Hello! This is Imaginary Parchment speaking. :)
I know I haven't published anything in a very long while... Unfortunately, I've been very busy lately, and I'm not sure if HetaFrozen will ever be completed.
However, in the meantime, here is a new oneshot for a friend of mine: frogandrabbitsox. She's an amazing writer who developed a Hetalia Universe called the Pianoverse - it's pretty self-explanatory, but if you want to learn more, you can probably PM her. :)
So, although she's an infinitely better writer than I, let's see how this goes, shall we?
Disclaimer: Me no owns the brilliance otherwise known as Hetalia. :)
Also, I might be posting this on Tumblr as the-south-pole (unless I change my username again, haha), so that's why you may see this yet again.
DOG TAGS
He turned his dog tag over, so that he could see his newest identity.
ALFRED F JONES
JULY 4 1924
293849 C - TYPE AB
Alfred F. Jones.
Not America.
Not Alfred, Al, nothing that was his.
Alfred F. Jones was a pilot, and a fairly good one at that. And he knew it.
All too well, in fact.
Nations didn't die. They couldn't die, not so long as at least one person out there still thought themselves a citizen of the nation.
So, in the end, Alfred F. Jones couldn't die, even if he tried.
(Though he wouldn't - what sort of hero tries to kill themselves? Well, unless they were sacrificing themselves for the world, that was a different story...)
Death...a strange concept.
Every bullet fired from the enemy missed; he was always able to pull out a of an explosion just in time to see another man fall; he saw the flicker of fear and surprise in his enemy's eyes as he fired the gun.
Why did death have to be so final?
Finality and the great oblivion, Alfred F. Jones figured, was what mortals feared the most. The nations feared it as well - even if they knew they couldn't die, the adrenaline pushed them to the limit to survive.
Beilschmidt, Honda, Vargas - what did they think they were doing? It was insanity - the three nations and their allies couldn't conquer the world. It was impossible... The endeavor would only end in the deaths of more people.
The nation gripped his glass of beer tighter, squeezing it so his knuckles turned white.
He couldn't stand bad guys.
"Careful there, boy," the bartender with the sly smile warned him. His eyes were like the devil's. "Don't want to have to pay for the broken glass now."
Alfred F. Jones grunted in reply.
The bartender's sly smile melted into that of a sneer. "Don't you ignore me, boy!"
"I'm not looking for a fight, sir."
The older man was a picture perfect stereotype of a bartender with his handle-bar mustache, pin-striped vest, crisp white shirt, dark slacks. "This is my bar. You do what I say, boy."
Alfred F. Jones ignored the man. "I don't wanna fight."
"You're a soldier," the bartender hissed, leaning across the counter to get in the nation's face. "You have to fight, boy." When the smell of alcohol hit Alfred F. Jones, he got up, slapped a bill on the table - he didn't look at the number; he didn't care at this point - and left the bar.
Pearl Harbor.
A date which would live in infamy.
It seemed like only days had passed since that dark day. Alfred F. Jones had had no idea that Kiku had been so...
...dark? Ahead? Nasty? Evil? Villainous?
To be fair, Alfred F. Jones had never thought that about Feliciano either. Ludwig maybe, because of the Great War...
Alfred F. Jones walked down the street, head hung low, dog tag cold against his chest.
He wasn't a hero. How could he be?
Roosevelt insisted to his nation that he was doing the right thing by joining the war, but now this war was his. Now his people were dying, too.
Francis had always said that he found comfort in music. Piano, to be exact.
Well, Francis hadn't told him himself - he'd heard from Matthew, whom Francis favored.
To be honest, Arthur probably liked Matthew more, too, after the whole Revolutionary War incident.
Jacob have I loved, but Esau have I hated.
Alfred F. Jones wanted to reach for his dog tag, feeling choked by the bit of metal as he walked down the road. The lights were on, but the shadows they formed seemed dark and colorless.
Was he alone?
The nation had never felt quite so alone now, except maybe during the Civil War, when the European countries had refused to help him.
But he had a team now - the Allies.
Which, of course, consisted of a commies, an old man, and a "family" that probably hated him.
The dog tag was too tight.
Fed up, choked, but most of all, tired, Alfred F. Jones walked into a different bar. This time, the bartender was not sly or drunk. He seemed good, and looked very old.
The old man looked up and gave him a crooked smile. Though his smile was awkward due to his yellow and rotten teeth, it was the best smile Alfred F. Jones had seen in quite a long while.
The other nations had stopped smiling.
Arthur's smiles, once rare, were now all but extinct.
Francis, whose smiles were once graceful and genuine, were now fake - if he ever did smile.
Matthew...his smiles were fleeting, barely there, barely real.
So when Alfred F. Jones saw the barman give him a real warm, sympathetic, golden smile, he felt his heart break.
"Are you drunk?" the man asked bluntly, but not unkindly.
Alfred F. Jones shrugged, flopping onto an empty bar stool. But come to think of it, all the bar stools were empty… "I'm not drunk."
The barman shrugged and poured Alfred F. Jones a glass. "Here, son, drink up."
He didn't argue and threw it back quickly, but gagged on it immediately.
"Hey! This isn't alcohol!" he spat, ears burning red.
"Of course it's not," the bartender replied.
Alfred F. Jones narrowed his eyes. "I want a beer."
"You're outta luck here then, son, I don't sell drinks to boys who've had one too many drinks," he said mildly, wiping down the bar.
"Don't call me a boy. I'm not a boy."
The bartender looked up from his work and observed him carefully. "You look like a boy."
"Doesn't mean I am," he shot back, crossing his arms defensively.
"Then what are you?"
There was silence. The bar had a small radio, from which there was a quiet, humming voice talking. Was that Roosevelt? But outside was quiet and still. Nobody was out and about at this time of day.
"Well then," the bartender went back to wiping, his rag filthy, "maybe you're what you say you are."
"What did I say I am?" he asked, feeling all of a sudden lost and small and confused.
"Someone who knows far too much for his age," the bartender answered.
Alfred F. Jones felt his anger return again, and quickly turned away, starting to get up. "That didn't help."
The bartender shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Have a good night, son. Stay outta the shadows."
"Yessir," he muttered, throwing open the door, the bell twinkling as he left.
Alfred walked into the very next shop, not caring what it was.
The shopkeeper looked up. "Sir, we're..." He trailed off, about to tell the young man that his shop had closed for the night. But he stopped when he noticed the newcomer's countenance.
Alfred F. Jones sat down on the nearest object vaguely shaped like a chair.
The shopkeeper found his voice again. "Young man, we're closed. Please step away from the piano and leave, and come back tomorrow morning. I promise you we'll still be here," he added as a joke, but it came out sounding doubtful. He was still young, the shopkeeper was - he might have to serve his country and leave behind all of his precious pianos.
Which is why Alfred F. Jones ignored him. The dog tag was hurting his neck, it was too heavy, too choking, too cold.
He put a hand on the piano. It was cold as well, but it hummed. It hummed with a need to be played, and, well, Alfred F. Jones wanted to play as well.
But what to play?
France liked Debussy, that he knew. Roderich played Chopin. Alfred F. Jones was pretty sure Ludwig liked Bach.
Alfred F. Jones disliked classical and baroque music, even romantic and contemporary.
No, he despised it. It was so uniform, so rigid - there was only one way you could play it, or you were labeled a failure.
He played a note experimentally.
When the lights go on again all over the world...
Alfred F. Jones felt his breath hitch slightly. He reached for his dog tag and held it up to eye level.
The shopkeeper watched him curiously from behind the counter. What was he doing? Would he break the piano?
No. No, he wouldn't.
In one swift movement, Alfred yanked the dog tag off, the metal chain breaking from his inhuman strength. He tossed it to the ground with as much vehemence as he could muster, his heart beating as wildly as the trampling of a herd of stampeding buffalo.
He hated the war. He hated the freaking war.
Alfred stabbed out a chord. Good. The piano was in tune.
He played another chord, this time with less ferocity.
Alright.
He continued to play, each chord lifting his worries off his chest, or at least calming him down. He could worry about the damn war tomorrow.
When the lights go on again all over the world
And the boys are home again all over the world
And rain or snow is all that may fall from the skies above
A kiss won't mean "goodbye" but "Hello to love"
The song Alfred was playing... It wasn't sad. It wasn't happy either.
It was almost wistful, hopeful - searching for something that didn't yet exist.
When the lights go on again all over the world
And the ships will sail again all over the world
Then we'll have time for things like wedding rings and free hearts will sing
When the lights go on again all over the world
Free hearts.
That's all he'd ever wanted during the Revolution.
And again now, during the Second World War.
When the lights go on again all over the world
And the ships will sail again all over the world
Then we'll have time for things like wedding rings and free hearts will sing
When the lights go on again all over the world...
He stopped and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that seemed more crisp and fresh than before.
There.
The shopkeeper gave him an almost watery smile. Then he clapped, slowly but surely. It was music to Alfred's ears.
Alfred looked up from the good instrument to the shopkeeper. "Thanks," he said quietly, bell tinkling as he exited the shop, into the bright new morning.
Yes. It was bright. It was hopeful. It was golden, like the barkeeper's smile. It wasn't nasty and mocking, like that other barman.
Alfred smiled a genuine, real smile that hurt his face from disuse. But it was a good start.
Alfred couldn't see him, but the shopkeeper had nodded slightly to the odd stranger's back with a respect he didn't realize he had.
And the nation knew one thing:
Alfred F. Jones wouldn't be wearing a dog tag for a while.
Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think, reviews would be awesome, but don't feel like you have to. ;)
If anyone was confused or felt overwhelmed by all the italics, I used so many to try to organize Alfred's thoughts a bit better. He's pretty drunk, in case you couldn't tell. :) And yes, yes, I know he's 19 and the legal drinking age in the US is 21, but it's not impossible to forge an ID. Just sayin'.
More Information:
- I've seen several dog tags, and I tried to put together a dog tag based on what I've seen. I'm sorry for any historical inaccuracies.
- There is not a set date for the story, but happens around 1943. Again, I'm very sorry for any historical inaccuracies.
- "Jacob have I loved, but Esau have I hated." (Romans 9:13)
- "A date which would live in infamy." - Franklin Delano Roosevelt
- The song was "When the Lights Go On Again (All Over the World)". It was a very popular song in America during WWII.
I think that's about it! Thank you again for reading this. :)
- ImaginaryParchment