So, a one-shot for y'all to enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia franchise, characters, or any of the fabulous other artwork created by Himayura for this fantastic fandom. Unfortunately.
Eyes and Lips
"The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history."
―Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
A Cheshire cat grin and poison eyes.
The combination was electrifying, captivating, and floating in the gloom in a mysterious form of danger.
Alfred couldn't say why he chose to approach it, favoring that dark corner over the glimmering, glossy butterflies that were dancing on the winds of the fields behind him.
He didn't know why he chose to follow the acid green eyes, and that mischievous smile.
He didn't know that it was spelling out his future.
It was those same eyes that he was gazing at through the dirty rain of the Revolution, dulled in their acerbic nature with the cloudy pain of betrayal. That Cheshire grin was gone, replaced with a somber frown, painted there by treachery.
.||.
Fairytale eyes and whisper smiles.
Arthur was entranced at first sight.
He was ecstatic when those eyes, and those smiles, came to be his alone.
The amalgam was gentle, innocent, and tempting with its sincerity.
He didn't know why he chose to entrance those fairytale eyes, and those whisper smiles.
He didn't know that this would be his future.
He didn't know that those fairytale eyes would change into steel, or that those whisper smiles could be so frightfully feral.
.||.
Alfred watched as those poison eyes danced merrily with the reflection of the flames that were eating his first white house. There was a terrible mirth in them, a cruelty that Alfred had never been acquainted with.
That Cheshire cat grin danced merrily through the smoke, smoke painting over the teeth in a murky mime of blood.
"Please, Alfred," spoke those lips, falling open and shut as speech so desired, "stay out of my affairs, and I shall try harder to stay out of yours. Upstart little fledglings must know their place, and I am afraid that you have overstepped your bounds. Let this be a lesson to you, yes?"
Alfred spat at Arthur's feet, those icy eyes like shards of their namesake, cool and frosty. "I would not have felt such a need to intervene, England, had you not imposed yourself on my global relations. I am yours no longer, please do remember that." His hands were opening and closing in fists of anxiety and rage, betraying his age with their nervous action.
Arthur's quick, acid eyes caught the motion, and a slow, horrible laugh slipped from his cruel smile. "Oh, little America, there is much you have left to learn when it comes to this world. Do enjoy rebuilding your White House, I should love to see a newer model."
He pivoted on one, polished, booted heel and made his easy, meandering way along the path that lead to-and-from the white house, leaving the smoke, flames, and acrid smell of burning things in the hands of his 'fully capable' ex-colony. His shoulders were square under the redness of his coat, and he could feel those frigid eyes boring icy holes into his back, but refused to let them freeze his motions.
He was stronger than those whisper smiles, after all.
.||.
Those poison eyes touched on their fairytale counterparts at the close of the Mexican-American War.
The other pair were not as innocent as they'd been since the last clash. They held the haunted, paleness of ghosts. But those whisper smiles were still there, steadily growing more brilliant for all the luster they had to offer.
Alfred was standing with his hands on his hips, peering off into the vast lands of the newly claimed western territory.
Alfred now officially stretched from the Atlantic to the Pacific.
Arthur had to say that he had never anticipated the tiny colony to become so grand. But surprises were a constant when it came to the United States.
"I'm going to rule this world one day, Arthur," mentioned Alfred. Both were passably civil towards one another, as the years had progressed from the 1812 incident. Relations had improved between their bosses, their people had cooled somewhat.
"You would have to tear me from my throne first, my dear boy," said the British Empire blithely, peering at his nails with a transient weariness.
"Who says I have to?" murmured America, well aware that it was loud enough for England to hear. Neither made a comment after that.
The ghosts of the blue and the acid of the green watched the gentle waving of the golden grass beneath the hopeful blue skies. The rustle of grass-blade against grass-blade was the only sound that permeated the breezy air, and Arthur realized that maybe Alfred wasn't so silly in his religious credence in Manifest Destiny.
Because out here, surrounded by the peaceful ebb and flow of the wind and the earthy, fresh, virgin smell of the soil all about them, anything felt possible.
.||.
The Civil War poured salty sweat in those icy eyes, thawing them easily. Sneers and snarls took away the whisper smiles.
Alfred was tearing apart, his simple, bullish world shattering into smoke, blood, agony, and impending death.
His bangs were pasted to his forehead, and as Arthur watched, he writhed angrily about on the bed. He was panting, heaving for breath, back arching off of the thin flimsiness of the mattress he lay upon, as if desperately searching for a reprieve to release the tormented soul inside.
Arthur's Cheshire grin was gone, though his expression was not as tortured as it had been during the Revolution.
He did not enjoy seeing America in so much pain.
A cold, callused hand reached out to trace along the corded veins, and livid muscles of Alfred's bare upper body as the boy swirled back into his bed, lost once more in the nightmarish hell of his dreams.
He was not allowed to intervene in America's war, not that he'd want to. That was not his battle to fight. But that didn't mean that he couldn't watch, that he couldn't pray to whatever higher power it was that existed that America-dear, sweet America-would be alright. That this war would not shred him into pieces of himself.
Arthur wasn't there when America awoke, heaving and gagging and sweating some more. He'd disappeared a good few hours earlier, though Alfred could still feel the lightest of touches along his forearm, and the seemingly nonexistent brush of fingers through his sticky bangs.
Groaning, thin, translucent eyelids fluttered back over the ghost eyes, and he was asleep once more, diving unwillingly back into his perpetual loop of monsters.
.||.
The bug-eyes of the mask obscured the acidity of the real eyes beneath. The long, strange muzzle hiding the Cheshire grin easily. The chlorine gas, and thank God it was only chlorine gas, floated benevolently through the trenches, sliding through unprotected soldiers' nostrils, and down their throats.
They probably wouldn't survive the night, as asphyxiation was generally a problem where chlorine gas was concerned.
Arthur walked through the trenches, the gas mask still secured firmly to his face, leaving no room for the noxious fumes to slip in. His gun was held at the ready-position, lest any Huns slide out of the murky air and attack.
A shape rose out of the smoke before him, cutting a dark figure against the light gray of the chlorine gas, hulking and tall.
It took Arthur all of two seconds to shoot Ludwig to the ground, having recognized that putrid yellow hair. He hit both of Germany's kneecaps before rushing over and sliding the other gun from the country's pain-wracked grip.
He then viciously, and happily, ripped off Germany's gas mask, watching with a wicked pleasure as those stony blue eyes widened with knowledgable horror, that geometric mouth angling open in perfect terror.
Arthur's mouth pulled back in its fiendishly sharp grin with the practiced ease of one who had performed many an illicit action in his time.
He knew that Ludwig wouldn't be able to see his facial expression beneath his gas mask; he knew that Ludwig wouldn't be able to hear him. But he also knew that Ludwig was well enough aware of his quirks to understand that Arthur meant every single detestable action.
He wanted Ludwig to suffer as much as the Germanic nation was punishing him.
When Alfred came to World War I, ghosts were still translucent in his baby-blues. He'd gotten over his civil war, though perhaps not the death count. His uniform was spotlessly tan, which quickly turned dark brown as he entered the trenches.
He was peering about with a splashed mix of wonder and trepidation at the sorry state of the French and British trench lines, and the even sorrier state of the French and British soldiers.
They'd weathered the war longer than the American troops would.
As the months progressed in the dirty muddiness of the trenches, Arthur was rewarded with chancing glances of the fairytale eyes of old. They were only caught at peeks during card games, or through hidden eyelashes from the compacted dirt floor of one of the dugouts.
But despite the personal hell that America had weathered through, he was not prepared for a war on the world stage. He wasn't ready for the blood and gore that came with trench warfare.
When the War to End All Wars drew to a wearying and much appreciated close, Alfred packed up and moved his ghost eyes, and whisper smiles back to the homeland, bearing shell shock on his surprisingly broad shoulders.
Arthur was left in England with the flavor of America's quick tongue on his lips and the taste of mud clogging the back of his throat.
.||.
Lips pulled back from a feral grin with a viciousness all their own as Great Britain drove forward, bent double at the waist and scooping his feet along the Romantic soil of South Italy.
The War to End All Wars seemed to have only been meant to start a new one, and Germany was once more on the move, though with the surprising support of Italy and Japan as 'The Axis.'
England's eyes were just as bitter as they had been in World War One, as the Great War had so thoughtfully been renamed. The issue of America's continued isolation had been pushed to the back of his mind in favor of more immediately relieving issues to deal with. Alfred was stubborn at his best and downright illogical at his worst.
And so when December 6, 1941 was marked by the egregious blunder of Japan, Arthur felt a mix of joy and sympathy.
Alfred would now have no choice but to join the war.
The icy eyes were back with all of their immovable rage. Japan had made a mistake in dragging America into the war, Arthur could see that as those lips sharpened into a sharkish grin, malicious and terrible and thrilling all at once.
America was here, and America intended to bring Japan to his knees. Arthur was more than pleased with the turn of events, and for once those lips weren't taken over by that disobedient smile, but rather with an earnest grin. America could raze Japan to the ground, and England would finally have the force to back him up that was necessary for himself to exact his own revenge on the particularly annoying thorn that was Germany.
Acid clashed with ice, and the two melted together to form a dangerous blend.
The night before the second try at D-Day was a heated one. Poison green eyes were half-lidded, blinking with a throbbing lust and want as the owner of a particularly magnificent pair of azure eyes worked his way down Arthur's bare chest. The two had allocated themselves some ground behind one of their tents and were thoroughly engrossed in the other.
The sun had just set, and they were supposed to be in their respective tents, but rules weren't as important when you were about to head to a war zone. They knew that within the span of only a couple of hours they would each need to board their separate planes and drop into occupied France, loyal Paratroopers intent on victory. But until their complete attention was needed, they planned to spend one more night in the lavish attention of one another's arms.
Alfred's kisses were hot, open-mouthed, and shiver-inducing. The boy knew all the right places to press and nip, no doubt expertise that he'd gathered in the dirty frog's company, but expertise that was much appreciated all the same.
Britain suddenly leaned forward, pulling America's head up to press a sharp kiss to his lips. He was desperate then, for what he didn't know, but his acid eyes fluttered shut as his hands slid to Alfred's jaw, feeling the soft skin and sturdiness of bone.
America seemed to know what his adored counterpart was on about as no noise of confusion or attempt to move away was made.
After the first haste in their lovemaking, they slid into something that was much more languid and gentle. Whispers were hitched on swollen lips, fingers dipped along curves and hollows of throats, and hips, and waists. Nothing else sharp was attempted, soft and heated kisses were the norm, tongues and limbs tangled, and hair slid between the fingers of sweaty hands.
Neither slept that night, though they knew they were immortal and would have all the time in the world to see one another again and again and again. Saying goodbye never grew easier, no matter how much time had passed.
The minute the war in Europe was won, the icy eyes and whisper smiles were taken from Arthur's grasp and shipped quickly to the Pacific. The next time he saw them would be when they were once more filled with ghosts, though it wouldn't be the ghosts of his own people, but rather the dead souls of the countless Japanese lives that had been taken by the two atomic bombs.
And as Arthur held those ghost eyes close, he realized that Alfred had achieved what he set out for.
He now ruled the world.
.||.
The Cold War was about as cold as North Africa had been, which was not very cold at all.
Alfred's eyes, as they were apt to, had changed once more, from cold and emotionless to tumultuous and unpredictable, like the ocean during a particularly nasty storm.
Arthur couldn't trust him anymore, and when he tried to speak up against Alfred's hysteric paranoia, he found no real conscience in the stormy eyes.
The acidity in his own eyes had melted down as well, into something infinitely gentler, perhaps more akin to the rolling green of his lands than the cold beauty of his once vast vaults of Indian jewels.
It was those same soft eyes that watched as the not-so-cold Cold War came to a boiling head. It was those same eyes that stood alongside America on the American side of the standoff, staring directly back and-perhaps with the same dangerous poison of his aura of old—at Russia.
Purple eyes are marvelously deceptive. They are meant to be silky as lavender, welcoming and comforting and trustworthy. But not Russia's eyes; they weren't as Matthew's were. They held a layer of poisoned plum under their first suppleness. They were burning with a warning of the purplish pits of hell, and Arthur knew that America didn't like it.
England stepped back, for once not wanting to see what was happening on the seas. His eyes moved along the walls of the control room, not much caring if America had a stare off with Russia so long as no missiles were fired.
And Thank God, none were, as America and Russia slid back into their fine beds of Democracy and Communism, different in similar ways.
.||.
The Cold War passed over, but America's fairytale eyes were gone for good, replaced instead with that roiling storm of conspiracy and psychosis.
He trusted very few, and England was one of the few lucky ones to have been welcomed into the Superpower's immediate social circle.
As Great Britain rested in Alfred's arms that night, he chose to ignore America's spiteful mumbling about the untrustworthiness of the Middle East. Something about Hussein, and Iraq, and…
.||.
Arthur rushed through the clogged New York City streets, searching desperately for the stormy eyes and a sly smile.
He couldn't find either, until he stumbled upon an America that he'd thought had been lost forever.
This one did have those fairytale eyes, though they were broken and shattered and gazing at the remnants of what had once been such a point of pride. That sly smile existed no longer, having fallen into an 'o' of horror, and desperation, and sheer shock.
When England wrapped his arms around the fragile United States, he was rewarded with the shattered cries of a slighted, paralyzed soul.
.||.
And then it all switched around once more. America's whisper smiles were rare. He was the owner of a falsely stupid grin, brash and loud, and completely misleading. Those fairytale eyes, those icy eyes, those stormy eyes, those ghost eyes, were gone. They were a slate blue, hard, unerring, and protected.
Alfred spent the years after 9/11 avidly hunting down the fools that had been stupid enough to nudge him, the idiot who had made a mistake akin to that of Japan in World War Two.
England sat back and watched, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. His own Cheshire grin was gone, its owner no longer having the power to back up such a mischievous quirk of the lips, but there were flashes of it here and there.
He was proud of his protégée, of his lover, of his America.
Other countries said that he'd raised a monster, someone who claimed to guarantee world peace, but was in reality causing more war than was necessary.
Arthur just responded that the boy had his right to exact his revenge on fools that were rash enough to try and tear Alfred's ideals to the ground.
And besides, Arthur was supporting him with troops in Afghanistan. It's hardly like he was going to go about and poke fun at the slate eyes and false grins.
And the same could be said of Arthur. Alfred would never push Arthur into something the older nation didn't want to do.
He knew that old man exterior was as falsely misleading as his stupid grin. He knew that Arthur was still deadly with a cutlass, could still easily slice a man in two with the cool calculatedness of an assassin.
He knew that those acid eyes, though they may be soft emerald now, could still be seen. He knew that that Cheshire grin was still wriggling beneath the exterior of a gentle smile.
Neither of them was a fool to the other, and as nights were spent moving beneath the smooth white bed sheets, the acid and fairytale eyes would wait expectantly for the sun that had brought them together.
So what did all of you readers think?
Did you like it? Was it too rushed, too repetitious? Please give me your reviews so that I might make myself a better writer. Everyone needs commentary to push them along.
Thanks for reading, and have a wonderful Sunday!