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hetalia2011-03-19 04:54 pm
transemacabre.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2011-03-19 04:54 pm
Entry tags:
FIC: dub the frequencies of love (Chapters 7-8)
Title: dub the frequencies of love
Author: Mipp
Characters/Pairings:: America, Russia (with some America/Russia), OC!Alaska
Rating: T for Teen, to be on the safe side. This fill contains implications of past mpreg, little kid OCs, mentions of unfortunate pregnancy complications, and Russia and America bitching at each other. This is actually about as safe and heartwarming as I come.
Summary: De-anon from the kink meme. Chapters 1-3, Chapters 4-5, and Chapter 6.
After their confrontation, both fell into uneasy silence. America went into Russia's bedroom to check on Alaska; Russia let him go. He was not Japan, to follow America faithfully like a dog for years on end. Instead, he sat in his study, holding Alaska's small mittens in his hands, marveling over them.
All those years ago, when he'd learned Alaska was to be born, Russia had rarely felt so alone. America would communicate only in letters or through wire, and then in monosyllables. The rest of the nations had cringed away in terror, or simply held their breaths, waiting for this to be the spark that lit the powderkeg. And China -- Russia had seen other nations look on him with pity, or anger, or fear -- but he had never seen such a look of contempt as the one China gave him. He had betrayed his principles. He had forever shackled himself to his opposite number, America.
There had been no one to congratulate him. No one to tell of his excitement, with whom to share his imaginings of what Alaska would be like, what he would look like. It had felt very much like no one but America and himself had wanted Alaska.
***
America was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the steady rise and fall of Alaska's chest, when he heard the door creak behind him. "Hey, Ivan," he said without looking up, rubbing at his weary eyes.
Russia approached and sat on the other side of the bed. In sleep, Alaska sprawled out, one arm tossed over his head, hair mussed, as relaxed and wild as America when he slept. Russia gently brushed a knuckle against Alaska's cheek. "Our son will be a much handsomer man than you or I ever were," he murmured.
America nodded. "He's gonna be tall, too. Maybe taller than either of us." Right now, his tallest children were New York and New Jersey, who both took after the man who had fathered them -- and that was not England, although England claimed them and named them.
Despite opinions to the contrary, America was not a fool. He was idealistic, and sometimes naive, and often brash and insensitive, but he was not foolish. He had not believed that babies fixed anything for centuries, not since Virginia was born. He had thought she would keep England there with him, but England doted over her, bought her beautiful things and named her after his queen, and then turned around and boarded his ship and sailed far away. America had been left behind, a child with a child.
He'd known that having Alaska wouldn't magically make things right between him and Russia. The moment that he had felt that spark inside him, while Russia still lay over him, heavy and panting and brutal, had been one of the most terrifying moments of America's life. He'd wrenched himself away from Russia and run away, and didn't look back.
He'd spent nine months anticipating certain doom. He hadn't borne a living child since Arizona in 1912, and sure enough, he suffered a near-miscarriage that summer. Alaska's birth had been torturous, and then Alaska had come out so blue and so quiet. A smile touched America's lips. If only he could go back in time and console his past-self -- Don't worry, it's not going to be a disaster. It's just Alaska.
"Look at him," he said to Russia suddenly. His smile spread until America was beaming. "Perfect just the way he is," America said proudly. "And then some."
***
A ray of sunlight touched Alaska's face, making him wrinkle his nose. He cracked an eye open, and for a moment didn't remember where he was. The blanket smelled different, and the shadows were all wrong. But then he rolled over and found America laying next to him on the right. Alaska looked to his left and found Russia there, sleeping on his belly with his face buried in the pillow.
Feeling his son stir, America stretched. "G'morning," he yawned. He sat up, scratching the back of his neck. Alaska giggled. His dad looked funny all sleepy with his blue jeans still on and one sock mysteriously missing and the other barely clinging to his foot. "I'm gonna try to scare up some breakfast in your papa's Commie kitchen," America told him. "You stay here, okay?"
"After breakfast --" Alaska cut himself off, not wanting to hear the answer, but knowing, inevitably, what it had to be.
America sighed. "Yeah, kiddo. We have to go. I'm sorry."
"I know," Alaska whispered. He snuggled closer to Russia as America padded off towards the kitchen. He clung to these fleeting seconds where the pillows were still warm and held the indentations of their heads. All this was going to end soon.
"Lyoshka."
Alaska looked up to see Russia peering at him; perhaps Russia hadn't been asleep after all. "Yes, papa?"
Russia drew a deep breath. "Lyoshka, I... You cannot know how long I've been alone. If you knew how happy you are making me. Just to see you. To be hearing your voice. To know that you are coming so far to find me. You must be going home today. You know this, Lyoshka. But do not be sad. We will see one another again soon, it is a promise. So be brave for me."
Alaska gulped down a knot in his throat. "I'll try, papa."
"That is all I can ask," Russia told him. He pressed their foreheads together, so close that his eyelashes brushed Alaska's face.
***
"Ah hah! Someone decided to wake up!"
Both Russia and Alaska blinked at him sleepily, and it didn't escape America that they had identical befuddled expressions when newly awoken. He shoved a couple of plates at them. "Here ya go -- I was able to make some kinda pancakes with the weird stuff in this kitchen."
Russia eyed his plate suspiciously, but Alaska, ever the optimist, took a big bite. America gulped down his own pancakes, barely tasting them, too busy keeping an eye on Russia and their child. He was not looking forward to the inevitable parting.
After they ate breakfast, Alaska helped Russia carry the plates to the sink and rinse them off. America went into the study to collect their things. When he came back, he paused in the kitchen doorway, loaded down with shoes and a backpack and Ivan-bear. Russia knelt beside Alaska and whispered something into his ear that America couldn't quite hear.
Alaska began giggling happily. "Really?" he asked Russia.
"Really," Russia told him solemnly. "But you can't tell him yet. I want to be the one to be telling him."
"Okay, papa," Alaska replied. He trotted over to America, reaching out for his things.
"What did he tell you?" America asked, brow quirking in Russia's direction. Russia looked on with an air of childlike innocence.
"Daaaaad," Alaska said in a self-righteous tone. "It's a secret."
America glared at Russia. "What did you tell our son?"
"The truth," Russia said sweetly.
***
When America began dressing Alaska in his coat and mittens, Russia sank into the coach and watched in silence. Alaska's face went white, and he fell into a hush, but Russia was glad to see that he bore up like a brave little soldier. He was thankful, too; he could not have stopped himself from breaking down if Alaska had dissolved into tears and wailing.
Russia spent these last moments trying to think of something to say, something that was neither too curt nor would confuse or upset the child. But his mind was irritatingly blank, like the grey snow of a dying television set. He couldn't think clearly, only feel, and the warm secret core of him did not wish to be left here alone.
But that is the way of this life, Russia thought to himself, heart heavy with the weight of the past. Good things are born, then they are taken from me. And when something good is given, there is no sense in wishing for more. And yet his heart knew no logic.
He followed America and Alaska outside, and stood in the doorway with Alaska while America cranked up the Jeep. "Lyoshka," Russia said thickly, and he drew a deep breath. Holding Alaska's small hand in his own, he went on, "Always be remembering that I have been dreaming of you since before you were born."
Alaska swallowed, then said, "I will, papa. I love you." He kissed Russia on the cheek, and then America swept him up in his arms and sat him in the Jeep's passenger-side seat. He remained seated, but twisted around so that he could see Russia, his stuffed bear clutched in his arms.
Now it was America who stood before Russia. He licked his chapped lips, an unconsciously nervous gesture, and said, "Hey, Russia, this... was kinda not what I planned, but I'm glad that it happened. This way, I mean."
"And what way is that being?" Russia asked him.
"You know." America made a vague hand motion. "As painless as possible, I guess."
"Painless," Russia repeated in a dull tone. His eyes flickered to the little boy watching them anxiously. "That is not what I would call it."
"C'mon, you know what I mean," America said, frowning at him. His voice dropped lower. "I don't regret any of it. Not this. Not any of it."
Russia got the impression that America was not just talking about the last couple of days. "Pain is still emotion," Russia said philosophically. "What hurts us, causes us to feel. As for regrets... I could never be regreting our child. Or anything that led to his birth."
A half-smile brightened up America's face, and he ducked his head, letting his unruly blond hair fall into his eyes.
Russia rocked back on his heels. "Oh, and by the way, Amerika -- thank you for the generous gift of the spy balloon prototype -- ah, pardon me, it is offically a weather balloon, da? So clumsy of me to get them confused." He smirked.
America laughed and scratched at the back of his neck sheepishly. "Oh, yeah, about that. Tony designed this really interesting metal alloy -- it's out of this world. Designed to be undetectable, untraceable, and self-destructing." He made a show of pulling back his sleeve to look at his watch. "Yeah, it's melted into goo by now."
Russia's smirk fell.
"Bye Russia!" America called out, before climbing into the Jeep and putting it into drive. Alaska began waving as the vehicle pulled away. Russia lifted a hand in farewell.
He stood and watched until they faded into a little dot in the wintry distance, then watched until they disappeared from sight altogether.
***
Alaska sat in his seat very straight, Ivan-bear riding in his lap, trying not to move or talk or think too much. His dad made enough noise for the both of them.
"Wait till you meet Mr. Lithuania, he's the nicest guy, you'll love him --"
Something warm touched Alaska's cheek, and it wasn't until the back of his mittened hand brushed his cheek that he realized he was crying. He clenched his eyes shut, but he couldn't stop the roiling sadness within him.
"-- but he has the weirdest taste in women, sweartogod, and --"
Alaska choked out a sob.
"Huh? Alaska!" America stopped the Jeep and leaned across the seat to his son. "Why are you crying?"
Alaska's mittens were soaked in tears. "I p-promised him I'd be brave," he said miserably. He had tried so hard not to cry. "I just... I was so happy getting to meet papa."
"Oh, kiddo, you are brave," soothed America, pulling him into a tight embrace. "It's okay. Sometimes I cry, too. Sometimes I laugh just to keep from crying." His own voice wavered a bit.
Alaska clasped his arms around his dad's neck, Ivan-bear crushed between them. There was so much he wanted to say -- how much he loved America, and how much he loved Russia, and how overwhelming the adventure had been and the ancipation and the delight of getting more than he'd anticipated, of having a backpack full of letters from a papa who'd dreamed about him every night of his life, and having the memory of Russian strawberries on his tongue, and hearing a voice with a foreign and beautiful accent beseeching him to be brave and remember -- but when he tried to speak no words would come out. So he settled for clinging to America.
***
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry for scaring you."
"S'okay, kiddo. I forgive you. You're still grounded though."
"For how long?"
"Forever."
"Dad! I won't live forever."
"How do you know? Maybe you will."
"Do you think it's possible?"
"Anything's possible."
"Even --"
"Even what?"
A sigh. "I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"I promised papa."
"... Is it important?"
"Nothing more important."
"Then come 'ere and whisper it in my ear."
"I can't! He wants to tell you himself."
A groan of frustration. "Your papa is so weird, Alaska."
"Dad, your best friend is an alien."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Giggle. "Nothing, dad. Hey... do you really believe anything's possible?"
"Me and Russia made you. Anything is officially possible."
Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body -- Elizabeth Stone
Note: A large earthquake rocked Alaska in July 1958. The idea of this being a near-miscarriage is not mine, but I saw it in another fic and adopted it as headcanon.
Author: Mipp
Characters/Pairings:: America, Russia (with some America/Russia), OC!Alaska
Rating: T for Teen, to be on the safe side. This fill contains implications of past mpreg, little kid OCs, mentions of unfortunate pregnancy complications, and Russia and America bitching at each other. This is actually about as safe and heartwarming as I come.
Summary: De-anon from the kink meme. Chapters 1-3, Chapters 4-5, and Chapter 6.
After their confrontation, both fell into uneasy silence. America went into Russia's bedroom to check on Alaska; Russia let him go. He was not Japan, to follow America faithfully like a dog for years on end. Instead, he sat in his study, holding Alaska's small mittens in his hands, marveling over them.
All those years ago, when he'd learned Alaska was to be born, Russia had rarely felt so alone. America would communicate only in letters or through wire, and then in monosyllables. The rest of the nations had cringed away in terror, or simply held their breaths, waiting for this to be the spark that lit the powderkeg. And China -- Russia had seen other nations look on him with pity, or anger, or fear -- but he had never seen such a look of contempt as the one China gave him. He had betrayed his principles. He had forever shackled himself to his opposite number, America.
There had been no one to congratulate him. No one to tell of his excitement, with whom to share his imaginings of what Alaska would be like, what he would look like. It had felt very much like no one but America and himself had wanted Alaska.
America was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the steady rise and fall of Alaska's chest, when he heard the door creak behind him. "Hey, Ivan," he said without looking up, rubbing at his weary eyes.
Russia approached and sat on the other side of the bed. In sleep, Alaska sprawled out, one arm tossed over his head, hair mussed, as relaxed and wild as America when he slept. Russia gently brushed a knuckle against Alaska's cheek. "Our son will be a much handsomer man than you or I ever were," he murmured.
America nodded. "He's gonna be tall, too. Maybe taller than either of us." Right now, his tallest children were New York and New Jersey, who both took after the man who had fathered them -- and that was not England, although England claimed them and named them.
Despite opinions to the contrary, America was not a fool. He was idealistic, and sometimes naive, and often brash and insensitive, but he was not foolish. He had not believed that babies fixed anything for centuries, not since Virginia was born. He had thought she would keep England there with him, but England doted over her, bought her beautiful things and named her after his queen, and then turned around and boarded his ship and sailed far away. America had been left behind, a child with a child.
He'd known that having Alaska wouldn't magically make things right between him and Russia. The moment that he had felt that spark inside him, while Russia still lay over him, heavy and panting and brutal, had been one of the most terrifying moments of America's life. He'd wrenched himself away from Russia and run away, and didn't look back.
He'd spent nine months anticipating certain doom. He hadn't borne a living child since Arizona in 1912, and sure enough, he suffered a near-miscarriage that summer. Alaska's birth had been torturous, and then Alaska had come out so blue and so quiet. A smile touched America's lips. If only he could go back in time and console his past-self -- Don't worry, it's not going to be a disaster. It's just Alaska.
"Look at him," he said to Russia suddenly. His smile spread until America was beaming. "Perfect just the way he is," America said proudly. "And then some."
A ray of sunlight touched Alaska's face, making him wrinkle his nose. He cracked an eye open, and for a moment didn't remember where he was. The blanket smelled different, and the shadows were all wrong. But then he rolled over and found America laying next to him on the right. Alaska looked to his left and found Russia there, sleeping on his belly with his face buried in the pillow.
Feeling his son stir, America stretched. "G'morning," he yawned. He sat up, scratching the back of his neck. Alaska giggled. His dad looked funny all sleepy with his blue jeans still on and one sock mysteriously missing and the other barely clinging to his foot. "I'm gonna try to scare up some breakfast in your papa's Commie kitchen," America told him. "You stay here, okay?"
"After breakfast --" Alaska cut himself off, not wanting to hear the answer, but knowing, inevitably, what it had to be.
America sighed. "Yeah, kiddo. We have to go. I'm sorry."
"I know," Alaska whispered. He snuggled closer to Russia as America padded off towards the kitchen. He clung to these fleeting seconds where the pillows were still warm and held the indentations of their heads. All this was going to end soon.
"Lyoshka."
Alaska looked up to see Russia peering at him; perhaps Russia hadn't been asleep after all. "Yes, papa?"
Russia drew a deep breath. "Lyoshka, I... You cannot know how long I've been alone. If you knew how happy you are making me. Just to see you. To be hearing your voice. To know that you are coming so far to find me. You must be going home today. You know this, Lyoshka. But do not be sad. We will see one another again soon, it is a promise. So be brave for me."
Alaska gulped down a knot in his throat. "I'll try, papa."
"That is all I can ask," Russia told him. He pressed their foreheads together, so close that his eyelashes brushed Alaska's face.
"Ah hah! Someone decided to wake up!"
Both Russia and Alaska blinked at him sleepily, and it didn't escape America that they had identical befuddled expressions when newly awoken. He shoved a couple of plates at them. "Here ya go -- I was able to make some kinda pancakes with the weird stuff in this kitchen."
Russia eyed his plate suspiciously, but Alaska, ever the optimist, took a big bite. America gulped down his own pancakes, barely tasting them, too busy keeping an eye on Russia and their child. He was not looking forward to the inevitable parting.
After they ate breakfast, Alaska helped Russia carry the plates to the sink and rinse them off. America went into the study to collect their things. When he came back, he paused in the kitchen doorway, loaded down with shoes and a backpack and Ivan-bear. Russia knelt beside Alaska and whispered something into his ear that America couldn't quite hear.
Alaska began giggling happily. "Really?" he asked Russia.
"Really," Russia told him solemnly. "But you can't tell him yet. I want to be the one to be telling him."
"Okay, papa," Alaska replied. He trotted over to America, reaching out for his things.
"What did he tell you?" America asked, brow quirking in Russia's direction. Russia looked on with an air of childlike innocence.
"Daaaaad," Alaska said in a self-righteous tone. "It's a secret."
America glared at Russia. "What did you tell our son?"
"The truth," Russia said sweetly.
When America began dressing Alaska in his coat and mittens, Russia sank into the coach and watched in silence. Alaska's face went white, and he fell into a hush, but Russia was glad to see that he bore up like a brave little soldier. He was thankful, too; he could not have stopped himself from breaking down if Alaska had dissolved into tears and wailing.
Russia spent these last moments trying to think of something to say, something that was neither too curt nor would confuse or upset the child. But his mind was irritatingly blank, like the grey snow of a dying television set. He couldn't think clearly, only feel, and the warm secret core of him did not wish to be left here alone.
But that is the way of this life, Russia thought to himself, heart heavy with the weight of the past. Good things are born, then they are taken from me. And when something good is given, there is no sense in wishing for more. And yet his heart knew no logic.
He followed America and Alaska outside, and stood in the doorway with Alaska while America cranked up the Jeep. "Lyoshka," Russia said thickly, and he drew a deep breath. Holding Alaska's small hand in his own, he went on, "Always be remembering that I have been dreaming of you since before you were born."
Alaska swallowed, then said, "I will, papa. I love you." He kissed Russia on the cheek, and then America swept him up in his arms and sat him in the Jeep's passenger-side seat. He remained seated, but twisted around so that he could see Russia, his stuffed bear clutched in his arms.
Now it was America who stood before Russia. He licked his chapped lips, an unconsciously nervous gesture, and said, "Hey, Russia, this... was kinda not what I planned, but I'm glad that it happened. This way, I mean."
"And what way is that being?" Russia asked him.
"You know." America made a vague hand motion. "As painless as possible, I guess."
"Painless," Russia repeated in a dull tone. His eyes flickered to the little boy watching them anxiously. "That is not what I would call it."
"C'mon, you know what I mean," America said, frowning at him. His voice dropped lower. "I don't regret any of it. Not this. Not any of it."
Russia got the impression that America was not just talking about the last couple of days. "Pain is still emotion," Russia said philosophically. "What hurts us, causes us to feel. As for regrets... I could never be regreting our child. Or anything that led to his birth."
A half-smile brightened up America's face, and he ducked his head, letting his unruly blond hair fall into his eyes.
Russia rocked back on his heels. "Oh, and by the way, Amerika -- thank you for the generous gift of the spy balloon prototype -- ah, pardon me, it is offically a weather balloon, da? So clumsy of me to get them confused." He smirked.
America laughed and scratched at the back of his neck sheepishly. "Oh, yeah, about that. Tony designed this really interesting metal alloy -- it's out of this world. Designed to be undetectable, untraceable, and self-destructing." He made a show of pulling back his sleeve to look at his watch. "Yeah, it's melted into goo by now."
Russia's smirk fell.
"Bye Russia!" America called out, before climbing into the Jeep and putting it into drive. Alaska began waving as the vehicle pulled away. Russia lifted a hand in farewell.
He stood and watched until they faded into a little dot in the wintry distance, then watched until they disappeared from sight altogether.
Alaska sat in his seat very straight, Ivan-bear riding in his lap, trying not to move or talk or think too much. His dad made enough noise for the both of them.
"Wait till you meet Mr. Lithuania, he's the nicest guy, you'll love him --"
Something warm touched Alaska's cheek, and it wasn't until the back of his mittened hand brushed his cheek that he realized he was crying. He clenched his eyes shut, but he couldn't stop the roiling sadness within him.
"-- but he has the weirdest taste in women, sweartogod, and --"
Alaska choked out a sob.
"Huh? Alaska!" America stopped the Jeep and leaned across the seat to his son. "Why are you crying?"
Alaska's mittens were soaked in tears. "I p-promised him I'd be brave," he said miserably. He had tried so hard not to cry. "I just... I was so happy getting to meet papa."
"Oh, kiddo, you are brave," soothed America, pulling him into a tight embrace. "It's okay. Sometimes I cry, too. Sometimes I laugh just to keep from crying." His own voice wavered a bit.
Alaska clasped his arms around his dad's neck, Ivan-bear crushed between them. There was so much he wanted to say -- how much he loved America, and how much he loved Russia, and how overwhelming the adventure had been and the ancipation and the delight of getting more than he'd anticipated, of having a backpack full of letters from a papa who'd dreamed about him every night of his life, and having the memory of Russian strawberries on his tongue, and hearing a voice with a foreign and beautiful accent beseeching him to be brave and remember -- but when he tried to speak no words would come out. So he settled for clinging to America.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry for scaring you."
"S'okay, kiddo. I forgive you. You're still grounded though."
"For how long?"
"Forever."
"Dad! I won't live forever."
"How do you know? Maybe you will."
"Do you think it's possible?"
"Anything's possible."
"Even --"
"Even what?"
A sigh. "I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"I promised papa."
"... Is it important?"
"Nothing more important."
"Then come 'ere and whisper it in my ear."
"I can't! He wants to tell you himself."
A groan of frustration. "Your papa is so weird, Alaska."
"Dad, your best friend is an alien."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Giggle. "Nothing, dad. Hey... do you really believe anything's possible?"
"Me and Russia made you. Anything is officially possible."
Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body -- Elizabeth Stone
Note: A large earthquake rocked Alaska in July 1958. The idea of this being a near-miscarriage is not mine, but I saw it in another fic and adopted it as headcanon.
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