hetalia_kink

The nations are normal humans that once a month hold a representation of a meeting where all pretend to be nations. Then they go away to their homes and normal lives.

Bonus. All of them get something out of it; for example, Ivan could be beaten down by everybody around him and being Russia allows him to be the big threatening guy, the one giving the orders; or Francis be really introverted and being France allows him to be forward with touch and interacting with a lot of people. Natalya is in love with her brother and this is the only way in which she can show her true feelings and not creep her brother out (so Ivan thinks it’s all a game and plays along faking terror, but truly loves his little sister like a sister). Etc.

Bonus. Peter Kirkland, Arthur’s little brother, has grown up believing the charade and truly believes they are who they say they are, and that he’s the nation of Sealand.

Bonus. Some of them start to retire from the meetings as they overcome their life’s problems, maybe on their own, maybe with some of their “nation” partners. Some characters can hang out outside their “meetings”

It was a pretty safe bet to say that there was not a single person on the planet who did not know of Matthew Williams.

Everything he did attracted attention, be it the time he had to scale his office building because he had gotten locked out of his office, or the time he somehow found himself the Prime Minister of Canada, a particularly strange one because he'd never appeared in any of the elections. The video of him fighting off a bear with nothing by bad martial arts in the middle of downtown Toronto went viral and had millions of viewers within seconds of it being posted. People recognized his face wherever he went, and it seemed nothing he did ensured him any bit of privacy.

So, when he goes to the meetings, he rejoices at the fact that no one noticed him. When they did, he was simply Canada, not OMG! IT MATT WILLIAMS! Course he didn't exactly enjoy Russia sitting on him, but he appreciated the sentiment.

They named him Athena, because his parents are nuts about Greek mythology. His older brother is named Heracles and god the jokes he gets growing up. Because those names? Might have been fine when they lived in Greece, but they moved back to Canada when he was like five. Heracles tells him not to worry, to just roll with it but he's always been kinda bad at rolling with stuff.

That might be one of the big reasons he's not talking to their dad anymore, he wouldn't be supportive but at least pop's a bit more level-headed then mom.

Not that he needs either of them. He's got Heracles.

1. New members shall be on invitation basis only.

The invitation got ignored for four months, but one day he looked around his New York flat and thought 'Well, I've got nothing else to do.' So July had him joining Herc for the Nations Meeting. Or whatever the name was, he'd kinda forgot by that point.

"I think that's it. Any questions?" The three hour train ride one way gives plenty of time to brush up on details. And for Alfred to doubt himself, because really? Joining his brother's crazy meeting? He must be really bored.

"How did you hear about these people? I know you travel for business, but I didn't think that includes Springfield."

"Killing time online, and I wound up as a pen-pal with someone who goes there." He laughed, and that humor looked as good as how casual his brother was in jeans and shirt. "I end up going more then he does, I think."

The answer seems kinda obvious, but he asked anyway. "Why do you go?"

"It's a break, and I've made lots of friends there."

"...Despite not sharing personal info besides for this one guy."

"Alfred, when someone is not trying to be themself is when you find out the most. The only acting they're doing is the nation they're playing, unlike most of the world."

That made enough sense for Alfred to give a nod, even if he held back judgement until he saw himself.

2. All meetings will remain strictly in character.

The bomber jacket is a great touch, even if it's way too hot to wear it outside. But he likes how it rests on his shoulders, makes them stand out. He needs that bit of confidence as he gives his biggest grin and slams open the doors, H-Greece giving a lazy smile as Alfred bursts into the room.

(Herc never gets to make comments about how much a geek he was for picking Alfred again, because at least with that they don't guess it's a Batman reference.)

"Hey everyone! I'm America and you can call me Alfred or Al if you want, or even Joe but that'd be pretty weird. I'm here to be the Hero and help out anyone who needs it, so don't hesitate to ask. Because a Hero is always on call!" And he's sincere about it, because he is. In this moment there was never a Athena, and Alfred who is still fighting to get people to see him isn't there either. Just America, full of joy and optimism, there to be the Peter Pan the world needs.

And that feeling fades, he starts to feel a bit awkward acting but he's still just himself here. For a few hours at least he doesn't worry about comments, he's just another guy blowing off steam.

And that feeling is worth ten train rides.


------
Author notes:
* You totally did/do not see a italics-fail version of this, what are you talking about
* Thank you Fight Club for the idea of rules to break scenes!
* This felt like all for this piece, but I can certainly see more in this universe. Not too sure if I'll write them, but I'm thinking about it.
* Greece and America as full brothers - I wanted either a boy/girlfriend for Alfred who got him there, or a sibling. I er, now wish I felt better about writing Greece! XD Because I find the idea interesting now.
* FtM Alfred. Jumped into my head right away as why he would be going, somewhere where people had not known him as Athena. He's pretty far along here, he's getting a metoidioplasty in the near future and has already had his chest reconstruction surgery.
* In case I don't do more, the pen-pal is Gilbert. Who has anger issues and usually bottles them up, which is not the best idea. The idea of Gilbert and Heracles sending rapid fire tweets at each other while bored at work cracks me up~

3. Any personal information shared outside of meetings will be upon the offering of it only

It takes him too long to figure out that there's part of him that is always going to feel like a awkward teenager. Looking at the adults around him growing up should have taught him that. Still, being Finland seems to shed some of that. Besides for when it doesn't.

Part of him wonders why he goes to the meetings, because in his head he doesn't have a clearly defined reason sorted out. He doesn't want to be an actor or anything like that, though he did have lots of fun coming up with the persona. He's heard a few of the other's reasons and in general people seem to know why they come, even have these great reasons. He feels like the odd duck out for not knowing his reason, and silly for worrying about it.

Mike knows why people think he comes, but he at least knows that's only a small bit. Maybe if he was still that clueless college student on a trip mainly because his grandmother said he should, he'd care a bit more. But it's been eight years since he met his boyfriend so that's not it. Yes, the acceptance they get is nice but Berwald would still be in Sweden if Mike had not gotten over how much people could be dicks.

That could be part of Berwald's reason, though. The way his eyes lit up the first time he called him Su-san around home.... It makes him wonder how much of the acting is really his boyfriend's way of asking for more. Getting married, adopting one day both appeal to Mike and scare him. He feels like they're too young. Which makes no sense, thirty is just around the corner for both of them, but of course feelings pay no attention to logic.

He wishes he was as honest as Finland was, would just ask Berwald if he wishes he was in Sweden instead. Where he wouldn't be dealing with the language, and things would be easier for them. He's pretty sure the answer is that his boyfriend has grown to love the US too, but he doesn't ask.

They just drift.

They sit at the bar, drinking together but yet still alone, after a meeting. They do not speak to one another about the meeting, nor do they speak at all. They are two strangers out side of that room, who happened to walk into the same bar at the same time, and who happened to sit next to each other. They are two strangers who happened to shoot each others looks as they sip their identical drinks, and who happened to wonder about what the other is like. Two strangers that turn to each other with hard gazes and ask an identical question.

Francis stutters an apology and ushers Arthur to go first. The younger man makes a humming noise in the back of his throat and lays his hands flat against the table. He slowly interrogates Francis (Arthur finds Francis' name hilariously coincidental. Francis does not understand what is so funny), who is uncomfortable sharing all of this with a complete stranger. He does anyway. The older man mentally writes every question down, though, and when Arthur is done, he regurgitates the questions to get the answers he desired. They sit and talk for what seems like forever, drinks going by.

Finally, Arthur sways in his seat and his head thunks against the table. Francis, concerned, jumps up and yells at the bar tender to call them a cab so he can take the poor boy home. When he arrives at his apartment, an unconscious Arthur on his back, he is nervous. Maybe Arthur will not wake up, though, he thinks to himself as he unlocks the door and stumbles into the mess. He moves through the chaos cluttering the ground and sets Arthur on his bed. He goes to his sink and wets a towel, then treks back to his bed to lay it on Arthur's forehead.

As the older blonde awaits for his newly gained friend to regain consciousness, he tidies up his apartment, which he has not done in years. Work and a matter of not caring about himself did this to his apartment. By the time Arthur does wake up, the floor is visible and it does not smell like rotten food in Francis' apartment. The first thing Arthur notes is that it is small, something he would not have expected from the person pretending to be the nation of France. He giggles to himself as he thinks about it again. Really, Francis? You picked France...

Francis realises his guest is awake and stops cleaning, turning to him. He asks if the younger blonde would like something to drink, would like something for his head. Arthur notices the throbbing in his head, then, and groans, nodding. Odd how simple things could distract him from the pain. Francis appears next to him with a glass of ice cold water and an aspirin. Arthur sits up and takes both from his rough hands, throwing back the pills and draining the entire glass of water. The French blonde sits on the edge of his bed and hums. They sit like that for a moment. Then, the English blonde moves so he is sitting next to the other.

They look at each other for a long moment. Great Britain takes France's cheeks in his hands and pulls him forward, kissing him gently. Francis is surprised and his cheeks burn bright red.

"Angleterre?" He asks when they pull apart. Francis still is not used to the sound of Arthur's name on his tongue. Arthur does not respond for a moment, and his green eyes just search his face, looking for an answer that was not there. Finally, he sits back and folds his hands in his lap. The silence bothers Francis, for once.

"Hey, France," The younger blonde grumbles. The older hums. "I love you." He hums again.

"Et. What about Francees." Great Britain pauses again. When he looks back to France, his grin is wide.

"Yea. Him, too."

I accidentally romance'd all over this request. Rather then exploring their problems (though they're slipped in their not so well; Francis' over all awkwardness and general insecurity and Arthur's drinking problem), I decided to explore a relationship. I hope no one minds my horrible, present-tense writing. It was supposed to be past tense when I first started to write it, but. It didn't flow right.

modus operandi


one


Arthur is half high on the night already, snorting blow off the back of a toilet from a man with no nose cartilage. He would prefer to drink, but it doesn't give him what he needs anymore. Back in the bar, the neon screeches like cars on the roads outside and Arthur sees everything; he touches his hands, his eyelashes. Melts. Between his fingers, the world swims like water. Tomorrow morning at three, he'll crawl home and shred his feet on broken glass and pretty boys.

He cringes awake.

Arthur works a nine to five job in a white shirt and Oxfords and no tie and reading glasses. He goes through cup after cup of coffee, stuck in London's minute. Skips breakfast. Somebody is mad at him because his pupils are a little milky, and because his hands shake, and because he forgot to email the document around, didn't he. But he's too lost in his world, the seething of hangover walls, and they leave him alone to Microsoft Excel and slow, soft pound of his eyelids against his head.

He's very sick at the lunch break. Nobody checks on him. That's okay.

Arthur comes home late, working overtime. The slut he left on his bed is still there, make-up a mask on his pillow. He kicks her out and alone, Arthur brews Earl Grey and blasts Rule Britannia from the BBC Proms and kicks back, settling from South Londoner to RP pronunciation. He practices, to the ceiling, his aitches and his tees till he sounds like the queen.

And, next Monday: he travels to Spain in a three piece suit on the excuse of his sickly, long-retired mother—tells the boss that, lying through his teeth—and finds his way to a hotel room. Arthur doesn't like travel, but he doesn't like himself either, and this is escape.

(There's everything here that he doesn't have. A past to be proud of, somewhat. A family. He has five brothers when he only has one. He has distant relatives: a pretty Indian girl and a Jamaican girl and the two blond boys who sound like each other—look like each other, and another two from Australia and New Zealand, and the handsy French bloke, along with Spain and Prussia, and he can't know what the word loneliness means, because he's so terribly swarmed with people, with history—

—he likes himself most of all. Grumpy and stuck in his ways and he drinks in the hotel bar when the meetings are over. He's satisfied with a whiskey and the cigarettes that France smokes, and when America calls him names he calls them back and that's them. That's England. England ruled the world, once.)

And, as they pull into Madrid-Barajas Airport, he sees the rain follow in his wake, and thinks: isn't it funny

Nadir. He hates that his name is Nadir. He hates the scar across his face where he fell and bled and hurt and cried and his parents didn't have enough money to fix him and he wears a mask because his face is UGLY! But here it is mysterious and people try to remove it and see what he's like without it but he never lets them and wears make up over that ugly scar when he goes without so they assume it's just a quirck because he's not Nadir the Unlucky when he's here. He's Sadik Adnan the Republic of Turkey, who was Ottoman Empire and so many names before that.

He's been around for a long time. Not as long as his distant cousin, the quiet man in his odd clothes who stares at the Russian and the Chinese man who is not a cousin but is cousin to his old, original -not original which is Nadir but the name of the Goturks who moved and are a part of China and Mongolia and Russia and Turkey and more-, name. The one he chose and who evolved as people came and went. The one he knew as Ancient Rome and his brother -who was Not the man's real brother because he found out the man's real brother died in an accident and Ancient Rome blames himself until he learns it wasn't his fault- who came and called himself Byzantium. Ancient Rome and Germania left because they fought and he knows it's because Germania loves Ancient Rome but Ancient Rome is in love with Byzantium and Byzantium has no love for him and it's so tragic because their loves were doomed in the first place- and never came back. Beautiful Ancient Greece, and Mother Aegypt, found loves and got married and left because they no longer needed this. They send him letters every once in a while.

Now he fights with a boy he has never met and who he has known for centuries. And they pine after a boy who he has no attraction to and is too old for. And he secretly lusts after the one who is as old as he but is so fond of leaving them- even though he comes back again and again because he has so many problems and his life is so difficult just like it is for the rest of them. He always makes sure that there is a seat for that person even when that person shouts they are never coming back to this place. And he does and that person sends a hateful-Thankful- glance to him for doing so.

Because like the Originals in the group, and China knows this-because he knows that China is his twin brother who looks and sounds and acts almost exactly but not quite like Yao who was the original Yao but the original ao got cancer and got weaker and weaker until the new Yao appeared healthy and different- because Yao loves someone too, he will fall in love with one of the nations and will want to be with him even though he knows that it is doomed to fail and he will one day leave and never come back.

And Turkey smiles and picks fights with Greece because Greece is the brat and is getting too close to Japan. Poland is Turkey's Best Enemy and Turkey will always acknowledge Poland as being there even when he isn't. And that is okay with him. Because one day he will leave and be healed.

And never return.

It's falling off the bed that wakes him up and starts his nightmare. 

It always starts with him looking up at the ceiling with heavy breath, watching as it expands over him and it feels like he's in the middle of the ocean - except it's a small room and yet the space kills him. He almost expects himself to be physically smaller, to shrink to the size he feels. 
He hates feeling small. 

Eventually, with some trepidation, he removes his body from the floor (but it's so much like the ocean, all that space and 
he 

is 

nothing) and replaces it in the world, (hopefully) functioning and on the politically correct side of normal and sane. Pulling on some clothes - tight ones that assure him that he still feels - and a heavy, heavy coat, he begins his day once more, no different from any other day. Almost. 

He notes that it is one of those days and an unseen hand pulls the corners of his mouth up, because he is happy, once he gets there, but it's getting there that's the problem and the room is so big. 

He throws on some music; loud; so that he can't hear the echo and it helps fill the space, the emptiness. An hour getting ready and he thinks he's ready. He stands at the front door, key in hand, barely ten metres away from his first encounter with the morning - but suddenly the thoughts come back to haunt him, ten metres becomes a prairie, the door burns his hand and he sits quivering in a pile by the door, staring through his hand at the fibres in the carpet, wondering when he'll see atoms because he's so small. His head is filled with memories of when there was another bed here. 

This apartment used to be too small, but it was alright because laughter pushed the corners out and the shadows away with dreams of a bigger place, with more than one room. Now the ceilings sag in the vortex of loneliness and it's since become a rolling ocean for him to hopelessly attempt to navigate without-

Half an hour later, thoughts are pushed from his mind and he locks himself out of the apartment before another episode hits him. 
Half way down the stairs, his knees begin to shake. 
Half way down the corridor he hits himself hard enough to get himself out the door at a run. Beyond that, he simply runs, past the point where he has any oxygen until he arrives and literally throws himself in the building, subconscious tears of fear streaming down his face. 

He's getting better. It's only fifteen minutes until his body feels ready to take the weight of his soul and itself again. 

It's been an hour before now. 

Felicity grew up too fast.

Her parents died when she was young, leaving her and her twin brother with their grandfather. He’d died when they were young, but old enough to live on their own.

Felicity, being the only girl in the Vargas household, had the choice of becoming a slut to the stud expectation of the boys in her family, or a responsible prude.

She rather enjoyed staying home and reading over going out and partying like her brother did. Let Lincoln have fun, she thought, I’ll stay home and further myself.

They received a visit one day from one of their grandfather’s old friends.

“Felicity, Lincoln. How you’ve both grown.” The blond man entered, sparing them both a quick pat on the head.

They shared a glance, feeling distinctly like they were small children again.

“How are you, sir?” She asked respectfully, fetching him a cup of warm tea.

He nodded stoically. “Fine.” After an awkward moment full of shared glances between her and Lincoln, he spoke again. “Your grandfather asked me to keep an eye on the both of you. He told me that if I felt you two were growing apart, that I was to give you something.”

“What is it?”

“This.”

They were each passed a white business card, with a time, date, and address on the front. On the back of Felicity’s card read North Italy, and Lincoln’s, South Italy.

--

The friend explained everything to them, and left, stoic as he came.

“We’re supposed to reveal how we want to act.” Lincoln mused, tapping his nose with his card. “Feli, this could be fun.”

“Or disastrous, Linc.” She replied, examining hers. “We’re supposed to pretend to be North and South Italy?”

“Yep.”

“We’re not even Italian!”

“Sure we are . . . somewhere.” He straightened up. “Let’s just go this once, and see how like it.” He examined her. “We could put you in that old uniform you have.”

She sighed and nodded. “Fine, but I get to pretend to be a man.”

--

They picked new names for themselves. Of course, they’d be Veneziano and Romano, but they also needed new, less American names.

“Looooviiinooo.” Lincoln tried, smiling like an idiot. “Admit it, Feli, it sounds amazing!”

“Hmph.” She grumbled, continuing to flip through Italian baby name books. “Sounds weird.”

“Oh! That one!” He jabbed his finger at a page, trailing it down to show her the name.

“Feliciano?”

“If I mess up-"

“Which you will.”

“And call you Feli, no one will know!”

--

Felicity fell in love with the meetings. She loved relaxing, being cheerful, and saying “Ve!” instead of coming up with complex reasons and explanations.

She also couldn’t complain about the company she kept.

Ludwig was a sweetheart. He always made sure she was okay, and took care of her, rather than her having to take care of him. So he was convinced she was a boy, who cared? He was her friend.

Even if her heart pined for him, making want to kiss him on the lips every time she pressed a quick kiss to his red cheeks.

“Just give him your number already.” Lincoln commented one day as they were driving home.

“You’re supposed to hate him.” She commented airily, watching the cityscape fly by.

“Yeah? And you’re supposed to end every sentence with ve.”

“He thinks I’m a boy.”

“Tell him differently.”

--

She slipped him her number the next month, hiding it in a newspaper handed over.

She was a wreck for the next week, waiting for him to call.

When the phone rang, she had a heart attack, and refused to answer it, leaving it to Lincoln.

“Hello, Vargas house.”

“Yeah, Feli’s here. Let me call.”

Felicity had been standing right there and took the phone.

“Hello?”

“Feliciano? It’s Ludwig.”

She smiled dopily, sliding down into a sitting position on the couch.
“Hi, Ludwig. How are you?”

“. . . Good. I-I just called to apologize, Feli.”

Her heart stopped.

“I don’t like boys and . . . Why are you laughing?”

She wiped the tears from her eyes, answering him finally. “Good. Because I’m a girl.”

“Huh?”

“Felicity Vargas. Not Feliciano.”

--

Six months later, Ludwig and Felicity found themselves announcing that they were engaged.

Hungary never looked more pleased.

WARNING: Trigger content for sexual abuse

--

Katy is a slut.

She knows it, and embraces it. She’s been to enough doctors to know that she’s a nymphomaniac, and that she can’t live without sex and all of its various forms and positions.

At least, that had been the garbled explanation her last doctor had given her while she was on her knees before him.

Katy was raised an only child by a father who taught her that a woman had two places; her back and her knees. She had been taught quickly by her father’s friends and had continued to practice as she grew older. Once her large chest came in, her father’s companions were more than happy to teach her the finer points of using her breasts to please men.

Her father never laid a hand on her, she can truthfully say. At least, not a hand directed in love or lust.

There had been once, when she was fifteen, and thought she was in love. For the first time ever she allowed a boy to fuck her without a condom, and found out three weeks later she was pregnant. Worried, she had told her father, only to have him make an appointment for her to have an abortion. Katy rejected this idea vehemently, and he had beaten her until she miscarried.

Katy had moved out two days after she came back from the hospital.
She moved to New York City, where the soft accent left from spending her first tender years in Ukraine, attracted men like no other.

In a random bar, she met Matt.

Matthew Williams. She liked the way his name rolled off of her tongue, the way her accent made it sound wicked. The man was brutal in bed, and was a notorious playboy.

Katy could smell money, and figured she’d wake up in his bed the next morning with it either empty, or with him asking her to leave.

Instead, he brought her pancakes.

--

They broke up six months later, once he found out she was only sixteen. She’d cried at his feet, losing the only man in her life that she’d thought actually gave a damn about her, only for him to help her up and tell her to meet him the next day at the train station.

She met him there, and was presented with a white shirt, blue overalls, and the cutest headband ever.

Confused, she changed into the outfit, and rode with him to a small building. She waited outside the bathroom while he got changed, and gaped when he emerged in jeans and a red hoodie with a maple leaf on it.

He escorted her to a meeting room, and whispered a number of directions, and the name she’d go by, to her before opening it.

The most important one was that she be who she always wanted to be.

“Hey, sorry I’m late, eh. Ukraine got a bit lost.”

--

Katy loved the meetings. Especially how whenever France would come over and make a lewd remark about her tracts of land, instead of being required to flirt back or drop to her knees, Russia or Belarus would step up and defend her. How instead of being the sexy flirt, she could be the shy older sister.

She took up knitting; a hobby that baffled Matt until she explained that Ivan had remarked on how cold it was getting, and how he’d need to buy a new scarf.

--

“Y-you made this for me?”

“Da, braht. I don’t want you to be cold!”

--

Three years later and Katy had her breakdown. Each of the members wound up having one; she’d been there for Prussia’s Gilbert who confessed that his family had no idea who he was France’s Francis was painfully shy, couldn’t even talk to a woman or a man and Greece’s Heracles was a bundle of nerves, unable to relax for a moment.

Russia had asked her a question. That had been it.

“I gave my first blowjob at the age of seven.” She found herself saying as she collapsed to the floor, headband falling out. “To my dad’s best friend. I lost my gag reflex at eight and my virginity at ten to a man who gave my dad five hundred bucks. My dad beat me until I lost my unborn child when I was fifteen.”

There was silence and she realized abruptly that she was crying. Belarus Natalie was the first to hug her, and was swiftly followed by Russia Ivan. They both spoke to her comfortingly as she broke down in sobs, hugging them back.

Once she was pulling herself together she looked up and locked eyes with Matt, who smiled softly at her.

Katy is Ukraine; Belarus and Russia’s big sister, Canada’s shy lover.

*Jumps on the Bandwagon*
------------------------------------------------

Keep running running runningrunningrunningrunninrunning. Motion blurred into colours and they’re all around him and he has to keep moving or else he’d fall behind and it’s too fastandIwanttostopbutcan’tit’ssodepressingiwantwantwant

His eyes snapped open, the blaring alarm on the side of his bed screeching into the darkness. 3am. His trainer will be here soon, right?

3am. Wake up. Eat. Train. Run. Sleep. 3am.

That’s all it was. He ran. Ran for his country, ran for faded glory, ran for a father and mother who only saw what they wanted to see. Only caring for the limelight that his achievements could give them. He never wanted to be an athlete. He would have liked to become a teacher, or maybe a vet. He liked cats after all.

But damn it. Why did he have to choose track in school? Talent scouts were thick and fast in coming to him, praising his abilities until his parents sold him off like some cheap whore in the streets.
And now he had to keep running. Run run run until his legs were bloodied stumps and he was left gasping and bleeding and clawing at the ground as those faithless bastards who call themselves his supporters turn around and chase the next big star and leave him behind and haven’t I given you my everything

If he could... He’d sleep forever. He’s so tired.

Never mind that he’s losing his mind and they haven’t noticed much. Never mind that they’ve attempted to cover it up and paint on smiles and as long as he runs and doesn’t speak it’s fine because then no-one will know about that room with those faces that make him feel like it’s not hopeless and that the world isn’t going to come crashing down on him atanysecondbecausehecan’tstoprunning
He wants to sleep. So, in that room, no matter what is going on at all... He’ll sleep. Sleep and dream of warm eyes and fights with another man who he can still go shopping with later, and of a million and one cats.

He liked cats. But he couldn’t be around them because they made his throat close up and then he couldn’t breathe and couldn’t see and couldn’t let go of them because he didn’t want to because maybe this is what he wanted.

He pushes the door open. Prussia has already accosted Austria in a headlock, France is chatting idly to Canada, Turkey is glaring at him again, pausing in talking to Japan who simply turns to him and smiles.
“Greece-san.”
He smiles.
“Hey... Japan.”

And in that room, he can fight and laugh and sleep and marvel at the wonders of the nations around him and lowly fall in love even though he's not supposed to. In that room he can be Greece. Sleepy, easygoing Greece with not a care in the world, and all the freedom of something unrestrained.

And he doesn't have to run. He can sleep all he wants to, his head laying in Japan's lap. Occasionally Turkey's when he thinks Greece doesn't notice.

So he savours the moments he's in that room, because he knows that when he returns to the false reality, he'll have to keep running.
And running.
And running.

Until such a time where he cannot run and he collapses half-dead even if he wishes he was really dead on the bloodied podium with the medal of gold and bone and hate stained with the sacrifice of so many things he could have been.

But Japan and Turkey will be there to put him back together.
So.
For their sake.
He'll keep running.
And he’ll lose his mind.

The true tragedy of Antonio's life is that he was acutely aware that he was a hollow man.

If he had lacked the introspection to realize, or possessed enough narcissism to think himself perfect anyway, he might've lived a long life and been as content as possible. It was his tragedy that Antonio was afflicted by the ghost of feeling, a nostalgia in the broadest sense (for -algia is pain) for that which he never had in the first place. Antonio knew that life should be lived with passion, and he himself possessed none of it.

He looked on works of art and saw the precision in the brush-strokes. He saw the longing for pleasure in the body of a beautiful woman. But though he reached out to touch them, their eternal mystery escaped him.

Antonio could play, note for note, any song on the guitar with the skill of a master. In a just world, his guitar would've been burnt for kindling. A guitar should be played with passion, with need; it should be made to cry out at injustice, to murmur softly to a lover. A machine could've played guitar as well as Antonio, and a machine would've had the excuse that it was merely a thing made of cogs and gears, and not a man of flesh and blood.

His entire adult life, Antonio spent every weekday from seven to ten-thirty sharp at his mother's house. He saw her everyday and knew every line on her brow, every wrinkle on her face. When she died, he sat by her bedside in the hospital and numbly wondered where he would spend every weekday from seven to ten-thirty sharp.

Six weeks later, he found a welcoming place.

Here Antonio could live with passion. Here he could embody the disparate qualities of chivalry, sadism. For one day a month he had two friends he'd known for a thousand years and a boy he adored and who pretended to hate him back. A bullfight is brutal, yes, and tragic; but there is beauty in the brutality, and passion in every movement, every heartbeat. He spun his cape deftly as a matador, dancing with dark desire and fervant ambition.

Spain, he whispered, and the word was like a kiss on his lips.

Spain, more real to him than his real name.

Spain, may he be baptized in fire.

But when the door closed and locked behind, only Antonio walked out, alone, into a darkness that was as silent and empty as his soul.

1.

It starts with an old helmet. It always does. Running plump fingers over the strange, time tested material.

Then, the mirror. And his grandfather's voice. "Smile. Smile and never stop."

This is something that he inherited. What stays. What his grandfather gives to him every time anew.


He smiles. He always smiles, because it is so much easier than controlling complicated expressions. Because he only has one expression always, anyway, and this one fits Russia much better than the nervous bubblegum chewing perfect neutrality.

He smiles because his grandfather told him to. "Good morning, America." And the other male flinches before he catches himself and straigthens up, boisterous and young so much younger than him, nearly shouting when he greets the taller man back, patting him on the back before shooting over to greet a new arrival.

And Russia smiles and watches. And he thinks about the General.


He cannot not think about him, here or there. They have a pact, and the pact still stands. It will always be there, just like the General will always be there. It is something that he can rely on, no matter how much it might hurt sometimes.

The General is strong, stronger than anyone else, stronger than he himself. His grandfather died alone, fragile, withering away, dumped by his family, unable to protect himself from their hungry hands, they only wanted the money. The General is eternal ah, he died last week, Ivan, didn't I tell you?. He will be there before and he will be there after him and no matter what happens, he'll never be alone.


2.

He has always weighed too much, far too much. He has always been scolded for it you should not eat candy all the time and move more even though he tried and limited how much he ate and ate less than everyone else and then he felt hungry, so hungry, and nobody would notice anyway if he lost a few pounds, they would still scold him and make fun of him. He hated his body.

But then, in one of the first meetings that he went to, when the dreaded subject came up and he couldn't keep his smile up and just wanted to run (this was long ago, it is perfect now) the elderly lady that had been Ukraine back then had stood up for him, had glared daggers at the other and told him that, no, Mr Russia just happened to be very big boned.

And suddenly, being called a dinosaur hadn't felt that horrible anymore. Because dinosaurs had big bones, he knew that from the meuseum. And the cookies that he got each month for every inch that he lost were delicious. Somehow getting half naked for her to take his measurements didn't feel awkward at all. She could have been his grandmother.

By the time that the next Ukraine arrived, Russia could wear a couple of layers under his coat without it being uncomfortable.

Being big boned stuck, though. It is a part of Russia, and he can't just change a part of his persona, da?


3.

Russia has always loved Lithuania. He fell in love with her at first sight, and...

...and. It stuck. Ivan jr jr jr (and so on) hasn't been interested in any of the girls that were Lithuania. He has never fallen in love with anyone in the meeting at all. It is strange now that it is a boy, but it also feels less awkward somehow. Courting the nation that had once been his grandmother had always felt strange, but he would never disregard any of the traditions that his grandfather "Lieshenka, my little Lieshenka started.

He's just glad that Poland didn't suddenly become a girl to mirror his partner. Well, at least not completely.

1.

It starts with an old helmet. It always does. Running plump fingers over the strange, time tested material.

Then, the mirror. And his grandfather's voice. "Smile. Smile and never stop."

This is something that he inherited. What stays. What his grandfather gives to him every time anew.


He smiles. He always smiles, because it is so much easier than controlling complicated expressions. Because he only has one expression always, anyway, and this one fits Russia much better than the nervous bubblegum chewing perfect neutrality.

He smiles because his grandfather told him to, and he keeps his promises. "Good morning, America." And the other male flinches before he catches himself and straigthens up, boisterous and young so much younger than him, nearly shouting when he greets the taller man back, patting him on the back before shooting over to greet a new arrival.

And Russia smiles and watches. And he thinks about the General.


He cannot not think about him, here or there. They have a pact, and the pact still stands. It will always be there, just like the General will always be there. It is something that he can rely on, no matter how much it might hurt sometimes.

The General is strong, stronger than anyone else, stronger than he himself. His grandfather died alone, fragile, withering away, dumped by his family, unable to protect himself from their hungry hands, they only wanted the money. The General is eternal ah, he died last week, Ivan, didn't I tell you?. He will be there before and he will be there after him and no matter what happens, he'll never be alone.


2.

He has always weighed too much, far too much. He has always been scolded for it you should not eat candy all the time and move more even though he tried and limited how much he ate and ate less than everyone else and then he felt hungry, so hungry, and nobody would notice anyway if he lost a few pounds, they would still scold him and make fun of him. He hated his body.

But then, in one of the first meetings that he went to, when the dreaded subject came up and he couldn't keep his smile up and just wanted to run (this was long ago, it is perfect now) the elderly lady that had been Ukraine back then had stood up for him, had glared daggers at the other and told him that, no, Mr Russia just happened to be very big boned.

And suddenly, being called a dinosaur hadn't felt that horrible anymore. Because dinosaurs had big bones, he knew that from the meuseum. And the cookies that he got each month for every inch that he lost were delicious. Somehow getting half naked for her to take his measurements didn't feel awkward at all. She could have been his grandmother.

By the time that the next Ukraine arrived, Russia could wear a couple of layers under his coat without it being uncomfortable.

Being big boned stuck, though. It is a part of Russia, and he can't just change a part of his persona, da?


3.

Russia has always loved Lithuania. He fell in love with her at first sight, and...

...and. It stuck. Ivan jr jr jr (and so on) hasn't been interested in any of the girls that were Lithuania. He has never fallen in love with anyone in the meeting at all. It is strange now that it is a boy, but it also feels less awkward somehow. Courting the nation that had once been his grandmother had always felt strange, but he would never disregard any of the traditions that his grandfather "Lieshenka, my little Lieshenka started.

He's just glad that Poland didn't suddenly become a girl to mirror his partner. Well, at least not completely.


Just in case I caused confusion:
*The Russia before Ivan was his grandfather, who has kind of become his General Winter now. The "pact" that those two have is that Ivan will keep smiling.
*His grandfather and grandmother met at the meetings, they were Russia and Lithuania. And Ivan tries to keep that attraction up because everything that he does differently will make his grandfather be abandoned more.
*Ivan jr jr jr = his family is just not extremely creative when it comes to naming their sons.

_{Anon is very rusty with writing fics, but hopes that this offering isn't so terrible. ;;}

You, Fortunate Austria

Music was his life.

And coincidentally, it is something that was so very intrinsic in Austria

why don’t you marry it, eh, Specs?

in the bones of the country, the very legacy of the times when the world was still for sale to the strongest empire. Music that was old, rich in tradition, structured with an eye so critical, to break it would be blasphemy.

That was long ago.

Austria was an aristocrat, sharp tongued and eloquent with his words and actions. Austria was neat and tidy, with a need for order as powerful, if not more so, as Germany’s. Austria, a shadow of his former self but still regarding everything with his chin held high and his music by his side.

Everything Richard wanted, a pining that just refused to go away even when doors were closed and dreams were allowed to slip away.

He had an image to maintain, after all.

He always wanted to be a teacher, a lawyer, someone who hunkered down and lived a simple, non-intrusive lifestyle. But by some twist of fate, his high school band had been scouted after a performance during prom night

remember, remember the way you strummed that guitar that night boy, that was your very best but that you is going isn’t it? It died with the optimistic little boy that drowned in the sea smiles and camera flashes

and the rest was history. Life became needlessly complicated, because rising stars were always the brightest. The lights, the concerts, the tours, everything came crashing down like euphoria after the drug and they all had a laugh because really, who knew they could go so far?

The glitz and glamour didn’t last, however. The darker side of fame came along, the paparazzi and the scandals and every little motion and change suddenly became viral. There wasn’t a day that they weren’t accosted, not a night when their manager didn’t come to schedule something new for the next day and the rest of the group would drink themselves to oblivion, leaving him the sole driver for the night

it wasn’t bad, because precious, precious Vince would always call shotgun and while everyone else slept on, they would laugh and laugh and then hands would be on the shifting gear while he drove and he would feel warm for once

to get them back to the band’s trailer than they called home for three months a year.

The meetings, their little sanctuary, were the best thing to happen to him since forever. Once a month, he would leave the form-fitting jeans and the clip-on piercings, the avant garde hairstyles and the garish shirts and leather coats. Once a month, he would excuse himself, drop everything to get to that conference room. His band mates would laugh at his attires.

Old school? Frilly neck cloths? What the hell happened to you, man? You breaking down or something?

No, no. Just a family affair.

Nevermind that he hasn’t spoken to his parents since he was nineteen, still a wide-eyed youth looking into the world of stars like it was the ticket to a good life.

Elizaveta was a good girl. Her skirts went down to her knees. She never went out at night, never touched alcohol. Every Sunday she walked the younger children to church. She was that girl at the bake sale with the kind eyes and the fake smile that gave you cookies. You loved her -- so did everyone else.

Except Elizaveta.

She knew there was something wrong with her. The other girls thought of kissing boys, holding their hands and being swept away on a white horse. They wanted marriage and babies. They wanted a future.

But she wanted a fuck.

---

When she was walking alone on her way home from school, she stood outside the only convenience store in town. Inside, there were magazines. Girls, scantily clad. Boys: shirtless and slick.

(She imagined running her hands over their bodies, kissing the skin. She wanted to taste the sweat on tongue. In her mind she was a sexual goddess, and over her shoulder, she gave the Reverend the bird and told him to fuck himself while she fucked them.)

But the glass only reflected Elizaveta.
(She never went inside.)

---

When she was little, her older brother and his friends were playing with toy swords. She ran up to him, hands reaching up for the foam weapon.

He hit her to the ground.

“Girls don’t fight.”

---

In the shower, no one could see her. She ran her hands down her neck. Over her breasts. Down her stomach.

She stopped at her hips, hands twitching. There was a desperate throbbing between her legs; a need that called for her touch. Her throat was tightening now, her legs were shaking.

You’ll go to Hell for this. You’ll go to Hell for this. You’ll go to Hell for this.
Good girls don’t go to Hell, Elizaveta.

She washed up and went to church, and began to take her showers cold.

---

This time, her hands shook for an entirely different reason.

Today she was wearing pants. She’d never really wore pants before. Her button-up uniform was tidy, and it had taken her ten minutes to work up the nerve to undo the top button. Seven for the second.

(Some of her cleavage was showing, oh Lord it felt so good)

Here, she was not Elizaveta. She was Hungary.

She yelled. She was loud, and coy, and a pervert. She recorded and watched, trying to quell the rising blush to her cheeks. When she was angry she grabbed her frying pan, and she made a fuss.

Hungary could touch herself. Hungary could touch others. Hungary could fight.

But Hungary was not Elizaveta.
(Yet.)




Notes:
- Hungary is born in a very small very religious town. She was raised as a good girl who never fought back and repressed her sexuality. Hungary allows her to be strong and sexual.
- Last couple of lines are more about how Elizaveta could be Hungary at the meetings, but she has not yet become her yet. Ur. I wasn't sure if that was clear. orz

Wrote this up really fast so it's not very good, but I hope you enjoy.

Raivis was the oldest of five children. His mother and father had had him when they were teenagers and were hastily married to make things not so bad. Like most young couples that married quickly due to a baby arriving they fought quite often. His father would call his mother names, she would curse right back at him. The fights ended usually with something being broken and someone stating that they were going to leave and never com back. Only whoever it was, usually his father, would be back in usually less then a week and the two would kiss and hug, swearing to love one another forever. This was of course over within a couple of days and there would be another fight over another stupid thing. So, he had taken it on himself to be the responsible one at a rather young age. Sure he was only fourteen but he often felt like it was his duty to be the responsible one in the family.

His duty as the responsible older brother did not end at home, in school he would watch over his brothers and sisters that were old enough to go. One day on the playground a boy about his age was shoving Raivis’s younger brother around. Without hesitation, he shoved the other boy back away from his little brother delivered a punch to the kid’s face. When that first punch landed something within him was awakened and even though the other boy didn’t fight back Raivis continued to swing, kick, stomp, and do everything else in his power to hurt this boy that had hurt his brother. It wasn’t until a teacher pulled him off of the boy that Raivis had even realized that other’s had gathered around and were looking at him with frightened awe.

He was taken to the principal’s office and handed a two week suspension. When he had gotten home his mother had yelled at him and his father patted his back. This caused yet another fight between his parents and he just sent himself to his room.

When he returned to school all of the other students stared at him, like he was some kind of horrible vicious animal that needed to be kept away. The few friends he had had before wanted nothing to do with him now.

That was when he had become the bully. If people were going to fear him and push him away he was going to give them a reason to. He would take lunch money shove children against walls all while wearing a grin on his face and showing no remorse for his actions.

One day one of the kids who was a regular target, but with eyebrows like that it was understandable he would get teased, gathered up enough courage to hand him a card with an address, time, and date on it. “You should go.” was what the kids had said to him after quickly explaining what the whole thing was about. The boy then ran away while Raivis was too stunned to act.



He decided to go to the place at the time and on the day the card said. But he had to be a nation, and one that was not already taken. He’d settled on Latvia and threw together a costume that was over sized from one of his mother’s old jackets and some decoration on the shoulders. There he was not a bully, or an older brother.

He was someone small that relied on the protection of others. At the meetings he could shake and trembled, be defended by his “older brothers” Lithuania and Estonia. They were like his guardians there. Unlike the people who took care of him n real life they did not fight and argue over stupid meaningless things. And the by that he had picked on that had introduced him to the meetings played the micronation of Sealand, and that kid, who he shoved around constantly and was cruel to defended him with Russia would come around.

The best thing though was that even though he had been cruel to Peter. When the two left the meetings and had returned to school, there was something that they had in common and Raivis had a friend.

It took ten hours of his ten year old life to change it immeasurably.

He loved England. He loved the language, the slang, the accents. He loved the hills, the coast, the cities. He loved the weather, the way that nothing was certain. He loved England wholly. Had there been such a thing as a personification of England, Arthur wouldn't have thought twice about laying his life down for that individual, such was his unending devotion for that country.

So why did he find himself on an aeroplane to America with a one way ticket?

Nobody understood the depths to which he was patriotic. He would whole-heartedly support the sports teams, the politicians, the everyday English people. Even his twin sister rolled her eyes if he mentioned anything to do with England.

But he had never lied when he stated that England was his home and his spiritual resting place.
It even went so far for him as to think privately, that if he wasn't in England, he would rather be dead.
It was a grim thought when he was seven, and quickly filed as a slightly uncomfortable truth when he was living in Greater London and could still get the Tube free.

However, after the ten hour journey in his tenth year alive, it became somewhat of a reality.

The ocean stretched under him when he had his first thought of dying, when he saw a shooting star and prayed that the plane would never make it. That it would plummet into the sea, taking his life and so his soul could fly back to his beloved birthplace and remain there for eternity.

Instead, he found himself in an airport in Manhattan, hating the world (apart from the English) and crying his eyes and lungs out.
His first memory of America was a bad one and they only became worse.
Being forced to learn the national anthem and sing it instead of his beloved God Save the Queen.
Being shunned by the fourteen year olds when he said he supported England in the World Cup, and he hated the sport they called football.
His father slapping him when he snuck onto the Internet to buy some of his favourite English tea to ease his sorrows.
His mother scalding him for using the English spellings at school and getting lower grades for accuracy. (Of course it was sulphur with a ph, not an f)

Every incident became a mark on his body.

It culminated at 17, when all the other boys (men, his traitorous mind whispered, ones who hadn't been forced to grow up with so much love it both held him back and advanced him beyond normalcy) were talking about 'football' and getting girlfriends, and his mind was occupied with two things: death and England.

The action itself was caused by a quiet, forgettable comment that completely shook the foundations of his world.

"You're getting an American accent, finally!"

All he could see were two options: go home or die.
The minimum age at which to buy aeroplane tickets was 18.
He would die for England, and made the noose from his flag adorned with the English red cross, so they would know why he'd done it.

He couldn't stand America.

The ceiling collapsed and his sister found him pulling the flag tight around his neck and turning blue.

Two weeks later announced the arrival of the meeting he'd been suggested to go to. 
It hadn't been a surprise when he choose to be England. (Well, more accurately the United Kingdom, but he decided his love could stretch west and north too)

Each month he could insult America and France without being frowned at or told off. He could drink tea without reprise, be English without fear of teasing.

It wasn't perfect; America would never become a home away from home; but it would do, and the meetings became a lifeline.

A year later and he continued to live, if still pining for England.

At eighteen, the second life changing event occurred. 
The thirteenth meeting after his first, the day following his birthday, and he dropped the act for a few moments at the start of the meeting.

"I'm going home!" His legs collapsed under him as he cried in relief and joy, the nations surrounding him with congratulations. Never before had he felt such esctasy at a single plane journey, or ever in the past eight years.

Finally, he could start his life again, in the right place.

---

Sorry for the ending, it's... not good.
Topophilia is the love of a place~

I was stuck with this in my mind, OP!Anon and I couldn't do anything about it but post it. Sorry for the extreme suckiness.

******************************************

It's easier, to be honest, being America than being Alfred. America is string and brave, assertive and bright, carefree and powerful. Alfred lives in a dingy apartment with five other guys, earns minimum wage and couldn't even get a football scholarship. America flies planes and drives tanks, he goes to space and travels around the world. Alfred's mind is still stuck in Dodge where nothing ever happens and people like him end up beaten up or worse. America can't have what he wants because of history, of politics, of the ocean and useless vocals and tea. Alfred can't have what he wants because he's afraid, because it is wrong, wrong to touch, to kiss, to state, too much of a risk, his Ma's disappointed face and stubble over pink lips and a flat chest and it's just too different. America bows to no one. Alfred has never lifted his head.

So, it's easier, way easier, to insult than to caress and to pretend than to live.

***********************
A/N: Only one, Dodge means "a place everyone wants to get the hell out of..." (http://dodge.urbanup.com/1313214)

(Who's that nation? read the first three paragraphs and make a guess! Lets see how many get it right!)

6:01
He has actually been awake for ten, silent minutes of anticipation before his alarm clock rang for the third time, but his body will not let him move until he hears the chime.

6:14
He climbs out of the shower and wraps a fuzzy white towel around his waist. He draws a smiley face in the steam on the mirror. He brushes his teeth, one-two on the front, one-two-three-four on the sides. He does this three times, for hygiene. When he was seven he saw a mans teeth rot of his mouth, he didn't like step-dad-the-dentist ever again.

6:20
He walks on the carpet pattern so that every step falls into the imprint he's made. Has it been so long? No, couldn't be, he shrugs, it's only been five years. He steps up to his closet, and grabs two tissues before he touches the closet. It is only this doorknob and subways he is afraid to touch, it is hard to explain why. He has long ago stopped trying. He drops the the tissues in the wastebasket that is already full but will not get taken out for two days more.

6:24
He fingers the clothes, sliding through them. Monday - white shirt and tan slacks. Tuesday - white shirt and tan slacks. Wednesday - white shirt and tan slacks. Thursday - white shirt and tan slacks. Friday - white shirt and tan slacks. Sunday - white shirt and tan slacks. Saturday is special, it's meeting, it is different. He grins as he slides into the bomber jacket, he is transforming already.

6:38
He fixes himself a bowl of cheerios, three tablespoons of brown sugar stirred into the soymilk, Silk, even though it cuts into his penny. He takes 42 bites, if there are any cheerios left over he ignores them. He chugs the bowl down and then places it in the sink. He has a tower of bowels now, all filthy. He will wash them when he runs out, but he will not run out for awhile yet. He runs to the bathroom to brush his teeth again.

6:53
He waits patiently for his taxi. It is usually late by five minutes, he doesn't mind, because at least it doesn't reduce him to panic attacks like when the bus is late. The driver knows his routine well. The cost comes up to 12.42, he rounds it up to 14.00.

7:31
He walks exactly twelve times across the lawn before opening the door, and shuffles in. He can hear the thrum of the heater, the very air bouncing against empty walls. This is a trick, England is already here he knows. He doesn't bother to go into the meeting room yet, instead heading down the hall where the supplies closet is. He and Germany are the only ones with keys to it, the others are not so trusted. He isn't particularly trusted either, but he has the key and that's what matters.

7:40
He admires the bathroom, it is spotless now. It was spotless before, but it needs to be spotless again. He doesn't know why, it just needs to be. He hides in a stall when he think he maybe hears Switzerland walk in, but nobody comes, and so he discovers he has just spent five minutes anxiously balanced on top of a toilet seat. He ignores the rush of shame and instead works at getting rid of the stains that he maybe left.

8:00
He walks into the meeting room with a grin on his face. He wants to walk three times in a circle before he opens the door, really, really bad. He ignores that urge with a grin on his face. He doesn't actually want to touch the same doorknob that France has touched. He ignores that too. He is terrified that somebody will discover all his compulsions. It is hardered to ignore that one, but he does as he throws open the door.

He is America, land of the free.

(Hmmm? You say I like writing OCD!Alfred too much? Ridiculous!)

Warning: Contains possibly triggering content involving self-injury and verbal/emotional abuse.

***

Some people called him shy, but shy was not the right word to describe Jason Im. Afraid was a better one.

He didn’t know why he had been so afraid all his life, looking to the side instead of in people’s eyes, hyperventilating in groups of people, flinching back in terror when someone waved their hands too close to his face. It didn’t make sense, because that was how abuse victims acted, right? And never once had Jason been hit. Never.

That was why he had been so uncomfortable with the idea at first. Talking to people he didn’t know? Touching them, hell, what could probably be considered flirting with them? Nononono. Jason had never flirted with anyone in his life. (Once he had tried to talk to a pretty blonde girl in his 8th grade math class, but he had fumbled over his words and she had laughed, and even though he knew she probably wasn’t actually laughing at him he had never talked to her again.)

But for some reason he couldn’t stop thinking about the doctor he had met when he had broken a finger when it had slammed in a car door.

“Yong Soo?” the doctor had asked, but Jason had rapidly shook his head and corrected him with his American name, and the doctor had nodded. (Really Jason doubted he had to explain his reasoning to someone named Wang.) The doctor had nodded and began examining him, but had paused upon glancing at Jason’s arm.

“That’s a pretty bad scar,” he said casually. “How did you get it?”

“Hmm? Oh, I fell off a trampoline when I was younger.” It was a good lie, and most people believed Jason.

Dr. Wang had nodded and fixed up Jason’s finger, but before he left he had handed Jason a card, a business card. And on the back Dr. Wang had written South Korea.

The idea scared Jason. He knew he would be bad at it. He had never once worn traditional clothes, didn’t speak a word of Korean and for Petessake he had only eaten Korean food once and didn’t like it much, he honestly preferred Mexican food. He would be a bad Korea.

They’ll hate you. said the voice in the back of his head. They’ll all hate you, because you’re stupid and worthless and your father was right. No one will ever love you, and it’s your fault. No one loves weaklings Jason.

His father’s voice kept playing in his head, and he shook and squeezed his eyes shut and thought about reopening the scar on his arm, but no, that was just as weak, because his father had never hit him, what did he have to cut himself over. Everyone’s parent’s yelled, it wasn’t like he was abused or anything.

Nonono, Jason Im was just weak, couldn’t take the yelling like a man. He was going to end up alone, just like his father had said.

But he just kept looking at the card, and thinking about the doctor.

Yong Soo the doctor had called him. How long had it been since someone called him Yong Soo? Then a thought occurred to Jason.

Maybe Jason was weak, maybe Jason would be bad at being Korea. But maybe Yong Soo would be good at it.

It was tempting, the duality, the fantasy.

Could it be true? Could he be Korea, not Jason Im, could he have a family, an older brother who could comfort him, but no father at all to shout at him and belittle him? Could he have the confidence to be loud and obnoxious and affectionate and open?

He was afraid of the vulnerability, but temptation was too much.

So he found a cheap hanbok at a flea market and pushed back his mental soundtrack of You’reworthlessyou’restupideveryonewillleaveyounobodywilleverloveyou and went to the meeting, smile on his face, not Jason Im, not even Im Yong Soo, but South Korea.

And Korea was never afraid to talk to someone, never afraid of rejection, never afraid of being hurt. Korea never had to be afraid, because even if his family was annoyed by him, they would always love him.

Korea was never afraid.

His parents were young - too young - when their families started disappearing around them. He's never known his grandparents but he knows what happened to them - one grandfather died in a riot with a gold star on his sleeve, his wife was taken away and never seen again, their young son sent away, sent away, smuggled out to England before the real hammer fell; the other grandfather was shot down on the streets of Warsaw while the city smoldered and burned, his wife shipped off to Auschwitz and Feliks never wanted to know what happened to her but he does anyway; she was gassed to death with ninety-nine other Jewish women and thrown in a mass grave, never to be identified. It was luck alone that her young daughter - Feliks's mother - was away visiting relatives when Warsaw fell.

Both his parents lived through the war, but they were almost the only ones who did. Both lost parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts and cousins and siblings, all of Feliks's family history gone in one clean sweep. They both moved to America and that's where they met, tattered creatures with a past of shared tragedy. Feliks has never been to Europe but he's always felt like World War Two cast an unfair shadow over his entire life.

His mother is worse, she coddles him and tells him over and over that he is a precious gift, that his relatives fought and died so he could live a good life. She pets his hair and tells him how much he looks like his great-uncle Anya, who Feliks feels a very uncomfortable kinship with because Great-uncle Anya died wearing a pink triangle. She tells him that he must always be proud, but proud of what she never says. His mother is a little bit mad.

His father is merely stern, with sharp lines engraved along his brow which give him absolutely no sense of humor. He kept his Polish accent through sheer force of will even though he hasn't been back to Poland in twenty-four years, because he says it is a mark of pride to proclaim that he is Polish. He always seems vaguely unhappy that his only son was a skinny little runt like Feliks.

Feliks has grown up feeling like he's stuffed in a shoebox of what his parents want him to be. His mother, traumatized by losing nearly her entire family at a young age, never lets him go out for sports. She's too terrified he'll get hurt. He's not sure he'd ever want to play sports anyway, he's afraid the weight of his father's disappointment would crush him flat.

Once, in junior high, when he was still trying to figure out who he was and what his place in the world was, his mother walked into his bedroom without knocking to find Feliks sharing clumsy kisses with another boy that had come over so they could study together.

Rather than being angry or even horrified, his mother had gone white as a sheet, and collapsed. She'd had to be hospitalized, and had woken up babbling nonsense about pink triangles and no they can't take my baby away too I won't let them. Feliks had tried very, very hard to repress his sexuality from then on.

He found out about the meetings in college.

It's easy, so easy, and such a relief to become Poland for two hours every two weeks. It isn't because he's Polish, or at least not entirely the reason.

Poland is the Phoenix.

No matter what happens, no matter how many times Poland is knocked down or beaten or trampled on, he always gets up and fights on. He isn't scared, ever, and he won't let anyone tell him what to do.

Poland is a spitfire, he can yell until his throat hurts if he wants, venting his nameless frustrations on Germany - you destroyed my parents' lives my mother has hurt so much because of you how could you - on Russia - you've oppressed my people for hundreds of years you stamp us down and don't let us shine do you think you're my father or what.

(And Ludwig and Ivan don't mind, they know they're all here for a reason, it's nothing personal, and after the meeting is over they'll go out for a beer and Ivan will let Feliks wear Russia's scarf because it's so very cold outside.)

Otaku...hikikomori... hermit... Recluse

Kouhei has always been serene. Quiet and unobtrusive. His love is the small room he lives in and spends his time in. He has no interest in men or women. They are their own choice. He is happy with his video games and his anime and mange. His art is beautiful. His writing is never elegant. But he is not allowed to use his dominant hand.

Kouhei is surprised to be approached by the American. The boy is Naruto to Kouhei's Sai. Tamaki to his Kyouya. Even if the boy is just as withdrawn as he and often reacts oddly around other men. Kouhei is feminine in looks so the American does not flinch when a calculated touch brushes against his wrist. He is handed a paper with english on the front and poorly drawn Kanji on the back. It is still the name of his mother's land. Nihon. Land of the rising sun.

He dresses in his formal white suit and white pants and puts on his white gloves. He shines his black shoes and walks the distance with military precision. This is a cosplay. He is a young emperor. He schools his face to blank impassivity. He doesn't flinch from those creatures who he doesn't like.

He enters the room, the mantle of Honda Kiku- Nihon koku- settlling over him. He is Ancient and young and he makes miniatures and America and Germany and Italy are his friends and China and Korea are his brothers. Here he is not pitied by his parents and pressed to go to that room with the couch to lay on and a stiff person who tries to pick his brain. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be alone. Except when he is Japan. Then he is surrounded by nations even as he sits alone and eats his o-bento quietly. He likes his isolation.

But amongst the nations, he is happy to be the blank stone along the bottom of the flowing river.

First things first so this won't get too confusing: "She" is Hong Kong (Jacky), "He" is Poland (Feli)

1.
The nice thing about those meeting, sie thinks, is that they don't have to stick together all the time. They are rather far away, actually, and barely talking, since they belong to different groups, different families, they have no history together in here. There is nothing that ties them together, here, nothing that would make them stick together like glue because it is not important.

Their brothers, partners, friends here still look at them in exasperation sometimes, but it is because of things like their speech, or getting distracted during a meeting, or not being dressed properly.

Not for trying to sue the hospital where they were born, take the government to court so they'll permit them to change that little field that has the gender in it. Not for trying to change their names into a neutral one, not for asking their parents to please, stop talking about them as "my little girl/boy". Not being called "fag" when neither of them is even interested in a relationship, not when so much more important things are on their mind. Not being called "tranny" when there isn't even an opposite gender that they could want to change into.


2 DOWN
She had always felt strange in her body, but she only started to feel really wrong when she hit puberty, years after the first girls in her class had started, and ...nothing happened. Her mother took her to one doctor after the other, but it took four gynecologists until, three days later, the telephone rang and the doctor wanted to talk to her parents. Alone.

She had curled up in her room with an endless supply of sweets and her movie collection. Endless hours of Jet Li fighting his way to the end of some epic quest later, she had heard them return, their faces somber and collected. They had never told her what the doctor had said, but they had given her medicine, and at least her body had started to change. Not much; all her bras has been given to her by her Japanese cousin because she could find no Triple A in her town, and she couldn't offer much when it came to curves, either.

She never got her period. When she hit sixteen, the tour the force through hospital after hospital started again. At night, she heard her mother cry.

"They said our darling had ovaries, I thought it was the right decision, I thought we could have grandchildren..."

Maybe, the girl that had not always been one thought, maybe it would have been easier if there had been more children in the family. They could carry on our name.

This is the first time I've filled on this kink meme in a loooong time. Here's hoping I do well! ;U;

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"You're a boy, so why don't you act like one?"

"Why do you let your hair grow out so long?"

"What a freak!"

"Creepy fucking tranny, get away from me!"

These thoughts run rampant in Curtis' mind as he looks at himself in the mirror, tugging on a braid absently, examining everything his reflection has to offer: Long straw-colored hair. Wide doe eyes as vibrant as the tropic seas. A childlike face that is so innocent, so unknowing of the world's horrors (oh, how wrong that is).

He's pretty, not handsome. He's pretty and he likes it.

Not everyone does, though.

His parents had so desperately wanted a son, so how was it that he grew to be so feminine? He felt he was to blame. It was Curtis' fault that he was short, it was his fault that he looked so girly, it was his fault that his voice hadn't dropped quite like the other boys' had.

Curtis perservered through so much hatred, so many sleepless nights filled with the sounds of his parents cursing their poor luck, bruises gotten from boys in class that decided he was too weird to play with, hesitant looks from the girls that didn't want a boy to play princess with them, the awkward apologies when a substitute teacher is informed that "she" is actually a "he" named Curtis. Somehow, he had managed to be happy with who he was, but that did nothing for the empty feelings he held, the dire need for acceptance.

When his mother handed him a business card ("Hetalia: World Series" in colorful, bubbly letters), telling him that this might be the answer, he agreed.

It was.

The very moment after recieving the card Curtis dialed the provided phone number, eagerly awaiting the voice of the person on the other end. Twelve days later Curtis was being driven to a community building for his therapy group...No, not a therapy group.

His first World Meeting.

Waving goodbye to his unsure mother Curtis gathered up the frilly ends of his dress, entering the building as a new person.

Outside he was Curtis the Weirdo, wearing a faggy pink dress. Inside he was Lily the Shy, sweet little Liechtenstein, adopted sister of Switzerland, and known for her love of cute things, and Curtis had never felt so complete as he did when he was being coddled by his ever-protective bruder and being loved by the other countries who treated him like the adorable little lady he had always dreamed of being.

Curtis smiles at his reflection, picking up scissors and raising them to a braid. He doesn't hesitate a single second when he snips off a large lock of hair, still smiling as he moves to do the same to the other.

"I wonder what Switzerland will think of my hair..."