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metamorphosis2010-02-22 05:40 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-02-22 05:40 pm
Entry tags:
36;
Title: Youthful Spring
Characters: Belgium, Prussia, a little of France, and Germany at the end
Rating: PG
For hetalia_contest on livejournal. The prompt "youth". 1215 words.
For some reason, sitting in this cell forced her to wallow in nostalgia. No longer did Prussia or Germany come by, not that the latter did much after dragging her here. So Belgium was left to sit and think while she waited for the food to be brought, usually by a soldier she thought too young to be in this war – sixteen, he had muttered quickly when she asked his age – who had the prettiest grey eyes she’d ever seen. So, forced to remember, she leaned back against the sleeping form of France – who left to negotiate about paper and ink every morning, and always returned in the afternoon with more than a couple sheets and two quills with bottles of ink. It smelled like the sort Prussia used; old, musty, from the days when they were actively used and inkwells were precious items to be had by the royalty.
She remembers the fresher scent of it, the sweet smell of wildflowers and of a hot summer day, the sounds of a trickling stream just waiting to be interrupted by horse play. She remembers laying on him, slender fingers curled into his dirtied white tunic, watching him clumsily write in large letters on a sheet of parchment paper, the inkwell close to her and the beautiful owl feather he had found to use as a makeshift quill while his other one lay at him. She remembers the grin, the mischief hidden just behind ruby eyes, the careful dip of the quill – it’s odd, she had thought, that such a rough boy was so delicate in his movements – and the scratching sound it made against the old sheepskin.
It’s almost like she’s there again. She feels the rough fabric under her fingers, smiles as her cheek presses into it neck, laughs when he shifts because her breath’s tickling him. His voice wasn’t quite deep then – it sometimes squeaked, leading her to tease him mercilessly about the mouse caught in his throat – but it was a comfort. Everything then was a comfort, from the way they lay together, just friends, embarrassed looks shared when something triggered faster beating of their hearts, together as one, in unison. Her family was splitting; his brother was too big for his small, small self; Austria was a pain; the days were too long, the nights too short; Protestantism was reaching into their borders without hesitation. The wind blows like a whisper, making the flowers around them sway in the slightest, bees buzzing and landing on the ones closet, making her squeal and climb more on top of him, straddling him, smiling down at him.
He laughs and shoves her leg, telling her to get off. He needs to write this. She doesn’t move except to lay back on him, legs sliding over his hips and electing a small, but noticeable, shudder from the not-yet-a-man boy, mutters hotly into his tunic that he can finish it later. He feigns hurt, then swings his body slightly, tipping her off into the flowers and straddling her, arms crossed and blush spreading as she looks at him, rumpled and thoroughly displeased. She’s cute, he thinks. Really cute. Especially when she glares at him, grabs his sleeve, and tells him to get off because he’s heavy. He doesn’t comply, only snickering and saying that she hadn’t gotten off when he ordered her to. She rolls her eyes, crosses her arms, and licks her bottom lip in thought.
If he had been older, they would’ve kissed. They would’ve kissed, soft and hesitant, firsts and confused and wondering what the growing ball of iron in their stomachs signified, the clenching and unclenching of knots and butterflies.
And nothing would’ve turned out differently.
She remembers asking him about the parchment, squinting at the odd lines and shapes, the ink drying and staining her hands when she brushed over a wet part. He fixed those, drawing arc after arc, mulling over his answer. It was simple, he had said. He was writing a poem for a girl, because girls liked stupid poetry. Belgium remembers agreeing that poetry was stupid – his face looked struck - and that it was a waste of time. He had seemed troubled then, leaving the parchment with her with a quiet suggestion not to smear it. So she hadn’t; she had run home, laid it on her bed in front of the window, and as soon as it had dried she had carefully folded it and put it into an old book.
Not too long ago, she had taken that book out, ready to throw it away. Spring cleaning was always a pain. When she had leafed through the pages, the parchment had fallen out and she picked it up, touched the fraying edges and carefully opening it, as delicate as the hands that had written on it. It was a poem, true to what Prussia had said to her, and poorly written, but it had been written to her. She could read, with some difficulty, the scratched words (not that his handwriting had ever gotten better, mind), the smears (for as careful as she had tried to be, it ended up that way), and the childish feelings behind the words.
It made her smile.
It makes her smile now, leaning against her fellow prisoner, eyes closed and head tilted back, rubbing her fingers together as if she could feel the soft sheepskin between them. She licks her lips and mouths the words, to make sure she’s got them right, and whispers it to the quiet room; she doesn’t notice the door open because it is dark, everyone is supposed to be asleep, and she’s the only one up with a weak oil lamp for light.
“Wouldst thou know my meaning?
Lie down in the Fire
See and taste the Flowing
Godhead through thy being...”
Belgium’s whispering it, but the person who’s just come in can hear in this quiet, and he grimaces a little. He quietly moves closer, sits beside her, pulls her into his arms and grins dangerously into her skin. She freezes, glances behind, and the all-too familiar red eyes of Prussia greet her. She opens her mouth to say something but he claps a hand over it, presses his face into her unwashed, dirty hair, and finishes the poem softly in her ear.
“Feel the Holy Spirit
Moving and compelling
Thee within the Flowing
Fire and Light of God. ”
The quiet stretches on. The circumstances are different now than they were then, and he can’t stay for long. As soon as she’s asleep, he lays her next to France, gets up slowly, and slips out into the dark hallway. He feels a hand on his shoulder as soon as he closes the door, and he smiles slightly as a lamp’s held up and Germany’s face fades into view. Prussia answers before he can even ask.
“I was just checkin’ on the captives, bruder. They’re sleepin’ like babies, not a hint of rebellion in ‘em.”
“Good. The last thing we need is resistance on our hands.”
Prussia grins sourly, takes out a cigarette, and thinks of Liège.
Characters: Belgium, Prussia, a little of France, and Germany at the end
Rating: PG
For hetalia_contest on livejournal. The prompt "youth". 1215 words.
For some reason, sitting in this cell forced her to wallow in nostalgia. No longer did Prussia or Germany come by, not that the latter did much after dragging her here. So Belgium was left to sit and think while she waited for the food to be brought, usually by a soldier she thought too young to be in this war – sixteen, he had muttered quickly when she asked his age – who had the prettiest grey eyes she’d ever seen. So, forced to remember, she leaned back against the sleeping form of France – who left to negotiate about paper and ink every morning, and always returned in the afternoon with more than a couple sheets and two quills with bottles of ink. It smelled like the sort Prussia used; old, musty, from the days when they were actively used and inkwells were precious items to be had by the royalty.
She remembers the fresher scent of it, the sweet smell of wildflowers and of a hot summer day, the sounds of a trickling stream just waiting to be interrupted by horse play. She remembers laying on him, slender fingers curled into his dirtied white tunic, watching him clumsily write in large letters on a sheet of parchment paper, the inkwell close to her and the beautiful owl feather he had found to use as a makeshift quill while his other one lay at him. She remembers the grin, the mischief hidden just behind ruby eyes, the careful dip of the quill – it’s odd, she had thought, that such a rough boy was so delicate in his movements – and the scratching sound it made against the old sheepskin.
It’s almost like she’s there again. She feels the rough fabric under her fingers, smiles as her cheek presses into it neck, laughs when he shifts because her breath’s tickling him. His voice wasn’t quite deep then – it sometimes squeaked, leading her to tease him mercilessly about the mouse caught in his throat – but it was a comfort. Everything then was a comfort, from the way they lay together, just friends, embarrassed looks shared when something triggered faster beating of their hearts, together as one, in unison. Her family was splitting; his brother was too big for his small, small self; Austria was a pain; the days were too long, the nights too short; Protestantism was reaching into their borders without hesitation. The wind blows like a whisper, making the flowers around them sway in the slightest, bees buzzing and landing on the ones closet, making her squeal and climb more on top of him, straddling him, smiling down at him.
He laughs and shoves her leg, telling her to get off. He needs to write this. She doesn’t move except to lay back on him, legs sliding over his hips and electing a small, but noticeable, shudder from the not-yet-a-man boy, mutters hotly into his tunic that he can finish it later. He feigns hurt, then swings his body slightly, tipping her off into the flowers and straddling her, arms crossed and blush spreading as she looks at him, rumpled and thoroughly displeased. She’s cute, he thinks. Really cute. Especially when she glares at him, grabs his sleeve, and tells him to get off because he’s heavy. He doesn’t comply, only snickering and saying that she hadn’t gotten off when he ordered her to. She rolls her eyes, crosses her arms, and licks her bottom lip in thought.
If he had been older, they would’ve kissed. They would’ve kissed, soft and hesitant, firsts and confused and wondering what the growing ball of iron in their stomachs signified, the clenching and unclenching of knots and butterflies.
And nothing would’ve turned out differently.
She remembers asking him about the parchment, squinting at the odd lines and shapes, the ink drying and staining her hands when she brushed over a wet part. He fixed those, drawing arc after arc, mulling over his answer. It was simple, he had said. He was writing a poem for a girl, because girls liked stupid poetry. Belgium remembers agreeing that poetry was stupid – his face looked struck - and that it was a waste of time. He had seemed troubled then, leaving the parchment with her with a quiet suggestion not to smear it. So she hadn’t; she had run home, laid it on her bed in front of the window, and as soon as it had dried she had carefully folded it and put it into an old book.
Not too long ago, she had taken that book out, ready to throw it away. Spring cleaning was always a pain. When she had leafed through the pages, the parchment had fallen out and she picked it up, touched the fraying edges and carefully opening it, as delicate as the hands that had written on it. It was a poem, true to what Prussia had said to her, and poorly written, but it had been written to her. She could read, with some difficulty, the scratched words (not that his handwriting had ever gotten better, mind), the smears (for as careful as she had tried to be, it ended up that way), and the childish feelings behind the words.
It made her smile.
It makes her smile now, leaning against her fellow prisoner, eyes closed and head tilted back, rubbing her fingers together as if she could feel the soft sheepskin between them. She licks her lips and mouths the words, to make sure she’s got them right, and whispers it to the quiet room; she doesn’t notice the door open because it is dark, everyone is supposed to be asleep, and she’s the only one up with a weak oil lamp for light.
“Wouldst thou know my meaning?
Lie down in the Fire
See and taste the Flowing
Godhead through thy being...”
Belgium’s whispering it, but the person who’s just come in can hear in this quiet, and he grimaces a little. He quietly moves closer, sits beside her, pulls her into his arms and grins dangerously into her skin. She freezes, glances behind, and the all-too familiar red eyes of Prussia greet her. She opens her mouth to say something but he claps a hand over it, presses his face into her unwashed, dirty hair, and finishes the poem softly in her ear.
“Feel the Holy Spirit
Moving and compelling
Thee within the Flowing
Fire and Light of God. ”
The quiet stretches on. The circumstances are different now than they were then, and he can’t stay for long. As soon as she’s asleep, he lays her next to France, gets up slowly, and slips out into the dark hallway. He feels a hand on his shoulder as soon as he closes the door, and he smiles slightly as a lamp’s held up and Germany’s face fades into view. Prussia answers before he can even ask.
“I was just checkin’ on the captives, bruder. They’re sleepin’ like babies, not a hint of rebellion in ‘em.”
“Good. The last thing we need is resistance on our hands.”
Prussia grins sourly, takes out a cigarette, and thinks of Liège.