Title: Why Do My Clouds Look Like Genitalia?
Summary: A series of drabbles that detail the Hetalia casts' parenting abilities at… well, not their proudest moments. Crack. Updated daily.
(PS I'm fairly certain that I'm shitting this out from the darkest corners of my colon and general anal cavity.)
(PSS Read this out loud in a slurred, dramatic, British accent for the full effect.)
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The evening was hung like a boy who hit puberty only halfway. The thickest fog the vicinity had ever witnessed clung to every surface with sticky, pudgy fingers. The cloud had essentially become the planet's snuggie. Arthur Kirkland, working that five o' clock shadow with a pair of dark, dangerous green eyes, gazed out the window of his study. His dilated pupils tried to make out shapes in the cloud-because that's what everyone did with clouds, they just seem to forget that fog counted too.
He couldn't really see anything. A couple patches looked lighter in areas. Lumpy. Next to more lumps. Testicular cancer?
Blast, one knows they're getting old when genital failure is what he sees in the figures dreamers look to for ships to take their imagination away.
"Papa! papa!" A little boy yells from across the house, knocking over and breaking what was probably a priceless family heirloom. "I broke the vase above the fireplace!" Oh, so it wasn't a family heirloom, it was just priceless. He promptly heard sobbing from the same voice, getting shriller with the second. He may have apologized a few times, but Arthur didn't particularly care.
"You get your arse in here this instant, you bloody wanker!" he yelled, his voice carrying to probably even the neighbors' houses. "And be prepared to tell me what the deuce happened! You're supposed to be asleep, you sleazy nutbag, not filching through the cabinets for my rum. Where did I go wrong raising you, you little-!"
Oh, balls! The boy knocked over a chair on his way into the room. Clumsy oaf, that one was. Entirely not his genes. Definitely the boy's mum's. In no way was that his faulty boy's faults his fault.
"Here, Papa," he said quietly, his eyes tinged pink with salty tears.
Arthur beckoned him closer with a finger. When the boy got within an arm's reach, he popped him on the head. "How old are you, boy? Fourteen already?"
"Eight, Papa."
"Right, so what the bloody hell is wrong with you? Can't you walk straight like a normal twleve year old? Can't stay straight, next thing you know, you'll turn out like, well, and be a bloody fa-"
"Papa, I'm sorry! I honestly didn't see it!"
"My arse! Blast, how do you not see the thing? It was just there, blocking half the doorway!"
He sobbed again. "Well, I just can't see. I think I need glasses, Papa."
"It's a bloody chair! The last thing you hit was a fireplace—a blasted wall, guarded by fire! How did you miss that, boy?"
The boy's response was lost on Arthur. He just stared at the child, biting his tongue and rolling around thoughts through his head. The boy resembled the boy's mum. Thus, all his faults were her faults. She had glasses. Passed that gene on down.
The kid probably wasn't even his. That'd explain the high cheekbones and the way his hair did that thing that hers did. Why, he was already six years old and couldn't even read Shakespeare.
Oh, wait, the boy was talking.
"Do you forgive me, Papa?"
Arthur blinked. His lazy, green eyes stared at him for a solid, silent minute. His son gulped many times and began sweating, nervous as the first shaved monkey slapped on the butt into space.
"I should've named you Oberon."
The child blinked. He wiped a tear. "Papa?"
"Or Sylvester."
His son fiddled with this fingers and looked down at his feet.
Arthur snapped back to reality a few moments afterward. "Whatever. Get out of here, you little brat. Scat! Don't hit the bloody door on the way out!"
He sighed heavily and rubbed his temples.
Arthur turned his eyes back out the window. The fog still looked like a bunch of ballsacks to him. Except, the occasional wispy area looked a wee bit like smoke. Speaking of, he could use one…
He reached over fumbled around the desk. "Bloody family, bloody house. The bloody hell is life, anyway? Just born to sit around and beat it while we watch littler people fumble around and make our mistakes…" he mumbled more articulately than he thought he was capable of at the moment. It was four in the morning, what the bloody hell was he supposed to be doing, anyway? Work?
Halt; think for a minute. What… what was his job again? And why was his boy up for this late? Was he a scandalous little seventeen year old, sneaking out to hook up at parties already? The nerve!
Arthur lit up. It didn't matter. He took a puff and smiled. Ah, weed. Without it, he wouldn't be able to be a proper, gentlemanly father.