Yes. My first fic here is nice and angsty for you. Aren't I just awesome?
These two are my OCs for London and Berlin, both of whom see eachother as brothers due to the fact that... Well... That kinda just do.
Here, I'll explain things for you. Since capitals do not have a major effect to how things go nationally, they are allowed to befriend whomever they wish. It is in my belief that London and Berlin would be much like brothers to eachother: London because all of his brothers and sisters either hate him or have batrayed him; Berlin because his brother never really has time for him, so he often becomes lonely as his father tends to ignore him.
Note that this is an old fic. I wrote it about two years ago, so my writing style now may have changed. This can probably be seen towards the end as I just finished it off today.
Damn. I was really good back then! My writing sucks now... Though I still have no idea where this story came from. I was probably watching some WWI Documentaries or something... You know, they say that your writing reflects your personality.
...
I must have been really depressed back then. Really.
The silence of the field should have been a luxary; the boombing of the bombs, the thundering of the shells, the short but rapid 'clack' of the guns- all were void from the air, creating a hollow silence that lead the unsuspecting into a sense of security, only for them to be blow to bits two seconds later and the firing to start again.
The soldier sat a fair few feet in front of a tree that shielded him from the view of prying eyes, staring coldly into the distance with icy blue eyes. His sharp face was warped into a deep frown, brows turned deeply down, causing faint lines to appear on his forehead. His lips were pulled taught into a deep scowl while his arms crossed over his bent knees, forcing them closer to his muddy chest, his fingers turning white from the pressure he was putting on them. His once olive green uniform had faded with wear, colour almost completly missing in some patches with bits of thread sticking out here and there. The uniform, and indeed most of his body, including his once sandy blonde colour hair, was coated with a layer of dried mud and blood, leaving the uniform and it's owner looking weary and worn.
London. That was his title- who he was, his heritage, who he belonged to, it all was answered by the simple word. Who was he? Son of the personification of England. His heritage? Born in London as soon as his father was old enough to look after another person. Who did he belong to? His father, his people, his country, his city, his home. And now he belonged to the officers in the trenches. Sometimes he hated being London. He hated what came with it: great expectations, high hopes, gallant leadership, the need to fight in every war, the punishment of having to watch his men- a part of who he was- die in ways he didn't ever want to dwell over while he was left scarr free.
His scowl deepened and his fingers groaned at the pressure that was being forced upon them. He envyed his men, all of them. They could love, they could dream, they could fight and die with honor, they could hope and they could live. What could he do? He could fight. That was it. For him, there was no love; all he could fall in love with would either die in the blink of an eye or turn into an enemy in the near future, ripping apart his delusion of a 'happy family'. There were no dreams; what could a man with endless life wish for? Except for to die -but he knew that his wish would be denied, as it had the millions of times before. There was no honor for him; the honor left after you saw a dead man gazing back at you with souless eyes while thinking 'I'm glad that wasn't me' or when you had burnt down so many villages, ruined so many lives, that the thrill just leaves you and makes you wonder what their lives could have been like if they had survived. Would the have had children? Could they have become something better, something great? Hope left with the dreams, as to hope you must first want and as a personification what you wanted would always be taken away and used against you. Then there was life. Yes, he did live; he had a home, a father, wonderful friends, but he never got to love. He could never have a family, he could never have a wife or girlfriend, he could never do things with the same determination as his people due to the fact that he could live forever and therefore had a longer period of time to do such things.
A mix between a frustrated and sad sigh left his chapped lips, breaking the deafening silence for a mere few seconds before it came back again, swooping down and covering everything it could.
So intent with his cold staring at nothing, brooding over his twisted thoughts and clenching his hands as tightly as possible, he failed to hear the soft thud of boots behind him, slowly coming closer to the tree and his hiding spot. A twig cracked, shocking him out of his thoughts and causing him to immediately reach for his gun. He stopped as soon as he had lifted his hand, gazing furthur out into the horizon, before he placed his arm back across his knees. He'd let the other get him. Capitals could die, but they came back after a short ammount of time. Their bodies dissapeared with them, going to a short of 'heaven' until they were deamed fit to return, then they are put back on the earth in the best strategical position.
He stayed as still as possible, barely even daring to breathe, waiting for the bullet to blast through his head or for the bayonet to pierce his heart. He stared defiently into the nothing, not facing the other, not thinking, not acting, just... waiting.
A warm body pushed up against his back; strong, comforting arms wrapping safely around his waist; a head propping itself on his shoulder, warm breath rolling over the side of his neck. He melted instantly, his body going slack, his legs uncovering his chest as his arms fell limply to his sides, his head lolling back and onto the strong shoulder of his holder as his eyes shut with the reassurance of the other's warmth. The other took advantage of his position, burying his face into the crook of the Brit's neck, inhaling deeply as he did. Mud, blood, sweat, gunpowder- all things you would find in a battle field were the strongest and most recent smells, but then there was the underlying scent of earl grey tea, dew-drop grass, the unrelenting salty sea, sugary sweets and just a faint hint of fog from the industrial side of London that the German loved so much. He took another deep breath, smiling slightly when he felt a shudder come from the other.
"How are you today? You look so tired..."
He felt it too. Sighing in contempt, the Brit closed his eyes and forced a weak smile.
"I've had better days. We've been trying to give the Germans shell shock or the like by the ammount of artillery fire we're releasing on them, but I think it's really not working. If anything, it's us who have been affected. Everyone's nervous and we can hardly get enough sleep to keep us going. My people's nerves are starting to get to me..."
As if to prove this he released a shaky sigh. The German sighed sadly into his shoulder and nuzzled the Brit more, showing that he sympathized him.
"Yes, that is true. Our trenches are much better then yours due to what they were built for: defence."
It was true, not just a boast with a smirk attatched as he would have gotten from anyone else. (Though, in all honesty, no-one would sit with him like the other was. A simple rule in war was to never go with the enemy for it was some kind of sin. If that was the case then the two of them would be going to the darkest pits of hell next time they died.) The Germans were defending, so could afford to have good trenches. The Brits were attacking, so they had to make shallow trenches that barely kept out the cool, let alone the rain and the noise.
"... You never do say my name."
The German raised an eyebrow at this, moving from his face from it's position in the Brit's shoulder to give him a strange look. The Brit did tend to change the conversation randomly lately, something the German had found out to be his way of dealing with madness. If you are capable of thinking and talking then you aren't starting to loose your mind to the cold darkness of your maddened mind, right?
"London?"
The Brit laughed, a humourless, hollow laugh, and shook his head.
"No, the other one. My human one"
Indeed, even the Capitals had names aside from their city names, much like their parents. It was something they had to do to keep their identities a secret and to be able to join the army with their people without raising suspicion.
"You never call me by mine, either."
Once again, a small laugh followed by a crooked smile. Though they did have human names it was seen as much more... polite to say the name of the city then the name of a person. They weren't humans and there was no point in trying to hide that fact to eachother when they already knew who and what you were.
"Wilhelm..."
He suddered when he said the name, loving how it just rolled off his tongue and gave him a sincere sense of pleasure to the fact that he could say it face to face with the name's owner. German had started to seem like such a beautiful language to him. He heard it so often now that he had gotten used to it, though that was more like insults and orders being thrown from across no man's land. The way Wilhelm spoke it, however, was much softer and calmer, giving it an almost innocent sound to it. He liked to hear Wilhelm's German the most, especially when whispered into his ear for reasons of reassurance and comfort.
"Charles."
Though he loved how the other said his name more. The deep, thick accent with the small hint of breathlessness, the hidden feeling of love that the voice barely covered, the way his voice box vibrated against his neck as the other spoke, pressing his cheek to his own muddy one- it sent raging shivers down his spine and caused a small smile to form on his face, something that seemed to brighten up the dreary atmosphere around them.
Wilhelm chuckled at the other's reaction, watching as the skin rippled and goosebumps appeared almost simultaniously in reaction to the lone word. He placed one arm around Charles' chest, gently enough as to not hurt him but strong enough to hold him up, and ran the other down the lean body to the clothed stomach, lifting up the offending clothing slightly to scratch and rub lighly at the softly muscled skin revealed.
Charles moaned quietly in appreciation at the calming feeling, all the knots and pains melting away with each careful motion from Wilhelm's long fingers. He sighed and opened his eyes, a mournful look of his tired face. He tilted his head slightly towards the German and smiled sadly.
"I've missed you..."
Wilhelm chuckled and turned his head towards Charles, placing the softest of kisses to the Brit's temple, pulling back with a slight smirk as he saw the almost white face turn a deep shade of red again. After so long with no caring contact, anything even slightly intimate got a blush on Charles' cheeks.
"Same here."
Charles laughed quietly to himself and shook his head, his eyes full of dark emotions and slight terror.
"Wilhelm... If my father knew we did this... If YOUR vater knew we did this... I'd never be able to live down the shame and betrayal I'd see in his eyes. And then... I'd never be able to see you again. I'm sure it is much the same with you. And yet... I... I find that I always come back. Why is that? Why do I feel that each day away from you, fighting against you, is like a living nightmare determined to eat me from the inside out? Why?"
Charles looked desperately to the German, a harsh coughing fit leaving his lips, causing him to breathe haggardly for a while after. Wilhelm stared off into the sky for a few seconds, a warm smile on his face, before he looked back at his beloved Brit. His beloved brother.
"Because, Charles, you love me. I am your brother; someone who is supposed to stand beside you and hold your hand while you balance on a tightrope called Life. I am supposed to help you always, love you without fail and never betray you. And yet we fight, simply because our fathers are at war. But we are still brothers, and that is why you always come back. I know that because I do the same. And as for why it hurts when we fight? That's because you're terrified that any bullet you fire may pierce my skin, burst in my heart and splatter my blood. That it might be by your hands that my life ends, once again. And when I'm away from you, you don't know if I'm alive or if I've died; if I'm strong or if I'm weak; if I'm fine or if I'm injured; if I fight in the trenches or if I'm safely at home. And not knowing makes you worry, and worry makes you imagine all the bad things that could have happened to me. I know this because I do the same, too. And it hurts. Because there is nothing we can do about it but hope. Hope that our bullets won't find eachother, and hope that the other is okay."
Charles wearily looked at Wilhelm, his face drooping into something sad and distorted. A shuddering sigh escaped him, a choked back sob soon following as a single tear fell from dull blue eyes. Wilhelm found it almost painful to look at; whoever this man was, it was not the brother he remembered.
"Wilhelm... I'm so tired..."
Charles could feel his eyes start to droop, could feel his head start to get heavier and his body begin to slump yet, despite his most inner screams, he couldn't find the strength to get up. It was as if his body were made of lead, but he at least tried to fight off the darkness that threatened to take over his mind. He could not sleep now. Not like this.
"Shh, big bruder. Go to sleep. I'll look after you, I promise."
With the soothing voice in his ear, the calming hand rubbing circles into his stomach and the sweet warmth radiating through him, Charles found that sleep could not be avoided. As he closed his eyes and let his body go, he smiled as a sudden realisation hit him, flooding through the deepest corners of his mind with such a powerful force that it washed away all pain and anguish he felt. He could feel the tears streaming down his face, yet his smile stay firmly in place, frozen as his body grew ever more limp. He would have to thank Wilhelm when he woke up. He really would.
Wilhelm watched as his brother sagged forwards, smile still in place even as the tears washed away all else on his cold face. The German couldn't help but laugh as tears of his own started to drip down his nose, falling down to the tip before landing on the dead ground. Charles had looked so tired; so worn...After all they had seen, all they had done, Wilhelm thought that it was only fair to let him rest for as long as he needed, for as long as it took for him to recover...
So why did it hurt to see English blood on a German gun?
So, how was it? Like it? Love it? Hate it? Fell like you're about to cry a river or shite a brick? Tell me! Just drop me a review or PM~
If you want to know more about London, Berlin or any other Capitalia Ocs that I've made (Yes, I've got more~) then just ask and I'll asnwer as best as I can.
Either way, thanks for reading!
Ciao~