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hetalia2010-01-04 05:27 pm
snappy8000.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2010-01-04 05:27 pm
Entry tags:
[Fanfic] Dewdrops
Title: Snow Leaves Dewdrops on the Leaves of Grass
Author: snappy8000 (aka myself)
Genre: Uh… I seriously have no idea. Vaguely historic and philosophical, I guess?
Characters & pairings: A bit of Russia/America if you want to look at it that way… and the obvious pair, of course ;)
Ratings/Warnings: Implied sexual content, but it really depends on your imagination. Also, small literary discussion and possible historical inaccuracies (an imaginary meeting after an actual summit). Ah! And abuse of italics.
Summary: Geneva 1985. A short fic in which America looks for distractions during a summit and Russia proves to be a good distraction. Also, a jealous Arthur in denial (I suck at summaries, my Gods). Original prompt was: Alfred and Ivan start sitting next to each other at meetings and sharing materials (silly secret head canon = Ivan and Alfred often sneakily share intellectual conversations/literature during meetings) and Arthur's getting jealous and suspicious. this one can be an already established relationship if you want.
Notes: Originally written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
usxuk 2009 Secret Santa project for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
angel_shin . So I had to give this one a lot of thought, and I admit I was mostly inspired by my Literature classes. Lately, I have not been able to write a lot, so forgive me if the writing appears a bit rusty.
It was Wednesday 11:00 A.M., and the meeting had been going on for the past three hours. Several Nations were present, listening, but none of them had actually been allowed to speak. Most of them had resigned and merely listened to the men discussing economy and politics and war and space. Others though, had resorted to small talk, and there was a low drone of conversations echoing throughout the room; a dull murmur barely audible over the talk of the politicians.
America glanced to his left, where England was sipping a cup of Lady Green (or something like that). It had been a while since Arthur had acquired permission to drink tea during summits, and he had taken full advantage of this privilege at every given time. He looked, Alfred noticed, particularly bored with the current subject. And who could blame him, really? If it wasn’t for the fact that these summits affected mostly him and his economy, Alfred would gladly have dozed off or done something else (like rewatch the tape of Neil on the moon at home or at least in the hotel room), because he already knew what was going on in the world. He was living it, and he could feel it, the sense of a pending revolution in the air like static just before a glorious thunderstorm, waiting for the first lightning bolt to burst. He knew it was coming sooner or later, and he felt giddy just thinking about it. Now barely listening to what Ronald was saying, Alfred proudly recalled England telling him how easily he could distract himself (whether that had been meant as a compliment or not, Alfred couldn’t care less). Speaking of, the Brit looked like he needed some distraction, and Alfred was more than happy to oblige. He kicked Arthur under the table, softly, just enough to get his attention, and couldn’t possibly explain why Arthur had suddenly jolted and cringed in pain. Surely the kick hadn’t hurt him? The pussy…
“What?” Arthur whispered acidly as he turned to look at Alfred. The American pursed his lips. Well damn, he hadn’t thought this far. “What?” he asked back.
Arthur rolled his eyes and uttered what may easily have been a sigh or a curse word. “This concerns what’ll happen to the entire world over the next few years. Shouldn’t you, oh I don’t know, pay attention?” Alfred shrugged without even stopping to consider what Arthur had said. “I already listened to this. I was with Ronald yesterday, remember?” He slouched back into his chair, sinking into the soft leather, still looking at Arthur.
“This is about your economy, Alfred,” Arthur tried again before bringing the cup of tea to his lips in what Alfred could only call a nervous tick. For the entire year, at least since Gorbachev had stepped into power as General Secretary, Arthur had seen Alfred and Ivan actually talking to each other and being what could only be called amiable with each other. He felt Alfred was letting his guard down, and relieved as he was that the atmosphere was thawing for once, Arthur couldn’t help but feel as if Alfred was crossing some sort of line he shouldn’t cross…
“Economy? I thought they were talking about war.”
“Exactly,” was all Arthur replied before turning his attention back to the conference.
Exactly. Alfred frowned, letting the word sink in. Leave it to Arthur to take all the fun out of something. Geez. He let his eyes wander around the room until he caught sight of Russia, who was staring directly at him. Ivan motioned to one of the empty chairs around him (there were many empty spaces next to Russia these days), beckoning Alfred to him. Alfred hesitated for a moment, considering whether it was a good idea to just stand up in the middle of a conference (to go sit next to Ivan, of all people), and finally decided ‘what the heck’ and crossed the room in five long strides, where he propped down next to the Russian, aware that he was indeed receiving several glances. Up close, Alfred noticed, Ivan looked worn out, with bags under his eyes, and his skin was a strange tone of gray. Couldn’t be too healthy.
Ivan dug a hand inside his coat and withdrew an old paperback which he dropped on the table in front of Alfred. He stared expectantly at the American, with a cold, distant smile on his features. Alfred leaned forward just enough to get a good look at the cover, which looked like it had survived many hardships (at least a couple of floods or else a few years in a damp place).
“Leaves of Grass,” Alfred read aloud, unable to keep the surprised tone off his voice. The cover had the same presentation as its first edition, and on the bottom, in broad golden letters, it proudly announced 100 year anniversary edition, making the book exactly… what, 30 years old now. Just how long had Ivan been holding on to this, anyway?
“You called it ‘the great American epic’, but I do not see anything in it remotely like an epic.” Ivan had spoken so low, it had been hard for Alfred to hear him over the other conversations. Alfred turned back to him, unable to deny that this impromptu meeting had peaked his interest. This was not the first time Russia had started a conversation of the sort, but the last one had happened such a long time ago, Alfred had pretty much forgotten about them. If he recalled correctly now, though, he had given that book to Ivan himself back in 1950. Alfred guessed Ivan had merely tossed it aside then, more concerned with pressing matters like the war with Korea. But he had kept it, obviously, and now here it was again. Ivan still looked at him with impassive eyes, clearly waiting for his response.
Alfred recalled a similar question (posed by himself), looking over the shoulder of Whitman. The poet had risen from his seat, unable to keep calm, and had started talking excitedly about his ideas.
“Well, it deals with a journey, right?” Alfred said to Ivan, not really sure how else to put it. Ivan raised his eyebrows in amusement.
“But there is no hero. Every other epic I have read has a hero as the main character.”It was a good point, and it wasn’t the first time Alfred had heard that question. He felt a certain flutter of excitement every time he tried to explain the idea of the great American hero. He paused briefly, trying to convey Whitman’s ideas as he spoke.
“Well, yeah, but- This is America. There can’t be a… conventional hero because- because heroes are above everyone else, and that’s not… democratic.” He scratched his head, feeling there was definitely something lacking in his explanation. This was harder to say than he had thought, but Ivan was still looking at him expectantly. In Alfred’s mind, Walt was holding the papers in his hand, waving them around excitedly, a spark in his eye, and he was saying, “I’ve written your epic, Alfred. I have distilled your essence into this. This will go down into history; I’m certain of it! It’s-“ He had stopped, a satisfied smiled on his face. He’d walked over to Alfred and given him the papers. “Take a look, if you would please.” And Alfred had taken the crumpled papers and read his epic.
“You see, the main character… it’s everyone. There’s no one more important or cunning or powerful or… whatever. It’s about equality and- and the American Dream, I guess… That’s what makes it so special.” Alfred paused to smile. “What makes it so American.” Even though he still felt like he had not been able to convey the idea entirely, Alfred had stopped talking. Ivan’s shoulders trembled and he was smiling sardonically at Alfred. Apparently, the Russian was laughing.
“Equality, you say? How very… common of you.”
Alfred flinched, quickly catching on to what Ivan had meant with the phrase. He was about to protest, but something in him had told him not to do it. Perhaps it was the state Russia was in, or maybe even the feeling he’d had that someone was watching him. He saw Ivan discreetly put the book back inside his coat.
“I found it in a box in my basement. I have been looking at my… occidental books lately. Mikhail insists on it. Thank you for the small conversation, Jones. It has been… most enlightening.” Ivan offered Alfred another cold smile and stood up. Alfred noticed several other people in the room were doing the same. Apparently, the meeting was finally over. “By the way, your friend has been looking this way ever since you sat down. До свидания, Jones.” Ivan nodded at Alfred in acknowledgement before disappearing after Gorbachev. America remained seated for a moment, thinking about his bizarre conversation with Russia. He hadn’t thought about Whitman for a while, and now fondly remembered several visits to his cities with the poet. His thoughts were interrupted by Arthur, who was now standing next to him, arms crossed. He looked pretty annoyed, as far as Alfred could tell.
“I hope you realise you just missed an important talk about nukes. Whatever were you talking about with Braginsky, anyway?” There was a sharp edge on Arthur’s voice Alfred couldn’t really place. Was he annoyed? Jealous? Either way, it was kind of amusing.
“Whitman,” Alfred answered as he stood up.
Arthur raised a thick brow. “Walt Whitman?”
“Who else?” Alfred went to retrieve his briefcase from his original seat and headed out of the room. Arthur struggled to keep his pace.
“You do remember just who you were talking with? Just because of the changes he’s promising, it doesn’t mean you should let your guard down like that, Alfred.”
Arthur hated sounding like a nagging mother (again), but there was an alarm sounding somewhere in his mind. Even if Margaret had said it was alright, he did not want to start a friendly relationship with the Soviet Nation. Not just yet, anyway. He was worried about Alfred, true; the American could be such a wreck sometimes. But he was also rather jealous to see Alfred being so open, as usual, when Arthur couldn’t even look Russia in the face. Also… no, that was it.
“I’m not. What are you getting at with this, Artie?” They were heading back to the hotel, walking down the streets of Geneva at a fast pace.
“I’m just saying Braginsky shouldn’t be some sort of... inspiration for you.” Arthur sighed, cursing the fact he’d even brought the subject up. He could see their hotel in the distance, and the sight itself made him feel worn out. As nice as the Swiss air was, he longed to be back home now, but there were only a couple of hours to waste before they had to go to the airport. As Arthur figured out what he was going to occupy his free time on, Alfred suddenly stopped short and started laughing.
“Whatever’s wrong with you, you git?” People were staring, and Arthur did not need the attention now.
“Surely you weren’t implying…” Alfred wiped a tear from his eye and laughed a little more. “You’re not implying I’m turning Red, are you?” Arthur considered the possibility of answering ‘yes’, just for the heck of it, but decided against it. The last thing he wanted now was an annoying, whining American to deal with (and especially not in a small hotel room). Of course he hadn’t been implying that, because he knew Alfred would never join Ivan, but it had been rather a relief to hear it from him. Perhaps they had been discussing Whitman after all, but it was hard to imagine Alfred talking literature or Braginsky reading Whitman. He shook his head; some things were best left unknown.
Still, the meeting was over and Arthur had two long hours to waste. Surely Alfred could make sure all his doubts were removed. They boarded the elevator. Arthur pressed the button for their floor and, as the doors closed, he smiled impishly. He turned to face Alfred and pulled him by the tie to draw the American’s ear closer to his lips.
“Oh, I know you’re a bloody capitalist,” he whispered in Alfred’s ear. “I just need to remind you just how much I enjoy my possessions.” The doors opened again, now on their floor, and judging by Alfred’s expression, Arthur was certain he’d understood the message. Suddenly, Arthur’s two hours were booked with an unexpected meeting.
~~~~~°~~~~~
And the rest is up to your imagination, kiddies. I realise the ending was rather whimsical, but hopefully it makes sense. I know in my mind it does.
Few more notes:
That bit in Russian means goodbye
The people mentioned were Ronald Reagan, Mikhail Gorbachev, and Margaret Thatcher (and Walt Whitman, of course).
Leaves of Grass was first published in 1855 and was indeed meant to be an American epic. Unique stuff, really.
Well, that is all, I think.
Author: snappy8000 (aka myself)
Genre: Uh… I seriously have no idea. Vaguely historic and philosophical, I guess?
Characters & pairings: A bit of Russia/America if you want to look at it that way… and the obvious pair, of course ;)
Ratings/Warnings: Implied sexual content, but it really depends on your imagination. Also, small literary discussion and possible historical inaccuracies (an imaginary meeting after an actual summit). Ah! And abuse of italics.
Summary: Geneva 1985. A short fic in which America looks for distractions during a summit and Russia proves to be a good distraction. Also, a jealous Arthur in denial (I suck at summaries, my Gods). Original prompt was: Alfred and Ivan start sitting next to each other at meetings and sharing materials (silly secret head canon = Ivan and Alfred often sneakily share intellectual conversations/literature during meetings) and Arthur's getting jealous and suspicious. this one can be an already established relationship if you want.
Notes: Originally written for the
usxuk 2009 Secret Santa project for angel_shin . So I had to give this one a lot of thought, and I admit I was mostly inspired by my Literature classes. Lately, I have not been able to write a lot, so forgive me if the writing appears a bit rusty. It was Wednesday 11:00 A.M., and the meeting had been going on for the past three hours. Several Nations were present, listening, but none of them had actually been allowed to speak. Most of them had resigned and merely listened to the men discussing economy and politics and war and space. Others though, had resorted to small talk, and there was a low drone of conversations echoing throughout the room; a dull murmur barely audible over the talk of the politicians.
America glanced to his left, where England was sipping a cup of Lady Green (or something like that). It had been a while since Arthur had acquired permission to drink tea during summits, and he had taken full advantage of this privilege at every given time. He looked, Alfred noticed, particularly bored with the current subject. And who could blame him, really? If it wasn’t for the fact that these summits affected mostly him and his economy, Alfred would gladly have dozed off or done something else (like rewatch the tape of Neil on the moon at home or at least in the hotel room), because he already knew what was going on in the world. He was living it, and he could feel it, the sense of a pending revolution in the air like static just before a glorious thunderstorm, waiting for the first lightning bolt to burst. He knew it was coming sooner or later, and he felt giddy just thinking about it. Now barely listening to what Ronald was saying, Alfred proudly recalled England telling him how easily he could distract himself (whether that had been meant as a compliment or not, Alfred couldn’t care less). Speaking of, the Brit looked like he needed some distraction, and Alfred was more than happy to oblige. He kicked Arthur under the table, softly, just enough to get his attention, and couldn’t possibly explain why Arthur had suddenly jolted and cringed in pain. Surely the kick hadn’t hurt him? The pussy…
“What?” Arthur whispered acidly as he turned to look at Alfred. The American pursed his lips. Well damn, he hadn’t thought this far. “What?” he asked back.
Arthur rolled his eyes and uttered what may easily have been a sigh or a curse word. “This concerns what’ll happen to the entire world over the next few years. Shouldn’t you, oh I don’t know, pay attention?” Alfred shrugged without even stopping to consider what Arthur had said. “I already listened to this. I was with Ronald yesterday, remember?” He slouched back into his chair, sinking into the soft leather, still looking at Arthur.
“This is about your economy, Alfred,” Arthur tried again before bringing the cup of tea to his lips in what Alfred could only call a nervous tick. For the entire year, at least since Gorbachev had stepped into power as General Secretary, Arthur had seen Alfred and Ivan actually talking to each other and being what could only be called amiable with each other. He felt Alfred was letting his guard down, and relieved as he was that the atmosphere was thawing for once, Arthur couldn’t help but feel as if Alfred was crossing some sort of line he shouldn’t cross…
“Economy? I thought they were talking about war.”
“Exactly,” was all Arthur replied before turning his attention back to the conference.
Exactly. Alfred frowned, letting the word sink in. Leave it to Arthur to take all the fun out of something. Geez. He let his eyes wander around the room until he caught sight of Russia, who was staring directly at him. Ivan motioned to one of the empty chairs around him (there were many empty spaces next to Russia these days), beckoning Alfred to him. Alfred hesitated for a moment, considering whether it was a good idea to just stand up in the middle of a conference (to go sit next to Ivan, of all people), and finally decided ‘what the heck’ and crossed the room in five long strides, where he propped down next to the Russian, aware that he was indeed receiving several glances. Up close, Alfred noticed, Ivan looked worn out, with bags under his eyes, and his skin was a strange tone of gray. Couldn’t be too healthy.
Ivan dug a hand inside his coat and withdrew an old paperback which he dropped on the table in front of Alfred. He stared expectantly at the American, with a cold, distant smile on his features. Alfred leaned forward just enough to get a good look at the cover, which looked like it had survived many hardships (at least a couple of floods or else a few years in a damp place).
“Leaves of Grass,” Alfred read aloud, unable to keep the surprised tone off his voice. The cover had the same presentation as its first edition, and on the bottom, in broad golden letters, it proudly announced 100 year anniversary edition, making the book exactly… what, 30 years old now. Just how long had Ivan been holding on to this, anyway?
“You called it ‘the great American epic’, but I do not see anything in it remotely like an epic.” Ivan had spoken so low, it had been hard for Alfred to hear him over the other conversations. Alfred turned back to him, unable to deny that this impromptu meeting had peaked his interest. This was not the first time Russia had started a conversation of the sort, but the last one had happened such a long time ago, Alfred had pretty much forgotten about them. If he recalled correctly now, though, he had given that book to Ivan himself back in 1950. Alfred guessed Ivan had merely tossed it aside then, more concerned with pressing matters like the war with Korea. But he had kept it, obviously, and now here it was again. Ivan still looked at him with impassive eyes, clearly waiting for his response.
Alfred recalled a similar question (posed by himself), looking over the shoulder of Whitman. The poet had risen from his seat, unable to keep calm, and had started talking excitedly about his ideas.
“Well, it deals with a journey, right?” Alfred said to Ivan, not really sure how else to put it. Ivan raised his eyebrows in amusement.
“But there is no hero. Every other epic I have read has a hero as the main character.”It was a good point, and it wasn’t the first time Alfred had heard that question. He felt a certain flutter of excitement every time he tried to explain the idea of the great American hero. He paused briefly, trying to convey Whitman’s ideas as he spoke.
“Well, yeah, but- This is America. There can’t be a… conventional hero because- because heroes are above everyone else, and that’s not… democratic.” He scratched his head, feeling there was definitely something lacking in his explanation. This was harder to say than he had thought, but Ivan was still looking at him expectantly. In Alfred’s mind, Walt was holding the papers in his hand, waving them around excitedly, a spark in his eye, and he was saying, “I’ve written your epic, Alfred. I have distilled your essence into this. This will go down into history; I’m certain of it! It’s-“ He had stopped, a satisfied smiled on his face. He’d walked over to Alfred and given him the papers. “Take a look, if you would please.” And Alfred had taken the crumpled papers and read his epic.
“You see, the main character… it’s everyone. There’s no one more important or cunning or powerful or… whatever. It’s about equality and- and the American Dream, I guess… That’s what makes it so special.” Alfred paused to smile. “What makes it so American.” Even though he still felt like he had not been able to convey the idea entirely, Alfred had stopped talking. Ivan’s shoulders trembled and he was smiling sardonically at Alfred. Apparently, the Russian was laughing.
“Equality, you say? How very… common of you.”
Alfred flinched, quickly catching on to what Ivan had meant with the phrase. He was about to protest, but something in him had told him not to do it. Perhaps it was the state Russia was in, or maybe even the feeling he’d had that someone was watching him. He saw Ivan discreetly put the book back inside his coat.
“I found it in a box in my basement. I have been looking at my… occidental books lately. Mikhail insists on it. Thank you for the small conversation, Jones. It has been… most enlightening.” Ivan offered Alfred another cold smile and stood up. Alfred noticed several other people in the room were doing the same. Apparently, the meeting was finally over. “By the way, your friend has been looking this way ever since you sat down. До свидания, Jones.” Ivan nodded at Alfred in acknowledgement before disappearing after Gorbachev. America remained seated for a moment, thinking about his bizarre conversation with Russia. He hadn’t thought about Whitman for a while, and now fondly remembered several visits to his cities with the poet. His thoughts were interrupted by Arthur, who was now standing next to him, arms crossed. He looked pretty annoyed, as far as Alfred could tell.
“I hope you realise you just missed an important talk about nukes. Whatever were you talking about with Braginsky, anyway?” There was a sharp edge on Arthur’s voice Alfred couldn’t really place. Was he annoyed? Jealous? Either way, it was kind of amusing.
“Whitman,” Alfred answered as he stood up.
Arthur raised a thick brow. “Walt Whitman?”
“Who else?” Alfred went to retrieve his briefcase from his original seat and headed out of the room. Arthur struggled to keep his pace.
“You do remember just who you were talking with? Just because of the changes he’s promising, it doesn’t mean you should let your guard down like that, Alfred.”
Arthur hated sounding like a nagging mother (again), but there was an alarm sounding somewhere in his mind. Even if Margaret had said it was alright, he did not want to start a friendly relationship with the Soviet Nation. Not just yet, anyway. He was worried about Alfred, true; the American could be such a wreck sometimes. But he was also rather jealous to see Alfred being so open, as usual, when Arthur couldn’t even look Russia in the face. Also… no, that was it.
“I’m not. What are you getting at with this, Artie?” They were heading back to the hotel, walking down the streets of Geneva at a fast pace.
“I’m just saying Braginsky shouldn’t be some sort of... inspiration for you.” Arthur sighed, cursing the fact he’d even brought the subject up. He could see their hotel in the distance, and the sight itself made him feel worn out. As nice as the Swiss air was, he longed to be back home now, but there were only a couple of hours to waste before they had to go to the airport. As Arthur figured out what he was going to occupy his free time on, Alfred suddenly stopped short and started laughing.
“Whatever’s wrong with you, you git?” People were staring, and Arthur did not need the attention now.
“Surely you weren’t implying…” Alfred wiped a tear from his eye and laughed a little more. “You’re not implying I’m turning Red, are you?” Arthur considered the possibility of answering ‘yes’, just for the heck of it, but decided against it. The last thing he wanted now was an annoying, whining American to deal with (and especially not in a small hotel room). Of course he hadn’t been implying that, because he knew Alfred would never join Ivan, but it had been rather a relief to hear it from him. Perhaps they had been discussing Whitman after all, but it was hard to imagine Alfred talking literature or Braginsky reading Whitman. He shook his head; some things were best left unknown.
Still, the meeting was over and Arthur had two long hours to waste. Surely Alfred could make sure all his doubts were removed. They boarded the elevator. Arthur pressed the button for their floor and, as the doors closed, he smiled impishly. He turned to face Alfred and pulled him by the tie to draw the American’s ear closer to his lips.
“Oh, I know you’re a bloody capitalist,” he whispered in Alfred’s ear. “I just need to remind you just how much I enjoy my possessions.” The doors opened again, now on their floor, and judging by Alfred’s expression, Arthur was certain he’d understood the message. Suddenly, Arthur’s two hours were booked with an unexpected meeting.
~~~~~°~~~~~
And the rest is up to your imagination, kiddies. I realise the ending was rather whimsical, but hopefully it makes sense. I know in my mind it does.
Few more notes:
That bit in Russian means goodbye
The people mentioned were Ronald Reagan, Mikhail Gorbachev, and Margaret Thatcher (and Walt Whitman, of course).
Leaves of Grass was first published in 1855 and was indeed meant to be an American epic. Unique stuff, really.
Well, that is all, I think.
no subject
This lit geek has been rolling around in complete and utter glee over this. OMG, America and Russia and LEAVES OF GRASS, I want them to hang out and talk about books FOREVER.