Fox's Journal

Mastery -- Backstory

mklnay — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 09:04:26 GMT

Mastery

Backstory

Setting. 'Mastery' is set in a semi-medieval world where magic cleaves toward the elements that surround us, taking on the aspects of Air, Earth, Water and Fire. Ships and wooden vessels are the premise of the extremely wealthy, metals are in short supply and the compressed air battery is a vision of the future. Specifically, the story is set in the fantasy kingdom of Cerend, an island nation located off of the coast of the Ryburn peninsula. Similar to most, Cerend has a King and a Queen as well as its assorted aristocracy, but it also boasts the largest and most famous school of Elemental Magic in the entirety of the Southern Kingdoms. It is the existence of this coalition of Mages, infamously independent and historically dangerous if crossed, that has shaped and moulded Cerend’s dual ruling classes into what they are at the point our story begins.

Plot. Suffice to say, it is long, convoluted, and much too complex to explain in its entirety in one sitting. Basically, our plot is a collection of tales, focusing on the stories of several very different young men and women from different backgrounds and eras, growing up in a time of political upheaval, who in their own ways, large or small, influenced the shaping of the kingdom they call home. (They’re all more or less inter-connected, but each has his or her own plot and storyline.)

Protagonist the First. Rhys ver Elden, Fire Mage. Second son of a powerful noble House. Time focus spans year 1042 A.P. (age 11) to 1052 A.P. (age 21). Joined the Keep at age eleven, predicted then to eventually be a great Mage. Eventually becomes the youngest Master in centuries at age twenty-one, though he only holds the astonishing mantle of Youngest for a devastatingly short two years.

Protagonist the Second. Prince Soren re Lanus, Water Mage. Time focus spans year 1050 A.P. (age 16) to 1060 A.P. (age 24). Third son of King Edmund re Lanus. Younger brother to Crown Prince Leopold, twins Prince Everard and Princess Evelyn, and Princess Annelie. Older brother to Princess Corina and Prince Friedrich. Epileptic, asthmatic; the younger son who was ushered out of sight and out of mind. Becomes King through a horrifying twist of fate, at age nineteen, spends the first year of his reign finding and executing assassins and conspirators, as well as dealing with the political consequences of being a King who is also a Mage.

Protagonist the Third. Leannan Mason, Earth Mage. Time focus spans 1057 A.P. (age 18) to 1067 A.P. (age 28). Daughter of two Mages; grew up around the Keep. Apprenticed under the Keep’s First Healer, eventual Healer in her own right. In later years serves as a pioneering field medic in the Ryburn Invasion and spy before coming back to take up the position as First Healer and Physician of the King.

Protagonist the Fourth. Blythe Dorian, Air Mage. Time Focus spans 1081 A.P. (age 17) to 1091 A.P. (age 27). Son of a prostitute, street rat, learned his tricks from an old entertainer who took a shine to him. Started at the keep age 13, went into special branch of study specification age 16. Switched to combat speciality aged 17 due to a sudden infatuation with one Danica ver Elden (16), daughter of Rhys. Eventually a spy and assassin working for Cerendian spymaster, comes to be known as the Ghost.

Secondary Characters. Elliot Elyson, Air Master at age nineteen, sly, cheeky bastard and Rhys’s rival. Kara Elyson, strong Fire Mage, Elliot’s much younger sister (somehow turning out pretty normal for having a brother like that), Leannan’s best friend and apprenticed to Rhys. Gabriel ver Tallan, bodyguard, valet and best friend to Prince Soren, involuntary and reluctant spy for enemy conspirators. The Rest are either too far in the future or do not have a major bearing on events, and therefore will be introduced in good time.

[Fanfic][Gift for blurt_poetic]Red Tulips and Angels [2/2]

mklnay — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 07:28:02 GMT

____________

The atmosphere in the car was thick enough to cut with a knife.

On the wheel, Matthew’s fingers drummed erratically in nervous beat with music that wasn’t on as, every once in a while, his blue eyes would flick anxiously to the tall form folded into the passenger seat. Apprehensively, he bit his lip and clenched and unclenched his fists, thrown far off his usual conversation by Lars’ own, barely perceptible fidgeting.

It was a very strange predicament... Ever since he had gotten off the plane (arriving on the morning of February the 14th, of all days), Lars had been unusually distracted and jumpy, acting like he was going to hop out of his skin at any moment. Matthew, who was very good at reading people in general and Lars especially, after so many years, had picked up on the weird attitude quite quickly. But, when he had asked what was wrong Lars had been evasive, insisting that nothing was amiss, truly, when it was so clearly a lie.

‘Frustrated’ could not begin to cover what Matthew was feeling right at that moment. ‘Worried’ too, he supposed, because he had never seen Lars so worked up over anything before this.

But mainly it was frustration.

“U-um... Lars?”

Damn that sneaky little stutter. It snuck in when Matthew was least expecting it and made all of his sentences sound even more pathetic than they usually were. Beside him, Lars tried- and failed- to hide his start of surprise before he turned and gray eyes flashed to blue, leaving Matthew to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat.

“Yeah?”

“What- Uh... How was your flight?”

Matthew bit his lip harshly and cursed his own passive nature. He had meant to ask Lars directly what the matter was, but at the last moment his traitor mouth had blurted out something else entirely; repeating a question that he had already asked twice in the airport.

He could see Lars’ barely concealed amusement all too clearly.

“It was alright,” the older nation stated blandly, smiling and fiddling surreptitiously with his seatbelt buckle. “Same old, same old, really...”

Matthew tried to make his grimace look like a smile, even as he felt himself flush all the way to the roots of his blonde hair. Of course Lars would say that; had he ever said any different? It just made Matthew feel extremely stupid and shy and want to sink through the floor, if not for the fact that he was driving.

“Okay...” He murmured softly, fixing his eyes resolutely on the grey tarmac in front of him. He wanted to ask, but it was so difficult to push the words past his traitor mouth and tongue without them somehow turning into something else. It was almost like one of Arthur’s bad magic tricks; rabbit goes into hat, rabbit does not come out of hat, there is charcoal burnt rabbit for dinner the next night.

Another few minutes passed in a rather awkward silence. Then, Lars’ voice made Matthew jump.

“If you want to ask me something...”

“Eh, no! Um. I mean.” Matthew shot a glance in Lars’ direction and saw amusement lingering in his blue eyes, overlaying something deeper that Matthew didn’t really have the time to examine. He nibbled at his lip and clenched his fingers tight around the steering wheel. “Well, that is... You’re acting really strange, Lars.”

There was a huff of slightly embarrassed laughter from the passenger seat as Lars scratched his head absently.
“Ahaha... I guess I am, huh?” he said, shooting Matthew a small smile. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it, eh, schat?”

Matthew was so busy ducking the hand that Lars reached out to ruffle his hair that he almost missed the serious expression that flitted over the taller nation’s face as he looked at the shorter male. As it was, the sight of it gave him enough pause that Lars managed to muss the top of his head, and Matthew almost missed the turning into his street.

But then they were pulling up in front of Matthew’s house and he was showing Lars to his room (the same one he always slept in, but Arthur had taught him how to be a good host), making sure he was settled. He was busy enough that Lars’ strange expression of anticipation and anxiety- and something else that Canada thought looked vaguely familiar- was pushed to the back of his mind to be forgotten and remembered only when it would no longer be relevant.

________________

This was a bad idea.

In fact, it was one of the worst ideas in the whole history of bad ideas. And for a nation, that was saying a lot.

The first thing Lars did after Matthew left his room was make a beeline straight for the window. His stomach seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his throat and he really, really needed some fresh air. Unfortunately, the latch was not very sympathetic, and it took Lars some five minutes of jimmying before the window slid open and he was able to stick his head out into the chill of Canada in February.

The cold made him jolt, but Lars grit his teeth and bore it because it was the first time since he boarded the plane at the Amsterdam Airport Schipol that he felt calm enough to actually think about what he had come here to do without becoming so flustered that he walked into a wall. Or something. (Because he hadn’t actually walked into a wall. Well. Maybe once.)

Okay, so maybe this would be a bad idea. Because Matthew was about as likely to return his feelings as he was likely to jump on the table and belt out Het Wilhelmus at the top of his lungs.

But it didn't matter whether or not it was a bad idea. He was going to tell Matthew. He was going to tell him that he l- lov- that he- godverdomme, that he loved him and he was not going to back out of this decision now!

It would be so easy to simply turn around and pretend that this visit was just a spur of the moment decision to see Canada in February.

Not that there was really very much to see except snow at this time of year.

Lars sighed heavily, his breathe coming out as a plume of white condensation. Sixty years, he mused wearily. Sixty years and Lars had never said a word. Not when Matthew had visited him in the Allied hospital a week after his rescue. Not when Matthew’s boss had gladly paid for Dutch brides to travel back to Canada. Not even when Matthew had hugged him gently, mindful of his wounds (The Hague and Rotterdam and Middelburg, they were all mending, but slowly), and Lars had wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around the smaller man and never let go.

He had just stood by and smiled and suggested afterwards to the Queen that maybe, just maybe mind you, they should send tulips to Canada as a ‘thank you’ for sheltering the Princess and liberating their country, despite knowing full well what tulips meant in the global meaning of flowers. And, since he was- what was the saying? Oh, yes - In for a penny he might as well be in for a pound.

The personal bouquet he had sent to Matthew’s house had been red. Red tulips.

Of course, Matthew wouldn’t know the difference between red tulips and all the other colours of the flower, but Lars knew. He knew and he had said nothing when Matthew thanked him enthusiastically for the tulips with a beaming smile and absolutely no idea what they had meant.

The next bouquet he had sent him had been red and cream.

Lars had held his silence.

Over the years, as the Netherlands gifted Canada with tulips every May, the tulips Lars himself sent had become more varied. Yellow and pink mixed with variegated and purple, but there was always one single red tulip in the very centre of the bouquet.

He was tired of waiting.

Now, standing at the window with his fingers and face slowly going numb, Lars couldn’t squash the general feeling of anxiety that was fizzling through his veins. Bretje was already on standby with their plan (because who else could a guy go to for advice on love other than his sister?) and all Lars had to do was get Matthew out of the house for a little while so that she could get things into place.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t look forward to it though, nervous though he was.

Taking a deep breath, Lars turned away and shut the window, hardly realising that he had been standing with his head in the cold outside for a good ten minutes. He was at the door in three long strides and, opening the door, Lars jogged into the hallway and down the stairs.

“Matt?” He called into the rest of the house, waiting until an answer floated back from the living room before calling, "Wanna go get an early lunch?"

________________

B-

M and I going for lunch. Back around 1pm.

-L

________________

L-

Plan is a go!! ;D Go get some broer!

-B

________________

Matthew's laughter rang out in the chill February air as he and Lars made their way slowly up the gravel path from the car, the pleasant sound sending shivers down the taller nation's spine. He had enjoyed lunch very much, Lars mused absently, but they were almost at the door and Bretje's sms had indicated that she was done with the preparations. Deliberately, the blonde man stuck his hands into the pockets of his coat to prevent himself from wringing them as he watched Matthew's laughing subside to occasionaly bursts of chuckling.

"Did England really act like that when he was a sailor?" he asked, eliciting a grin from Lars. He winked one grey eye briefly and watched as the amused smile grew on Matthew's face.

"No, he was worse." Lars admitted, lips twitching in the effort to hold in the laughter. "He used to wear an eyepatch because it made him look more pirate-y."

Again, Matthew laughed softly at the mental image of stuffy England parading around in ruffled shirts and pirate hats and eyepatches. Lars would have laughed along with him, if the shorter nation hadn't started forwards to unlock the door.

Inside his chest, Lars' heart clenched and his throat constricted painfully. Now. Tell him now.

"Matt, wait-"

"What the hell?!"

He blinked in shock as he stared past Matthew into the living room. Involuntarily, his mouth fell open and Lars immediately thought, I'm going to kill Bretje.

There were tulips everywhere; bunches of them in a myriad of hues stacked on the table, on the chairs, even a few tulips on the mantle in a tall blue vase. Everywhere he looked there were more baskets and more flowers, and Lars could feel a stress headache begin to pound behind his eyes.

________________

Matthew advanced cautiously into the house, staring in sheer disbelief at the number of plants that had taken over his living room. There didn’t seem to be a single space not sporting a bouquet. In the place of honour on the coffee table, there was a basket of flowers, fashioned into the shape of a maple leaf out of red tulips and surrounded by others in riot of colours. Gingerly, almost as if the flowers were going to eat him, the Northern nation picked it up and turned slowly around to look at Lars, whose face had paled remarkably at the sight of the floral effusion.

"Lars..." he said softly, blue eyes wide. "Did you do this?" With one hand, he waved to the gifts; Lars' national flower.

If it were possible, the taller man blanched even further. "I- no- I mean- There weren't supposed to be so many!"

Under any other circumstances, Matthew might have found Lars’ obvious dismay hilariously funny. Now, though, he just felt confused. “But the Tulip Festival isn’t until May.”

“I know.” Now, the first signs of colour crept back onto Lars’ face in the form of a pink blush spreading over the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. He stepped forward, shutting the front door behind him and lifted the basket of tulips from Matthew’s grasp, plucking a single stem from the bouquet. From where he was standing, Matthew could here Lars take a deep, shaky breath to steady himself before he asked, “Do you know what tulips mean, Matt?”

That gave him pause for a moment as the shorter man frowned and searched his memory for the meaning of the tulip. He had known once, that was certain, but now the only thing that he knew about the tulip was that it was the National Flower of the Netherlands. Mutely, he shook his head ‘no’ and, before Matthew could even jump in surprise, gentle fingers had tucked the single tulip behind his ear.

Lars’ voice was a soft, low rumble that sent a shudder down Matthew’s spine. “Tulips mean ‘perfect love’.” The side of his thumb brushed Matthew’s face briefly, making his blue eyes widen. “Variegated ones like this one mean that you have beautiful eyes.”

You have beautiful eyes too, Matthew wanted to say, as he stood transfixed by slate grey irises and anchored by a deep, velvety voice. But his heart had leapt into his throat and was pounding in his ears like some mad drumbeat and Matthew found he couldn’t so much as make a peep.

Lars continued to slowly decimate the bouquet.

“Yellow, for sunshine and happy memories.” Another flower went behind Matthew’s ear.

“White, for worthiness.” The other ear this time.

“Pink, for gratitude ad appreciation.” With two tulips behind each ear, Matthew was distantly surprised that they fit.

“And finally…” Lars trailed off hoarsely, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed past the lump in his throat. From the basket he still held, he withdrew two tulips; one red and one cream, and offered them to Matthew. Wordlessly, he set the basket down on the table behind Matthew and his voice when he eventually straightened and spoke was barely more than a whisper. “Red is a declaration. It- it means ‘I love you’, and cream means ‘I will love you… forever’.”

It was almost hard to breathe with his heart in his throat like that and Matthew had almost missed Lars’ words due to his heart’s thundering in his ears. But, as he stared into Lars’ face, earnest and passionate and more than a little bit terrified, Matthew finally realized where he had seen that look before,

That look was precisely the same look that Alfred always had whenever Arthur was around.

Matthew took the flowers.

There was a smile on his face as he lifted the two tulips to his nose and took a breath of the subtle, honeyed smell that tulips seemed to have. Taking the short moment to think, Matthew inspected the funny, warm feeling that had blossomed in the pit of his stomach; the same feeling, now that he thought about it, that he got whenever Lars came to visit and they spent time with each other.

“Matt?”

Surprised, Matthew looked up to see Lars had moved away a step and was now staring at him, the look on his face more panicked than anything. He was clearly waiting for an answer to his confession.

Matthew flushed. “Oh- um… Well.” He bit his lip briefly in indecision. Then, Matthew closed the gap between them, still clutching the two tulips in a death grip and reached up to tuck the red and the cream flowers behind Lars’ ear (it was most annoying to realize that he had to stand on tiptoe to comfortably reach Lars’ head), resting his hands on Lars’ shoulders for a long moment afterwards.

Quietly, he said, “’Red and cream. We match now.”

For a long, long moment, Lars obviously did not register the meaning behind Matthew’s words. He simply stood there with his brow furrowed adorably at the younger nation, before finally Matthew’s shy, encouraging expression and hesitant smile elicited a wide, joyful grin from the older nation. “Yes, we match.” He said softly, before slowly inclining his head towards Matthew’s, eyes lingering on the shorter man’s mouth.

Matthew only had to tilt his head up slightly to meet Lars’ lips and his brain just seemed to… stop. Blissfully, he lifted his hands to cup Lars’ cheeks even as one long, strong arm twined around Matthew’s waist. After a moment longer, the Dutch nation tilted to deepen the kiss, gaining a soft moan from the shorter male. They only parted when oxygen started to become a serious issue, and even though they were both flushed and breathless, Lars still managed to slip one last word in edgewise past kiss-swollen lips that were tilted upwards in a tender smile.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, mijn Engel.”

To which Matthew responded by pulling Lars’ face back down for another kiss.

Fin

[Fanfic][Gift for blurt_poetic]Red Tulips and Angels [1/2]

mklnay — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 14:28:26 GMT

Author: mklnay
Recipient: blurt_poetic
Characters/Pairing: Netherlands/Canada
Rating: T
Summary: Finally, after over sixty years of watching from afar, Netherlands finally decides to tell Canada how he feels on Valentine's Day. Upon picking him up from the airport, poor Canada has no idea what he's in for. Twoshot.
Warnings: Not much really. Any scene from WWII deserves its own special warning, though.
A/N: Another exchange! I'm sorry I took so long with this, and what's more it might not have been quite what you wanted, I don't know owo;. I'll have the second chap up in a couple days~ This is sort of a prologue, so bear with me, I'm sorry. >n<

It is cold in the cell. The walls are grey and unfeeling, the iron bars a stark reminder of his imprisonment in his own country. The irony is not lost on Lars, cold and half-starved and wasted though he is.

Outside, he can hear the sounds of fighting. He doesn’t know who it is this time; he only hopes that it his people aren’t getting hurt too badly. This battle is simply one of many to be imprinted on his flesh, another focal point of pain that is drowned out by everything else. Rotterdam has yet to scab over; the burns that stripe Lars’ back are open and oozing. Middelburg too is a livid welt on his lower abdomen. Everywhere, he feels the pain and suffering of his people like small needles boring into his skin, but over it all rules the merciless, never ending hunger.

A small part of him, the very, very small part that has retreated from the anguish, is slightly surprised that he is still sane. Yet Lars knows that it would take more than this to break him- to break his people.

Mijn Schilt ende betrouwen
Sijt ghy, o Godt mijn Heer,
Op u soo wil ick bouwen
Verlaet mij nimmermeer:

Because they are Dutch, he is the Kingdom of Netherlands, and they will fight and pray and never give up.

Dat ick doch vroom mach blijven
V dienaer taller stondt,
Die Tyranny verdrijven,
Die my mijn hert doorwondt.

From where he sits in the corner of the cell, Lars hears shouting and the sharp rapport of guns at the end of the long corridor, out of sight. It takes too much of the energy he has too little of to begin with to raise his head, so he merely pricks his ears for the signs of someone approaching. Finally, there is one last cry before there silence reigns. Lars curls his hands into loose fists where they rest on his drawn-up knees; waiting, listening, hoping.

Hurried footsteps echo on stone and then someone is at the door to his cell, keys jangling quietly.

“Lars.”

The quiet, horrified voice makes Lars want to lift his head; he wants to but his head is too heavy and he cannot. The Hunger Winter has taken much out of him as well. No matter how much of that horrible prison glop he eats (which isn’t much in the first place), his belly remains empty- an echo of the starvation endured by so many in the Northern reaches of his country.

There is the sound of the door opening, and then someone is kneeling in front of him and there are gentle hands on his cheeks. His muscles tense in reflex at being touched, but he says nothing as the hands lift his face and brush dirty blonde hair away from his battered face.

Lars recognises his rescuer. His voice is hoarse from disuse, but his lips tilt upwards slightly as he whispers in the other man’s ear.

“Een engel...”

And then, relieved, Lars closes his eyes and drifts out, safe within the protective circle of Canada’s arms.

End notes:
1. That whole lot of Dutch is the sixth stanza of the Netherlands national anthem, 'Het Wilhelmus', the oldest national anthem in the world.
2. 'Een engel' means 'An angel' ^^.

[Fanart] Sailor!Port ftw~

mklnay — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 15:24:16 GMT

Yeah, so I kind of just had the urge to draw Portugal. This is xringmaster 's OC!Port Henrique in a Navy uniform.

Oh, and I have no scanner so it shall be photographs for now. Plus, I'm a total noob and don't know how to resize photos. Yes. So big picture.

Thanks for viewing~ ;]

[Fic] Fireworks on Christmas Eve [USxUK]

mklnay — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 10:25:57 GMT

TITLE: Fireworks on Christmas Eve
AUTHOR: mklnay /30xfoxglovex05
GENRE: Romance, a little bit of angst.
WORD COUNT: 5, 371
RATINGS: PG
WARNINGS: IT'S A MONSTER. I mushed in two chapters so it's giant. Other than that; kissing. France being insulting. England's potty mouth.
SUMMARY: A Christmas party at America's house leads to many a misunderstanding.
DISCLAIMER: Hetalia does not belong to me. I am not getting money from this. If I was, I wouldn't have to study so hard for a scholarship.
NOTES: A big thank you to Ms Blackbird for editing and being generally nitpicky (in a good way!) :]. Written for nonnally for the 2009 Secret Santa Exchange over at the usxuk community. x-posted there and to the hetalia comm. Decided to post this up here anyway. ^^

It was the 24th of December, and so far England was not having a good Christmas.

He yearned for a calm, quiet evening; for a good cup of strongly brewed tea and his armchair by the fireplace back in London. What he didn’t want was to have to deal with a drunken, leering France (it was a time of mercy, was it not? So God should have mercy and not inflict the idiotic frog on him on Christmas of all days), or fend off Russia’s ideas of ‘becoming one’. England didn’t even want to withstand Italy and his incessant chattering, harmless though it was.

He really, really just wanted to go home.

The only reason that England was still here was that he had given his solemn word, albeit grudgingly, to try and last out the night and not storm off in a huff as he usually did in parties that had alcohol, America and France all in it.

(But he was definitely not doing this because America’s puppy-dog face was so goddamned cute. Neither was he doing it because he was secretly thrilled that America would care enough to beg him to stay. No; it was because he felt sorry for America, really, for being deprived of his presence. Right.)

Now, it was nearly midnight, and England hadn’t even had a single glass of alcohol. America’s beer didn’t count as something drinkable, since it could just as easily pass for industrial-strength bleach, and the liquor in the eggnog that America had foisted onto him was too watered down to consider. All in all, the beverages were distinctly lacklustre this year.

Leaning back on the couch, England wrapped his hands around his warm drink and let his eyes rove around the room. Other than America and England, many of the other nations were here: Italy was sitting with Germany by the window, Japan and Greece talking amiably by the door, Hungary speaking animatedly to a politely interested Austria. England could even hear Romano’s loud voice cursing at Spain somewhere else in the house.

It was rather lonely, really...

There was a sort of masochistic fascination in watching the other nations pair off with one another while England himself sat by the sidelines, distinctly lacking a conversational partner (not like he really wanted one anyway, hmph.). It made England’s already low holiday spirit take another steep nose dive.

“Ah, Angleterre!”

Of course, it just kept getting better and better. At this rate, even America’s beer would be welcome.

“Did you do something to your eyebrows for the holiday? They are looking thicker than usual. It is most disturbing.”

England’s left eye twitched. He was starting to feel the beginnings of a migraine cropping up behind his eyes. Despite the fact that moments ago, he had been rather depressed by his solitude, England would rather throw himself off a building and into the path of an oncoming bus than have to put up with France.

“Sod off, France,” he said, scowling and taking a sip of his eggnog. He refused to be needled into an argument; he would not give France the pleasure of it on Christmas Eve.

Out of the corner of his eye, England could see France collapse languidly onto the other end of the couch, a glass of deep red wine cradled gently in one hand. Most of the guests were dressed festively (Japan was even sporting a pair of antlers with bells that jingled cheerfully at his every move), and France was no exception. On top of his head sat a red Santa hat, tilted merrily to one side.

That stupid Santa hat seemed to mock England’s own reserved attire comprised of a sweater vest, a white shirt and plaid pants.

What? He’d worn his red vest. Specially.

While England grumbled inwardly at everyone who had looked askance at his seemingly unaltered clothing, France grinned slyly and stretched out his long legs. “You do not like my compliment, Angleterre? But I promise you, mon chère that I speak only the truth. It is a wonder to me how your eyebrows are so—“

“Hey, everybody!”

Before France could finish his sentence and before England could angrily pitch his eggnog straight into the disgusting bastard’s face, America’s voice cut through the light rumble of talk. All the nations turned as one to look at their host.

America stood in the doorway, arms akimbo and grinning so wide that his face looked like it was about to split in two. His golden hair was mussed, as if he had shoved his hand back through it in excitement. Impatiently, he made enthusiastic motions with his hands.

“You’ve gotta come see! China rigged something really awesome up in the yard!”

As everyone slowly streamed out of the room in twos and threes, England remained seated, slowly sipping at his eggnog. Did he really care what surprise China had set up? Eh, not really. Would he prefer to sit here and drink his eggnog in peace and quiet? Hell yes.

Hmm... Maybe he could get drunk on the eggnog if he drank enough of it.

England hoped so. He lifted the mug to his lips, and—

“Boo!”

The cheerful shout, right next to England’s ear, coupled with the sensation of large hands clapping down on his shoulders made him start violently, his eggnog sloshing over the rim of his mug and all over his white shirt and vest.

“Bloody hell!” England yelped, whipping around to see America behind him, still grinning widely and blue eyes twinkling. In that instant before England regained the sense to shoot out of his seat, his face was alarmingly close to America’s, their noses only inches apart. England could even smell America’s cologne.

He stared.

Then he remembered that this was America he was staring at.

Practically leaping out of his seat, blushing scarlet, and with goosebumps rippling down his arms from where America’s hands had rested moments before, England floundered helplessly for something to say, even as he nearly dropped his mug onto the side table. Desperately, he grabbed at the first thing that came to mind.

“What in bloody blazes do you think you’re doing touching me- like- touch- What do you thing you’re doing?”

... Well, in hindsight that might not have been the most terribly intelligent thing to say.

America looked puzzled. And utterly adorable. “What- England, it was only a little fun.”

England really hated how America could melt him into a single pool of goo with that hurt look of his. It made him feel like he’d just kicked a puppy.

He scoffed. “I suppose you would think that was ‘fun’, wouldn’t you? Sneaking up on a chap like that? Honestly, America, you can be so childish sometimes.”

Annoyance pulled America’s eyebrows down into a frown to match England’s. “Childish? What the hell, England, how does having fun turn out to be childish? Don’t be such an old man about it.” America said and huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking defiant.

“It’s childish when you employ such puerile means.” Even to England’s own ears he sounded uppity and distinctly feeble. Belatedly, he recalled America’s second statement. “And I am not an old man!”

America scowled, opening his mouth to shoot back a retort. Then, surprisingly, he shut it again and shoved a hand jerkily back through messy golden strands, blue eyes darting away to rove restlessly around the room. The sigh that passed his lips was world-weary, and his next words made England feel about, oh, two inches tall.

“Look, England, I don’t wanna argue with you. It’s Christmas. And this is stupid.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly, “Can you just come and watch the fireworks? China brought some really awesome ones to try, and we’ve cleared out a space in the yard and everything...”

There was a long silence.

England was starting to lose his resolve to not give in.

Damn America and his earnestness; it made England seem like such an unreasonable fellow, to pick a fight on Christmas Eve.

“Come on, England--“

“Fine.” England huffed, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “I’ll come and watch your silly fire—America!”

But the younger nation was obviously not listening as America let out a whoop and actually leapt over the couch, landing neatly beside England. Oblivious to his dumbfounded sputtering, America grabbed England’s hand and, without further ado, started towing him towards the door.

“Aw man, England, that’s awesome! The fireworks are gonna be so-“

“America!”

“-cool and- and awesome and you’ve gotta take a look-“

“America!”

“-and China set them to go off at midnight on the clock, and-“

“America, you git, let me go!”

This last, coupled with a mighty wrench, managed to free his hand and send England stumbling away from America, just barely saving himself from a tumble by grabbing at a table.

Cut off in mid-sentence, America turned to look down at England with his hurt blue eyes.

Really... England rolled his eyes as he straightened and surreptitiously rubbed his hands against his the cloth of his pants, ignoring how that pleading gaze made his heart drop into his shoes. His voice when he spoke was exasperated. “America, you great blinking idiot, I spilled eggnog all over my shirt. Do you really expect me to go out there like this?”

He waved a hand to indicate the rather saddened condition of his red sweater vest. America had the grace to look sheepish.

“Sorry, I forgot about that.” America said, scratching his head. “Why don’t you go wash up? The toilet’s down to the right. ”

England suppressed another eye roll. “I know where the bathroom is, America.”

“Oh, right... I suppose you do.” America said, looking slightly uncomfortable at the reminder that England had once visited him in this house almost every month. They had been... close. But that had been before 1776. Before the War.

England shook his head and slipped past America, not really wanting to respond. The padding of footsteps behind him alerted England that America had followed him, and England only closed his eyes in exasperation before walking into the bathroom and shutting the door firmly behind him.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of running water from the tap.

Outside the bathroom door, England knew that America would be fidgeting, eager to be off to watch China’s Christmas present. He sighed. After so many years, America was still so predictable. Any second now, he would be telling England to hurry—

“Hurry up, England! We’re gonna miss it!”

Yes. Very predictable indeed.

“Calm down, America.” England said, rolling his eyes at his reflection in the mirror. “We won’t miss it. We still have twenty minutes before the fireworks start.”

England could practically hear the pout in America’s voice. “But Englaaaaaaaaand...”

“Oh, go first, you ninny.” He tried- and failed- to hide the amusement in his voice. “I’ll be along in a moment.” Rubbing at his slightly yellow-stained shirt with a washcloth, England could only wonder at how quickly the conversation with America had gone from angry to earnest to fond.

Standing in the hallway, America shifted his weight impatiently from one foot to another. How long did it take to wipe off a shirt? England was taking far, far too long just to clean up, and they would miss it if he didn’t come out soon. It was very tempting to just go ahead first, but America really wanted England to be there...

“America. Go.” England’s voice from inside the bathroom was annoyed, but there was an undercurrent of amusement drifting in his accented voice.

America couldn’t suppress a smile at how well the European nation knew him. He still had his misgivings about leaving England where he could chicken out and not come, but America decided that this time, he would trust England to keep his promise. Waving at the door, as if England could see him, he called, “Okay, I’m gonna go see how they’re doing. You’d better hurry up, Iggy, or we’ll set them off without you!”

With that, America sprinted away, leaving England to wash in peace.

Even in his own house, America very nearly crashed into several walls before making it to the yard, more or less intact (that expensive vase by the staircase, sadly, could not say the same). Some of the other nations were outside enjoying the spectacle of China and Hong Kong demonstrating some of the products that they had brought along, standing in the middle of a cleared circle of snow like a pair of ringmasters. The two Asian countries had distributed some of the more harmless ones to their audience, so much so that even Germany held a sparkler in one hand as he confusedly watched Italy try and draw their names in the air with another.

Jogging up to China, America stopped and crouched beside the shorter nation, eyes drawn to the burning, hissing cracker that was halfway through its performance.

China’s voice cut through his fascination. “The other ones are ready, aru. I’ll set them off when it’s nearly midnight.”

America started and nodded with a grin. “That’s great, China. Thanks a lot for this, it’s really, really awesome!” he said, clapping a hand on the older nation’s shoulder. It was so cool that China had brought fireworks; it would be a special ending to his super awesome party! Now, if only England would hurry up and not miss it...

“Oh, America, have you received my Christmas present yet?” A voice said smoothly.

Looking up, America blinked in surprise when he saw France standing over him, lounging calmly with his hands in his pockets. There was a look on the other nation’s face that made America pause, right up until his brain registered the words ‘Christmas’ and ‘present’ lined up together in the sentence.

“You got me a Christmas present?” America exclaimed, practically bouncing to his feet in his enthusiasm.

France only smirked (was it just him or was there something devious to that look?) and said, “Of course, but it’s a surprise. So you must shut your eyes, mon cher.”

America complied, grinning happily at the prospect of a gift. Sure, he received loads of presents, but one more was always welcome.

“There. You can open them now, America.”

Immediately, America’s eyes shot open, darting to France’s hands to look for his present. The one he held by his side was empty... But the hand that France was holding up high was—Oh shit.

The tiny sprig of mistletoe was staring America in the face as France held it above the both of them.

Eyes widening, the younger nation made a lunge for the mistletoe, only to have France swing neatly out of the way. “France!” America yelped.

The devious smile was back. “This is my Christmas present to you, cher America. Surely you aren’t going to flout tradition?” he said, leaning in close.

America had to suppress the urge to flee. Fleeing was not something a hero would do, and what was America, if not a hero? And it was totally not awesome to flout tradition... But then that meant he really did have to kiss France, because it was tradition to kiss under mistletoe.

“Of course not!” America said angrily, clenching his fists by his sides. “Fine, let’s get it over with.”

France chuckled lightly at America’s words, but did not respond.

Coiled as tight as a bowstring, America swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut, really, really just wanting for the ordeal to be over. If he was lucky, he might only get of with a kiss. But if he wasn’t, France was liable to squeeze in a grope somewhere in there.

The feel of fingers on his chin nearly made America bolt, but he stayed put to face the challenge. He opened one eye, very slightly; enough to peer at France, whose face had come far, far too close to his. But it didn’t matter, because America could do this because he was a hero, and he was awesome. What could France possibly have to top that?

Still, America couldn’t stem the small part of him that wished it was England that he was about to kiss.

Because that would be entirely different.

Half-distracted by his thoughts and resolutely not thinking about how, in seconds, France would be kissing him, America allowed his eyes to drift over France’s shoulder, towards the house. He wasn’t expecting to see someone standing stock-still in the doorway. Nor was he expecting the stricken look on that person’s face.

America froze in shock long enough that, when France’s lips touched his (and when the country of amour sneakily slipped in a bit of tongue), he barely felt it. All he could see was that endless well of hurt and anger in eyes the colour of the sea. Barely a moment later, when the figure whirled around and disappeared into the depth of his house, America regained his senses.

Shoving France away abruptly, America gasped, “England!”

Then he pelted off after the older nation, leaving behind a crowd of nations that were, by turns, shocked, amused, and unsurprised.

England stalked through the house unseeingly, the sight of white walls and paintings superimposed with the image of America. America with his blonde hair and 1000-Watt smile. America with his charmingly sweet disposition. America with France.

As he turned a corner at high-speed, England nearly crashed into a side-table, grabbing it at the last minute to stop it from toppling to the floor. Righting the table, the nation couldn’t stop himself from doubling over from an almost physical pain in his chest. White-knuckled fingers gripped the wooden edge in a death-grip.

“America, you bastard...”

Was that really his voice? Raspy, vulnerable, and possessed of unimaginable amounts of pain; it even surprised England. He should not be feeling so... miserable. So America had kissed France. It wasn’t that big of a deal, right?

A choked sound, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob, escaped him before England could stop himself. As his knees buckled under him, the nation who had once been the Empire Where the Sun Never Sets collapsed to the floor, still clinging to the table as if for dear life.

Who was he kidding, really? England had always loved America. Just when that had changed to him being in love with America was uncertain, but it was an undeniable fact that yes, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (yes, his name is a mouthful, shut up) was in love with America.

What was this world coming to?

But even so, England would not - could not- allow himself to dwell on how much he wanted to be more than just ‘plain, old England’ to America.

Why? Well, because there was absolutely no sodding chance in hell of that now; America had plainly chosen France over him. Why else would the git pester him to come and watch the fireworks, and then when he arrived, be in the midst of a kiss with France? Had America set it all up? Had he picked up on England’s... fondness towards him and decided to dissuade him?

How long had he and that wino-bastard been together?

But no. No. England would not think of that. He would not be jealous of France. Even if it was over America- no, especially if it was over America. Hadn’t France competed with England for the young colony, once, a long time ago? England had won then, won the custody of the little nation, and won the adoration of a little boy. He had been so triumphant.

Now, France had won; had won the affection of the grown man, and had given England the worst taste of defeat that he had had in a long while.

Swallowing roughly, the young man dragged a hand over his eyes (they had been watering from... from the cold! Yes, it was snowing outside) and levered himself unsteadily to his feet. He had to get moving; he had to get out of this house, away from the memories that inhabited every corner, and away from the image of America and France in a clinch, with France’s lips on America’s and- oh, England was going to be sick—

“England!” A loud voice, laden with concern, spoke from behind him just as a hand came to rest on England’s shoulder.

The older nation reacted almost violently; nearly leaping away from the hand and the voice and the person whom he knew that that voice belonged to. True enough, America stood there, looking puzzled and worried to find England standing aimlessly in the middle of the hallway with his eyes bloodshot. There was the faintest hint of embarrassment in his handsome features, as the hand that had rested briefly on England’s shoulders rose to run nervously through his hair.

The green-eyed young man composed himself hurriedly; hiding his pain and anger and betrayal and jealousy under a thin veneer of calm. He wasn’t sure whether it would fool America, but so what if it didn’t? England would never admit how much seeing America kissing Francis felt like a sucker punch to the gut. He would never admit the jealousy that was burning through his heart and reducing it to ashes.

“Hello, America.” England said, and was insanely proud of how his voice didn’t even tremble. It was a little hoarser than he’d like, but beggars can’t be choosers, can they?

In the face of England’s forced calm, the younger man seemed to flounder. Then, seemingly coming to a decision, the words burst out in a flood.

“England, it’s not what you think! France and I were just—“

“Pardon? Oh, you mean that charming little scene with France?” England’s mouth stretched into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s hardly anything worth explaining. I’m sorry, America, but my PM called me for some pressing business at Number Ten and I really can’t stay. Have a Merry Christmas!”

He was babbling uncontrollably, but by this point England really didn’t care. With a final, slightly maniacal grin, England turned on his heel and made for the door with such speed that it might be called flight, hoping against hope that America would just let him go.

Wouldn’t old Will be proud of his acting skills now?

He had almost made it, too... The front door was only five feet away when a hand grabbed England’s arm, spinning him around to look into a pair of angry blue eyes.

America’s voice rang out, rolling over England’s cry of protest.

“Don’t lie to me!”

England froze, heart seizing in his chest.

America glared at him for a moment longer, his blue eyes blazing, before he huffed heavily through his nose and stepped back apace, releasing England’s arm and plainly trusting that the older nation wouldn’t turn and run again.

And he didn’t. Though for the life of him England didn’t know why.

The younger man stood silently for a moment, plainly organising his thoughts before beginning. England couldn’t help but notice that America was tense, tenser than he had been in a long time. Maybe even since his last war had ended. Needless to say, it didn’t make England feel a single jot better about what America might be going to say.

America took a deep breath. “It was just a kiss, England.” he said, and he might have said more (indeed, his mouth was already open to continue), but his words were lost as England’s temper- born of pain and anger and the green-eyed monster of jealousy-flared and his own voice, higher but no less powerful, cut across America.

“Just a kiss, my arse!” England exploded, the jeering anger in his voice plain. “You expect me to believe that that was just a kiss, when that disgusting wino-bastard had his tongue down your- when he was kissing you like that?!”

Abruptly, England remembered what he was saying (and what he was not supposed to be saying) and shut his mouth, red suffusing face. He really, really hadn’t meant to say that, because it might lead America to misunderstand England’s position. For instance, America might think that England was jealous.

And he most certainly wasn’t.

At all.

America spluttered. “What the- Yes, it was just a kiss, England! What did you think- wait, what does it matter to you anyway?” He frowned in a mixture of confusion and exasperation, with a little disgust thrown into the mix. After all, he had been kissing France. The guy was a pervert at the best of times.

England flushed even further, scowling darkly at America. True, it was really none of his business and he had no right to be acting like a jilted lover, despite how the thought of being America’s lover (cue nervous, adolescent gulp) sent tingles up and down his spine.

“It doesn’t matter.” He snapped. “Why would it? You’re plainly so stupid that you’ll even settle for France.”

“Settle for France!? The hell gave you that idea?”

“You were the one standing there kissing him!”

“He had mistletoe what was I supposed to do? Heroes don’t break tradition!”

“Don’t make me laugh! Hero? Tradition doesn’t mean that you let him stick his tongue down your throat, you useless wanker!”

“Why the fuck are you so worked up about me kissing France anyway? It’s not as if it’s any of your busi—“

“Of course it’s my business, you idiot, I raised you, didn’t I?”

America’s mouth tightened. This again. “Well, you did a fan-fucking-tastic job there, England.” He said with forced calm.

At America’s reply, England could see that this was trailing into dangerous territory for the both of them, but he was too angry and his heart hurt too much for him to care.

“I tried, you git! But at every turn you undid my work, and you never appreciated anything that I’d done for you!” England’s voice had lowered into a hiss, hands clenching into fists. He was deliberately opening up old wounds that both of them had thought were long-since healed. They were discovering how wrong that had been.

In sharp contrast to England’s low voice, America’s voice was rising in his anger. “It was because all you did for me was slap me with taxes, taxes and more goddamned taxes! You tried to control my trade, my people, my life, England! And now you think you can tell me who to fucking kiss?!”

England matched America’s volume and yelled, “I only tell you because you’re to bloody stupid to do anything without needing someone to hold your hand!”

“Ya know, I just don’t get you, England! Do this, do that, why don’tcha lick my goddamned shoe while you’re at it! Why the hell would you care who I kiss?!”

“Because I want you to kiss me dammit!” England bellowed, and then sucked in a gasp.

America was shocked into silence. A grandfather clock behind them that England knew was always five minutes fast (he had set it so that America wouldn’t be late for meetings) started to chime midnight.

As the first few chimes filled the house, England whirled on his heel and made for the door, wrenching it open to escape into the cold winter night. His black sensible shoes pounded down the gravel path, muffled slightly by the thin layer of snow on the ground.

He was horrified. Mortified. Absolutely humiliated. England couldn’t believe that he’d said that, that he’d yelled that out loud, straight to America’s face.

Because I want you to kiss me, dammit.

A despairing groan escaped him. He couldn’t blame France anymore. England was now the only person responsible for smashing his fragile hope to pieces.

The white garden gate appeared suddenly in front of England, making him skid to a wobbling halt in the snow, grabbing on to the gate for support. He’d left his coat back in America’s house, and England shivered. He was only dressed in a sweater vest and shirt, but it would have been much too humiliating to go back to America’s house after running away so as to ask for his coat back. After all, it wasn’t as if he had only one coat.

Clinging desperately to the top of the wooden gate, the green-eyed nation tried to calm his racing heart and slow down breath that was quickened from anxiety and shock rather than exertion. The throbbing of his heart in his ears blocked out nearly all the surrounding noises.

As such, England truly didn’t hear America approaching until the younger nation was already right behind him.

“England.”

The older nation spun, resisting the urge to shrink back against the gate.

America stood there, breath coming heavily, his blue eyes serious behind his glasses. It always shocked England whenever he saw America being serious; it was so different from his usual completely happy-go-lucky, cocky persona that he honestly wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

Then America spoke, “Did you mean that, Arthur?” And his voice was soft and serious and very, very attractive, though England was fairly sure that that last one hadn’t been intended at all and was mentally punching himself for thinking it. Abruptly, America took a step forward, bringing him within arm’s reach of England.

“Of-of course not, you idiot. It was a- a... joke! Yes, it was a joke, nothing more.” England snapped, trying for anger but only managing a muddled mixture of desperation and panic. He hadn’t even realised that he had taken a step back, away from America, until he felt the gate pressing against the back of his thighs.

But what was he retreating from? America? Or was he retreating from his own feelings, to prevent them from getting hurt?

England really almost didn’t want to find the answer to that.

There was the barest hint of frustration on America’s face, and England’s hand reached blindly for the latch on the gate. He just wanted to get out of here and go home and bury himself in his bed and forget all about this evening. At this point, managing to forget all about what had happened with America would be an added bonus.

His fingertips brushed the cold metal of the latch. Feeling an immense sense of relief and triumph at this (pitifully small) victory, England half-turned to work at the latch, only to suddenly feel warm, calloused fingertips cover his own. His heart stuttered in his chest.

England was almost afraid to turn around and see the expression on America’s face, but with America’s hand resting on his and America’s chest brushing against his shoulder, England was pretty sure that looking would be inevitable. Swallowing a very large lump in his throat, the older nation turned around and looked up, straight into a pair of sky-blue eyes.

Suddenly, England had forgotten how to breathe.

“You wanted me to kiss you, right?” America said softly, his warm breath ghosting over England’s chilled cheeks. A small smirk curled at the corners of his lips, but there was something in his eyes; something sweet and sincere and honest that made England forget his protests that it had been a mistake, a joke, anything but the truth.

England sighed, and said the only thing that entered his mind.

“Yes.”

And America just smiled, a bright, dazzling, delighted smile that made England’s insides melt, and then before England knew it he had leaned down and pressed his lips against England’s. Automatically, England’s arms came up to wrap around America’s neck, burying themselves in his bright blonde hair. A moment later, he felt America’s arms snake around his waist, pulling him snug against the younger nation’s taller, broader body.

Inside the house, the grandfather clock in the hallway ticked over into 12:05 AM.

On the dot, the night sky was suddenly illuminated with flashes of colour; red, yellow, blue and green as the elaborate fireworks display played out to welcome Santa Claus and the 25th of December. However, if asked later, neither America or England could tell you what the fireworks looked like.

After all, at the time, they’d only had eyes for each other.

First post

mklnay — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 09:02:26 GMT

Well. Welcome to my new journal; the latest in a long line of journals. This will probably be used mainly to post my writings for Hetalia, or whatever other fandom I get into. It is unlikely that you will see anything else.

~<3