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hetalia2010-02-03 04:09 pm
compos-dementis.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2010-02-03 04:09 pm
Entry tags:
FIC: Theotrophobia, America, T
Title: Theatrophobia
Author: Dementis
Fandom: APH
Characters: America, Lincoln
Rated: T
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Or history.
Summary: Theatrophobia - an irrational fear of theaters.
By the end of the war, Alfred was broken and bleeding and nearly torn clean in two, with a scar tracing down the middle of his back where the Confederates had tried to split him. General Lee, General Grant, President Lincoln, they all shouted at him and pleaded things from him, all wanted different things and he couldn’t please them all. In the end, he had brought the battles upon himself, even if he had been the one to end them as well.
Civil War. Ridiculous, when he thought about it – all over the worth of a human being.
(The Africans are people too.)
But he didn’t have to worry about that anymore. It was over, finally, all over, and though his hands shook beyond belief still, and his blood still ran thin and cold in his veins in near-death, he had been the one to stand beside the President and hear him speak of America like he was something worth saving.
Maybe that’s why he was here now, instead of at home and in bed resting up, healing. Lincoln had been the one to smile at him with that worn-and-weathered face of his and reach out and stroke his hair back like a father’s touch (a father’s touch so long forgotten and so long missed) and ask him what he wanted.
Lincoln wanted to know what he wanted. Alfred. Not America – no, right now, America wanted nothing but his people to be happy, cared for, satisfied with something in their grimy little lives – but Alfred, the boy who was bedridden with illness and anemia, trying to recover from the trauma of nearly being torn in twain.
“Right now, all I want is your company, Mr. President.”
Lincoln’s smile had been enough reassurance that he’d get what he wanted. The President sat up with him all night in the oval office, and when he asked what he wanted to do in the morning, Alfred told him he wanted to see a play.
“Our American Cousin is playing,” he said. “It’s a comedy, I think, and we could all use some laughs right now, right, sir?”
(He still spoke with a bit of a southern drawl. Sounded like a Confederate sometimes.)
“You’re spilling your peanuts, America.” Lincoln’s voice brought him back to Earth, and he blinked and gave a questioning look to his boss. “Peanuts,” Lincoln said again. “You’re spilling them.”
Sure enough, there were shells all over the ground from where he’d accidentally stepped on them. Alfred frowned a little and reached down to pick them up.
“I’ve never been to a theater like this before,” Alfred spoke up as he kept his head ducked. “The last place I went to, they charged me just to walk through the door, instead of pricing me for the show. Peculiar, isn’t it? I thought about going right up to them and going, ‘Hey, mister, don’t you know who I am?’ But I don’t think I’m allowed to do that, anyway. Fun to think about, though.”
“I doubt he’d have believed you.” The President adjusted his hat and looked to him again. “Oh, look at you, now you’ve made another mess altogether… come, let me look at you.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and began wiping at the corners of Alfred’s mouth, and Alfred laughed and pressed him away, shaking his head.
“Hey, hey! What are you, my mother? I can do it myself, sir, really.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve; Lincoln looked at him distastefully, but said nothing. Alfred wondered if he was even allowed to say anything.
“Sometimes I get to thinking that if you Nations did have mothers, you would be a lot better off.”
Alfred shrugged, took another peanut from the bag, and cracked the shell of it, sending more spilling to the floor. “Well, it’s not like we don’t get parents, or something like it. I mean, England was kind of like a dad to me, sort of, or like an older brother who harped on me on the time, when I was little…” He cut off at a bit of a laugh from his President. “What?”
“Oh, just that… the way you two act, you and England, it’s not very familial, is it?” Lincoln’s smile was kind but held some kind of subtext as well. “I have sons. I know how family behaves. You and England aren’t family, not with the way you banter.”
He wasn’t sure what to think of that, and so sunk low in his chair. “Let’s not talk about England. He’s… Well, let’s not talk about him.” Alfred popped a few shelled peanuts into his mouth and heard the skittering as the shells landed on the floor again. “Besides, the show’s about to start. I’ve heard it’s really funny.”
Lincoln sat back in his own seat while still appearing Presidential, and talked to his wife for a while, smiling. Alfred heard her say something about the behavior of children but decided to ignore it – he’d proven himself enough in this war as an adult, he didn’t need anyone telling him he was just a boy anymore.
Besides, the President was the only one who was allowed to call him “boy” anymore.
The lights began to dim and Alfred sat straight in excitement, holding his bag of peanuts and grinning like anything. Live theater! Oh, there really wasn’t a treat like this, not in the United States of America – yes, the United States, one again, singular, not the threat of being split or dissolved or anything like it. All he had to worry about now was if the show was as good as everyone said it was, and he smiled and looked over to Lincoln to thank him, and—
“Mr. President!”
The call came from somewhere to the left before the resounding ‘BANG’ split the air. Startled, Alfred jumped, and his bag of peanuts fell to the ground, the shells skittering along, and he felt wetness on his face all of a sudden, and reached up to touch it, and his fingertips came back… red.
No.
“Mis… Mister Pres…” Alfred couldn’t find his voice anymore, and couldn’t hear himself for the resounding ringing in his ears, and his eyes were wide and panicked and Lincoln had fallen forward in his seat and was slumped against the seat before him, and Mrs. Lincoln was screaming, and there was a man trying to reach for him, and behind him…
Behind him…
A man with a mustache held a small gun, aimed where the back of the President’s head had been not moments before, a manic look on his face, and Alfred had seen him somewhere before. An actor, perhaps? But what kind of actor would…? And the man went down on the stage, shouting “sic semper tyrannis” and an aching sort of pain was hitting Alfred now, not the sharp kind brought upon by war, but…
“Mr. President…” Alfred went and reached and he was shaking and numb and put a hand on the shoulder of his boss, of his friend, of… the closest thing he had to a father, and suddenly there were tears in his eyes and he began shaking him harder. “President Lincoln… Mr. President, get up…! We have to get you to a hospital, we have to-!”
His voice broke and he began to sob and it wasn’t fair, no, who would do this, who would do this to their own leader, it wasn’t right and wasn’t fair, and things had just started to get nice again.
He fell to his knees and felt the shells of peanuts beneath him, held himself, cried until he couldn’t anymore.
It didn't change anything.
He hadn't stepped foot in a theater since.
Author: Dementis
Fandom: APH
Characters: America, Lincoln
Rated: T
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Or history.
Summary: Theatrophobia - an irrational fear of theaters.
By the end of the war, Alfred was broken and bleeding and nearly torn clean in two, with a scar tracing down the middle of his back where the Confederates had tried to split him. General Lee, General Grant, President Lincoln, they all shouted at him and pleaded things from him, all wanted different things and he couldn’t please them all. In the end, he had brought the battles upon himself, even if he had been the one to end them as well.
Civil War. Ridiculous, when he thought about it – all over the worth of a human being.
(The Africans are people too.)
But he didn’t have to worry about that anymore. It was over, finally, all over, and though his hands shook beyond belief still, and his blood still ran thin and cold in his veins in near-death, he had been the one to stand beside the President and hear him speak of America like he was something worth saving.
Maybe that’s why he was here now, instead of at home and in bed resting up, healing. Lincoln had been the one to smile at him with that worn-and-weathered face of his and reach out and stroke his hair back like a father’s touch (a father’s touch so long forgotten and so long missed) and ask him what he wanted.
Lincoln wanted to know what he wanted. Alfred. Not America – no, right now, America wanted nothing but his people to be happy, cared for, satisfied with something in their grimy little lives – but Alfred, the boy who was bedridden with illness and anemia, trying to recover from the trauma of nearly being torn in twain.
“Right now, all I want is your company, Mr. President.”
Lincoln’s smile had been enough reassurance that he’d get what he wanted. The President sat up with him all night in the oval office, and when he asked what he wanted to do in the morning, Alfred told him he wanted to see a play.
“Our American Cousin is playing,” he said. “It’s a comedy, I think, and we could all use some laughs right now, right, sir?”
(He still spoke with a bit of a southern drawl. Sounded like a Confederate sometimes.)
“You’re spilling your peanuts, America.” Lincoln’s voice brought him back to Earth, and he blinked and gave a questioning look to his boss. “Peanuts,” Lincoln said again. “You’re spilling them.”
Sure enough, there were shells all over the ground from where he’d accidentally stepped on them. Alfred frowned a little and reached down to pick them up.
“I’ve never been to a theater like this before,” Alfred spoke up as he kept his head ducked. “The last place I went to, they charged me just to walk through the door, instead of pricing me for the show. Peculiar, isn’t it? I thought about going right up to them and going, ‘Hey, mister, don’t you know who I am?’ But I don’t think I’m allowed to do that, anyway. Fun to think about, though.”
“I doubt he’d have believed you.” The President adjusted his hat and looked to him again. “Oh, look at you, now you’ve made another mess altogether… come, let me look at you.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and began wiping at the corners of Alfred’s mouth, and Alfred laughed and pressed him away, shaking his head.
“Hey, hey! What are you, my mother? I can do it myself, sir, really.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve; Lincoln looked at him distastefully, but said nothing. Alfred wondered if he was even allowed to say anything.
“Sometimes I get to thinking that if you Nations did have mothers, you would be a lot better off.”
Alfred shrugged, took another peanut from the bag, and cracked the shell of it, sending more spilling to the floor. “Well, it’s not like we don’t get parents, or something like it. I mean, England was kind of like a dad to me, sort of, or like an older brother who harped on me on the time, when I was little…” He cut off at a bit of a laugh from his President. “What?”
“Oh, just that… the way you two act, you and England, it’s not very familial, is it?” Lincoln’s smile was kind but held some kind of subtext as well. “I have sons. I know how family behaves. You and England aren’t family, not with the way you banter.”
He wasn’t sure what to think of that, and so sunk low in his chair. “Let’s not talk about England. He’s… Well, let’s not talk about him.” Alfred popped a few shelled peanuts into his mouth and heard the skittering as the shells landed on the floor again. “Besides, the show’s about to start. I’ve heard it’s really funny.”
Lincoln sat back in his own seat while still appearing Presidential, and talked to his wife for a while, smiling. Alfred heard her say something about the behavior of children but decided to ignore it – he’d proven himself enough in this war as an adult, he didn’t need anyone telling him he was just a boy anymore.
Besides, the President was the only one who was allowed to call him “boy” anymore.
The lights began to dim and Alfred sat straight in excitement, holding his bag of peanuts and grinning like anything. Live theater! Oh, there really wasn’t a treat like this, not in the United States of America – yes, the United States, one again, singular, not the threat of being split or dissolved or anything like it. All he had to worry about now was if the show was as good as everyone said it was, and he smiled and looked over to Lincoln to thank him, and—
“Mr. President!”
The call came from somewhere to the left before the resounding ‘BANG’ split the air. Startled, Alfred jumped, and his bag of peanuts fell to the ground, the shells skittering along, and he felt wetness on his face all of a sudden, and reached up to touch it, and his fingertips came back… red.
No.
“Mis… Mister Pres…” Alfred couldn’t find his voice anymore, and couldn’t hear himself for the resounding ringing in his ears, and his eyes were wide and panicked and Lincoln had fallen forward in his seat and was slumped against the seat before him, and Mrs. Lincoln was screaming, and there was a man trying to reach for him, and behind him…
Behind him…
A man with a mustache held a small gun, aimed where the back of the President’s head had been not moments before, a manic look on his face, and Alfred had seen him somewhere before. An actor, perhaps? But what kind of actor would…? And the man went down on the stage, shouting “sic semper tyrannis” and an aching sort of pain was hitting Alfred now, not the sharp kind brought upon by war, but…
“Mr. President…” Alfred went and reached and he was shaking and numb and put a hand on the shoulder of his boss, of his friend, of… the closest thing he had to a father, and suddenly there were tears in his eyes and he began shaking him harder. “President Lincoln… Mr. President, get up…! We have to get you to a hospital, we have to-!”
His voice broke and he began to sob and it wasn’t fair, no, who would do this, who would do this to their own leader, it wasn’t right and wasn’t fair, and things had just started to get nice again.
He fell to his knees and felt the shells of peanuts beneath him, held himself, cried until he couldn’t anymore.
It didn't change anything.
He hadn't stepped foot in a theater since.