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hetalia2009-08-07 08:13 pm
sakuratsukikage.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2009-08-07 08:13 pm
Entry tags:
[Fanfic]--The Great War, America and England
Title: The Great War
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sakuratsukikage
Character(s) or Paring(s): America, England, mentions of France and Canada (hints of France/Canada)
Rating: PG
Warnings: mentions of war and injury, some brief language
Summary: It's 1918, and America wonders about his place in war alongside the European powers
Author:
sakuratsukikage Character(s) or Paring(s): America, England, mentions of France and Canada (hints of France/Canada)
Rating: PG
Warnings: mentions of war and injury, some brief language
Summary: It's 1918, and America wonders about his place in war alongside the European powers
The Great War
Western Front, 1918.
America ducked out of the tent. The air was somewhat clearer here, back from the lines, where everything reeked of smoke and death and fighting and dying and the sickly sweet tinge of the gas, but the air inside the tent had still been thick and close with the scent of blood, France’s blood, heavy with the smell of sweat and sickness as he tossed in fevered delirium.
He would be recovered, or recovering, by morning, if not precisely well, America knew that much. France was injured, but none of the deeper wounds were new. It was just the way this war, with the trenches and machine guns and the gas, sank into you, dragging and sapping you and making you sick with it—
The shadows shifted as America stepped out of the tent, and he saw the slim square lines of England’s back and the pale smudge of his hair before they’d fully coalesced into a coherent form in his adjusting vision. There was a moment of silence, straining and shivering in the air, and for a moment America felt the chill of the night and tilted his face up, his head back, hoping for a glimpse of the star-strewn expanse, but there was no light in the sky that he could see. The stars were covered by clouds and the smoke that clung to France’s earth even this far from the battlefield. America sighed, feeling somehow hollow with the realization, and dropped his gaze.
A moment passed, and then England turned toward him. His arms were crossed across his chest, and his face looked shuttered and distant. America caught and held his gaze, feeling his throat twist and tighten and close but refusing to look away, and England’s expression sharpened slightly, the edges of his mouth tightening and turning down, and then his features somehow eased without dissipating his scowl. “America,” he said—he allowed, America thought, not said. There was the barest hint of a question in his tone.
America just shrugged. He didn’t mention how after England had abruptly pushed to his feet and left the tent America had laid France’s arms—limp now, but he’d been holding them down when France had flailed and cursed in his fever—back down against the surface of his cot and wiped his face one more time before looking up at Canada. He hadn’t even needed Canada’s nod to know that Canada agreed he should go after England—they were twins, after all. He’d stood, kissed France’s forehead with sad affection, ruffled Canada’s hair, and followed England out of the tent.
But he couldn’t say any of that. America looked across at England and wondered what England would say if he did.
Why had Canada thought he should be the one to go after England? America had only known he’d wanted to, and it had been enough that his brother agreed. But now that he was out here and the silence stretched long and taut between them, he wasn’t sure.
“He’s sleeping,” he said, by way of explanation, “quiet. Mattie’s with him, anyway.” America had thought he was exhausted, utterly drained, and yet nervous energy still crackled beneath his skin as England merely stood and looked at him. What in hell was he thinking?
England raised his brows and tapped a slim white cylinder he held in one gloved hand against his other arm—a cigarette. He lifted it, then slipped it, unlit, into the breast pocket of his uniform. “It doesn’t worry you,” he said, frown lines teasing at the skin around his lips, “how close your brother is to France?”
America blinked. He hadn’t expected that, this topic of conversation. His nerves leapt and shuddered. He didn’t have a clue in the world why he was so nervous. It’d been a stupid question. “No,” he said, blankly. “Why should I be worried? Matt can take care of himself. He knows what he’s doin.’ “
“Does he?” England said, his voice distant, gone soft. “I wonder.”
“Christ,” America burst out before he knew what he was saying, and his face felt far hotter than it should just from leaping to the defense of his brother, “give Canada a little credit, why don’t you? He’s a big boy. He cares about France. All he’s doing is showing him. Coming to help him, and—” he stopped, but he was only talking about Canada, right? “and you,” he finished.
England’s lashes dipped downward to lie flat against his cheeks, and he took a deep breath before they fluttered upward again. His eyes were deep pools of dark color, shaded by the night so that the green of them was no longer visible, just the depth of it. “Is he?” England said. He sounded uncertain.
America wondered if he’d been really talking about his brother. “Give Canada a little credit,” he said again, and he could feel the pleading for something else, something other than recognition for his twin, in his eyes, so he looked away.
“I do,” England said. He looked down at the ground.
He looked tired. He looked so tired, so completely drained, even his messy tousle of hair limp with it. His face was pale, his eyes bruised and shadowed, the line of his jaw fine and prominent where it pressed against skin.
America knew how he felt. He hadn’t known wars could be like this, that even when they weren’t on your soil they could suck your heart down into the mud and trodden fields and blood and stench of it all. He hadn’t known it would be like this at all.
The hero wasn’t supposed to feel like this. And that was what he wanted to be, so badly he ached with it from head to toe. He wanted to show everyone what he could do. He wanted to save Europe. Wanted to save them all.
A hero wasn’t supposed to feel like this. So maybe he wasn’t much of a hero, after all.
He sighed, felt it shake his whole body, and followed England’s gaze down to the ground. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he muttered.
“How was it supposed to be?” England’s tone was stiff, bordering on hostile.
“Different,” America mumbled, knowing he was inarticulate and flushing with the shame of it. He tilted his head back and wished he could see the stars. “I come on over the ocean, I get here, I’m ready to go—and what have I really done? A whole fucking lot of nothing. I sit here, and I watch, and you—well, I ain’t doing much, England, that’s all.”
He was still looking up at the stars, wishing with his whole heart that he hadn’t said anything, when he felt a hand settle onto his shoulder, pushing slightly and squeezing.
“It’s not nothing, America,” England said. “Not nothing in the least.”
America blinked. His eyes stumbled back down from the sky to England, and he looked at him, blinking with the shock. “Really?” he said. He wasn’t quite sure what he was asking.
England fisted his hand against America’s shoulder and bumped it there, lightly, before turning away. “Idiot,” he said. “You really are an imbecile.”
He turned and walked away.
America stared after him for a long moment, baffled. Damn, he thought first. Not again. It was another moment before the words sank in, all of them.
He could feel the grin starting to tug at his mouth. Not nothing. He could handle that. He looked back at the starless sky and imagined his ‘plane, silhouetted against the clouds.
A hero could start with that, right?
Well, America thought, and grinned. He’d really already started, hadn’t he?
Western Front, 1918.
America ducked out of the tent. The air was somewhat clearer here, back from the lines, where everything reeked of smoke and death and fighting and dying and the sickly sweet tinge of the gas, but the air inside the tent had still been thick and close with the scent of blood, France’s blood, heavy with the smell of sweat and sickness as he tossed in fevered delirium.
He would be recovered, or recovering, by morning, if not precisely well, America knew that much. France was injured, but none of the deeper wounds were new. It was just the way this war, with the trenches and machine guns and the gas, sank into you, dragging and sapping you and making you sick with it—
The shadows shifted as America stepped out of the tent, and he saw the slim square lines of England’s back and the pale smudge of his hair before they’d fully coalesced into a coherent form in his adjusting vision. There was a moment of silence, straining and shivering in the air, and for a moment America felt the chill of the night and tilted his face up, his head back, hoping for a glimpse of the star-strewn expanse, but there was no light in the sky that he could see. The stars were covered by clouds and the smoke that clung to France’s earth even this far from the battlefield. America sighed, feeling somehow hollow with the realization, and dropped his gaze.
A moment passed, and then England turned toward him. His arms were crossed across his chest, and his face looked shuttered and distant. America caught and held his gaze, feeling his throat twist and tighten and close but refusing to look away, and England’s expression sharpened slightly, the edges of his mouth tightening and turning down, and then his features somehow eased without dissipating his scowl. “America,” he said—he allowed, America thought, not said. There was the barest hint of a question in his tone.
America just shrugged. He didn’t mention how after England had abruptly pushed to his feet and left the tent America had laid France’s arms—limp now, but he’d been holding them down when France had flailed and cursed in his fever—back down against the surface of his cot and wiped his face one more time before looking up at Canada. He hadn’t even needed Canada’s nod to know that Canada agreed he should go after England—they were twins, after all. He’d stood, kissed France’s forehead with sad affection, ruffled Canada’s hair, and followed England out of the tent.
But he couldn’t say any of that. America looked across at England and wondered what England would say if he did.
Why had Canada thought he should be the one to go after England? America had only known he’d wanted to, and it had been enough that his brother agreed. But now that he was out here and the silence stretched long and taut between them, he wasn’t sure.
“He’s sleeping,” he said, by way of explanation, “quiet. Mattie’s with him, anyway.” America had thought he was exhausted, utterly drained, and yet nervous energy still crackled beneath his skin as England merely stood and looked at him. What in hell was he thinking?
England raised his brows and tapped a slim white cylinder he held in one gloved hand against his other arm—a cigarette. He lifted it, then slipped it, unlit, into the breast pocket of his uniform. “It doesn’t worry you,” he said, frown lines teasing at the skin around his lips, “how close your brother is to France?”
America blinked. He hadn’t expected that, this topic of conversation. His nerves leapt and shuddered. He didn’t have a clue in the world why he was so nervous. It’d been a stupid question. “No,” he said, blankly. “Why should I be worried? Matt can take care of himself. He knows what he’s doin.’ “
“Does he?” England said, his voice distant, gone soft. “I wonder.”
“Christ,” America burst out before he knew what he was saying, and his face felt far hotter than it should just from leaping to the defense of his brother, “give Canada a little credit, why don’t you? He’s a big boy. He cares about France. All he’s doing is showing him. Coming to help him, and—” he stopped, but he was only talking about Canada, right? “and you,” he finished.
England’s lashes dipped downward to lie flat against his cheeks, and he took a deep breath before they fluttered upward again. His eyes were deep pools of dark color, shaded by the night so that the green of them was no longer visible, just the depth of it. “Is he?” England said. He sounded uncertain.
America wondered if he’d been really talking about his brother. “Give Canada a little credit,” he said again, and he could feel the pleading for something else, something other than recognition for his twin, in his eyes, so he looked away.
“I do,” England said. He looked down at the ground.
He looked tired. He looked so tired, so completely drained, even his messy tousle of hair limp with it. His face was pale, his eyes bruised and shadowed, the line of his jaw fine and prominent where it pressed against skin.
America knew how he felt. He hadn’t known wars could be like this, that even when they weren’t on your soil they could suck your heart down into the mud and trodden fields and blood and stench of it all. He hadn’t known it would be like this at all.
The hero wasn’t supposed to feel like this. And that was what he wanted to be, so badly he ached with it from head to toe. He wanted to show everyone what he could do. He wanted to save Europe. Wanted to save them all.
A hero wasn’t supposed to feel like this. So maybe he wasn’t much of a hero, after all.
He sighed, felt it shake his whole body, and followed England’s gaze down to the ground. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he muttered.
“How was it supposed to be?” England’s tone was stiff, bordering on hostile.
“Different,” America mumbled, knowing he was inarticulate and flushing with the shame of it. He tilted his head back and wished he could see the stars. “I come on over the ocean, I get here, I’m ready to go—and what have I really done? A whole fucking lot of nothing. I sit here, and I watch, and you—well, I ain’t doing much, England, that’s all.”
He was still looking up at the stars, wishing with his whole heart that he hadn’t said anything, when he felt a hand settle onto his shoulder, pushing slightly and squeezing.
“It’s not nothing, America,” England said. “Not nothing in the least.”
America blinked. His eyes stumbled back down from the sky to England, and he looked at him, blinking with the shock. “Really?” he said. He wasn’t quite sure what he was asking.
England fisted his hand against America’s shoulder and bumped it there, lightly, before turning away. “Idiot,” he said. “You really are an imbecile.”
He turned and walked away.
America stared after him for a long moment, baffled. Damn, he thought first. Not again. It was another moment before the words sank in, all of them.
He could feel the grin starting to tug at his mouth. Not nothing. He could handle that. He looked back at the starless sky and imagined his ‘plane, silhouetted against the clouds.
A hero could start with that, right?
Well, America thought, and grinned. He’d really already started, hadn’t he?
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Seriously. Though, this was even earlier than most of the fic I write, so . . the level of denseness was increased? Haha. He will eventually XD.
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Thank you again! I'm very glad you enjoyed it.
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First, America. You captured America's naivete and, I guess, stunted idealism really well throughout this. The way he repeatedly looks up into the sky, how clear it is that his expectations have been dashed and he just isn't sure how to deal with things not turning out the way he thought they would. The descriptions of the sky, though, I liked the most, because the sky's always been significant and symbolic for America, and now he can't even find reassurance in that...
And then, oh goodness, more dialogue between England and America where it's obvious that tons of things are remaining unspoken! You always write that so well; from the descriptions of England's movements and facial expressions (his face looked shuttered and distant, for instance. And the way America actually notes all of England's subtle physical changes, how telling) to the way America interprets England's words (“America,” he said—he allowed, America thought, not said.)...
Also, America failing at self-awareness (America had only known he’d wanted to, and it had been enough that his brother agreed.), oh dear.
Onto England-- I really, really love the way you write England. It's always terribly clear that he only lets the vaguest of his thoughts slip through (“Does he?” England said, his voice distant, gone soft. “I wonder.” is so lovely; you know there are countless thoughts running through his mind at that point, but what he says isn't revealing in the least).
“How was it supposed to be?” England’s tone was stiff, bordering on hostile.
That line's interesting; I'm reading it as a combination of England's frustration at America's unwarranted optimism and endless naivete, but also as regret that America had to be dragged into this war, pain at the knowledge that America hasn't been subjected to anything like this before and is doing his best to cope, to be a capable adult/country. Much love for how many layers you've managed to write into a few lines of very sparse dialogue.
And then this exchange broke my heart in a way that only US/UK UST can:
“It’s not nothing, America,” England said. “Not nothing in the least.”
England fisted his hand against America’s shoulder and bumped it there, lightly, before turning away. “Idiot,” he said. “You really are an imbecile.”
He turned and walked away.
Oh oh oh ♥
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Man, thank you so much--the effects on that idealism and naivete of his are what I was really writing about here, to some level, I think, and I just . . . yes. I'm so glad that all came across. I see him as having just started flying, not long before WWI started, so the sky, which has always been significant to him, I think, has recently become even more important, in a way. And that he really badly wants to be a hero at this point, he's just not quite certain how to do that, yet.
This dialogue is so subtle and so much goes unsaid that I honestly had no idea if this fic worked at all--so thank you, it's great to hear that you liked that. I'm so glad I actually do manage to convey when things are unspoken, with descriptions of body language and so on--and yeah! It was important to me to get across just how much attention America was paying to England without even really knowing it. He really isn't very self-aware here at all.
And--oh, man, I'm so thrilled England worked here. I had a lot more of what he was thinking in my head than what showed up on the page here, I can tell you that much, and I'm so glad you thought that worked.
Honestly, with that line, I think America's reading the hostility into it just a little bit. It's definitely both of those things. There's also some guilt there, and frustration with himself for still feeling guilty that America's involved and wanting to protect him, and simple discomfort--shutting the softer emotions down because he wants to reach out but is afraid to or doesn't know how or can't admit that he wants to.
So yes, thank you so much!
Man! I'm so glad that worked. England can't say how much he appreciates it--just that it's not nothing XD. The tsundere was light this time, but certainly present.
Pretty much, I'm just thrilled you liked it. ♥