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hetalia2009-08-03 12:08 pm
harl.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2009-08-03 12:08 pm
Entry tags:
Character study/drabble - The Passage of Time
Title: The Passage of Time
Author/Artist: harl
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England/America, mentions of India and Hong Kong
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Summary: England has been chasing after something all his life, and too late does he realize he had what he wanted only to lose it because he held on too tightly.
I wrote this as a study into the idea of what being ageless, something more than human, might feel like. I also wrote it for someone. Comments are appreciated.
Character-appropriate song courtesy of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rex_dart.
Old.
England was familiar with the word. He’d been called old before, in jest or in insult, for a long time and by various people. Mostly, he shrugged it off. Often and depending on who was saying it, he got irritated. Sometimes, the word really hit home. England knew in the scheme of things and within the relative history of the world, he was not an ancient. That was a term better left to Greece or China. There were times, though, that the truth didn’t matter, because right now, at this very moment, regardless of circumstance – he felt old.
He was a person and he was a personification and he felt his age in every line of what he was. He felt it in his joints and in his bones; he felt it in the parts of him that extended deep within the Earth, in the stress and strain of the bedrock. He felt it in the arching arms of the trees that grew from his surface, in the weight of the idea that was his name. England felt stretched, and he felt thin, and he felt weary, and with seventy million people living and breathing and speaking him, he still felt strangely alone.
Often, he would think on how things had changed, how the years had passed and people had come and gone from his life, both human and more than human. How nations went from allies to friends to enemies to forgotten. He marveled how he’d changed, himself. Looking back on his life, there were times he couldn’t recognize himself, and he wondered how much of that had to do with people or politics or religion. Humans altered the land they lived on just by living on it; England supposed he was no different.
There were things about him that had remained constant, too. The need for expansion. But not even expansion in the sense that he needed to be larger, or more important, though at times he’d wanted that, too. No, the driving force for him for much of his life had been…isolation. No man was an island, as the saying went, but England was. And he knew, deep inside, that one fact had compelled him all of his life. In spite of what he thought and in spite of what he’d intoned to others, England had never wanted to be inaccessible.
He remembered all of them, the ones he’d met and the ones he’d taken. India, who was foreign spices and flowing grace, quiet and demure on the surface. Hong Kong, innocent and traditional and yet teeming with energy and life. England had been enthralled with them both; he’d loved the myriad of ways they’d each been different, loved India’s speech and her way of moving and the strange curl of her fingers when she danced, loved Hong Kong’s quiet curiosity and proud, unbending spirit. They were beautiful, both of them, and it had been so easy, so very easy, to think each of them held something he could tame and make his own. It was the challenge of this idea that had brought him to them in the first place, but India was untamable and Hong Kong unbreakable and, he supposed, that was really why they had been so very fascinating. Underneath the silks and the brilliant, glittering gold, underneath the abundance of life, they had been something else, something so alien and so wild, and something England could never understand. They had fascinated him and they had captivated him and in the end he lost a part of himself in them, in the wilderness of India’s jungles and the winding brilliance of Hong Kong’s labyrinthine streets, lost a part of himself he knew he’d never get back and knew he’d never want back. He remembered India and Hong Kong both and he remembered telling himself he loved them but he knew the memory of the feeling rang false. He’d used each of them to replace something he couldn’t get back, and in the end, all the aromatic spices or incenses in the world would not have masked the bitter realization: these were only people who reminded him of someone else, and in them he saw qualities he missed, qualities he coveted and wanted for his own. They were feral and they were free and they were untamable but underneath it all, India was simply India and Hong Kong was Hong Kong, and they were not what England really wanted. He had been so sure possessing them would make him whole and happy, but he’d been a foolish, selfish man looking in the wrong place for what he’d lost and could not find – the assurance that he was not alone.
He had been alone. So alone. For such a very long time he’d felt it, even amidst all the forays into the unknown back when they’d all still been able to call themselves young men. He knew that was why he’d been so obsessed with conquering, but conquering didn’t mean you weren’t alone, it simply meant you were in a room surrounded by enemies or people you didn’t really like and who didn’t really like you. He knew the fear of remaining alone had been what had driven him over the seas, what had landed him on new shores he’d never seen, what had compelled him to take steps in a search where he didn’t know what he was searching for until he’d found it.
And he had found it. He’d found America, who had come before Hong Kong and before India, who’d been so small and innocent and empty. He’d seen in America the opportunity to pass on his traditions, the chance to teach someone about his history and have new history made through him. And moreover, America had been his chance for a companion: someone to talk to, someone who’d be there when he needed or called or simply wanted. Someone like him, who would understand him and appreciate him for who he was.
Of course, he never could have told America that. He’d been too young to understand at first, just a child, and England had an obligation to raise him. He hadn’t minded. On the contrary, he’d enjoyed it more than he ever would have admitted to anyone. Finally, he’d had someone who looked forward to his presence. Someone…who’d loved him, even if it had been the love and idolization of a brother. England had told himself America was his responsibility, but he’d loved him. He’d loved him more than he’d ever allowed himself to realize or admit, and as America grew the love changed and deepened and turned into something more than brotherly affection, and it began to frighten him. America was so far away and every day he seemed to look less and less in England’s direction. The worry and fear that followed him all his life began to resurface, and he tightened his grip in a desperate attempt to keep America there, beside him, when it was so obvious America was slipping away. Deep down, England knew that was what had ruined them in the end. Their arguments had been spectacular when they had them, and the ones he allowed himself to remember were filled with hateful words designed to hurt on both sides. England had never been good at saying what he really felt and so he never really said anything worth saying, and America tore himself away harder and more vehemently than anyone ever had because of his stupid pride and England’s own inability to admit the truth to the one person who really deserved to hear it. America had gone on, leaving England to watch him build great wonders while he himself tried to fill a void he wouldn’t admit he had with people who could never, ever fit inside of it.
---
The sun on the lawn was bright, making the grass too green to look at for long, but England had been staring at it for hours now. The people who passed by on the small park walk went in ones and twos; some talked in intimate voices and some held hands and some didn’t say anything at all. He’d watched them pass for a while, feeling their presences slip by, feeling their footsteps on the pavement. Sometimes they’d look over and smile, or nod, and he’d reply in kind. It was all polite niceties. The English were nothing if not polite.
He’d bought a bag of seed from the old woman who always sat under an umbrella by the fountain. She sat there because tourists came to this park and she made a pretty good sum selling feed to them for the myriad of pigeons that roosted here. The pigeons, of course, also came to see the tourists, so it was a profitable venture for everyone. The old woman was fat, and so were the birds.
But he hadn’t opened his bag and after a while the pigeons, who’d grown to be able to recognize the sight of a white paper bag from thirty yards, slowly ambled away from his feet in disappointment. England hadn’t noticed. He’d simply went on staring at the grass and nodding at passerby when they happened to glance his way, whether he glanced back or not. Things went on this way until a slight rustle sounded next to him signaling that someone had slid down to sit on the bench.
“How does that song go? Feed the birds, tuppence a bag?” The familiar voice was soft, which might have been surprising if the park hadn’t been so peaceful to begin with. Even America, with all his brash bravado, could recognize the value of tranquility when he saw it.
“You should leave the singing to Julie Andrews.”
“You’re probably right. How much is a tuppence, anyway?”
England glanced down at the little folded white paper bag and made an effort to recall what he’d given the women earlier in exchange for it. “Nowadays? Sixty pence.”
“So around a dollar. Expensive bird food.” England heard America shift; he could picture him leaning back and uncoiling those long legs of his in front of him. Brown patent leather snaked into his field of vision. America had been dressing nicer lately, since the changing of the guard. Like he was trying to impress people again.
“I suppose it is,” he finally said, and set the bag down on the bench next to him. A particularly brave (or hungry) pigeon alighted on the edge of the seat and began to peck small, impatient holes in the paper. England watched it for a few moments, and then looked away.
“This park has changed a lot,” America finally said, and from the odd timbre of his voice England knew he was remembering. They’d come here often, a long time ago. America had liked kites then, and England had bought him one and brought him here to fly it. The realization he still recognized it after all this time made England ache in a peculiar, distant way. “There were less people then.”
“You’ve changed a lot,” England pointed out. Across the lawn, a little boy threw a stick to a waiting puppy that stood wagging its tail so hard its whole body shook. “Well. We both have, come to that.”
“What? You? Change? Pff.” England turned his head just slightly to glance over; America was wearing the expression he expected, one of amused sarcasm. “You mean you’re no longer a stuffy old codger?” America’s eyes were very blue and had a way of twinkling expectantly when he was teasing someone. Especially if that someone was England. “I don’t believe it.”
“Mm. You didn’t believe anyone could influence your precious rock music either, but look who’s laughing now.”
“You never laugh.”
“I laugh. Just not around you.”
In spite of his words, England’s voice held none of its usual irritated snark. Perhaps this was because America’s voice held none of its usual goading superiority. Or maybe it was simply because this was the way in which they had learned they could communicate, turning words that meant very little into something else entirely. Once upon a time, America’s jibes had incensed him, because they’d been meant. Now, though, they were simply there, good-natured and familiar, like an old friend.
“That’s a shame,” America said, and when England looked over at him this time, he was smiling lightly. It was a real smile this time, purely himself, purely for England’s benefit. “I like it when you laugh.”
The chuckle was soft, and held close between them; it wasn’t meant for anyone else. Where his hand rested on the bench beside him, he felt warm fingertips slide into his palm. Ahead of him, the grass dazzled emerald green and yellow and gold.
“I’m not old,” England said at length, and watched as America’s deep laugh chased away the pigeons at their feet. “You’re only as old as you feel.”
“Well then,” America said, and England felt the fingers shift inside his hand, tighten, squeeze. They weren’t very good with words. “I’ll make sure to always keep you young.”
England smiled.
Author/Artist: harl
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England/America, mentions of India and Hong Kong
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Summary: England has been chasing after something all his life, and too late does he realize he had what he wanted only to lose it because he held on too tightly.
I wrote this as a study into the idea of what being ageless, something more than human, might feel like. I also wrote it for someone. Comments are appreciated.
Character-appropriate song courtesy of
rex_dart.Old.
England was familiar with the word. He’d been called old before, in jest or in insult, for a long time and by various people. Mostly, he shrugged it off. Often and depending on who was saying it, he got irritated. Sometimes, the word really hit home. England knew in the scheme of things and within the relative history of the world, he was not an ancient. That was a term better left to Greece or China. There were times, though, that the truth didn’t matter, because right now, at this very moment, regardless of circumstance – he felt old.
He was a person and he was a personification and he felt his age in every line of what he was. He felt it in his joints and in his bones; he felt it in the parts of him that extended deep within the Earth, in the stress and strain of the bedrock. He felt it in the arching arms of the trees that grew from his surface, in the weight of the idea that was his name. England felt stretched, and he felt thin, and he felt weary, and with seventy million people living and breathing and speaking him, he still felt strangely alone.
Often, he would think on how things had changed, how the years had passed and people had come and gone from his life, both human and more than human. How nations went from allies to friends to enemies to forgotten. He marveled how he’d changed, himself. Looking back on his life, there were times he couldn’t recognize himself, and he wondered how much of that had to do with people or politics or religion. Humans altered the land they lived on just by living on it; England supposed he was no different.
There were things about him that had remained constant, too. The need for expansion. But not even expansion in the sense that he needed to be larger, or more important, though at times he’d wanted that, too. No, the driving force for him for much of his life had been…isolation. No man was an island, as the saying went, but England was. And he knew, deep inside, that one fact had compelled him all of his life. In spite of what he thought and in spite of what he’d intoned to others, England had never wanted to be inaccessible.
He remembered all of them, the ones he’d met and the ones he’d taken. India, who was foreign spices and flowing grace, quiet and demure on the surface. Hong Kong, innocent and traditional and yet teeming with energy and life. England had been enthralled with them both; he’d loved the myriad of ways they’d each been different, loved India’s speech and her way of moving and the strange curl of her fingers when she danced, loved Hong Kong’s quiet curiosity and proud, unbending spirit. They were beautiful, both of them, and it had been so easy, so very easy, to think each of them held something he could tame and make his own. It was the challenge of this idea that had brought him to them in the first place, but India was untamable and Hong Kong unbreakable and, he supposed, that was really why they had been so very fascinating. Underneath the silks and the brilliant, glittering gold, underneath the abundance of life, they had been something else, something so alien and so wild, and something England could never understand. They had fascinated him and they had captivated him and in the end he lost a part of himself in them, in the wilderness of India’s jungles and the winding brilliance of Hong Kong’s labyrinthine streets, lost a part of himself he knew he’d never get back and knew he’d never want back. He remembered India and Hong Kong both and he remembered telling himself he loved them but he knew the memory of the feeling rang false. He’d used each of them to replace something he couldn’t get back, and in the end, all the aromatic spices or incenses in the world would not have masked the bitter realization: these were only people who reminded him of someone else, and in them he saw qualities he missed, qualities he coveted and wanted for his own. They were feral and they were free and they were untamable but underneath it all, India was simply India and Hong Kong was Hong Kong, and they were not what England really wanted. He had been so sure possessing them would make him whole and happy, but he’d been a foolish, selfish man looking in the wrong place for what he’d lost and could not find – the assurance that he was not alone.
He had been alone. So alone. For such a very long time he’d felt it, even amidst all the forays into the unknown back when they’d all still been able to call themselves young men. He knew that was why he’d been so obsessed with conquering, but conquering didn’t mean you weren’t alone, it simply meant you were in a room surrounded by enemies or people you didn’t really like and who didn’t really like you. He knew the fear of remaining alone had been what had driven him over the seas, what had landed him on new shores he’d never seen, what had compelled him to take steps in a search where he didn’t know what he was searching for until he’d found it.
And he had found it. He’d found America, who had come before Hong Kong and before India, who’d been so small and innocent and empty. He’d seen in America the opportunity to pass on his traditions, the chance to teach someone about his history and have new history made through him. And moreover, America had been his chance for a companion: someone to talk to, someone who’d be there when he needed or called or simply wanted. Someone like him, who would understand him and appreciate him for who he was.
Of course, he never could have told America that. He’d been too young to understand at first, just a child, and England had an obligation to raise him. He hadn’t minded. On the contrary, he’d enjoyed it more than he ever would have admitted to anyone. Finally, he’d had someone who looked forward to his presence. Someone…who’d loved him, even if it had been the love and idolization of a brother. England had told himself America was his responsibility, but he’d loved him. He’d loved him more than he’d ever allowed himself to realize or admit, and as America grew the love changed and deepened and turned into something more than brotherly affection, and it began to frighten him. America was so far away and every day he seemed to look less and less in England’s direction. The worry and fear that followed him all his life began to resurface, and he tightened his grip in a desperate attempt to keep America there, beside him, when it was so obvious America was slipping away. Deep down, England knew that was what had ruined them in the end. Their arguments had been spectacular when they had them, and the ones he allowed himself to remember were filled with hateful words designed to hurt on both sides. England had never been good at saying what he really felt and so he never really said anything worth saying, and America tore himself away harder and more vehemently than anyone ever had because of his stupid pride and England’s own inability to admit the truth to the one person who really deserved to hear it. America had gone on, leaving England to watch him build great wonders while he himself tried to fill a void he wouldn’t admit he had with people who could never, ever fit inside of it.
---
The sun on the lawn was bright, making the grass too green to look at for long, but England had been staring at it for hours now. The people who passed by on the small park walk went in ones and twos; some talked in intimate voices and some held hands and some didn’t say anything at all. He’d watched them pass for a while, feeling their presences slip by, feeling their footsteps on the pavement. Sometimes they’d look over and smile, or nod, and he’d reply in kind. It was all polite niceties. The English were nothing if not polite.
He’d bought a bag of seed from the old woman who always sat under an umbrella by the fountain. She sat there because tourists came to this park and she made a pretty good sum selling feed to them for the myriad of pigeons that roosted here. The pigeons, of course, also came to see the tourists, so it was a profitable venture for everyone. The old woman was fat, and so were the birds.
But he hadn’t opened his bag and after a while the pigeons, who’d grown to be able to recognize the sight of a white paper bag from thirty yards, slowly ambled away from his feet in disappointment. England hadn’t noticed. He’d simply went on staring at the grass and nodding at passerby when they happened to glance his way, whether he glanced back or not. Things went on this way until a slight rustle sounded next to him signaling that someone had slid down to sit on the bench.
“How does that song go? Feed the birds, tuppence a bag?” The familiar voice was soft, which might have been surprising if the park hadn’t been so peaceful to begin with. Even America, with all his brash bravado, could recognize the value of tranquility when he saw it.
“You should leave the singing to Julie Andrews.”
“You’re probably right. How much is a tuppence, anyway?”
England glanced down at the little folded white paper bag and made an effort to recall what he’d given the women earlier in exchange for it. “Nowadays? Sixty pence.”
“So around a dollar. Expensive bird food.” England heard America shift; he could picture him leaning back and uncoiling those long legs of his in front of him. Brown patent leather snaked into his field of vision. America had been dressing nicer lately, since the changing of the guard. Like he was trying to impress people again.
“I suppose it is,” he finally said, and set the bag down on the bench next to him. A particularly brave (or hungry) pigeon alighted on the edge of the seat and began to peck small, impatient holes in the paper. England watched it for a few moments, and then looked away.
“This park has changed a lot,” America finally said, and from the odd timbre of his voice England knew he was remembering. They’d come here often, a long time ago. America had liked kites then, and England had bought him one and brought him here to fly it. The realization he still recognized it after all this time made England ache in a peculiar, distant way. “There were less people then.”
“You’ve changed a lot,” England pointed out. Across the lawn, a little boy threw a stick to a waiting puppy that stood wagging its tail so hard its whole body shook. “Well. We both have, come to that.”
“What? You? Change? Pff.” England turned his head just slightly to glance over; America was wearing the expression he expected, one of amused sarcasm. “You mean you’re no longer a stuffy old codger?” America’s eyes were very blue and had a way of twinkling expectantly when he was teasing someone. Especially if that someone was England. “I don’t believe it.”
“Mm. You didn’t believe anyone could influence your precious rock music either, but look who’s laughing now.”
“You never laugh.”
“I laugh. Just not around you.”
In spite of his words, England’s voice held none of its usual irritated snark. Perhaps this was because America’s voice held none of its usual goading superiority. Or maybe it was simply because this was the way in which they had learned they could communicate, turning words that meant very little into something else entirely. Once upon a time, America’s jibes had incensed him, because they’d been meant. Now, though, they were simply there, good-natured and familiar, like an old friend.
“That’s a shame,” America said, and when England looked over at him this time, he was smiling lightly. It was a real smile this time, purely himself, purely for England’s benefit. “I like it when you laugh.”
The chuckle was soft, and held close between them; it wasn’t meant for anyone else. Where his hand rested on the bench beside him, he felt warm fingertips slide into his palm. Ahead of him, the grass dazzled emerald green and yellow and gold.
“I’m not old,” England said at length, and watched as America’s deep laugh chased away the pigeons at their feet. “You’re only as old as you feel.”
“Well then,” America said, and England felt the fingers shift inside his hand, tighten, squeeze. They weren’t very good with words. “I’ll make sure to always keep you young.”
England smiled.
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It has a very relaxing mood, like someone looking back on old memories~
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And may I have them for my own? I will brush their eyebrows lovingly twice a day...
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Here is a completely undoctored picture of me:
I will totally butter your crumpets, if you know what I mean.
So it's on, then? Great. Meet you at your house in an hour. I'll bring the rubber chicken.
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We posted these a while back, but here's the full set (http://www.stillvisions.net/events/2009/ac09/h.htm) if you'd like to peruse it at your leisure.
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Magnificent writing ;).
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and then the england/america bits. oh man. america's voice in this was particularly awesome; he's an easy character to get wrong but he was spot on here. i also loved the restrained comfortableness between them. guh. i don't know. lovely, all around.
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Somehow I related it more to friendship rather than lovers (am I right or terribly wrong?).. a very strong friendship that transcended most boundaries....
<333