Ripples in the Tea

Summary: Signing the adoption papers. [England vs. Sweden]

Disclaimer: Axis Powers Hetalia (c) Hidekaz Himaruya

Rate: PG

Genre(s): General. Ficlet.

Warnings: Written as a literary piece, very short.

Author's comments: My submission for the writing contest to my school's literary magazine. I've had this idea for a while, and I thought I could kill two birds with one stone by writing this both as a fic and a submission : p Gave a hand at Hemmingway-ness; I carefully considered the wording for every line except for the dialogue ¦ D I made England sound like the bad guy here lol XD Well, I hope it's worthwhile anyway :b enjoy~


Great Britain casually sips his tea.

Stone-blue eyes follow his steady hands as he sets the cup back down on the table. A small, courteous smile etches over the British man's perfectly unchapped lips.

"I believe," he says. "We have come to an agreement?"

Sweden doesn't reply, eying the smooth ripples in the Englishman's cup instead.

"Th't boy," he says, finally, slowly. "Is th're no hope?"

A gust of wind from behind the Swede steadily, silently disturbs the ripples.

England crosses his legs. "It can't be helped, how he is," he replies, casually flicking off a crease from his neatly starched suit. "It's hardly refutable that he will ever be recognized as a nation."

"Th't boy," the Swede says again, firmly. "He's not actually y'ur br'ther, is he?"

He looks up, meeting the eyes of the other nation. A harsh breeze blows in. The British man narrows his eyes.

"He wasn' conceived as a nation, w's he?"

"I hardly think this is any of your concern," Britain responds, frowning deeper.

"H'll never actually b'come a n'tion, is he?" Sweden growls. He slowly leans in, steadily glaring through his spectacles. "He's–"

"There is no need to talk about this," the other curtly cuts in. "We have made the agreement, there is nothing more to say." He reaches for his cup.

"Sealand," the Swede pronounces sharply, clenching his fist atop the table. "He's half hum'n, isn'e?"

The British man tightens his grip over the tea handle, glaring fixedly through his thick eyebrows. His eyes don't quite penetrate the steel gaze of the other.

He sits back, not forgetting his tea, slightly irked despite the comfort of his highest chair. "Sweden, I will leave you with these terms and hope you will care for him well. That is all I have to say."

The Swede remains stationary as England takes a final sip. He reaches over and takes hold of his own cup, sensing the satisfied smirk of the United Kingdom from across the table.

The tea tastes too sweet.