tired excuses he had been telling himself for what seemed like forever. He was looking everywhere, except the item in Alfred's hands. The American was not going to give up though, not that easily. He took the dull black garment from Arthur's unresisting hands to toss it aside.
"At least, try it on! You can't say 'no' just cause I picked it.", Alfred laughed, pushing Arthur toward the dressing room, who let himself be led there, even allowing Alfred to help him out of his old jacket to slide on the new one. It looked like it had been made for him specially, the rose colored garment fitting the nation like a glove. Arthur smiled at his reflection, the effects on his bearing almost immediate. Alfred's as well, the nation found himself unable to drag his eyes away from the Englishman's form. All he could think of reasonably was that he would have call in a favor to Japan and have his friend overnight him a robe, something elegant and refined. It would have to rival his own memory but Alfred believed if anyone could pull it off, Japan could. His friend was nothing if not thoroughly meticulous.
The spell was broken by a small sigh emitted from Arthur's lips, the nation slipping the garment off.
"It's lovely, but I just can't.", Arthur murmured in answer to Alfred's questioning look. He began to redress the hanger when light fingertips caressed his cheek. Arthur looked up into ever bright azure eyes of endless summer.
"Yeah you can. I miss seeing you in red. You always wore it so well.", Alfred said in a soft tone, trying to pick his words out carefully, "My good memories of you in it far outweigh the bad."
"But…..", Arthur started. Fingers pressed against his mouth as lips touched his forehead in a tender gesture.
"Quit punishing yourself for something that was both our fault. It takes to two to tango, ya know.", Alfred reminded, pulling the other nation into a tight hug, "I never stopped wearing blue, though that particular shade of it would always make me feel real sad." The gesture was returned with barely a nod in answer. Alfred stroked his lover's shaking back, ignoring the other store's patrons and glaring at the ones who decided to come too close to them. He also amused himself by thinking of other things Arthur could wear in that bright color, most of it made of leather and not a lot of it.
"You're thinking of something kinky and perverted.", Arthur grumbled hoarsely, his eyes slightly swollen and red as he looked up.
"Maybe….How you do know?", Alfred grinned teasingly. Arthur snorted, drawing away to fix his attire and straighten up, having remembered they were still in public.
"You were drooling.", Arthur grumbled, folding the crimson garment over his arm.
"Whatever. That could mean anything.", Alfred shrugged.
Arthur raised a bushy eyebrow at him, "Why am I not surprised?".
"You can be all sorts of 'not surprised' you want. I just got one question for ya.", Alfred grinned as he struck a heroic pose. Arthur ignored the passersby stopping to stare at the American, quite used to it by now.
"And what would that be, poppet?", Arthur asked distractedly as he made a mental note to talk to Alfred…..again….about doing weird, unnecessary poses in public, especially when he was around him.
"Did I astound the shit out of you or what?"
"Git."