Title: Viva La Vida
Characters: England, America, Japan, Turkey, OCs: Portugal, UK siblings
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG-13? (some cursing and vague notions of sex)
Disclaimer: NOTHING in this belongs to me. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. The lyrics and quotes and title belongs to Coldplay or Morrissey or God, even some of the OCs and the concepts. I am not writing this for profit at all.
Synopsis: a couple of encounters and a few words too many broke the weakest link in the chain
"With nothing I came out of my mother's body, and with nothing I will go back there; the Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; let the Lord's name be praised." – Job 1:21
1.
"Why do you think I let you get away
with all the things you say to me?
Could it be I like you?
It's so shameful of me, I like you."
I Like You by Morrissey
England blinks.
For a moment, no one breathes. Three pairs of eyes stare at one another, surprise, embarrassment, horror, amusement, flitting across facial expressions.
Japan is the first one to move. "Igirisu-san, I can explain," his voice is calm, despite the very visible blush dominating his cheeks and his naked chest.
England doesn't know whether he should laugh, cry, or merely breathe in relief. At least now he knows, truly knows, that the doors are closed for him. Aren't they?
"Are you…dating?" he's thankful his voice does not belay whatever is happening to the fist-sized organ under his ribcages.
"Of course!" molten gold hair and summer sky eyes enter his sight, forever bright, and forever out of reach. "We've been, for a while. Coz it's un-heroic to fool around. Not noble at all."
England blinks again. "Right."
Something akin to concern fills Japan's dark irises. "Igirisu-san-"
"Well, don't let me disturb you," England turns around and leaves. "You have my blessings, though you don't need it."
Before the door closes, the last words he hears are, "Aww, thanks, Iggy!"
Then, there is blissful silence.
2.
Roses talk to him in his sleep.
"Thank you," they say, red bleeding off white. The moon is purple, the sky is puce, and pasty fishes swim across the air. There is a pole up his chimney and white canvas stretched below the cross, the grasses below his feet swaying like waves. "Thank you, for the water, for the fertilizer, for rich soil and protection against pests, but we can't grow here, we want more." There is nothing you can give us.
But you are growing, aren't you? He wants to say. You're blossoming because of me. But nothing comes out of his lips. He touches his throat, and his voice box was nowhere.
He blinks, and the ivies grow, grow and grow, curl around his ankles and thighs and swathe his house like a blanket. Thorns pierce the fabric of his pants and claw into his skin but he does not bleed, his skin seems to absorb all the crimson that leeches off the roses.
There is a tug from his right hand – he does not realise it was previously occupied – and he turns to find eyes staring at him, dark brown and violet and cold, indifferent. There is nothing you can give us, Hong Kong says, and Singapore repeats it, then Seychelles, Uganda, Canada, a chorus of childlike voices-
When he wakes up, his fingers close around thin air.
3.
"You said WHAT?"
Scotland scowls. "I said I'm seceding," he repeats, "Christ, Cymru, yer neva one for loud screechin', don't start now." (1)
"Cachau (2)," Wales hisses and rubs his temple.
"And since Scotland leaves, I'm leaving too," Northern Ireland puffs his chest and grins.
"Chyfrgolla mae'n (3)," Wales curses louder. Oh God, they have one family gathering without him and the next moment he turns, he doesn't have a family anymore. "And Lloegr's (4) peachy about it."
"Ye know how the lil drama queen's like," Scotland replies, one prominent black eye twitching, which means things are not going to be pretty when Wales go back home. Oh fuck, fuck the idiots and control freak he has for brothers, fuck-
"Why now, Yr Alban (5), after three hundred years of union? Lloegr lets you do enough of your own things, no?" Wales asks in exasperation.
"He wants my people to fight in his brat America's war," (6) Scotland defends himself fiercely, dark green eyes flashing in determination, love and loyalty to his people shining in those familiar irises. "Like hell tha'll happen!"
Wales sighs. He cannot fault his oldest brother for that. "How about you, lil bugger?" he shoots Northern Ireland a glare so venomous the youngest sibling had only seen it once in his life.
"W-well," the redhead crosses his arms, "he gives me a lot of shit as well!"
Not convincing, Wales thinks, but he can drag the bugger back to Westminster by his ear later, after he deals with the drunkard he's certain he'll find in their shared home.
Sometimes, Wales finds it miraculous that England hasn't had an outbreak of liver failure or alcohol poisoning yet.
He prays it'll never happen.
4.
England blinks.
This is becoming a common occurrence, he thinks. He regrets not having drunk enough. Because then, he would have an excuse.
Now, he just knows, for certain, that he is to blame.
"Inglaterra?" oh, that quiet low voice he doesn't realise he has missed so much until he hears it again, England thinks. He has never appreciated his oldest ally enough. And now, he fears he's too late.
"My apologies," he gives Portugal (7) a wry smile. "You know I'm bad with turning up with advanced notice, Gab." He uses his nickname to show that he's not angry, he can't be angry when it's his fault (8).
"Ingiltere," Sadiq pulls out and pushes himself up to his hands and knees to let Gabriel scramble out from underneath him, his own nudity be damned. "It's not Portekiz's fault," Turkey speaks as Portugal gasps breathlessly, "I can explain." (9)
Of course not, England agrees with Turkey, for once. "Oh, no, don't let me interrupt," he hopes his smile looks all right – he's never good with smiling. America made fun of his attempt, once. Ah, memories, memories. "I'll come another time, Gab, with advanced notice."
"Inglaterra-" Gabriel curses when he was tangled in the bed sheets. "Arthur-"
The door closes before England can hear him.
5.
Wales is wearing the carpet thin with his pacing.
"Cymru, stop it," Scotland pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yer making me dizzy."
Wales shoots his brother a glare which screams 'Whose fault is it in the first place?'
Scotland ignores it. "I'm sure the lil drama queen is just aroun'…in a pub somewhere…or in a ditch, so piss'd he can't remember his address…" Has happened too many times, really, Scotland adds under his breath. Damn, he wants to get a wink before the sun rises.
"If that's the case, it won't take the faeries a long time to find him!" Wales reminds himself to not reach for his hair and tear it out. For goodness sake, he's totally underappreciated.
"May be they won't come near him caus' he stinks," screw it, Scotland thinks, and joins Northern Ireland, who is very dead to the world, on the couch. His eyes will stay close, he decides.
Wales continue to wear the carpet thin until somewhere in the house, the mechanic sound of a telephone rings. "'bout bloody time," Scotland grunts and beat his brother to the telecommunication device, "the cheek of tha' runt."
"Where th' fuck are ye?" Scotland growls at the telephone at the same time as someone from the other end says, "Arthur, please, I can explain-"
Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland, who is coming back to the world of the living, blink at each other.
"…Portugal?" Scotland guesses. It has been a long time since he has been to any world meeting. When he was still his own nation, world meetings weren't the in thing, and with England representing the United Kingdom, Scotland has – had, he reminds himself – not the need to.
"…Scotland," Portugal's voice changes, taking on the pride he's known to possess, yet the undertone of desperation is still there. "…I take it England is not there yet?"
"Portugal?" Wales shares the receiver with his brother. He's had more encounters with Portugal than Scotland anyways, by the time the Treaty was signed England had sort of 'conquered' him, although his people still rebelled and the Union had not formally occurred until 1536. "Portugal? Wales, here. Was Lloegr – I mean, Arthur, sorry – in your place?"
"By now, I think I should know who you're referring to by that name, Wales," Portugal replies, but in a warm, friendly tone, no trace of arrogance can be heard. "And yes, Inglaterra came here. But…" Here, he hesitates. "I'm afraid I was ill prepared to receive him."
Scotland hands the phone to Wales and smacks his face with his palm. "Fuck," a string of curses in Scottish Gaelic follows. "Fuck!"
"What?" Wales turns to his brother and frowns, the Kirkland eyebrows meeting on his temple. "What's wrong?"
Scotland rakes his fingers through his short dark hair, before snatching the receiver back and whispers. "…You were with Turkey, weren't you?"
"WHAT?" Northern Ireland's jaw drops, while Wales inhales a very sharp intake of breath. "Cachau," he curses, "Cachau!"
"How do you know?" Northern Ireland asks, partly in curiosity and glee, because he doesn't understand yet, he doesn't understand what this seven-hundred-year-alliance means to Lloegr, even though he takes it for granted most of the time.
And something wrong has happened at the beginning of this week, too, Wales thinks, the way Lloegr refuses to look at any photograph that contains his brat America, drinks twice his daily intake of tea and is tightlipped most of the time instead of half of it, and Wales' curses intensify in vehemence.
"France," Scotland says vaguely and shoots a look that drives Northern Ireland to quietness, because only then he seems to realise that what they're conversing about is not a bit of juicy gossip to be stored as 'ammunition' to rile their domineering brother. Wales is grateful.
"…There's something else I should know, isn't it?" sharp, perceptive Portugal. Well, to be in a 'marriage' with their repressive Lloegr for so long and actually loves him, Gabriel has to be.
Wales sends Scotland a withering look and the latter winces. "Yer right," he grunts at the phone. "It started at dinner yesterday…"
TBC
Translation/Note:
1. Author MASSIVE FAIL at Scottish English. Please help D:
2. Welsh for 'shit'
3. Welsh for 'damn it' (used google translate, if anyone of you can correct me, please do!)
4. Welsh for Logres (also Logris or Loegria), the name of King Arthur's realm in the Matter of Britain.
5. Likewise, Wales' nickname for Scotland
6. Part 3 is inspired by 'Family Ties' by hellzabeth. Go check her Livejournal out!
7. Portugal is not mine. He's based on an OC candesceres created. That said, I'm very sure what I wrote about Portugal is a lot less charming that hers. Go check her fics out! :D
8. Anglo-Portuguese Alliance's the oldest alliance still in place. Yet it was breached twice, by England – once during the British Ultimatum (The Pink Map) in 1890, and in 1961, when the Portuguese provinces of Goa, Daman and Diu were under assault by Indian Union army, Portugal requested UK's assistance, but it fell on deaf ears.
9. Turkey/Portugal is RL canon, if you consider present foreign policies between them. Portugal is one of the nations backing Turkey's membership in the EU.
10. I'm sorry if I'm making Northern Ireland sound so kiddish just because he's the youngest. If you have any comments about how you think he should behave, please tell me (nicely?)
11. You can tell I was experimenting with disjointed style earlier, but as night turns to morning I revert back to my original writing style -_-
Note is very long. Only in hetalia. Orz.
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