So sorry for the slow update, AP World History is a total bitch, especially as AP exams come 'round the corner. (As some of you know very well.) I must say that an unclear mixture of school, social life, and an unyielding sloth are the excuses I make for my slow update now, and the slow updates I shall make in the future. I apologize, but that is simply the order of things.
And to take care of business I shall try my damndest to never forget in the future:
DISCLAIMER- I abso-freakin'-lutely do not own Axis Powers: Hetalia! I do not materialistically profit from the writing of this fan fiction.
As the English sun drifted in through heavy curtains and tender wild flowers bloomed in the spring, little birds chirped and jumped and flew in the air, having eaten their fill of worms. It was large house asleep in the life which possessed an air of importance. There wasn't an aristocratic feel the place had, but that something special, something good resided within was the feel, and the plants, the animals, the soil, the land loved it. After the downstairs drapes were opened, the owner of the home, the occupant who the land loved, leaned against the kitchen door and looked upon his land. He opened the thick wooden barrier, cup of steaming tea in hand, and walked outside. Mud dirtied his pajama bottoms, but he didn't mind. He walked out in to the fenceless yard, neighbors too far away to be seen, and sat in the moisture, mud, life.
He did not own the land; he was a part of it, a product of it, a representation of it. He was a personification of a deep something, some force outside human understanding. He was the land, he was the people, he was the landscape, the religion, the philosophy, the culture, the animals, the spirits. He was something the wild and the civilized listened to, yet he took orders from them. He was something big, yet he was such a small man. He was so old, yet his body was in its prime. He was the soul of his people, a personification of their culture, their values. He was so many things. But as he sat there, smiling as the birds and squirrels bounced and pranced and played, he was simply a friend of the wild. But predictably, to ruin the peace, Francis, hair taking on a medusa-like quality with curls waving about wildly as he moved, large sections being held in place by a complex system of single strands tangled about like queer pulleys stuck his head out of the kitchen, "Good morning, Arthur," he called cheerily, accent adding a sing-song quality, "Shall I make us all omelets?"
Arthur, brow twitching, stood, and finished his tea. That morning, the Englishman had less of a tolerance for Francis' strange antics than he usually did- there was nothing like losing an argument and sharing a bed with an annoying Frenchman to kick start one's day. Walking into the kitchen, he was surprised to see Francis wearing clothes; the letch was practically a nudist.
Francis had a frying pan with olive oil heating on the stove, and he was beating a bowl of eggs with a fork. On the counter lay various ingredients. As Francis set the beat eggs aside, and went to cooking the vegetables, Arthur watched him prepare the meal, setting the vegetables aside when they were done and starting on the eggs once again. Francis went about setting out four plates on the counter, stuffing and folding the first omelet, cooking, stuffing, folding the other three. When the Frenchman was done, and was setting the table, Arthur said, "I'll go get the boys."
As he walked to the stairs, Francis called after him, "hope and pray they wake up normal, non?" And Arthur did.
When Arthur walked into the bedroom where he thought Francis would put them in (his assumption was right), he saw the boys had woken up, and they were trying to figure out how to take off each other's pajamas. Arthur froze, stared open-mouthed, as Alfred pushed up Matthew's shirt, poked his belly button; Matthew just stared at himself in fascination.
"Alfred! Matthew!" Arthur finally cried, "Get your hands off each other!" He ran to them, tore them apart, and like infants, they watched him, Alfred confused, Matthew frightened.
Exasperated, Alfred took their wrists and dragged them downstairs. "Francis, it's no better; they're worse!" Alfred and Matthew stumbled behind, looked around the kitchen with new curiosity, "they were trying to strip each other! The indecency!"
Francis spun around, rose a brow and smirked when he saw the sight; Arthur the prudish Englishman dragging in two confused and curious teenagers. "Arthur," he said, obviously trying not to laugh, "they are like babies—they know nothing but they want to know everything." He watched Matthew tentatively touch the wall, wide-eyed at the texture.
Arthur watched them, saw Alfred become occupied with fiddling with his stray hair. "They should know better; it should be instinct."
Francis watched Arthur, realizing the truth of his words. All of their kind were born knowing the language and culture of their people, as well as being perfectly capable of learning the political organization of the land and quickly learning the technology of the people. But first and foremost, they were creatures of the land- every damage made was a scar on their skin, every drought, every flood a fever to them. They were bound body and soul to the land, but they were born, raised, and lived as personifications of a people. Social boundaries should be instinct. Francis watched them, innocent and oblivious, exploring their surroundings as thoroughly as Arthur's hold on their wrists would allow.
That was the scary thing—they clearly didn't know what should come naturally. While it was all right for two people to explore one another in private, doors closed, if they were caught it was another story, it then became an awkward situation; they should know that.
Francis' and Arthur's eyes met, and they looked at the boys. Alfred seemed to have just realized the men had been talking, and he watched them curiously. First to recover, Francis smiled at them, "come now boys, shall we eat?" They had no idea what he meant.
Francis sighed, took Matthew's hand, lead him to a chair, looking to Arthur, nodding when the Englishman lead Alfred to sit at the table, too. Arthur look the fork on Alfred's plate, "do you know what this is?" he asked, and when Alfred shook his head, Arthur said, "This is a fork." Matthew watched intently, picked up the fork at his own plate.
Fork," he murmured, wonder in his voice and eyes.
Francis nodded, sitting next to Matthew, "Yes," he said, "That is a fork." As Alfred took his fork from Arthur, and repeated the word, he turned his attention to Francis as the Frenchman spoke again. "Do you two know what forks are used for?" Two shaking heads were his answer. He smiled, took Matthew's fork and said, "You use them to eat, like this." He used the fork to slice off a corner of Matthew's omelet, and he stuck it onto the utensil. Francis brought the food to Matthew's mouth. The teenager sniffed it, studied the thing. "Say 'ahhhh,'" Francis said, opening his mouth to make the noise. Matthew shyly opened his mouth a bit, and Francis poked Matthew lips with the food. Matthew opened his mouth to let the food inside. He stayed like that, food awkwardly in his mouth, and Francis smirked, "now do this," he dramatically opened and closed his mouth, making an "om!" noise. Matthew closed his mouth, biting down on the fork. Francis smirked, said, "Keep it closed!" and swiped the fork from Matthew's mouth. The teenager made a noise of surprise, but was too engrossed by the texture and taste of the omelet to stay unhappy. Francis waited, Mathew still watching him, then the teenager looked down and began to chew, and Francis put a hand over his heart and sighed with relief. And just when Francis put the fork in Matthew's hand, curling the teen's fingers around it to show him how to hold it, Arthur asked him, "do you think you can do that?" Matthew stared at Arthur, then looked down at his omelet.
To demonstrate again, Francis ate a piece of his own omelet, and Matthew decided to try. He was able to cut off a piece, take it onto the fork with little trouble, and he ate it with ease. Francis smiled, "very good, Matthew! Now, do you think you can eat the entire omelet," he pointed to the food, "off your plate?" he pointed to the ceramic plate. Matthew watched Francis point, absorbing the information. He ate another piece, and Francis smiled before he started on his own breakfast.
Alfred then looked down at his own omelet, and clutching his fork with a face of determination, he tore into his own food. Stabbing, cutting, and tearing in all the wrong order, Alfred only attempted to eat when the neat French omelet on his plate was reduced to a pile of torn eggs and veggies. Arthur, Matthew, and Francis simply stared. Smiling triumphantly, Alfred scooped up the torn remains of omelet and stabbed it into his mouth. Like that, in a tornado of torn food, Alfred ate his omelet. Finished, all eyes on him, the teen smiled and burped.
"Just like Ludwig eating potatoes," was what Francis said.
"Some things never change," was Arthur's murmured, brow taking on a twitch of anger.
Matthew stared at Alfred, the smiling twin, looked wide-eyed at Arthur's annoyed expression, glanced at Francis' dull expression, then brought his attention to his own plate before continuing to eat as Francis has taught him. The men then slowly turned to their food, Arthur shaking his head, and breakfast continued in an awkwardness that Alfred was blissfully oblivious of.
Soon, when Matthew finished, he watched Arthur and Francis eating. They both used knives, alien objects to him, and they used proper table manners, but to Matthew they just looked stiff. He noticed his brother was staring curiously at a large thing in the room. It had knobs and round things on it, and there was also a door with a window showing the white thing's dark interior. Alfred turned in his chair to look at it more closely, seeing numbers around the dials. Arthur looked at Alfred, done with breakfast, and saw that Alfred seemed fascinated with the stove.
"That's a stove, Alfred. You shouldn't touch it, you'll hurt yourself."
Alfred turned to Arthur, "stove?" he asked.
"Yes, Alfred, stove," Arthur told him, "Fr- Papa," Arthur corrected himself, "and I use it to cook food," he pointed to his empty plate. Alfred nodded, and stared at the thing. "And neither you or Matthew are not allowed to touch it without Papa's or my permission."
Francis chuckled at Arthur, "well then," he said staring at a piece of mushroom that seemed to have mysteriously found its way to Alfred's eybrow, "don't you think it's about time for their baths, Arthur?" At the new phrase, the twins turned their rapt attention to Francis, and Arthur blanched.
"You boys know how to take a bath, right?" Arthur asked, though it sounded more like begging. Two blank stares and the shaking of Alfred's head were his answers. Arthur's eyes grew wide and he looked to Francis pleadingly.
Another post my unofficial beta will murder me for DX barely edited, I still believe this is better than the first chapter. This is actually only part of what I originally intended to be the second chapter, but the next scene is actually a big, fat, ugly bitch to write. As spring break has arrived, I'll try to subdue my lazy nature long enough to write the next scene (which will most likely end up long enough to be a third chapter, gah!) but I'm not making any promises. Anxiously awaiting your reviews,
--Chipmunk_Chihuahua