hetalia_kink

This anon has watched Christopher Nolan's latest movie, Inception, and absolutely loves it (and plans to watch it again to better process/catch things missed during a bathroom trip), and can't resist this idea.

During WW2, one of the Allies gets the brilliant idea to attempt invading the Axis members' dreams to find out their deepest, darkest secrets (actual extraction/inceptions are optional). Through the usage of England's magic, they are inside of their enemies' dreams, and discover all kinds of things in the center of the minds. But like the movie, the dreams become more deranged and complex as time goes on (compounded by the way their own dreams are meshing with the others'), and soon, the Allies and Axis are forced to work together to find a way to wake up out of it or else end up in the limbo state.

‘When we are dreaming alone it is only a dream. When we are dreaming with others, it is the beginning of reality.’
-Dom Helder Camara



1. “Humans can dream, but God and fate decide the outcome.” -Italian proverb

-

Italy dreams a lot.

Austria had scolded him for idle dreaming most days. His brother dismisses him as an airhead. Even Germany, stoic, calm, good Germany- sometimes he snaps at him. And it’s times like that that Italy goes alone into his little corner with a pad and some graphite and he draws by himself before having a little siesta.

Often, all those centuries ago, Italy had drawn pictures. When The Holy Roman Empire was mean to him, Feliciano would go and draw pictures in the dirt and think. About how I wasn’t really Holy Roman’s fault he was that way sometimes. He was really a nice person, when he wanted to be. And Italy’d draw a little doodle of them both side by side and when he put a smile on their faces it made him feel happy and excited all at once.

The Holy Roman Empire never came back. But Italy still draws. He still dreams.

The world isn’t such a big scary place anymore, when he has his head in the clouds and the sound of the sea in his ears.

-

“There’s no such thing as magic.”

“What?” America’s head pops out from behind a book-case. “Arthur, you spent all of my childhood forcing fairytales down my throat.”

England emerges from the shelves and drops a heavy tome onto the desk to punctuate his point. It’s loud, a little too much like a bomb dropping in the World War air; America winces “Magic isn’t real, alright?”

“Then what the Hell is all this?”

“I’m just saying that it’s not real, any of that business,” he continues without looking him in the eye as he flips pages. “All those charlatans with their smoke and their mirrors in their circuses. You can’t just snap your fingers and know what someone’s thinking, America- it’s a load of bollocks. A wild goose chase.”

Well. It would be lying to say that America’s not a little disappointed. He’d always had a soft spot for the magicians in their capes and enigmatic smiles- because then you could catch them and say, Ha! I know who you really are, and solving problems was what heroes did, anyway. But it’s that mystery that draws you in, and besides, England’s still reading as he argues.

America’s learnt that England’s actions mean more than his insults. Especially now, in World War II.

“Magic’s just illusion and belief. If you believe in something, then it just may happen. And if it does, well then, that’s your magic right there.” Arthur pauses, rattles off ancient script under his breath. Alfred leans in to watch his finger skim the lines, then stop, and when he speaks again the tone is hushed. “God, this is difficult.” Beat. “And stupid.”

There was once a time when England would have been as outraged again about having his magic ridiculed. Once upon a time- and Alfred shakes his head with a half-hearted laugh, ‘cause he’s started too- once upon a time, before tanks and Nazis, England had bundled him up in a patchwork quilt with a cup of sweet tea and told him stories. Peter Pan and Puss in Boots, Treasure Island where adventure was always frightening but always over before bedtime by some minor miracle.

America frowns a little, glancing habitually out the window for bombers in the London skies. “Hey, England?” Whatever happened to that?

No answer. England is tracing tired circles into his temples with his fingers, face hidden in his hands.

“…What?”

“This…thing needs human sacrifice.”

“Oh.” America’s tongue sneaks out to wet his lips. “Oh. What now, then?”

England turns to glare at him. “I don’t bloody well know, America! This was your idea. It’s always your idea, all of these idiotic detours that we have to make.”

“Well, you were the one who got drunk and started telling me about the good old days and magic in warfare. And I just thought we could use some intelligence that isn’t from your spy network. That isn’t, say, a month old,” he replies irritably. “Give it here. Does it say ‘human sacrifice’? Those exact words?”

“Here. Life-blood of the subject. You’re meant to draw the spell circles with it.” Arthur stands and crosses his arms. “For a nation, that would mean its people. Ergo, we’d have to kill some Germans.” Pause. “Or some Italians.”

For a while neither of them speaks. The rain continues to throw itself against the window, low thrum, pulse beneath their eyelids. America starts to chew his lip.

“Well, that’s kinda the whole point of the war, isn’t it? I mean, do you even want to save Fran-“

England, expression perfectly level, slaps his face so hard it makes his head spin. He leaves without another word.

“Shit,” Alfred calls after him. “Art, I didn’t mean it like that- I didn’t!”

And alone, America turns to the spell book and just stares and stares and stares to hide the stinging on his cheek. It’s just a spell- it wasn’t even real. No need to get angry over nothing like that.

Jesus. It was just an idea.

-

Kiku never wanted any of this.

All he’d ever wanted was to live life as an island. Alone. Controlled. He liked bonsai and meditation and sword craft. He made his own rice cakes on New Year’s Morning. He played chess with the Emperors. Everything was fine.

He never wanted anyone else.

But now it’s here. Black ships, invasions, Nagasaki and the Russo-Japanese War. It’s too quick- the water’s receding from his Island now. He can see others. He must, or he’ll die, but he never wanted. What can he do but try and make it better? It’s America’s fault. It’s China’s fault.

Japan never wanted the world, but now that they’ve forced it on him, he’ll damn well take all of it.

-

China isn’t sleeping well. At first he blames the sword cuts on his back, blames Kiku and his damn Manchuria. It’s easy to do. Logical; Russia clucks his tongue in sympathy and on the few instances he sees Europe, England and France make pitying gestures and promises.

Just fifty years ago they were carving up China for themselves.

But it’s not the physical discomfort, he realises over time. It’s more a shallow sort of a barrier. A door- he’s trying to push it but it’s harder now, to fall asleep. When he does sleep the grandiose visions and sweeping panoramas make him dizzy. So he half-sleeps, sort of drowses. Eventually China has to sit up and concede that maybe the problem is inside himself.

Two political halves, he thinks, but pushes it down, closes his eyes and feels the hours pass slow.

Abruptly, Yao jerks awake to fingers reaching into his vision. He barely suppresses a jerk and instead lies there, forced impassive.

Russia sits cross-legged next to his bed with his hand still frozen in the curious act of touching his hair. Or choking him. Eyeballs, China thinks suddenly. Reaching to gouge out his eyes- Ivan would.

“…What are you doing?”” Yao whispers, unnerved under the covers, those icy fingers too close too-close.

“Watching,” is all he says. With an assassin’s fond smile he places his hand back in his lap.

Eyeballs. Alarm prickles and subsides up and down his frayed nerves. He could just be paranoid. “You…you should get some sleep.”

For a moment Russia seems sad beneath his hollow smile. “America called. France is captured.”

Oh. And Russia likes France, Yao knows. Something goes lax in his bowels in sympathy. He swallows.

Then Ivan whispers, “You are very beautiful. When you sleep.”

By the time China stops shaking he allows himself to turn over and open his eyes. Russia’s gone, but not far.

-

The humiliation is the worst. Francis, he can take the cold and the cell and even the bad food, but the matter-of-factness of it cuts. The implication of it all- that France is nothing, nichts, the ‘Italy of the Allies’- festers somewhere deep in his brain.

Powerlessness.

France isn’t meant to be captured this easily.

His only consolation is that Germany comes to sit in front of him on a wooden stool and watch him. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, and frankly has no real desire to know what twisted things coil beneath the impassive façade of his face. They don’t talk. All it gives Francis is a face and a person to hate but presently that’s enough. Hate gives France a purpose.

Until a week after his capture the door opens and it’s not Germany.

“France! Oh, I’ve been a-meaning to see you, but Ludwig keeps me so busy in Africa, and it’s very hard, you know? Oh, how have you been?” Italy cocks his head with his hands outstretched and completely serious. France, in chains, is incredulous. “I mean, besides the fact that you’re our enemy and all that. But it’s alright! Here, I’ve been painting, and there’s one of us all together, and-“

“Italy.” It is Germany, after all, walking in from behind. “Leave us alone.”

Italy grins and hugs him. It looks odd; Italy is flowing and clingy and his expression is at odds with the stiffness of Germany’s spine. He flinches and prises him off.

“Leave. I…France and I have business.”

“Alright!” Feliciano shoots France a happy glance and hugs Germany one last time before he fairly skips out.

Ludwig shuts the door, breathes and loads the revolver at his hip with a heavy click. He stands there, looking down at France in all his glory and in his dirty uniform, hair slicked back with the mud of the trenches. For a while they say nothing- the ghost of North Italy hangs in the air.

“He looks well,” France offers dryly.

Germany aims the gun between his eyebrows. Wets his lips. Blinks. Steels himself. “Your shirt,” he says curtly. “Take it off.”

And that’s how this is going to happen. Francis bites his tongue and tries to steady is shaking fingers. “Oh, you would love that, wouldn’t you Allemagne?”

“Don’t try to be smart. That’s an order Frankreich.”

“An order?” He sneers. “For me or for you? I wonder what kind of tastes your boss must have, to order-“

Germany kicks him- his boot connects with the tip of his chin, and France feels the crack of something breaking. Blood floods his mouth. The world spins til the floor is beside him and Germany’s horrific form towers above him. The muzzle of the gun places itself coldly on the lines of his stomach. “This,” he stresses, “will be the very least of your problems. You will follow my orders. Have I made myself clear?”

Still strong, broken, hurting- France shakes out his hair and just doesn’t give a damn. “Do you rape all of your allies, or are Italie and I just the lucky ones?”

Ludwig snarls, blue steel in his eyes, and pulls the trigger.

Francis knows no more.

-

Outside the door, Feliciano clutches his notepad to his chest and listens to the snarling silence of sobs and screams muffled by gags.

It sounds like France…like Germany is hurting Francis.

Italy frowns to himself. Germany would never do something like that, he decides. He should be ashamed for even thinking it. Ludwig would not. Therefore, he could not.

Already Italy feels better.

-


Sorry that dreams or inception make no appearance. I promise they will. trust me? (shot)

DYK?

The characters may seem OOC right now. There's a reason. I hope.

First fill in god knows how long, huh. Anyway, I'll try updates as often as possible.

Love love love love love love love love- LOVING IT! <3 <3 <3

OH MY GOSH

DYK anon is filling this!? YES!
it's nice to see you filling again!

please please please continue this, would love to see where you go with this idea!

I'm iffy about a couple things (you can probably guess which ones), but I trust you, I love your writing style too much to not do it. I even recognized you before the DYK (I think it was Italy's characterization, you always make him sound so lovely even when he really isn't).

Also I need to see Inception more than ever.

Is this you, Did You Know?
I have enjoyed...more than one of your previous fills.

And now this. Just yes.

ZOMG, yay!! :D

Don't worry about lack of dreams, I can wait!

Man, Italy may well be in for a rude awakening. (lame pun)

I bow to your amazingness, author!anon. Even though they were the shortest parts, Japan's little monologue and Italy's reaction at the end just made me swoon. This is just going to get better with time ♥

2.

“There is nothing frightening about an eternal dreamless sleep. Surely it is better than eternal torment in Hell and eternal boredom in Heaven."
-Isaac Asimov, Russian born American Novelist

-

Russia doesn’t have dreams. Anymore.

Oh, he used to. They were the usual sort of dream, the silly ones that don’t make sense. He’d wake up and on the days that they were funny dreams he would wait until breakfast in the Great Hall and tell the Imperial Princes and Princesses to make them laugh. They would tell him about their dreams too; on nights so cold the snow would freeze to spite the morning farmers, Ivan often comforted warm shaking bodies in his bed from a nightmare.

“I had a dream,” Russia tells little Alexi once, in the 1870s. “It was a strange world, and everyone was happy because everyone had money. It was very nice.”

Alexander the III makes a face over his food. “Even the serfs? That’s just silly.”

Something deep down in Russia twitches, irritated. On the surface he is all smiles and syrup to his favourite son. “Your Highness, you know there are no serfs any more. Your father changed the law.”

“Yes, but they’re still there. They’re just not called serfs. I saw some in the fields yesterday.”

Russia loves his prince very much. “But they are better off,” he explains easily. “And in my dream, they had food and drink and every man was happy because everybody shared.” Ivan tuts and smiles disapprovingly. “Like you should with your sister.”

Alexi is just young enough to be innocent; just old enough to know it. “Changing a stupid law’s not going to change anything, Ivan. They’re still poor, and they still live in huts and they’re still lazy. Unless there’s some sort of magic spell that can change the world, they’ll always be. That’s a silly dre-“

There’s a crash as Ivan smashes a plate in two.

The entire hall grows silent and cutlery stops clinking the aristocracy stops to stare up at the head table. Alexander’s eyes are wide and frightened as they look up at him and everything’s gone so quiet that they can hear the howling of a winter blizzard drawing closercloser outside the windows.

Russia blinks, once, twice. Shakes himself. “I…I’m sorry, your Highness. I don’t know what I was doing.” To Alex, he coos, “I’m sorry. You are right. It was just a silly dream.”

Made angry by his fright, Prince Alexander grabs him by the sleeve and demands that he take him riding.

Russia, he loves his royal family very much. Very, very much. He repeats it over and over under his breath as he smiles. He loves them. He loves them. His dreams are separatist nonsense.

“Not today,” Russia tells Alex stiffly. “Maybe tomorrow, da?”

-

He awakens to the sound of water running. Germany is washing his hands.

France moves stiffly and every muscle aches. Pain jerks into his thigh, and there’s a dull, incessant hot-poker pressed into his stomach, just below the ribs where blood’s thickened and started to dry. Paris, he thinks. The bastard’s taken Paris. A hacking cough tears up his throat.

The sound of water stops; Germany enters his vision accompanied by soft footfalls. Before him, he adjusts his hair with a few sweeps of his damp fingers. France’s eyes follow the drops of moisture on the bones of his wrist.

“You’re thirsty,” he surmises flatly.

France just glares through his swimming vision.

Then, Germany extends his left hand to Francis’ face, fingers still dripping. He nods, face devoid of a smile. “Go on. Drink.”

Rage flares up in his chest. Germany must think him beaten, humiliated beyond repair for him to agree to drinking dirty water off his skin. He barks out a laugh, but it just makes him more aware of the dried blood feeling in his mouth. He tries again, ignoring a fluttering muscle in his side that won’t stop tensing.

“How very like you to turn your nose up and waste a perfectly good opportunity.” He winds his other hand into his hair and pulls him to his feet. The fingers are all but pushed into his lips. “I’m doing this for your own good. You need to drink,” he adds reasonably.

France can almost smell the water. He swallows as a small part of his resistance crumbles; eventually, as Germany watches him, he licks the fingers like a dog. He refuses to take them into his mouth and suck, but his captor doesn’t seem to care.

The water tastes like sweat and dirt. Their eyes meet and France has to fight down a gag at the satisfaction he sees. It’s familiar; suddenly Francis is back two centuries and fighting someone else. A memory of flashed teeth and red-red eyes surges forward. “Always remember how I made you do this,” Germany mentions casually. “It’s all you deserve after Versailles.”

“…That bastard Prussia taught you well,” France grits through harsh breaths. There’s fire chasing up his scalp in a curving arc from Germany’s fist in his hair. Their faces are mere inches from each other, and it’s probably because of this that France notices something strange happen.

At the sound of his brother’s name, an odd spasm runs up the side of Germany’s face. A little twitch, and as if to compensate for it his eyes close for a second and his neck jerks back the other way. He blinks a few too many times after it. Like he was confused; like it was involuntary.

Then, he clenches his teeth and tears out a handful of Francis’ hair. France cries, screams, but it ends up as a sobbing, pitying laugh. The damage is already done; nothing Ludwig does now can take it back. “Prussia,” he repeats with the demented courage of a dying man. “Gilbert, Prussia-Prussia.” Jerk, grit, twitch, and a keening growl rises on his lips. “Oh, Allemagne, did I hit a nerve?”

“Shut up,” Germany breathes against his lips and for a moment they stand in a mockery of a lovers’ embrace.

When France has leverage, no matter how small, he pushes it through like a needle through skin. Pride makes him foolish. Pride makes him powerful, still. “Oh, but what would Prussia say if he saw you now? Would he be proud, do you think-“

“Shut up.” A blow lands on his temple. Guilt. France reels in his grip. “Shut up!” Punches his face, feels his nose break. A blind rage (fear) has overtaken him.

Guilt.

“Prussia,” France gasps triumphantly through the bubbling blood of his face-

-Guilt-

“Shut up, Gott verdammnt!”

-France is on the floor, maybe afraid now because there are worse things than rape-

-Guiltguiltguilt-

-like death-

“Pru-“

(There was a time when Gilbert had read him stories and they’d all been scary and full of monsters and floods and animals dying, and morals, and he’d told him he’d be great some day and then Ludwig killed him.)

“Shut up! It’s all your damn fault! Shut up!” screams Ludwig at the blood on his fists.

-

Italy first met Germany in World War I when he crossed the border with a platoon of his soldiers and, steadying his rifle, asked him to surrender. In his sharp uniform he’d dropped his weapons like they were hot and stood there shaking. In truth, Italy had been so scared that it was all he could do to not run away and hide, so it was something of a relief how efficient his captor was.

Sometimes Italy likes to imagine that he had hidden. And then that daydream ends with Germany killing tomato-box-fairies and hitting him in the face with the butt of his gun- the hitting Germany actually did do, so that part’s not really a daydream, but those little touches of reality are important to note.

While he was captured Germany often came to see him. He had a number of silent disapproving looks and Feliciano did little voices in his head narrating what each of them meant to make himself laugh. Why aren’t you trying to escape? Why the singing und the laughing und the strange accents? Why aren’t you wearing any pants? It was a long time before they had their first real conversation there in Italy’s room of a cell. It was about pasta.

Italy told him that he liked the food he was getting very much. But he would have preferred pasta.

Germany nodded. Although it looked difficult for him, he swallowed and asked him how exactly one cooked pasta.

Feliciano ended up cooking for the both of them, and Germany- Ludwig- ate enough for three men.

They became friends after that.

-

Alfred decides that they should hold a meeting. So they do. The entire car ride there England bristles, because America hadn’t consulted him at all. It’s a war, he knows, and Alfred’s not his child anymore. It’s irrational. As the rain pelts down on the windows of the corridor, Arthur decides it still cuts.

China’s waiting outside the meeting room. Arthur stops himself to watch as he presses a forehead against the windows and mists up the glass. Strange flashes of pain shoot across his face.

“China,” he says.

Yao jerks back up to face him. “England.”

Arthur wets his lips and stands next to him. “What’s wrong? Why…why aren’t you inside?”

“Why aren’t you?” Yao’s voice is flat with forced impartiality but it’s not fooling anyone. China never liked England, not after the opium smoke between them. “I would have thought you would be livid about France. Aren’t you?” When England doesn’t answer, Yao rubs his eyes with thin fingers. “It’s Russia.”

England breathes, blinks and places a hand on the door handle. Under his breath he mutters, “Isn’t it always just?” He opens the door.

Inside, Russia and America are talking, not quite close, and there is a corpse on the table. It is rather conspicuously missing a leg and its face is a unidentifiable battered mess of bruising and exposed bone and oh GOD-

“Who the fuck is that?” Arthur exclaims.

Across the table America rises to his feet and makes a defensive gesture with his hands. “Art, it’s no one, don’t worry. It’s just a soldier.”

“I killed him,” calls Russia with a smile, twirling a plumbing pipe like a baton.

“What?” His voice rises half an octave. “That’s a human being?”

“Was.” Yao sounds sickened.

“I was angry at the time,” Ivan concedes. A collective chill goes through the room and they all think of Germany, Russia and alliances. Broken fingers and icepicks in necks. Russia just smiles beautifully. “But America is ringing me and he said that we needed a dead body, so I brought this one.”

“I thought we could use it. For…you know. That spell you were talking about.”

The room falls into silence. England stares at America with stunned shock writ large on his face. Seconds pass in deafening clock ticks.

“I like magic,” Ivan says sagely, looking from face to face.

“Wait- what?” Arthur shakes himself back to reality, horrified. “What spell? That- that stupid thing? America, I was drunk, and you were just joking. It’s not even real. God, what are you talking about-“

He sees his spell book next to the body for the first time. America stole it. America stole his book. The absolute brat.

“What?” Alfred says defensively. “It was a good idea. If I could enchant my way through a war then I would.

Arthur finds a laugh bubbling up from his throat- which alarms him. This isn’t funny. “Well,” he mocks, feelings frayed. “You can’t.”

America glances at Ivan and back. “Russia can. And he read your stuff and he reckons it’s a great idea. Got the contracts and the spell circles and everything. Everything’s ready for an extradition.”

Extraction, Arthur mentally corrects in his head, then hates himself for entertaining the idea at all.

“It is a very simple spell. If we all want to do it, it will be very easy to see the dreams of our enemies. All we need is blood to bind us.” Ivan pokes the dead body with a finger. “I think it is German,” he says breezily. “Or Italian. I’m not sure. But he had a gun and he was not part of my army.”

“But we don’t want to, you bastard. That’s the point.” England looks to America, and then China. “Yao, they’ve gone mad. Tell them this is stupid.”

China doesn’t hold his gaze for very long. He slides his eyes along the table to the body, flinches. Rubs his hip and clenches fists around the scars on his back. Arthur deflates slowly as he watches him. Finally, he quashes the helplessness in his mouth and grabs Alfred’s arms, pulling them aside.

“Don’t tell me you believe him? That was the first damn thing I taught you, never to trust that lying frozen bastard! This is wrong. He clubbed an innocent human being to death.”

America looks at him uncomfortably. “You did the exact same thing in the middle ages. You told me. Besides, it’s your stupid spell, not his. You’re the one who wrote human sacrifice.”

No, Arthur didn’t. The spells are meant for humans to use, and lifeblood for humans is just blood. Magic’s not meant for them, the nations, because it’s meant for people who believe in it. “And why,” he hisses, “are you so caught up in this stupid idea, America? There is no magic. Why do you insist on trying this? There’s a war going on out there and you’re here making fucking eyes with Russia because he believes in a magic fix for everything-“

“Maybe I just need someone to believe in,” Alfred says levelly. “You used to believe in them. You did.”

This is a war, but it’s a little ironic that America’s the one looking for a shortcut out of it. Maybe because he knows, with conviction that Arthur lacks, that he’s right. “He killed a human being,” England repeats with less fire.

“Are you two finished yet?” Ivan coos gently to bring them back to the matter at hand.

And England can’t help thinking that they weren’t meant to work together at all, these four nations with four different agendas by four again. About how it’s unfair that America’s looking so young and how unfair the glint in his eyes is. About how England was meant to be equal to them all. How, without France, things were all slowly unravelling.

If France had been there, perhaps he would have known first hand about the inaccuracy England’s brand of magic. If France had been there, perhaps he would have known what Russia’s grin meant, even if Ivan himself didn’t.

France isn’t there. Instead, America smiles at Russia with his teeth and at England with his eyes and says, “We’re the good guys.”

“Sacrifice is always necessary for magic to happen,” hums Russia. “I think.”

China stares at the body and swallows down the bile to hide the pain from Manchuria in his hip.

“Fine! Just go ahead and do it! I don’t care!” Arthur glances down at the mangled body on the table. Turns away angrily.

“I knew you’d come ‘round, Artie!” America laughs and rubs his hands together. “Now then, Ivan. Work your magic!”

-

“Do you know what Italy asked me then?” Japan asks Korea, who is gagged and lying with his head in his lap. Kiku strokes his hair idly, not waiting for a response. “He told me that he’d always wanted to live on an island with his friends. A warm one. And he asked me if I had any palm trees in Japan.”

Yung Soo’s wrists are bound in cords and knots. His eyes have the glazed over look of one who is forcing himself away from a hellish reality.

“Isn’t that interesting?” Japan leans over and runs gentle fingers over his cousin’s cheekbones. “He draws the most amazing pictures. At first when Germany introduced us I was…hesitant to draw closer to him. But you should hear him, Yung Soo. He never has a bad word for anyone. I told him that being an island is not as good as he perhaps thinks. Don’t you think so?”

Korea makes a sound like a sob, but Kiku can’t really tell through the gag. Not that he really cares.

“Why yes. I do believe you’re right. I’m so glad that you agree with me, Korea.”

-

Back in Europe, North Italy stops outside the bathroom.

“Germany?” sings Feliciano from the door frame. “There you are! I’ve a-been looking all over for you! I had a funny dream and-“

Germany growls at him without looking up from the sink, washing his hands in quick frenzied motions as Feliciano bites his tongue, hurt. Germany’s just stressed from the war, he tells himself, then. He’s just a little annoyed because of Francis- even Italy knows how big brother France gets strange sometimes.

“Italy?” He sounds pained. Angry. “Go…go and have a nap. Or something. Go.”

-

Four hours later, the water’s still running.

Italy stands in the doorway and clenches his fists in his pockets, watching his ally’s back hunched over the sink and shaking. Still washing. His hands are wrinkled and red-raw from the cold. As Italy watches, he turns the tap off and tries to pull away, but he hovers, and then gives a frustrated sob and plunges his hands back in.

“…Germany?”

“Shut up!" he snarls at him in a voice too hysterical to be Italy’s Germany at all. Invisible blood staining his reflection’s irises redred-RED. “Shut up!”

This can’t be happening. This isn’t like Ludwig. This can’t be like Ludwig, and that’s the problem he faces as he watches their expressions in the mirror. There’s a disparity between the idea and the reality where, really, there should be none.

“Germany?” He takes a few steps closer, reaching out for his shoulder. “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong.”

Germany jerks. Wetly, suddenly, he crushes his wrist. His carpal bones creak under his grip and Italy’s nerves sing into the taut air. “Nothing.” A long protracted hiss between clenched teeth. “Nothing’s wrong. You understand that, Italy? I…I’ve done nothing wrong. We’ve done nothing!”

He finally lets him go to tear the Iron Cross from his neck into the basin and plunge his arms back into the water up to his uniformed elbows.

The madness in his eyes makes Italy feel lost.

-

Ivan doesn’t have dreams because Ivan doesn’t sleep.

After Russia had found Yao crouched bloodied in a snowdrift on their shared border, they’d decided to become friends. It’s a difficult thing, after so many years of war and mistrust between them, but it’s 1937 and Yao has scars festooned across his back like so many ribbons, and even Ivan knows better than to tell him he looks like a maypole, red on white on red on white. And besides, neither of them likes Japan. That’s the main thing.

Hate. Like a furnace.

They’re similar, he and China. And that’s what he wants- he wants others to talk to and to agree with because he’s only ever had is his own point of view (his own dreams) and without others how are you meant to know what’s right or wrong?

When he sees China twitch with suppressed rebellion it reminds him of October snowfall, and all Ivan’s waiting for is the rebellion crack of that shattered bone-china. If China and Russia both dream-believe the same thing, and if they are all the world, then that’s reality.

Validation.

Ivan waits and watches.

China is very pretty when he sleeps.

-

He has to check. Just to prove himself wrong, of course.

He opens the door to France’s cell the smallest crack.

And

He

Sees

France.

-

After everyone has gone, England drinks himself incoherent.

“Belief,” he scoffs. “Pah. Belief in what, exactly? Belief in nonsense, in- in stupid things that can’t be real. God, you’re pathetic. Life’s just not like that. Life’s not fair, and life’s not easy and…” He presses his face into his elbows. “Life’s not black and white. It’s not. You know?”

A pause. No one answers.

“He just killed him. Just…God.” And he’d been so damn impressed at that stupid frozen maniac. Goddamnit. “I could have done that. I would have. Course I could. Could ‘a done that spell too. Easy. Just didn’t want to.”

England still believes. Just not in fairies and family and unicorns and fucking happy endings- not after World War I. Maybe (not) in himself-

“God. France.” Whispers into his whiskey. “When…when did this all start to change?”

-

Italy locks his door.

Tears his notebook to shreds.

Suffocates his head in blankets.

Drowns himself in sleep and hopes viciously, for the first time in his life, not to wake up in the morning.

-


Oh dear lord the ANGST. I can't believe I just wrote that.

DYK?

Try not to be put off by OOC characters and excessive angst. Pretty please?

Next: France has a revelation. While sleeping. On a tropical island.

I, for one, am totally hooked now. I love the way you write the dreams, the elusive quality of what shows in them, what's dream and what's reality, etc.

I love the way you show the monstruous Axis, but also their inner anguish. I love your France and your England, and the way they feel they have lost control of everything: the other countries, the war, the world...which they had done, back then.

I also love the big impression Russia's causing on America, and your France's cheekiness and his wisdom, atributed by England of all people.

And finally, thank you for this Russia, who doesn't dream of playing with the Romanov kids and returning to the tsar system, but with giving a better life to his real people; I'm so sick of the "he loved the Romanov kids so much, it broke his sanity when his people revolted because of their abysmal living conditions and killed them" portrayal...yeah, right. To a nation, his children are their people, and the Romanov were the rulers that oppressed them, so of course he wouldn't be all happy and sunshine with those kids (who were probably royal entitled brats like you wrote, the product of their upbringing, and not the beautiful totally innocent and well-meaning cherubs that usually worm their way into Russia fic) and he would totally support a revolution like that, at first. THANK YOU, SO MUCH, FOR THAT. It's truly the first time I've seen it.

I love this (clueless, but still accomplice in his refusal to see) Feli. And that part with Germany taking out his aggression on France when he thinks of Prussia... oh god, it broke my heart.

And, like above anon said, kudos for a rare but, IMO at least, more accurate take on the whole "Russia and the Romanovs" thing - I could write a whole tl;dr about it but I'll spare you.

so happy to see this fic updated! It truly is excellent, so dark and twisted and delicious. Russia's part in the beginning...

... and then about Prussia! Oh Prussia D: Poor Germany.

This is amazing, anon! Like the anons above said, finally someone wrote Russia acting like he's really a nation, making up of its people, not some servant in the court. The angst is extremely well written. Definitely bookmarked!!!!!

I couldn't have dreamt of a better fill for this request.

A lot of angst, yes, but it's angst over something. And I agree with the above comments about Russia and the Romanovs, I don't think a nation should be loyal only to the rulers, since a nation comprises of all its people.

I don't think they're OOC either, it seems to me they would really react like this in these situations.

Good job.

3.

“If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time.”
-Marcel Proust, French writer and philosopher
-

France has dreams about the past, mostly. He does have a lot to dream about.

It’s funny, because the earliest dream he can recall involves England and something about haircuts. Back when Arthur was a little urchin, barely capable of civilized culture and Francis was just coming into his own. France teases him mercilessly about it in the eighteenth century.

“Agincourt,” retorts Arthur without looking up from his embroidery. He’d learnt that pattern from France. A platoon of pigeons streak past the window.

There’s another one, a glorious one about Napoleon and the cavalry.

“Waterloo,” England mutters under his breath as he takes scones out of the oven.

Colonies. Colonies were wonderful. Seychelles, and the French Republic-

“Prussia,” says England into his novel.

“You.” Francis tears the book form his grip. “When did you stop…oh, I don’t know- stop dancing with fairies- and become such a realist?”

Arthur just looks at him. “When did you become such a weakling?” In the end he sighs and drops his gaze and asks, “Could I have my book back?”

“Oh- …Shut up.” Francis blows some hair out of his face and lets his shoulders fall. “If that there King was to wake, you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!” he reads, haltingly.

“Indeed,” answers England. “Just like-“

-and that’s when France wakes up and realises that it’s all been a dream, it’s 1930 and that Germany isn’t paying his reparations, and that, at least, makes him feel better.

-

It takes a while to drain blood from someone’s femoral artery. Longer than Alfred had ever imagined, really.

“You must tie the string here.” Ivan pulls it tight, parts the puckered skin to show him the man’s inner thigh. “And then you can cut it.”

“It’s like when you kill a bull, and then you have to salt it up and- yeah.” America rubs his hands together, nervous or excited. He’s not sure which. The bowl’s almost full. “Black pudding anyone?” he jokes to England.

Arthur is reading and doesn’t respond past a flinch.

But this magic stuff, it’s really just like science. Experimental theology, he thinks. A little potash here, some saltpetre there. Bang it all together with some subatomic particles and Bob’s your Uncle. And science, Alfred knows, does some pretty awesome things.

Nervous and excited, then. “You done this before?”

“No,” replies Russia. “Not for magic, at the very least. Our magic is more about praying, friend America. It is brother England that likes recipes in books.”

America laughs at the recipes thing. Then he stops, because, goddamnit, the idea’s starting to make him hungry, and there’s corpse everywhere. His smile fades.

“China!” Russia sings, grabbing a handful of soot and salt. “You are good with a paintbrush, yes?”

America seats himself next to England, eyes not leaving Russia. “You…you done this before?”

“No. It looked like you had fun, though.”

-

“Good morning,” Germany says stiffly, the next day. He wipes his forehead with a damp cloth, rolls him over with one foot and inspects his ribs. France winces as two gloved fingers work down his spine, testing broken facet joints. “You’re going to need attention.”

Oh, he thinks. Lucky me.

A man in a white coat follows Germany’s lead and squats beside his form to shine a penlight in his eyes. They converse in rapid German- the doctor shows a few places to his country, seems to be explaining. Germany answers quickly back in a low voice. When they’re finished, Ludwig kneels next to him and pulls his limbs into a pile.

He picks him up and starts towards the door.

Conscious now, France coughs to clear his throat. “Where-“

“Somewhere else. You’ve covered the walls with your filth.”

France tenses against the strong arms under his knees. The way he’s held, his head lolls against Germany’s chest or swings upside-down and makes the world spin. He flutters between the two, unsure. It hurts to breathe. “Why-“

“It’s not clean,” Germany clips as they pass through the halls. A short while later they enter a room- it’s a room, not a cell, Francis realises. There’s a bed in sterile white sheets, a dresser, a wardrobe and a small mirror on a stand. Everything is so white it hurts his eyes.

Ludwig lays him down on the bed like a bride on wedding night, and the irony doesn’t escape France, who tries to laugh. “Oh, husband mine. Beat me again. Beat me again like you beat your brother-“

Ludwig snaps his wrist dispassionately. “You have quite a tongue,” he bites. “When I’m trying to help you-“

“That’s what your brother said-“

Something hard and cold is pressed against his nose, flattening his bruised face. A strange, defeated, emaciated creature stares back at him.

“Look at yourself! Look at your face!” Germany holds the mirror in one shaking fist. “Look at what you’ve become! This! You’re pathetic! Your hair is falling out. Your mind is echoing with rebel slogans and government propaganda. This is what you are, Frankreich- not Napoleon, not an Empire, not a proud, free democracy!” The mirror is taken away. “Spieglein- you need my help, or you’ll die. You need my help, or I’ll kill you.”

And Germany’s starting to make sense so France stops listening and starts making noise with his throat so he can’t hear, and he starts dreaming of when England, Russia and America are going to save him.

-

Russia opens his eyes, finishing the chants.

And nothing.

China turns away.

Anticlimax isn’t even the word. “…What now?” Alfred feels cheated of the big FLASH-BANG, but not exactly sure why.

“We have to fall asleep,” England offers reluctantly. “We have to occupy the same state as the subjects.”

Ivan just smiles, passes around shot glasses and pulls a bottle of vodka from his greatcoat. And they sit there, the four of them in a black blood-ink spell-circle, as they pour spirits. “Easily done.”

The last to sit, Arthur spits on the dusty floor and insists on drinking Bordeaux instead.

“As you wish.”

-

The hypodermic needles are lined up like toy soldiers on the dresser. France counts three, four, five. One more in his neck as he counts.

“You could be making this easier upon yourself,” says Ludwig simply. “Consider it.”

“I suppose this room is more practical,” Francis muses out loud. “For whenever you want to rape me.”

Emotionless, Germany flicks the air bubbles out of the barrel. “What I’m offering you is power, Frankreich,” he informs him.

France makes a face like he’s swallowed something small and bitter. The puncture wounds sting, but he feels better and hates himself for it. “…You assume that power is what I want.”

Italy hasn’t come to visit.

-

America wakes up still drunk.

“I told you. I told you.”

“…What?”

“It’s all bull-shit. It’s a lie. Magic’s a fuckin’ lie.”

“…What?”

England pushes himself up to his elbows and glares at him. “Russia couldn’t do it. He’s a fake. You were wrong.”

“Yeah?” challenges Alfred unsteadily. “You couldn’t do it either!”

“Because no one can.”

“I could.” A derisive sneer, a banging of shot glasses. “I could, if I knew how.”

“And that,” presses Arthur, flushed with French wine and really angry for the first time in a decade, “is your problem, America. Belief. You don’t even know what the world’s really like, you…you-you’re still a child. You don’t even know what the world war did- and Magic? Magic’s just belief; the moment you lose faith you realise that it’s all just a lie. Dreams don’t come true. They don’t. They just crumble and fall apart and then they grow up and they never come back.”

Ivan downs another shot of vodka with an unreadable smile. China sits and watches and says nothing.

“Well,” America growls to nobody in particular, “what now?”

Arthur breathes and snatches the glasses away from him. “…Now, we fight a war.”

-

“A toast,” proposes Japan, when they meet. “To the Axis.”

“The Axis,” rumbles Germany before downing the rice wine in one swallow.

There are only two of them.

“Ah, excuse me for intruding?” Ludwig hears the question mark though Japan’s face does not change, ever. “But if I may inquire? Where is Italy?”

“Asleep in his room,” he says in his most level voice. But still, something of his tone must give him away to the Asian across from him.

“Oh. Will he waking up soon?”

“It may be a while.” Germany dips his head as an odd expression creep up on him. He looks abruptly helpless. “He’s been asleep for a long time.”

Japan blinks very slowly and leans forward to press cold fingers onto the pulse at Ludwig’s wrist; Kiku’s learning to express emotions and this must be sympathy. “I see.”

It is difficult to talk with two nations such as they. They sip their saucers, and Japan’s poured him another three cups before he wets his lips and asks, “How long?”

“About two weeks,” Germany replies as he looks down into his alcohol and wonders why he suddenly feels like crying.

“May I see him?” Japan asks in his most respectful whisper. Germany just nods and grips his uniform in his lap.

Sleeping Beauty and love’s true kiss, is what Gilbert would say.

But this is World War II, and Ludwig, as we all remember, killed Gilbert.

"-His eyes," Japan observes. "They're moving under his eyelids."

-

Time passes.

The nineteenth time Francis is raped by Germany, he realises that he’s closing his eyes and biting back sounds in his throat that aren’t really screams.

Eyes snap open. Germany’s there, always. Ludwig’s right there, staring him right in the face with a look of a boy with his hair gone hayblown in the wind from a thousand bombs. And there something there that France can’t think is anything but a need to prove himself-

-no, it is a madness. It is insanity. Nothing else. Rage boils up from deep within, and France jolts forward and kisses him in anger.

When they tear each other away from their airways, France is grinning; Germany isn’t. His hands are smooth and warm against Francis’ neck with two nails pressed into his carotid. France pulls the strands of his hairs forward to cover his forehead completely and laughs. Whippet thin, with a Pirate’s laugh; Ludwig’s blond is dirty with mud and so he’ll do for now.

“Who are you thinking of?” he challenges him in a misted whisper, revelling in the changes he can bring to that face.

Germany answers him by kissing him again.

He makes noises that sound like Feliciano and Prussia. Which is amusing.

France hopes very much that he’s not saying Frankreich and Puppet.

-

Six months later, France is allowed day clothes.

“I won’t wear the armband,” he tells him disdainfully as he flexes his healed wrist. Germany shrugs. He doesn’t spend much time in his clothes anyway, so France supposes he doesn’t care.

He models them in the mirror. As first, Germany sees him and furrows his brow. “You’re wearing the trousers,” he comments as if he expects him not to.

-

France coughs. His mouth is filled with salt and grit and something dark and intangible. Spitting, he pulls his aching body up from the surf.

He’d almost drowned. He lies there for a long moment, letting the thought wash over him. Drowned. Water in lungs, asphyxiation. Dieu. France was meant for better things than suffocating in the surf.

At least the sand is warm. And finally, he rolls himself over to open his eyes.

The sky is unbelievably blue. A good sign.

And so, letting the sun dry his matted hair, France staggers to his feet and decides, with strange conviction, to walk along the shore until he finds what he’s looking for.

-

Prussia drinks Schnapps during the Franco-Prussian War.

Correction: He drank.

“And the hare scrammed the hell out of there ‘cause the lion was about to bite his fucking head off, and he came back with that magic plant, right? So the lion screws the hunter’s head back on, the hare plonks it in, and then the guy comes right back to life. Can’t remember a damn thing.” Prussia lights a cigarette in the draping shadows of the bedroom. The glow is like a spirit. “Always did think that bit was bull-shit. He’d remember. I mean, fuck?”

“It’s a story, brother. I don’t think it matters.”

“Fuck, Lutz- shut up for goddamn once, eh? Kill-joy. You.” Licks ash from his nails with eyes smouldering. “Who the fuck’s the older one here? Eh? I am. And you’re the baby so you’ll listen to the fucking story.”

He downs another glass so that the air is sickly sweet with smoke and alcohol. Ludwig loves and loathes his brother by turns when he drinks. It’s something forbidden- a glimpse into that sacred world of adult affairs and razor blades. There is conspiracy in every animated cadence of his voice. He cackles like a gypsy magician.

Prussia leans back and weaves his fingers as if to conjure words from the air. “So. He screws his head back on. And then he goes along and meets the princess, but that’s before his brother gets jealous and cuts his head off. Again. Fuckin’ Gott, it happens twice to the poor guy.”

“But what about the other brother? Doesn’t he get a story?”

“I’m getting to that bit.” Gilbert rolls his eyes. Grins. “He turns to stone.”

“…that’s it?”

“Better believe it, bro.” He fumbles, and on the o of bro he presses a kiss to his forehead and pulls up the covers. “Sweet dreams, little emperor of mine.”

“But the story doesn’t make sense,” calls Germany down the hall. “…Austria said-”

“Ahaha.Cute.” His drunken laugh floats disembodied into the tobacco smoke left behind. “-Three little geeses, prayin’ now and sayin’ Grace/ Still don’t want no foxes to smash in their pretty FACE-“

-

Francis stops. “You’re late.”

“I could use with a drink,” is all Germany says as he sits and stares into the spaces between his fingers. A camp fire crackles stiffly on the beach in front of him; it is typical German efficiency that his uniform is off and drying on sticks. Ludwig’s a statue in singlet and shorts.

“It’s getting late,” France stresses again. “Where are we, right now?”

“In World War II. In Europe. You-” He wets his lips. “-are not standing in the right place.”

“Of course. You would think that.” Then, “Where the hell is Italie?”

Germany just waves his hands to and fro as if testing all three of his dimensions. He concedes, “That is the question of the hour, I think.” Pause. “Which one?”

“Well now. That one.” He points.

North Italy is prancing up the shoreline with an armful of what appear to be tropical fruits.

“I…Italy? It’s…Italy.” France, standing next to him, sees Germany’s face and starts. Ludwig’s face isn’t lined and proud and savage at all. It’s awkward. It’s more exasperated, more understanding than France has seen ever seen him. It’s fond. There is poetry written in the line of his smile- Francis is the country of love and he knows.

“Ludwig!” Italy trills as he reaches the campfire. “Oh, look at all the things that I found! It’s going to be delicious, and I think there were some crabs around too, but I was too afraid to catch them! They had little pincers, and I didn’t want to be pinced. Pinched. Oh,” he lets out in a breathy burst, “I was so afraid you weren’t going to come at all! I missed you so much!”

“Err…Where would we have been, Italie? We’re on an Island,” France reminds him calmly.

Italy doesn’t answer that. “Oh, and Fratello Francis! It’s good to see you too! My two favourite people in the entire world, and now you’re both here! Well,” he adds innocently, “I think maybe I like Ludwig a little more than-a you, France. But I love you both!”

Germany seems taken aback- he’s blushing, deep and awkward. France leans closer, fascinated. Ludwig takes three steps backwards, reaching for something (his gun?) but expression fixed in not inconsiderable horror.

“Did you hear, Allemagne?” France says lightly. “He loves you, it seems.”

And Ludwig flushes uncontrollably, beginning to tremble.

And it hits him. This Germany, it seems, is different. Something climbs Francis’ throat for the first time in decades- France has power over Germany.

Screw that- France has power. Full stop.

It’s been a while.

: ( sadface at all the various trauma!

this reminds me of the All He Ever Wanted universe, HARD. did you ever read that?
especially italy's creepiness 0_0