The deep breath before the...
Warning: Angst, fluffy GerIta, sad stuff, combative situation, reference to mass breeding and alcohol, sexual situation (wut, I said there wouldn't be anymore O:), innuendo, OCs, incest (if you think about it that way...) and (my first little bit of) sexy/fluffy yuri.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though
Plunge
3:00.
Andre had let him borrow his room for practice. Kiku knew his primary weapon would be his gun, but anything could happen. His katana was the answer.
He had spent the past hour sharpening it, eyes never straying from the edge. And now he was listening to it whistle through the air, slicing, thrusting, parrying at an invisible foe. One could never have too much practice.
Swish. Sigh. Swish. He thought it would sound different because of all that it had been through, but it sounded the same as the day he'd received it. He closed his eyes and opened his ears. Sigh. Left foot extending for a turn. Swish. Rotating on his left heel, sweeping his right back in an smooth, instinctual semi-circle. Sigh. Swish. Jab. The enemy in front of him was speared on his blade, the glinting, red-dripping metal jutting out of their back. He pulled his katana back and saw the man crumple to the ground behind his eyelids. He turned again. Swish. Slice. Another foe downed, his severed arm leaking scarlet onto the floor. Another turn, another calculated sweep of his foot. Swi—
"Тпру! Hey now." Japan's eyes flew open to see Ivan standing before him, the blade of his katana poised a half inch from the Russian's torso. Ivan lifted his eyes from the weapon to Kiku's own, offering a wry smile. "You certainly seem enthusiastic." He pushed the sword aside with two stiff fingers.
Kiku just stared. Ivan was smiling—and it wasn't fake. And why now, of all times? Before he had the chance to respond, Ivan had slipped behind him, leaning down and whispering, "As you were. Try and strike me."
To say Kiku was a bit nervous was a gross understatement. Ivan had never had much love for Kiku and Kiku had been tentatively tip-toeing around him ever since… well, that. He wasn't entirely sure if he should close his eyes, despite not having already been killed in his sleep after the Uprising brought them all together. On top of that, he didn't want to hurt Ivan. Not only would he get a taste of whatever Ivan chose to pull out of his coat, but he'd also have to deal with Alfred. The latter had been acting like a hormonal girl of late. He'd seen pissed Alfred. He'd seen murderous Alfred. But he knew he never had any desire to see bitchy Alfred.
Yet he knew that not doing what Ivan asked was the worst option, so he obeyed. Besides, Ivan was asking him to strike him; it wasn't as if he could be completely at fault if he happened to succeed.
Hands nestled close, fingers curled around the textured hilt of his katana, Kiku perked up his ears and waited. It was well known that Ivan was very silent with his movements, but so was Kiku and he had trained his hearing to strict acuteness. Five minutes passed, and Kiku began to doubt himself—as he had slowly begun doubting himself since the Uprising—but then there was the tell-tale shh, shh of shoes across dusty concrete, and he had spun around and brought the sword down in the direction of the noise almost as quickly as one could blink. The shoes stopped moving and for a heart-stopping moment Kiku thought that he might have nicked Ivan without feeling it, the man slowly coming up behind him even then, fingers itching to wrap around his neck and squeeze. But Kiku's katana was an extension of his arm—a fifth limb. He would certainly feel if he'd hit his target or not. Just as he restored his confidence, shh, shh reached his ears again on his other side, and he wasted no time swiveling around to meet the sound with arching blade.
Time after time his sword fell without any hint of hitting its intended target, and Kiku began to grow worried. It was as if that shh, shh was mocking him. Were his reflexes truly so lax?
And then, "Молодец, comrade. Open your eyes."
Kiku did, and what he saw had all the air leaving his lungs. Ivan was a hair's breadth away from being gutted. Quietly horrified, Kiku's eyes trailed up and down the Russian's body, relief evading him despite visually confirming that everything was intact. His gaze then returned to Ivan's face and he found the man staring at him with a look almost of… adamant respect.
"You were this close to getting me the entire time," Ivan reported, gesturing, smile returning. The sincere one. "You have good senses. If I were a half second slower, I would be run through with your sword." Kiku shivered internally at the scenario as Ivan stepped away. The katana was lowered. "You are ready. You have been ready all this time. I am actually a bit jealous." He chuckled and added, "Carry on." And he just stood there, eyes fixed on the man who just a minute before had nearly cut him down.
Kiku blinked in confusion before uncomfortably settling back into his routine of swish, sigh, jab, slice, shrinking under the Russian's intent staring. Every time Kiku turned his back on Ivan, his heart sped up a bit, and, for one of the first times in his life he was struggling to focus.
Hands were crushing his shoulders. "Rat," was the uttered provocation.
Before he could gather what he was doing, he was turning, sweeping, and slicing right at Ivan. But then Ivan was just past the end of his blade, once again within less than an inch of death. And still all he could sport was a smile.
"I will see you," Ivan said, "at the end of the battle." Shh, shh went his shoes all the way out of the room.
Kiku stood there, staring. Then he felt the heaviness of the metal in his hand and he lifted it, saw himself looking back on the shining hamon, and he filled his lungs with an air of confidence.
3:30.
Verdammt, stop looking at it. The words kept going through his head, but every time his muscles so much as twitched to discard it, his fingers would lock up like an oyster, refusing to surrender something so precious.
He shouldn't have opened his pack, shouldn't have done a last minute check to see if anything that could benefit him in the upcoming coup was hidden within. Instead, he had spilled nostalgia into his lap, and his already tired eyes ached after reading each line of he and his dead brother's early correspondence over and over, marveling over the grotesque loops and scraggly paths of ink as they traveled across the page. Ludwig thought that seeing Gilbert's handwriting after his death would come across as infinitely beautiful—but in the end it was still the same horrendous, erroneous scrawl, the same Gilbert. His breaths quivered a little.
But what had entranced him most of all—had kept him occupied for nigh on half an hour on his knees in a corner of his own grief—was what had fallen out from between the carefully-folded letters.
The pocket watch was so tarnished that the silver coating was rubbing off on the pads of his fingers as he turned it over, reluctant to let go. Time is such an aloof thing. I can hold it in my hands here, but capturing it is complete foolery. He felt his face growing hot, pressure building up behind his eyes, wetness gathering—the leak in a dam before the flood. The hands were still unmoving, pointing stiffly to midnight. Many times his thumb passed over the textured button at the top of the arc that would send them on their circular journey, but when he so much as touched it he was reminded that this was where Gilbert used to place his thumb, used to wind it and launch it into action. He removed his thumb then, worried that if he let it linger there he might be compelled to sit there and hold the watch forever.
There were so many dents and scratches, and it was so worn; typical Gilbert property. His laughs were nothing but quiet expulsions of hot, quivering air as he thought of the pocket it used to reside in; the smell of the material it had been surrounded by; all the places it had been and events it had seen only to return to that pocket; the hand that had held it more times than he knew.
He was so wrapped in he and Gilbert's shared memories that he didn't hear someone walking into the room and coming up behind him until arms wrapped around his waist. A chin was propped up on his shoulder, and a distinct curling strand of hair tickling his neck was enough for him to identify who it was.
Feliciano did not speak, and Ludwig was grateful. If he so much as heard reference to his mourning or even Gilbert's name he may lose what little composure he had left. Instead of exchanging words, the Italian merely tightened his arms around him and transferred his forehead to the tense space between Ludwig's shoulder blades. He slowly pulled Ludwig back into the time they were meant to be in, had to be in. Ludwig took a deep, cleansing breath… and stored the letters back in his pack. The pocket watch, still sporting the original chain, he placed into his jacket.
When he saw himself fit to finally face Feliciano, the Italian pushed something cold and smooth into his hand. A kiss was pressed to Ludwig's forehead, and Feliciano was gone.
Ludwig stared after him for a few moments before he looked down, opening his hand. A chain… a naked one. The German cleared his throat of the prickly lump forming within as he looped the chain through the watch and clasped the chain around his neck. He rose from the corner without a glance back, deeming it time to truly prepare, Feliciano's chain around him and Gilbert's pocket watch over his breast.
4:00.
His fingers always returned to that one spot on his arm; the one that held so many lost possibilities.
Whatever he was doing, he would always find his hand on the scrap of fabric, delicately feeling along the edges, tracing the paisley designs with careful grace; the kind of touches it deserved as well as the one who had once accepted it as an unannounced token of Matthew's affection.
Matthew shook his head at the ridiculous thoughts the situation conjured as he sat loading and reloading his weapon as practice despite a century of experience. The bandana reminded him of the favors Francis used to mention in all of his knight's tales as his voice lulled a younger Matthew to sleep. Every time Matthew thought of or touched the bandana, he imagined a knight striding forward on his destrier to accept a silken handkerchief offered by one of the highborn maids of the court. But Matthew was no knight, and Sadiq had certainly not been a pretty young maid. He could almost laugh if it weren't for the feel of the bandana reminding him of all the reasons he should not.
That cheesy Phantom of the Opera recitation… He found that he had set down his gun and the magazine he was loading, fingers right back where he expected them to be. After a time of stroking, Matthew could imagine the material felt like the warm skin he had sought refuge beside from the cold, had witnessed turn flush-red above him while they were joined in so many other ways than carnality could provide.
"Perhaps when our one thousand and one nights are over, we will be able to be happily in love. Until then, our story will continue and we will have to leave it to Fate to decide if it is a happy ending or a sad one."
Fate had screwed him over too many times. When the sun rose, he was taking back what it had stolen, everything from past to present. As cruel and untouchable as Fate was, he knew he could trick it just as the Merchant had tricked the Jinni. He would bottle it, carry it along with him in his pocket wherever he went, summoned only by his desire. He would tie the bandages around his wrists tight and hope he never fumbled in his handling of Fate again. Because if no one chose to take control of at least some aspect of Fate in their lives, then there wouldn't be any nations—any history—at all. He would have his ending, whether Fate liked it or not.
4:30.
Her last chew and then she would be out. She curled her lower lip, spitting twice as far as she had before. It hit the wall this time and trailed brown fingers downward. It had been a while since she had chewed tobacco instead of smoked it; it had been a long time since everything. She wiped her nose on the back of a gloved hand and picked up her chewing again. The taste was an old, welcome friend. It reminded her of the lazy hum of insects in warm summer evenings, the southern smell of hay and burning manure. She would sit out on her rickety little porch, the pant-legs of her worn overalls rolled up to her calf, barefoot and chewing, one shoulder strap dangling somewhere around her hip. Every now and then she would angle her chaw into the stained spittoon, a scraggly kitten leaping up in an attempt to catch it while a fat old tom watched from his perch on the rocking chair. She could almost feel the frayed straw of her wide-brimmed hat as her fingers picked at it in her lap.
And the footsteps. She could hear the footsteps coming out of her house, joining her to watch the dark shape of the hay bales and the cows as they moved against the sunset. She could feel her hair spilling over her bare shoulder, arms coming around her waist, her voice bidding her come inside, it was late and the mosquitoes would bite her all up before long.
And just as soon, Red was centuries away, miles from the home she once had in the hazy south and at her other home, close to the tickling hair, embracing arms, and the voice that was soft only for her.
"Ha… oh, wow."
They lay in bed, panting and sweaty. Red rolled off of her lover to lie beside her, smiling.
"So, you liked it, eh?"
Penny laughed tiredly. "Well, if I didn't I wouldn't have said 'wow', now would I?"
Red snorted. "Smartass." And she leaned in to kiss her. Penny welcomed her, parting her lips to let Red's tongue slip in. Penny moaned, and Red's hand trailed to the heat between her lover's legs.
Penny pulled away. "Ginny… no. We've already done it three times."
Red leered. "Might as well take advantage while I'm horny. Unless you wanna start another fight?"
Penny rolled her eyes. "I'm not the one who starts them."
"Ah, shit, let's not fight over who starts fights," Red sighed and took one of Penny's soft breasts in her hand. "Hmm, maybe I wanna start another fight?"
"Why?"
"Purely for the makeup sex."
Penny sighed. "Gin, all of our sex is makeup sex."
"What's this, then?" Red asked, brushing a thumb over Penny's reddened nipple.
Penny's breath caught, but her eyes retained the stern look Red so hated. "Stress-relief sex. Things have been so bad lately with the economy. Dad says he's doing all he can, but he looks worn out. And I'm afraid D.C.'ll drop at any second, he's running himself so ragged."
Red released her breast and huffed. "Don't bring up all that shit. It's such a turn-off."
"But it's affecting me, too," Penny said as Red sulked. "The army has already had to be called in to chase off the protesters in my state and many others. And the more they put in jail, the angrier the public gets. I don't know how long I'll be able to keep this up, Ginny. I'm so tired…"
Red snorted. "You're telling me. Normally we go five rounds straight."
"Ginny."
"Yeah, babe?"
"I'm serious."
"Everyone's so fucking serious lately," Red said dismissively. "Can we try to at least forget the whole thing during pillow talk?"
"I can't forget it, Gin," Penny snapped, glaring. "And neither can you. We can't just ignore this. We have to talk about it, make a plan—"
"But right after sex?" Red asked with a snort. "Sis, you still over-think things too much."
Penny sat up, the blankets falling from her nude body. But she didn't seem to care; she was too busy glaring at Red. "Well, you barely think at all!"
Red sat up, too. "You wanna start this now, huh? See, you always do start fights. I should've known sleeping with you so easily this time around would come with repercussions."
"You're terrible!" Penny snapped, standing and throwing a pillow in Red's face. "Don't you see anything? This is the end of the world, Gin! I know it!"
Red growled as she tossed the pillow away and stood also. "Oh, stop crying wolf when you don't even know if there is a fucking wolf. It's that kind of behavior that's scaring the Dakotas!"
"They should be scared," Penny flashed back, slipping on her underwear and pants. "Not only do they have a rebellious public to worry about but lax, nonchalant siblings as well!"
Red huffed as she watched Penny pull on her bra, her shirt. "Why can't we ever just fall asleep together and wake up like a happy, normal couple?"
Penny glared at her. "We're not a couple, Ginny. We never were. Do you think the regular activities of a couple are fighting tooth and nail, breaking up for weeks, then getting together again for one night of makeup sex? Gin, we've been running in a mad circle for a century-and-a-half. And then you wonder why we can't sleep together peacefully for a full night?"
Red sat back down on the bed, watching Penny finish dressing. As her lover pulled on her shoes, Red muttered, "So 'I love you' doesn't mean anything to you then?"
Penny stopped by the door, turning to face her. "It does, Ginny. It's the only thing that's made me come back to you for decades on end. But if you truly love me, you would take what I say seriously instead of making everything a goddamn joke." She opened the door. "Goodbye, Virginia." She left.
And Red never saw her again.
The hair, the arms, the voice all disappeared then, pulling Red back into bleak, unforgiving reality. She ran her fingers through her hair, like Penny used to do when they were alone and in love for just a moment, but no touch could ever be the same. "What if I said I missed you?"
5:00.
Feliciano wanted to be alone for a while with his thoughts. And the voices. Always the voices.
Falling stars. No room. Hold up the sky. Bloody head, they whispered, and at the back of Feliciano's mind, something responded with, Stop them. He had been lying in his cot for an hour, not even the recalled, ghostly feel of Ludwig's skin and lips against his own providing any comfort. His mind was racing, thrumming, trying to find an answer to why the voices were there, growing steadily louder by the hour, more nagging, more painful. His eardrums felt as if they were being jabbed with knives and his brain felt like it was swelling in his skull, his head threatening to explode.
"Hold it up," Feliciano whispered to himself, eyes screwed shut, wincing, hoping that if he released some of what the voices were saying with his own voice he might ease the pressure building up in his head. If anyone walked in right now, he didn't know what he would do. He felt frightened and angry all at once.
"Stop, stop, please," Feliciano begged, hands going to his head, tugging at his hair and cupping his throbbing ears. Just stop. I promise, I'll do it. I'll find out why. I'll help, okay? Please…
And then it all just… stopped. Feliciano sat bolt upright, looking himself over, crying in utter relief. He turned, swinging his legs over the cot, flinching, stiffening, when he heard a chorus of voices ring, You have promised.
Stars belong in the sky, Holy Rome's voice resounded like an echo within him. You can hold them up. Together.
You have promised, the Ancients reminded.
"Si," Feliciano said as he pushed himself up from the cot with shaky arms. "I promise."
He didn't know exactly what he was promising, but whatever it was he couldn't back out now. Not for Holy Rome, not for Grandpa Rome, not for Lovino, not for everyone still alive and wanting more than anything for the world to be how it once was, however flawed, however unfair. They would solve this together to be sure, but in this mission Feliciano would be set apart. Set apart, but not alone.
You have promised.
"I have," Feliciano answered before feeling the new voices lift him, giving him enough strength to hold up everything, even the sky.
5:30.
Mere minutes before the horn for the morning gathering would sound, and the nations were all gathered in the meeting room, bidden only by their anxious states of mind. They were wide awake now, more awake and alive than they had ever been. Fingers trailed over weapons while thoughts remained fixed on 'Checkmate.'
Matthew felt something touch his hand, and there was Francis standing beside him, lips pressed to his temple. "Be safe, petit." There was more there to say—don't let me see you dead—but Francis didn't want to say it and Matthew didn't want to hear it. Beside them, they could hear Ludwig make Feliciano promise to stay where he was supposed to, not to wander off, to retreat when it looked as if he might be hurt. "I promise," Feliciano said, as if he had been saying it for his entire life.
All ordered and professional they stood, hair cut accordingly, black covering all but their heads, bearing the Organization's mark, but nothing could change their identities. Their eyes on their watches, their hearts drumming so loud they feared they would be heard above. Memories passing through their heads of how the world used to be, never simple but still their own. They couldn't bear to look at each other no matter if they wanted to commit the images to memory. They feared if they did they would want to stay in the bunker forever, waiting until the Overlord found them out. They would die together, not split up, not knowing where or when or if.
They heard Red spit before she stepped into the room. She was no longer chewing, and she appeared as tired as she ever had been. "Well," she sighed. "Here we go."
Among the rapidly beating hearts and heavy, ragged breaths Ludwig wound the pocket watch to midnight, thumb poised over the start button.
6:00.
The control board was blinking almost in anticipation. Cameras were still panning the tunnels, transmitting their entertainment to his screen. He watched with a chuckle as two men down Passage 7 fell all over each other in a drunken dance in an attempt to support themselves to their barracks. He would have to call them in tomorrow for a talk. They had been drinking way too much… and their weekly donations of spermatozoa were not on par with the requirements set down for the Expansion Program. Alcoholism would not be tolerated among future recruits—that's why he had created an officer's club to weed out the weak-livered ones. Their addiction should be serving his wishes, not indulging in their own pleasures… except, of course, at the Overlord's permission.
He glanced at the large electric clock on the screen that made up the entire wall before him. The second hand made its last round before the top of the hour. He knew very well that today would be a special day; the day he revealed his true power. After the dust cleared, he would have all the control he needed for his mission to be complete. He would be rewarded luxuriously, living out his life in pleasure and content as he watched his conditioned little insects scramble around to appease a power they had never bothered to pay much mind to. They were getting what they deserved.
The second hand aligned with the hour hand once again, and the Overlord extended itching fingers to flip the switch that would start the horn and the mass migration of a swarm of obedient flies. He could hear it even in his own chambers, far from their constant buzzing. He watched the screens as they flooded the tunnels and headed for the Gathering Place. A fitting place for flies to dwell, the sewers.
His finger moved to another switch then, one he had been waiting to use for months. He flicked it up. A voice, distorted with static, reached his ears. He knew he shouldn't have permitted them to use such primitive technology.
"Yes, my Grand Overlord of this sacred Fellowship of Man?"
It was a lengthy title, yes, but then again he didn't have to say it himself. He leaned forward and said, "The time is now."
And that was all he needed to say before the man on the other line replied, "Yes, my Grand Overlord," and the line closed.
The Overlord smiled and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in avid anticipation.
So it begins.
Translations:
Тпру!-Whoa!
Молодец-Well done
*Also a reference to the Russo-Japanese War.
A Word From the Writer: Finally! Phew, glad this is over. I was getting tired of waiting myself. My first yuri (somewhat) here. How I imagine it going: Red gets easily jealous and Penny insists on having her 'freedom' to do what she wants... which basically means screwing one of the other states and having Red find out through the grapevine. Then she gets pissed off and they get into an argument that ends with sexy times and then they fight and it starts all over again. I'm kind of exploiting (and maybe over-dramatizing) civil war tensions between them, since Red is good at holding grudges and Penny has a good (and long) memory. Let's just say that Penny is the more sensible and level-headed half of the relationship (if that wasn't already implied), but she does sometimes go to extremes to get what she wants... whether revenge or something else. It's kind of volatile, but the devotion is there... btw, the reason why Red got so angry over America calling her 'Ginny' earlier is because only Penny has permission to call her that, and the nickname reminded her that Penny is gone. And, the Overlord! Isn't he just a pleasant ray of sunshine? XD
Shit goes down (and I'm calling timber)... next post!