ext_52522 ([identity profile] blacknoise.livejournal.com) wrote in [community profile] hetalia2008-12-17 01:13 am

FANFIC!

Title: Scar Tissue
Author: blacknoise
Characters: America, UK, Japan, Canada
Rating: PG-13 for some violent imagery
Warnings: Uh... war imagery? A little implied intimacy between Arthur and Alfred (NOTHING EXPLICIT)
Summary: It is generally believed that America does not show his scars. Some nations closest to him know better.



Among the nations, it is generally believed that the United States of America does not bleed, is unscathed. The mighty nation does not tolerate slights; does not suffer any insult. He is invincible.

Those closest to him know better.


Arthur remembers most keenly the scar that runs through Alfred’s navel. Alfred put it there himself, digging it into his skin for years, cutting himself free, from 1776 to 1783. Arthur remembers Alfred’s bright eyes, the fierce, hopeful, confident blue as he penned that fateful document in blood in Philadelphia. He remembers the gunpowder and smoke, and the awful wrenching feeling he had, seeing his colony, his nationling, take arms against him and throw him out. He remembers bruised dignity, the bitter taste of defeat, and a tiny, treacherous spark of pride in his little rebel that galled him more than anything else.

He remembers this scar most keenly, and knows that when he kisses it with feather-light care, Alfred cannot help but cleave to him in that moment. In that moment (brief, far too brief), he, Arthur, can feel whole again.



Kiku remembers with perfect clarity the neat, flat scar in the middle of Alfred’s back, just shy of his spine. He remembers summoning the wind of the gods, sending his men into that tropical harbour, slipping in silently himself, and driving his katana into Alfred’s broad back. Alfred had stumbled, Kiku remembers, had shuddered around the unexpected wound. Kiku remembers the aftermath. The fire, the noise, the burns and the cancer and the pain that Alfred rounded on him, razing his cities and scarring his sword-arm and chest for life. The cancers lingered in his body, and his pride had vaporized along with Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

He remembers this scar with perfect clarity, because now he can see Alfred’s face in the eyes of all his children, Alfred’s influence in his people’s food and culture, and the way that his Japan is twisting and turning, trapped in the echoes of Alfred’s fiery revenge.




Matthew remembers all of Alfred’s scars, having been nearby through them all, and having seen their cumulative effect on his erstwhile brother through the years. The scars that stand out the most, in his eyes, did not happen in the distant past. He was there, just years ago, when ash and smoke clouded the northeastern sky. When Alfred’s anguished shout echoed around the globe. When the two jagged scars were dug right over his heart, the five-sided gash that barely missed his throat. The wounds themselves were small, but Matthew remembers the infection that followed. The bruising and festering and pus, the fever, the way the light in Alfred’s eyes dimmed, and was replaced by something dark and mean, a poisonous rage that bubbled below the surface and corroded his mind. Matthew remembers the surprising tears, bloody tears, that Alfred shed as he helped to treat the wound. The chaotic fury radiating from Alfred’s posture. The stink of fear.

He remembers all the scars, having seen them slowly map and mold America into something Alfred himself could not have possibly foreseen. Many years ago, he put some of the scars there himself (old burns dead center on Al's sternum, all but vanished). But he still remembers the twin scars on Alfred’s heart the most, that nasty slice by his collarbone, for they set him on a course that was impossible to chart, impossible to predict. Matthew does not know if these scars will ever heal over completely, but for now, he, Canada, will watch the horizon at night, and wait patiently for the dawn’s early light.


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