Growth

This is a 'lost' drabble set, containing several short pieces or writing and entries written for Hetalia_contest nearly… two years ago. There are a few entries that placed in the contest here (including one first); it was a good community, it sucks that it couldn't maintain the activity.

This drabble set…. Represents my mind, for a year. It presents a lot of my opinionated views and canon!verses, and I hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: none of the characters portrayed within belong to me; they are used, abused and played with, but returned safely. The characters may be based off of events but entirely subjectively, and therefore bare little affiliation with any named Countries or States as a citizen of the named state would.

A FURTHER NOTE: these will be set out in two-story sections, where applicable, by theme.

Summary: Amidst the shells of the Western Front, Francis learns the true meaning of 'The Allies'. A version of the D-Day Invasion.

AN/ This one shot one first place at the Hetalia_contest livejournal community.

Alliances

There was the sound of tearing fabric, before he felt cold fingers on his skin, his shiver at the icy touch indistinguishable from the tremors of his muscles as the hands progressed tentatively down his leg. The washing fog that swamped his head, making it hard to think without pain, revealed that he'd blacked out, although the fact that he could still feel anything at all, along with the cold, wet, slick feeling of the mud beneath him, also revealed that he had not been moved. His fingers twitched as the hands brushed across an open cut, withdrawing briefly at the touch of blood, before resuming their search. So this was the result of the invasion. To be hastily and messily searched in the mud of his ruined country, by his so called 'virtuous conqueror'.

Even if it was times of war, he'd expected more of the allemand salaud.

The search continued with increased thoroughness, the hands now silently, but efficiently, removing the excess of cloth that had been destroyed over the past couple of months, and, as his examiner found the area of infection, he was forced to clench down on his jaw muscles to muffle any sign of his awareness, almost biting through his tongue as pausing only momentarily, the other tore through the last of the tatters of his cuffs, the black, dried mass of clotted blood tearing too. There was the scuffle of boots in mud, as they examined the extent of the damage and Francis tasted the salt tang of metal in his mouth, before a moment of silence as they clearly finished their assessment.

"Shit."

The unforgiving fingers again, this time on his other, uninjured leg, patting it down briefly before moving back up to remove his belt and gun holster, dumping the items unceremoniously on the floor. There was another curse at the increase in tremors along Francis' body, despite is resistance, the mans disruption of the folds of his jacket sending a short, leaching draft of cold air that seeped away at what little heat he'd managed to conserve; before he felt the body heat of another against his cheek, and the fingers found his neck. His breath caught, and his eyes shot open, fingers twitching upward despite the situation to grasp the enclosed hand weakly, before freezing as he met startled olive eyes. There was a second, before he found his voice enough to manage a whisper.

"…Arthur?"

They stared at each other for a moment; the shock at his apparent awareness evident in the opposing mans face, before a blinding light ricocheted into the sky, throwing the whole area into sharp relief. The grime on the British man's face was illuminated, and as he looked back with a muffled 'shit!', Francis caught sight of the ships.

The British... had come back.

His half delirious mind didn't know what to make of that.

"Can you walk?"

It took him a second to break away from his thoughts and fully comprehend the question, but he couldn't help the look of incredulity that breached his features at the notion; never mind the situation, he couldn't concentrate on that right now - did this little man really think that if he could walk, he'd be lying here in the mud? His indignant laughter deteriorated into a coughing fit, however, before he could really sustain it, and with another curse from his inpromptu companion, his back was supported, until he could lean forward and cough up the black soot lining his lungs. After his breathing had settled, Arthur gave the cut on his leg another glance, before he threw away the scraps of bandage he'd managed to come up with in his earlier search. "Shit, Francis. What do you think we are trying to do here? You have limited food rations, no ammunition- you don't even have the medical supplies to treat yourself-"

There was a boom outside, before the patter of shrapnel, muffled only slightly by the frozen sand, reached them through the flickering light of the flare, and he could just make out the pain that flitted across the mans face as Arthur looked back to his ships. There was a startling crash, and he winced as his instinctive jolt relighted the burn in his leg, before he caught the sight of the new bout of flames as it sprang up on one of the front most battleships. The accompanying vibrations caused another section of their trench to collapse, splattering the two of them with mud.

A clatter in front of him brought his attention back to the British soldier as he returned his gun; before his eyes moved back to his with new focus and Francis felt his breath catch in his throat under its intensity.

"You're coming with me, Francis. To England."

How was he meant to deal with this?

He was frozen as Arthur leant forward, arm slipping beneath the other man until he had him pulled him up abreast, and the other was forced to cling to him as he gasped to breathe through the pain as his leg was disturbed. With a further sigh, he was moving again, and the elder man barely had the chance to cough out a slightly indignant 'wait' before the air carrying the words was pushed out of him, and he was hauled onto narrow shoulders. He took a few steps to the entrance of the trench, stumbling only slightly on the uneven ground, before he paused at the entrance, surveying the pockmarked distance between them and the open ships.

"Just shut up, you French bastard. As if we'd leave you behind. We are the 'Allies', three legged or no."

HEAT-SEAKING MISSILES

AN/ This is set in the beginning of 1939/41, where Russia reclaimed the Baltic states. It has hints of trust and relations I haven't gone into much, and although based on that time, is not really historically accurate, more of my fandom slipping through. xD Ivan and Latviaaaa. 3

Warmth.

When he awoke, warm, tentative fingers were smoothing across his torso. The touch was light, trailing light circles around his biceps, defining the ligaments, before the palms flattened to his skin; and the heat, warm, dithering, as if undecided, stayed. Ivan kept his eyes closed, his breathing regular. This was unusual of his friend, his little country; it seemed he didn't know he was awake. Light violet flashed slightly at the small brush of air that touched his back, Latvia's breaths, that smoothed into a constant rhythm, as if he would be about to sleep. He physcially relaxed, guard down; in Ivans bed, Ivans room, the worn, tattered paintings of sunflowers that had lightened it for years a pathetiic excuse for an idea of was little else to say, except that this move surprised him. As the hands paused slightly, and he felt the slight pang of regret, and the bite of ice that passed through the thin sheets, he was even stretched to say he surprised himself.

The hands resumed, moving slowly over his skin to settle at the base of his chest. Lost in the moment, Ivan remembered a second after he shifted- and his eyes flicked open to focus on the darkened sheets as he felt the hands retreat rapidly. The sheets rustled as he shifted his arm around, bringing himself up, before he looked over, calm purple meeting startled blue as they fluttered rapidly behind panicked lashes. This confirmed one thing, at least; he hadn't known he was awake, the prior movements were no trick -unless he had planned this- and the thought warmed him, in the cold room, as he reached out to brush the others cheek. He ignored the skin as it trembled lightly under his fingers. The messed strands trembled slightly as well, as he leaned over, careful, as if handling something delicate, and took a hold of the other mans shoulders, dipping his head to smell the golden strands of his hair; he could almost smell the sea on those strands, kissed by the sun.

His fingers moved farther, entangling into the warm strands of hair, until he, himself, could feel the heat, relayed by the sun, between his fingers. His grip tightened, ignorant of the little whimpers beneath him, as he turned, his body moving up and over, and he clutched the man, no, his prize, to himself. His grip only broke –slightly-, as there was a slightly larger yelp, and light purple irises finally open again as Ivan looked down at his nation, trailing his nose lightly through the sandy rays until he could he could kiss the flash of pale skin that he could reach. It was possessive, he was being possessive, he knew- but Stalin wouldn't know, couldn't know, and... it would be the only thing he would truly claim as his own, as it was the only thing he could claim, no one could take it from him. And, after all his work, it would be a gift; a gift he would award himself.

The body stilled beneath him, folding more comfortably into him, and Ivan felt the fire die down, the room cooling, and he let his grip loosen around the man. The other man made no more movement, consenting, finally, but the warmth had left, and Ivan moved back entirely, rocking back into the bed slowly, controlled, eyes still on the other man incase there was any other movement. There wasn't, and, uncomfortable in the silence, Ivan sent him a small, apologetic smile, the words light and vaguely amused in the fading room.

"Thank you, for coming back, Latvia. We missed you."

Silence greeted him as the young man made no response, and he waited until the breif rustle that signified a small, shaky nod, as this was how their relationship was, and was meant to be.

Other notes: It is of my opinion that Ivan is obsessed with heat, and when communist, doesn't follow his own rules.