[Fic] Three Drabbles

[talkjive.livejournal.com]

Three drabbles today, theme of: violence and discord.

Title: This Thing of Ours
Characters: North Italy, Spain
Rating: R
Summary: Feliciano looks out for his fratello.

North Italy giggled.

"I'm sorry for taking your jacket," he said. "But my brother, you know, he has a thing about stains? Even if it is only a little one. I hate for him to be unhappy."

He took Spain's head between both hands and tilted it up. His hands slipped a little on the sweat slick skin.

"I think you should hate for him to be unhappy too, hey?" Italy said. "I think that would be best."

Spain swallowed. Hot pain radiated down the side of his face as Italy's thumb glanced over the edge of his bruised eye. "Why are you doing this?"

Italy shrugged and let him go to gesture. "I just, I just have some concerns, you know? My brother, he comes home every day, he doesn't eat, he doesn't shout at the pigeons." Italy sighed. "He doesn't drive his car. It is very frustrating to me!"

His smile slid back into place, warm and sunny, and one of his expansive quick gestures came up from his side with a knife. "But then, someone tells me, he has been going to your house! What am I supposed to think?"

The knife opened and closed, opened and closed.

"I think--" Closed. "You are not being a good boyfriend." Open. "I think I should help my friend Spain!" He put the knife under Spain's ear and trapped the lobe between his blade and thumb, like an old nonna chopping mushrooms. Spain strained against the cuffs that held him to his chair, and Italy slapped him. The edge of the knife slipped through the thin skin.

"Oh," Italy said, as blood trickled down Spain's neck to his open collar. "A stain." He leaned slightly to catch Spain's eyes, and added, "Please don't make me do that. We talked about stains, right?"

Italy stood there, knife warming itself on Spain's skin, until Spain realized he actually expected a response. He gave a tiny fraction of a nod.

"Oh, good," Italy said. "I was afraid you were not listening."

He crouched down so they were level and curved the little knife up the side of Spain's face, stopping with the point just pricking the corner of his eye. "So we're going to talk about being a good boyfriend, okay?" Italy said, and patted the other side of his face. He braced his thumb on the bridge of Spain's nose. "But, um, my hands are getting just a little sweaty, so maybe it's best if you don't move too much."




Title: Courtesy of Mr. Finn
Characters: Norway, England
Rating: PG13
Summary: Prelude to an ass beating.

"Don't talk to invisible things in a vague, disturbing tone in an attempt to give me painful flashbacks to my barbarian childhood," England said. "I sodding invented that trick, you anemic herring fucker, and I want likeness rights."

"I was talking to the waitress," Norway said, and took a bottle from the young woman's hand.

"...Ah. Right." England dabbed his mouth with one cuff, hanging loose and unbuttoned. "Another for me, as well."

"Mmm." Norway sipped his beer without another word, but England scowled at him anyway.

"Don't look at me like that," he snapped. "You and your- your dozy babbling to trolls."

Norway set his bottle down. It clinked gently on the tabletop between them. "Somethin' on your mind, Arthur?"

"England," he said. "The sodding United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern fucking- Northern-"

"Ireland," Norway supplied, and closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again he spoke Old Norse. "You think I do not remember who you are, little Englaland?"

England- and Schadenfreude was undignified but irresistible- was pale as milk, now. "I'm not drunk enough to understand that." He frowned, impressive eyebrows pulling down. "--Except I do." He peered into his own bottle. "I shouldn't be 'heathen gabble' drunk off three beers."

Norway took a long pull off his beer. Waited. Clarity took a long time to knife through the fog in England's head.

"You put something in my drink," he said, Old English and shock pulling at his words. "You slipped me a fucking mickey, how the hell-"

"More than one something," Norway agreed. "It wasn't easy, either."

"You-" He pushed to his feet. Norway took his cell phone off the table and checked the time.

England went over backwards with a disappointingly muffled thump. Carpet really ruined the drama of these things.

"I got him, thanks," Norway told their waitress, and dragged the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland out of the bar by his feet. When he woke up, they were going to have a nice little chat about the economy of Iceland.

And Sweden said he couldn't be diplomatic.




Title: Meetings at Valley Forge
Characters: Prussia, Canada
Rating: PG13
Summary: Loose lips sink revolutions.
Notes: A Prussian General helped train the Continental Army. Also, Quebecois French typically swears using what other people consider Church words: chalice, tabernacle, host.


The pale nation flashed his teeth at Canada. "I'm the Kingdom of Prussia, kid. Man, you guys really are a backwater, aren't you?"

"I'm not a backwater," Canada muttered. He scuffed his boot along the ground. "I'm just-- underexplored."

"Well, that's nothing a bath and some cologne won't fix," Prussia said. "--Are you blushing? Shit, I thought you were France's kid." He snorted.

"Why are you here?" Canada said. "Are you one of his allies in this, this craziness?"

Prussia grinned. "Is that what England's calling it?"

Canada sighed and tried to rub the chill bumps off the back of his neck. This winter was going to be the death of the revolution, they were saying. He hoped it wouldn't hurt America too much. "He calls it ill considered ungrateful nonsense," Canada said.

"Scrawny fucker isn't going to know what hit him," Prussia said. His coat wasn't made for this weather, Canada thought. He had to be cold, but Prussia wasn't shivering.

Stupid posturing, he told himself, and he wasn't impressed by it at all. "Why are you here?" he repeated.

Prussia's sharp smile faded. "Training these useless peasants to be proper soldiers," he said. "Bunch of farmers can't tell the difference between a bayonet and their cock, you can't just jam it in anywhere--" he stopped. "Yeah. Kid, you're not going to mention that last sentence to England."

Canada stepped back."Really? But, you know." He scratched his jaw. "I think I want to."

And Prussia was there, suddenly, freezing ungloved white hand grabbing his collar, his pistol unholstered and pressed under the corner of Canada's jaw. The metal was so cold it burned.

Canada swallowed. (Prussia's eyes were red in the dark, and he was approximately the four hundred and sixteenth person who looked straight into them and thought, demon.) "That-- that won't kill me."

"That's a good point," Prussia said, and pulled the gun away.

Canada's shoulders eased a little. Okay, so Prussia was a little touchy, he would keep that in--

Prussia reversed his grip, a flashy little spin that reminded him of France, and cracked the butt across Canada's mouth.

"He who guards his mouth and his tongue keeps himself from calamity," Prussia said. "Proverbs."

Canada dropped to his knees, holding his face. Red drops splattered the snow. "Mon ostie de saint-sacrament de câlice de crisse!"

"Glad we're on the same page," Prussia said, and holstered his pistol again. He blew on his hands. "Shit, it's fucking freezing here."