hetalia_kink

Apparently, I heard that Sealand was being put on sale- again. I'm kinda wondering if the potential buyer is going to keep it as a micronation or not.

So I want to see Sealand, doubting if he will ever become a real nation. Because its all fun and games until you realize you might not have that much long to live. :

OP, i really hope this is sort of what you wanted, because…i ran away with your prompt, to put it plainly, haha. it was super fun to write, though, so thanks for making such a prompt anyhow!



The Whale’s Backbone




All boys, except one, grow up.



One of his very first memories was that of the whales.

Sealand remembers the afternoon—the gold that washed over him, over the fort, each bulge and nuzzle of the sea, and then the music that had been sung from the far, quiet horizon. He’d looked towards the sun, where a thousand glittering coins had been cast in the water, and a hundred voices approaching—dipping, dark silhouettes against the sky growing closer and closer, and Sealand’s gasp had been caught in his ribcage, fluttering and too light to come out.

And then the whales were right there, treading trails of foam around the fort and gazing at him with barnacled eyes. He’d gazed back.

It felt like the world had come to him.

Sealand remembers the afternoon because it was the first time he’d felt real, felt known—and he’d hardly cared that it was only a pod of whales, crooning at him in the rusting sunset.



"What is afraid?' asked Peter longingly. He thought it must be some splendid thing.



“I have a prince,” he later says to America, on top of the world because he’s talking to the Nation who is on top of the world. Sealand glows, because it sounds so important and official to say it aloud. “His name is Roy and he can work radios and he helped me write my constitution. I have one, you know. Just like you.”

And a flag, and a coat of arms, and an anthem, although there aren’t any words to it yet. It’s still glorious.

Peter doesn’t understand why America looks at him with such sad eyes.


.
"…There are no independent principalities in the North Sea. As far as we [the United States Department of State] are concerned, they are just Crown dependencies of Britain…"
.


Most mornings Sealand wakes to the sky, great and shining all around him, melting into the hungering ocean.

He’s hungry, too. He catches fish for breakfast and always feels an odd sort of sorrow when they stop flashing silver and droplets and still in his palms—not regret, but almost loneliness. It only lasts for a moment, though, because it’s delicious and after eating he always goes for a swim.

And then his day begins.

He spends most of it by the dented railings in the back of the fort, which jut out like an old man’s jagged teeth towards the ocean. Sometimes Sealand kicks himself for leaving Finland and Sweden, because he’d wanted to be a real country, and no real country has his shirts tucked in by others and is told stories about dragonhead ships and fur-coated kings before bed. So in the end it’s worth it, Sealand decides, one hand clutching the cool metal and the other wiping his nose. This is it. This is what being a real country feels like.

It’s very cold.

England doesn’t call him Sealand. He calls him Rough Tower.

Well, he used to. The last time England said that to his face Sealand introduced a vase to his.

Before the older Nation left, though, clutching his nose, he’d turned with bruising eyes: “There’s a reason why I named you Peter, boy.”


.
“…Although Mr. [Roy] Bates styles the platform as the Principality of Sealand, the U.K. government does not regard Sealand as a state…"
.


He often feels like being swallowed by the sky and swallowed by the sea—by the water lapping at the steel edges of the fort, tentacled around his ankles: I’ll fall one day, Sealand thinks, trip and be pulled deep into the waves to swim with mermaids, who I heard were nice, or at least nicer than England.

Oh, but then I’ll never be a Nation.

Sealand doesn’t know what he is. A small mess of metal and young rust, frozen in the salt-spray of the sea—a small dot on the world map, unnamed and unclaimed—or a micronation, on the days he is proud and optimistic and the sky is bluer than the lapels of his shirt.

But it’s all the same. Small. Micro. He’s small, and the ocean churns away from him in all directions, north and south and east and west, and when he tries calling into the roaring wilderness, it’s the only thing that answers.

(No one ever taught him about the childhoods of Nations.)



There was none to see it except a little boy who was staring in at the window. He had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know; but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be forever barred.



When Germany visits Sealand has to keep himself from bursting. It’s a little terrifying to be walking alongside such a tall country, but he’s heard that he’s kind. They head to the edge of the fort, where the jagged teeth is, and Sealand waits. For what, he doesn’t know, but it must be something great.

Several minutes pass. Sealand darts a glance from the ocean to Germany’s face, and thinks daringly that he almost looks like he doesn’t know what to say.

It’s true. Germany notices. Clears his throat. “Sealand.”

“Yeah?” He hopes he doesn’t sound too eager.

Germany stares down at him, blue eyes not quite like the sky and not quite like the sea. There’s a lost sort of expression on his face, but before Sealand can grow afraid the other Nation suddenly crouches so that they’re eye-level. The wind has ungelled some of Germany’s hair, blowing it across his eyes. Sealand blinks.

“You…” For a split second he feels older than Germany, but then a hand is laid on his shoulder and Sealand blinks again at its warmth, its largeness. “You’re not supposed to be here, Sealand.”

“…I—what do you mean?” But the whales came, he thinks hazily. They want me here.

Germany averts his eyes. “It isn’t a bad thing. It might change as time passes on.

A lot of us are just confused at how you’re here, you see.”

Germany looks far too uncomfortable to be used to things like this. Sealand wonders at this Nation, at his militaristic boots and his awkwardness, at the tenseness in his jaw and the softness in his eyes.

There’s water roaring in his ears. You’re not supposed to be here-- Sealand opens his mouth, tongue quailing and about to say something, but what comes out is totally different.

“Are you sure you can say that kind of stuff?”

When Germany leaves, Sealand is still left with the hunger in his chest that he thought would go away. He looks out into the ocean, and just as a particularly big wave hurtles against the fort the thought hits him.

Perhaps all that he is, is—is an intersection, a moment in time, between England and nowhere.

In the beginning he loved his people—all five of them. He loved them.

These days, though, it isn’t just a love for his people. It’s a stinging, crying need—they have to stay, they absolutely must, or else one day he’ll go out for a swim and never come back.

“Please don’t go,” is the prayer he repeats every night in his bunk, a wide-eyed whisper into the dark. “Don’t go, I’ll change for you, wait a bit longer but please don’t go—“

Sealand hates how thin his voice sounds, how high, how small.

It’s a terrible thing to cut open the belief of a child.


.
"Today, only Prince Roy lives on the tower of the The Principality of Sealand at sixty feet above the sea. Though the royal family's son, Prince Michael takes care of much of the business for Sealand, he also lives onshore…As of 2000…[Prince Roy] is going to move out of Sealand, to be replaced by temporary residents working for HavenCo."
.


His athletes are from Canada, his scholars from America, his anthem written by a Londoner. Sealand spreads himself thin across the globe, trying to see, touch as many others as possible—and soon it’s like he keeps leaving his body on a distant shore and one day he’ll forget to go back and get it.

In the evening, though, it’s just him. Sealand is a tiny yellow light in the stomach of the ocean, flickering against the rolling waves, but he wetly clings to himself, shrinking, coughing, huddled by a lamp with its faint light on his face, still thinking the same things—
There has to be room for him in such a big world. There has to. There has to. There has to.

(It turns into a single word, repeated over smoked tuna and crackers: therehasto therehasto therehasto, like he’s saying grace, but not.


.
"…Roy Bates is putting his non-country of the Principality of Sealand up for sale after a 40-year struggle for independence."
.


Or maybe there isn’t. Sealand’s not deaf and he’s not blind—he’s read the papers, listened to the news through the static of his radio, which Prince Roy stopped trying to fix seven years ago.

He loves the man dearly.

The fort groans a lot more these days, a clumsy steel beast colliding with the jaws of the ocean, and Sealand’s mornings are tired and bruised, crusted with dreams of riding a whale’s backbone through the sea, of the salt in the air turning sweet and flowered, of England and Finland and Sweden smoothing the sheets of his cot—

The wind thrusts through his outstretched fingers. Sealand stands on top of the railing and feels on top of the world. Everything around him quiet and rushing and immense as he gasps a breath he’s been holding his entire life.

E Mare Libertas. E Mare Libertas.

From The Ocean, Freedom.

It’s going to be an awfully big adventure, Sealand thinks, freckled smile wider than the universe. This must be it. He’ll find the whales and be real again.

Peter trips and falls.

He’ll find the whales and be real again, because he’s figured it out—it’s all in the sea, which has been with him this whole time, it’s all in the blue that kisses the blue, the out there, because he isn’t going to get anywhere sitting on a scrap of metal the whole time, sitting on himself—

--so obviously he’ll have to find them, which makes sense because stars in the water can be much easier to get than stars in the sky—although whales in the sky are kind of stupid, too—
But he’ll find them and it’ll be—be big

And water against his spine, be

countries and sunsets and whale that he’ll

catch

he’ll







"So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land—"

When you think about it, Sealand is a really sad character....


-hugs- Oh Sealand... Whatever are we going to do with you...

he really is, isn't he? ;_;

thank you for your comment ♥

This was absolutely beautiful in every sense. Amazing fill.

captcha: cower national

oh goodness, thank you!

and hmm. captcha, we've taught you well ;D

I started getting misty-eyed about halfway through but thought I could hold it together. I've now got tears and snot running down my face. I hope you're proud of yourself.

No, seriously, I hope you're proud of yourself. This is gorgeous. Also the first time I've really liked the use of human names, for whatever that's worth.

Am I the only one who kinda loves Sealand's motto?

ahh that is such high praise! ;o; here, have a mountain of tissues, and thank you so much ♥ should i feel terrible for really being proud? /shot

no, you aren't. sealand's motto is so POETIC. /♥

Sealand spends so much of his time being cheerful and carefree that it's hard to see just how tragic he is ;_;

I love this fill and all its perfection <3

indeed D:

thank you for reading ♥

indeed D:

thank you for reading ♥

You know, I starting to really think Himaruya named Sealand after Peter Pan. For reals. In fact, until the last quote, I didn't even realize they were quotes. They just fit with the story so well!

Not only that, but this story is really nice! I love how it begins and ends with whales, and the ending kind of dropping off was a nice touch.

Since Hetalia is a satire, it needs to keep things comedic. If one looks closely, though, more and more characters start seeming like tragic characters. I decided a few months ago that Hetalia is a tragedy simply disguised as a comedy. Not to get anyone's mood down, though! ^__^

Inorite? It was the awesomest coincidence ever when I realized they both had the same first name. Sealand = Peter Pan?! Haha, and thank you ♥!

That definitely is a way to look at Hetalia. And I think it isn't even necessarily tragic- it's just history, you know? /tragic sigh

Thanks again, anon! <321

He spends most of it by the dented railings in the back of the fort, which jut out like an old man’s jagged teeth towards the ocean. Sometimes Sealand kicks himself for leaving Finland and Sweden, because he’d wanted to be a real country, and no real country has his shirts tucked in by others and is told stories about dragonhead ships and fur-coated kings before bed. So in the end it’s worth it, Sealand decides, one hand clutching the cool metal and the other wiping his nose. This is it. This is what being a real country feels like.

It’s very cold.

;_;


That was fantastic. You got me misty eyed, which is a great achievement as I'm someone who is usually quite unemotional.

baww gracias, anon ♥ misty-eyed? /pumps fist /is shot

HOW HAVE I NOT FOUND THIS UNTIL NOW?!

I don't deserve to call myself a Sealand fanboy anymore. I'm sorry, Sealand! orz

Absolutely amazing, anon. You're not the only one who really loves Sealand and really can't help seeing how utterly lonely and alone he is. God, poor kid. *cuddles Sealand*

balance. someplace
This Captcha is Relevant To Sealand, and this fill!

Oh god anon, I know this is a bit late, but this fill broke my heart in the best way possible and I had to draw something for it. Really, there are so many images in your writing that have stayed with me, and I don't think I had ever looked at Peter in quite the way you've (beautifully) examined him here.

So have some tribute art:
http://mercuryfox22.deviantart.com/art/The-Whale-s-Backbone-174192743

Ohhh...this anon put up a request for a Hetalia/Peter Pan crossover, and here one has been! I don't like Sealand in general, but this is a great fic and the Peter Pan references are wonderful and it sounds like one came from my favorite, The Little White Bird...! :'D

YES YOU CAN. ♥

thank you anoooon ;A;

Ha ha, I know this fill is old, but I wanted to give a shot at writing it, even though an anon did an amazing job

But the fill is here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/21753.html?thread=89862137#t89862137