[Fic] Pluvial

For fukkafyla's birthday.

xxxxxxxx

Iceland sighs, surreptitiously brushing elbows with Norway as they walk down the street. They pass his workplace, and the coffee shop he frequents – he points them out, offhandedly, in case Norway has forgotten in the two months since his last stay.

"I talked with Seychelles for a while."

He mentions it casually, glancing over to see Norway's expression, but instead: Iceland notices the arch of his shoulders, the way his hair frames his face, and looks away again until the feeling has passed. He's being foolish. He's talking too much, and doesn't know if Norway even -

"Are you dating her?"

He fidgets with the hemming of his sleeve and avoids eye contact, pretends he sees something of interest off to the side. Doesn't reply. It's not something he's ever going to discuss, not with him, not with - [he's half-afraid Norway will ask again,] and so he walks faster, ignoring the fact that the man cannot find his way home alone. But it doesn't matter, because: Despite his slender looks, his feminine gestures and half-lidded eyes, his stride is always faster and he easily keeps up.

They've neared the street corner by his house when Norway taps him on the shoulder, voice low. You look pale.

Iceland is quiet, and [for a moment he had thought] - loses his balance on the sidewalk. He staggers to the side of a building, resting his head against the wall and closing his eyes. Fumbles with his ribbon and the top buttons of his shirt, trying to breathe deeply. It's hot.

Norway almost touches him, fingertips hovering against the fabric of his sleeve, but Iceland replies that it’s nothing, of course it's nothing, [and as they walk home his hands are clenched tightly against his sides, feeling - ]

xxx

He's leaning against the countertop, stirring porridge as Iceland lies on the couch. The window is closed but he can hear traffic from the road, and a newspaper from the day before is folded neatly on the desk. Nudged against notebooks and sketches, charcoal and ink. The lights are dimmed, and a letter from Finland sits unopened by the stove, and:

"Do you want anything else?"

Iceland mumbles something into the crook of his arm, digging his fingers into a pillow. I just want you. When a bowl is set down on the coffee table in front of him, he winces and tries to sit up. Coughs into his fist: a wracking, helpless sound.

Because at this point, there's really nothing anyone can do.

The radio is muted, and as Norway slumps into his place at the edge of the couch he opens up a novel. Something different, from Iceland's bookshelf. His suitcases haven't moved since the day of his arrival, resting in the hallway near the door, and do you like her?

Iceland pauses, unsure of how to act. Glancing wearily at his unfinished meal. They've been friends for a long, long time, but -

"I'm..."

Norway doesn’t move. His legs crossed, eyes on the line in front of him. After a moment, Iceland takes a drink. Pauses again. By the time his cup is empty he's staring at the ground, twisting his fingers nervously in his lap.

“I’m applying for the EU.” His voice is hoarse, and his limbs are shaking and weak. He's tired. While he's been unable to sleep, Russia has called, and Sweden, and - When Norway finally stands, it's only to refill Iceland's glass of water. Not to leave, as he had feared.

"Do you think that will solve all your problems?"

Standing near the table, he watches Iceland hack miserably into the sleeve of his arm and curl inwards on the couch. Shut his eyes in pain. Norway reaches over to pat him on the head, just once. Almost in sympathy.

"No. But, it... it could help."

[And then, Norway will be the only one left.]

xxxxxxxx

Notes:

The economic collapse was rather sudden. Russia offered Iceland a loan but both of them seemed to discard the idea, until recently when the loan was approved (on Russia's end, at least). Sweden, Denmark, Norway, et cetera are also talking about loaning Iceland money. Finland seems rather excited that Iceland has applied for the EU, and Sweden is managing all that sort of stuff right now (it's two in the morning as I write this, I'm not fully coherent and am probably horribly misremembering things). At this point, out of the Hetalia five, Norway is the only Nordic country that isn't applying for, or already in the EU. There's some speculation that if Norway joins, it may be only partially because of that.

[Fic] Chodenji: síndrome de abstinencia

The sign on the door reads out of service, and he sighs, adjusting his glasses. The lenses are smeared and disorienting, his eyes unfocusing in an attempt to make things clear. The hallway is crowded, a sea, jostling him despite the fact that he is one of Mukuro’s, but he doesn’t push back. Doesn’t like to… sweat. Chikusa can see dirt under his fingernails, dirt and blood and flecks of rotting skin, and if he were Ken he would bite them clean; until the edges were ragged and short. Instead, he moves, the throbbing of music faint around his neck.

When he reaches the second bathroom, across the school and around the corner, there is no soap - just a filmy residue, pink staining the ceramic of the basin and dirtying the drain. His pockets are empty. So with hot water and the edge of his shirt he scrubs the polycarbonate and sighs, worrying at scratches and blinking in the light. Jacket unbuttoned and collar undone. The world is a myriad of colours, and all edges are soft, and he recognizes not by shape but by sound and touch and taste, and Mukuro tells him there is [more than one way to change reality].

xxx

His headphones have broken. Wires snapped and naked, bruised, like splinters of bone from an open wound, an amputation of protective flesh, [of once-life]. It could be salvageable, he thinks. Broken pieces could be mended, whole - unless, this is all in his mind. He traces its outline with a finger, following the damage, testing - but it’s no use. He can’t compete with illusions. Can’t compete with, Mukuro. Chikusa picks up the shards and feels their edges digging into the pads of his fingers, the palm of his hand.

It could have been Ken. Careless, careless. He imagines the fractured, crushing weight of fingers wrapped around his neck; suffocating, immobilizing - so easily, so easily. [And then, death] like a film, the scenes slip before him, fifteen frames per second and misaligned. Calmly, he slides his glasses up his nose and tugs at the collar of his shirt. The weight of the bandalore in his pocket tells him that, if nothing else, this is something he could...

Chikusa almost decides to ask that girl, just as a confirmation, and then thinks better of it. She’s useless. Like a transmitter - or neuron, slicked with fat. [They've taught her, her place, as in] ghosts shouldn’t talk, should never talk. Because once, there were things discarnate. In the air, in the world, in one’s thoughts, like an aura the whole country possessed. With princesses and tsars and little magic boxes given by a god, painted in the golden hue of Italia, with a single wish inside. His wish is for the world to end.

Nagi, and she is Nagi, and she is Nagi, lays on the couch. Staring at the ceiling. Unmoving. It’s unnatural, how she can spend the day looking for nothing save patterns in the sky, the ceiling. If she is talking with Mukuro, creating a world for herself with illusions and petty thoughts and dreams, he does not know [how she can smile].

No one wants her here, but she is a necessity. An appliance. And for that, he will leave her alone.

[Drabble]

For fukkafyla.

xxxxxxxx

"What is it like... to watch your child grow older before your very eyes?"

Iceland's cigarette is burning between the edges of his fingers. England leans against the railing of the hotel, shirt rumpled at the corners. Unable to sleep away from home. The legs of his trousers are slightly too long, turned up at the ankles, and he's barefoot on the concrete of the porch.

He offered to hem them earlier, but England had simply looked at him. You're not my wife. Iceland made a face and gave him salted licorice, handfuls and handfuls of it, so when he wandered off he could make a trail [and find his way back].

"Half of me," he sighs and breathes in the summer air, staring off into rooftops and trees and vague, vague memories, "wants him - them - back as children, cute little things that never disobey. But the other half... is so proud to see them as they are now, older and..." He trails off but Iceland understands, thinks he understands. Wants to understand.

The wind changes positions and they shuffle, so the smoke doesn't blow in England's face.

"Do you have children?" England asks, resting his eyes. Just resting.

"I... have one. He - " Pauses, looks away. Hands curling into the fabric of his shirt. It never stops hurting, does it? Never, never... "He died young."

England stays silent.

[He's just resting.]

xxx

Historical notes:

Iceland once helped to colonize Greenland, but then Norway decided Greenland belonged to it and banned trade with everyone except Norway. The problem was, Greenland couldn't sustain itself, and while illegal ships (the last one that visited said to be Icelandic) did come to trade with the Greenlanders, eventually everyone on Greenland died.

For headcanon:

After the population of a country completely dies out then the country dies. The current Greenland would be like a second child, but this one isn't Iceland's because I think the Danes colonized it this time? And it's under Danish rule now.

[Drabble]

For fukkafyla.

xxxxxxxx

He shivers and draws his coat tighter around him, slips into the alleyway behind the coffee shop. Cheeks reddened with the cold. Norway, he thinks, Norway should be -

And, it's true. Norway's apartment light is on, and he imagines a second pair of shoes at the door, quick-lipped smiles and crowding among the sheets. Iceland settles against the wall of the alleyway, curled inwards, knees drawn to his chest. Breath warming in small, translucent ghosts across his skin.

Sick.

The coffee he's drinking is almost gone, and the last dribbles down his chin, lukewarm. By the time he leaves for home Denmark has already returned, warm and comforting and as close to Norway as he's ever going to get.

[Fic] Hyperkeratosis

For fukkafyla and ANONYMOUS. This is part one, a second part with America's stay will be written eventually.

xxxxxxxx

He is knitting at the table by the kitchen door, and there is a present waiting for him. Unopened, the seal of the Danish crown, hearts and swirls on the packaging. The corner is ripped and one side has been smashed in, [dropped and beaten. Listless.] As if he didn’t already -

I congratulate you. Under my wise and irreplaceable guidance, you grew up into a fine man; I wish you well.

The letter came separately on thick paper, blotting in between the lines. He reads it, fingering the collar of his shirt, vaguely disinterested: A pen in one hand. There are things he has to do, after all. Hidden under this is an agenda from the Council, and an announcement of events, and, "As a belligerent and an ally”…

It is raining, and the return note is in his native tongue [which Denmark does not speak, which no one speaks, and for that reason he is content;] and by the time he remembers to mail it, years will have passed.

xxx

“G-Góðan dag.”

England pauses, stutters. Unused to speaking in a foreign tongue. He fingers the handle of his rifle and looks at the ground: composes himself. When he glances back he's woolen-tempered and stern, unmoving despite a flush. The weather is cold, and his clothing is too thin, and he resists the urge to warm his fingers against the nape of his neck, against his breath. No weakness can be showed.

"...I'm invading you," he declares and almost clasps a hand on his shoulder. He can’t remember the last time he visited here, but the landscape is unchanged, the weather mild. It is Iceland who stands before him - It is only Denmark’s lingering presence that is different; the man is nowhere to be found.

"Þetta er hrein og bein andskotans óvirðing. Ég er hlutlaus! Ég hef verið umburðarlaust saurgaður og sjálfstæði mitt vanhelgað." The nation is vitriolic, looming, impossibly furious - but England doesn't understand. Frowns at him, flips through the pages of a dictionary, worn and outdated. Second-hand. Didn't even have the decency to learn the language, and shrugs it off, his translator spewing out nonsense and looking inexperienced, young. Too young.

There is a problem, here. England says something [about Germany, and plans, and guns] and while the message is garbled, child-speak, he thinks he might be able to understand. He is, being invaded in the name of - and it is nothing but selfishness.

Britain, the Empire on which the sun will never set. [But he is neutral, he is independent, and there is nothing that will - ]

xxx

“Ég heimta skaðabætur,” he mutters, closing the curtains with both hands. England has brought with him coffee, roasting the beans over the stove, filling the house with a burning, choking smell. It is late, and he is feeling tired; a weary, aching feeling settling deep behind his eyelids, into sinews and bones. When he stands to leave, it is England who follows, presses, leans him into the wall. The lilting of his voice unintelligible, meaningless.

Later, they try it for the first time. England is heavy and uncomfortable on top of him, and the feel of skin against skin is unpleasant. Unwanted. He shuffles over, reaching for the novel at his bedside - the man kvetches quietly, and he scowls. Prods him in the back, and who is the outsider here? There is no argument. England is upset, frustrated. Stopped in the middle of things. He almost feels sorry, almost, and the memory of Denmark that crowds into his thoughts is fleeting.

A pause. “When is a war to finish?”

“I don’t know. Soon.” England is haggard, sickly. An entire generation of his men, gone. An entire generation. Iceland replies, voice hollow and apathetic, turning the page. He is a neutral country.

xxx

In the morning when he wakes, England is nowhere to be found - just a ghost, a blur against the edges of his vision, mixing into memories like Denmark and Norway before him. He’s left traces: rings of coffee on the table, notes written in an eased, cursive script. A tie, forgotten by the bathroom door. A broken dish, set to the side in some form of afterthought, apologetic.

America stands outside near the doorway, clutching a manual and unsure of where to go. He is battle-worn, yet smiling, dripping mud onto the yard. Arrogant, and proud, and unwavering, military patches decorating his clothes. Pants rolled, wet at the edges, stained with dirt and slightly baggy: suspenders taking up the slack. He waves, eyes bright. Heady with the rush of success.

Iceland frowns, and shuts the door in his face.

xxxxxxxx

Second part to come eventually.

xxx

* Góðan dag. (Good day, formal.)

* Þetta er hrein og bein andskotans óvirðing. Ég er hlutlaus! Ég hef verið umburðarlaust saurgaður og sjálfstæði mitt vanhelgað. 

(This is bluntly put damn disrespect. I am neutral! I have been intolerably defiled and my independence violated.)

* Ég heimta skaðabætur. 
(I demand compensation for this)

(1) Iceland was under Danish-Norway rule for a very long time, until Denmark was invaded by Germany. The King of Denmark sent a letter congratulating Iceland on its independence. England sent letters to the Icelandic government asking for cooperation.

(2) A month after Iceland’s independence from Denmark came “Operation Fork” - When England invaded. No one in the invasion team was anywhere near fluent in Icelandic, which caused a lot of communication problems. In addition, the English troops were ill-equipped: wrong clothing, little weapons, no idea what they were getting into. England invaded so that Germany wouldn’t invade.

(3) Later that night, the Icelandic government said they expected compensation for any/all damages done. Throughout the occupation, Iceland maintained an independent and neutral status.

(4) England stayed for about a year, then handed America the job of occupation once the US entered the war. The Icelanders were really against the Americans, but apparently the English didn’t leave any big impression on them.