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hetalia2010-02-03 03:57 pm
compos-dementis.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2010-02-03 03:57 pm
Entry tags:
FIC: Lo Siento, Te Amo, Mexico/America, T
Title: Lo Siento, Te Amo
Author: Dementis
Fandom: APH
Pairing: America/OC - Mexico; one-sided England/America
Rated: T
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Just Mexico.
Summary: Mexico can't be England for America. But he'd be willing to try.
His heart raced loud and painful in his ears, and he wanted to knock as he stood outside America’s door, hand held up and suspended there. He couldn’t do it. America didn’t want to think about it, right? No, of course not. Who would want to think about it?
But there was some small sense of hope in Mexico’s stupid, foolish heart, and that alone let him knock.
He remembered walking into America’s bedroom for the very first time, when they were teenagers, during the Mexican-American war. He’d come in here to trash it. He didn’t know why, just that his sister North Mexico had told him to. The house had been smaller then, hadn’t it? And very cowboy-oriented, he remembered that. Never mind that without Mexico, cowboys might never have existed.
Now the house wasn’t a threat. It was more like a sense of home.
Funny, how eager and excited and angry he had been then, and how reluctant and terrified he was now. Shaking, a little, even. He didn’t have to do this to himself, to America, changing the both of them. But he was better than to turn and leave it hanging there between them like the elephant in the room.
America’s familiar voice told him to come in. Mexico let himself turn the knob, open the door, and look into the bedroom, look into the face of his best friend.
(His only friend.)
America looked very young as he sat on his floor and shuffled cards. He didn’t even meet Mexico’s eyes.
It took a long minute for Mexico to remember how to speak, and then another moment to remember how to speak English. He didn’t want to fuck this up more than he already had. “Ah… Senor America…”
“If this is about last night,” America spoke up softly, “I don’t think we really need to talk about it. And I told you, you can… you can call me Alfred.” He blinked down at those cards, did the little fold-shuffle thing, the shuffling move Mexico had taught him himself.
(He’d certainly called him Alfred last night. First-name basis.)
Mexico felt guilt flow over him, and his body felt heavy, weighted down with the knowledge that America wasn’t looking at him still.
“I… shouldn’t have done what I did, Sen—Alfred.” Mexico bit his lip, cursed himself softly. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Alfred didn’t look up.
“I know.”
Alfred’s voice was laden with guilt of his own, sadness, and Mexico hated himself for it.
Mexico came closer to maybe embrace him – a stupid thing, because America just scooted back a little. “I should’ve known it would get out of hand like hand, Alfred, lo siento…”
“I thought we had the unspoken agreement not to talk about it,” Alfred half-laughed, but the tremble in his voice gave him away. Mexico watched him closely (like he always did). “If… England knew, if your sister knew what we did…”
“America…” Mexico swallowed down a painful breaking in his own voice. He didn’t know how to handle what he was going to hear, what he was sure America would say. “Alfred… I really… te amo… te amo, Alfred, I love you. You know that… don’t you? That I love you?”
Alfred’s face depicted everything Mexico feared, above all this overwhelming sadness and guilt and he was shaking and looking ready to cry. “…yeah.”
“But… you don’t love me back… do you?” Mexico asked him, holding in all of the anger and the disappointment that burned his chest. Part of him hoped, foolishly, crossed his fingers and pleaded silently…
But Alfred bit down hard on his lip, looked up at Mexico very quickly before back down to his cards. “…no.”
It crashed through him, shot him through with numbness and cold and heartbreak and he didn’t want to have to hear it, but he had to, had to hear it again.
“I’m… not in love with you, Pablo.”
And that was it.
“…I finished the weeds,” Mexico barely managed to choke out, and he turned and left, a violent sadness tearing through him, making him shake and stumble out of the house and choke on his own disappointment.
He couldn’t be England for America.
But he would’ve been willing to try.
Author: Dementis
Fandom: APH
Pairing: America/OC - Mexico; one-sided England/America
Rated: T
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Just Mexico.
Summary: Mexico can't be England for America. But he'd be willing to try.
His heart raced loud and painful in his ears, and he wanted to knock as he stood outside America’s door, hand held up and suspended there. He couldn’t do it. America didn’t want to think about it, right? No, of course not. Who would want to think about it?
But there was some small sense of hope in Mexico’s stupid, foolish heart, and that alone let him knock.
He remembered walking into America’s bedroom for the very first time, when they were teenagers, during the Mexican-American war. He’d come in here to trash it. He didn’t know why, just that his sister North Mexico had told him to. The house had been smaller then, hadn’t it? And very cowboy-oriented, he remembered that. Never mind that without Mexico, cowboys might never have existed.
Now the house wasn’t a threat. It was more like a sense of home.
Funny, how eager and excited and angry he had been then, and how reluctant and terrified he was now. Shaking, a little, even. He didn’t have to do this to himself, to America, changing the both of them. But he was better than to turn and leave it hanging there between them like the elephant in the room.
America’s familiar voice told him to come in. Mexico let himself turn the knob, open the door, and look into the bedroom, look into the face of his best friend.
(His only friend.)
America looked very young as he sat on his floor and shuffled cards. He didn’t even meet Mexico’s eyes.
It took a long minute for Mexico to remember how to speak, and then another moment to remember how to speak English. He didn’t want to fuck this up more than he already had. “Ah… Senor America…”
“If this is about last night,” America spoke up softly, “I don’t think we really need to talk about it. And I told you, you can… you can call me Alfred.” He blinked down at those cards, did the little fold-shuffle thing, the shuffling move Mexico had taught him himself.
(He’d certainly called him Alfred last night. First-name basis.)
Mexico felt guilt flow over him, and his body felt heavy, weighted down with the knowledge that America wasn’t looking at him still.
“I… shouldn’t have done what I did, Sen—Alfred.” Mexico bit his lip, cursed himself softly. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Alfred didn’t look up.
“I know.”
Alfred’s voice was laden with guilt of his own, sadness, and Mexico hated himself for it.
Mexico came closer to maybe embrace him – a stupid thing, because America just scooted back a little. “I should’ve known it would get out of hand like hand, Alfred, lo siento…”
“I thought we had the unspoken agreement not to talk about it,” Alfred half-laughed, but the tremble in his voice gave him away. Mexico watched him closely (like he always did). “If… England knew, if your sister knew what we did…”
“America…” Mexico swallowed down a painful breaking in his own voice. He didn’t know how to handle what he was going to hear, what he was sure America would say. “Alfred… I really… te amo… te amo, Alfred, I love you. You know that… don’t you? That I love you?”
Alfred’s face depicted everything Mexico feared, above all this overwhelming sadness and guilt and he was shaking and looking ready to cry. “…yeah.”
“But… you don’t love me back… do you?” Mexico asked him, holding in all of the anger and the disappointment that burned his chest. Part of him hoped, foolishly, crossed his fingers and pleaded silently…
But Alfred bit down hard on his lip, looked up at Mexico very quickly before back down to his cards. “…no.”
It crashed through him, shot him through with numbness and cold and heartbreak and he didn’t want to have to hear it, but he had to, had to hear it again.
“I’m… not in love with you, Pablo.”
And that was it.
“…I finished the weeds,” Mexico barely managed to choke out, and he turned and left, a violent sadness tearing through him, making him shake and stumble out of the house and choke on his own disappointment.
He couldn’t be England for America.
But he would’ve been willing to try.
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Not enough of this pairing. <3
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I love this pair so much
there's not enough of it D:no subject
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