Um.

[midnightdiddle]

I don't really know how to respond to comments to my last post, because I'm all kinds of humiliated by myself. I really just want to crawl into a hole and die, but seeing as I can't-- I'm going to pretend, for right now, that nothing like that exists. But thank you. Thank you for your concern, and your care, and your kindness. I really need that right now, and I don't know how to respond to it, because I'm so stupidly awkward and unsure. But thank you.

Now for something that's a little less heart-achy.



Jade/Guy, w(h)ine. Post-game, pre-epilogue-thing. Guy doesn't know how to drink, because Luke never learned how.

Tonic


"You're not used to wine, are you?"

Guy's pretty sure Jade's laughing at him, but he's not sure. Mostly because Jade's face is really still, and he's wearing those glasses he's always wearing. Guy thinks about it, wonders if he could take Jade's glasses off. Wonders how drunk he must be if he's thinking about that.

"Luke couldn't drink," he says. He doesn't think he's slurring much. And his words are all in the right places: he can taste them. Apples. "The doctors-- Doctors said it might, his memory." He spins a hand next to his head, feels his fingers catch in his hair. He tugs a few strands.

"So you never drank because Luke never drank?" Yeah, Jade sounds amused. Too amused. Like he did when Luke would be stupid and blind and just so fucking dumb in all his really hopeful ways.

"Was a servant. I was a servant." The words don't taste like apples anymore. Guy swallows-- it feels like there's something on his tongue in the back of his mouth. He drinks more wine, then licks his lips. Tries to taste his words. "If he couldn't--"

"Then of course you couldn't," Jade finishes for him smoothly, and Guy nods. His head feels heavy, like he got knocked by the hilt of Van's sword. Heavy, and dull. Maybe there's a ringing there, too. And god, he's dizzy, feels like the world's falling out beneath him.

It feels like Hod.

"I don't," he starts to say, but he can't figure out how to say, like this. He sets the plain, ugly cup on the ground, and tries to stand up. Figures it out sometime when he's on his knees, and he has to hold onto the tree, but that's okay. The tree's feeling pretty stable, better than this world-turned-Hod-turned-My Master's dead and I don't know what to do, I don't know where to go-fuckknowsall.

"It's his birthday tomorrow--"

"Shut up!" Guy snarls, and the world's swaying too fast, spinning beneath him. He wants to punch Jade in the mouth, slam him to the ground and hit him and hit him and hit him, until the grass is a bloody mess and Jade's head, his stupid fucking smart _head_ is split, because Luke's been gone for years too long, and Guy doesn't know what to do, and Guy never learned to drink wine because Guy never learned how to do anything without Luke. "Shut up, I--"

Jade's grabbing his arm, pulling Guy, and it takes Guy a moment to realize that Jade's holding him up, keeping him from falling onto the ground or the tree or Hod, and Guy never thought he'd be a sentimental drunk; there's too much to be sentimental about, all the bits and pieces that scatter in all the things they did and didn't do.

He hates Jade's glasses.

"If you can't drink like an adult," Jade says, and it sounds too much like all the times Jade admonished Luke for being a kid, for acting like he was seven, not seventeen. Guy swallows, tastes vomit in the back of his throat.

"Forget it," he says, "I'm drunk." Because it's good enough as an excuse, good enough for his impotence in everything, for not being able to keep a kid alive and happy. So ineffectual. He swallows again, rotten apples in his words, and says, "I--"

Jade kisses him then, sharp and fast, and Guy's never really kissed anyone. Never had anyone to kiss, because the girls still make his heart race in all the wrong ways, and the boys are all too boys, and he hasn't really had anything to kiss anyone for in the past few years, anyway.

Jade kisses like he talks, like he moves. Looks like he's careless, looks like he's slow and limp and a little weak, but it hurts. There are teeth, Guy thinks, and he's pretty sure he'll taste blood the next time he swallows. Jade kisses harsh and mean and way too sharp, like all his way too sharp words. Guy feels his mouth open, feels Jade's tongue against his, and yeah, he's tasting blood.

When Jade pulls away, there's blood in the corner of his mouth. Guy would wipe it away, or tell Jade too, but he's falling back against the tree, sliding down to the ground. He's dizzy, the world's still spinning, and yeah, maybe he's too drunk.

"Put your head down," Jade says, sounds like he's commanding. Sounds like a general, or something, like someone who's taking charge, who's serious. He's pressing on the back of Guy's head, too, so Guy drops his head between his knees, breathes deep through his nose. Still dizzy.

"Just breathe," Jade says, and when Guy's breathing too heavy, watching the dirt beneath him swell and burst, he thinks he hears Jade say, "I'll give him a birthday present."

But maybe he's just too drunk.





Hetalia, Spain and Southern Italy. When a man comes to die in their house, the brothers run away. One to the north, and one to the west. Spain grows tomatoes and S. Italy drinks coffee. Vague relation to the Germany and N. Italy WWII drabble, because Italy is the place lovers go to die.

Sugar Bowl


He's in his garden when Italy comes. There's dirt on his hands, and he knows it will smear if he wipes the sweat from his brow. Italy leans against the fence, says, "hey," and Spain wipes his forehead. It's the elder brother.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, sitting back on his heels. The knees of his trousers are covered in dirt, too, and he brushes at them until he realizes he's just making it all worse. He pats his knees instead, imagines the dirt grinding into the weave.

"Nothing," Italy says sharply, and Spain smiles, smiles at the plants around him. The tomatoes are looking good this year. He thinks he might give some to Italy-- the younger brother, the one who smiles more. Maybe this Italy, too, if he'll take them. There are too many tomatoes for just Spain, but-- But maybe that's the way things go, when you grow up and grow old and the house grows too big and too quiet.

"My tomatoes are looking good," he says, because if he wants to give tomatoes to Italy, he should start hinting at it now. Poke and prod and just say enough that three or four months from now, Italy will think it's his idea, will take the tomatoes with that selfish frown that's almost a smile and makes Spain think the past was almost good enough. Almost, but not quite.

"Who cares about your stupid tomatoes?" Italy snaps, but he's looking at the tomatoes carefully, and Spain has to hide his smile. Pulls another weed. Dirt under his fingernails. Ideas are always the best when they're not yours.

"Do you want a drink?" he asks as he pushes himself to his feet. His knees crack, and his back, too. His shoulder hurts, and he has to press his knuckles into the corner of his neck and his shoulder, rotate his arm slowly. He feels old, older than everyone around him. "Coffee, or maybe tea?"

Italy snorts, but he's walking along the edge of the fence, trailing his hand over the side. Spain kicks the dead weeds to the side, mutters, "need to burn them," to himself, and follows Italy on his side of the fence. He wonders, if he were to reach out and grab Italy's hand, if Italy would push him away.

"France was here a few days ago," he says, "and left some wine. Maybe you would--"

"Coffee." Italy waits for Spain to push open the gate, then pushes past Spain. He opens the door with a shove, and he's already halfway down the hall by the time Spain gets into the house. Spain catches the door with his elbow, pushes it closed, and slides his hands into his pockets. He hates getting dirt in his house, hates mud dragged along the wall. He hates coming in the front door.

"Where's your kitchen?" Italy asks testily. "Your house is too damned big."

"It does seem big, doesn't it?" Spain asks back, looking up. The ceiling seems higher than before, and the walls further away. It sounds quieter, too, and Italy's breathing is loud and harsh. Maybe it's echoing through the house, up into the rafters and down into the cellars. Out to all the doors that Spain tries to keep closed, but never can. The house is too big. "To your left--

"I didn't know you were coming today," he continues. "I would've made you something to eat."

"I don't like your food." Italy sounds distracted, is looking around the hallway like he's waiting for someone. Spain passes too close, knocks shoulders with him, and when he walks to the kitchen, he can hear Italy following him, swearing under his breath.

He washes his hands, boils water in an old kettle. When the kettle is screaming, he wraps a towel around his hand, reaches for the kettle.

"There's a man in my house."

Spain fumbles with the kettle, feels the metal burn the length of his wrist. He moves the kettle to the side, breathes twice. "Who is it?"

"I don't know," Italy says, and he sounds miserable. Sounds like he did a couple hundred years ago, when he used to live in Spain's house and wet the bed, when he used to come home crying with dirt on his cheeks and blood under his fingernails. "He came from England's house."

"And?" Spain pours the water over the coffee grounds, watches the water stream, a dirty color, into the cup. When the cup's a thumb-width from being full, he sets the kettle back on the stove. When he's leaning over the table, turning the cup in front of Italy, the kettle starts to scream again. Soon, he'll need to get more wood to keep the fire going.

"He's dying." Italy frowns at the coffee, reaches for the sugar-pot. He can't reach it, fingertips in air, so Spain pushes it closer. Leans harder against the table.

"Where's your brother?" he asks, but he's pretty sure he knows. Pretty sure he's always known, because he's old, he's watched other countries grow and die, and fight and kiss and make up just to stab each other in the back again. He's died, or almost died, or thought of dying, too many times to be young, and so now he's old, and he kneels in his garden, like he used to kneel in Mass, and he grows his tomatoes, plump and red. "Isn't he at your house?"

"He's at Austria's house," Italy says, spooning too much sugar into his coffee. The spoon's bowl tilts, grains of sugar spilling. Another spoon of sugar, and Italy stirs it. The coffee sloshes a little, splatters against the inside of the cup. "He's never there when someone comes to die."

Spain is lifting the kettle from the stove again when Italy says, "he coughs at night. I can't sleep then."

Italy drinks the coffee quickly, his face pale and his lips clenched tight. Spain wonders if his mouth is burning. Dips a spoon into the cup, then lifts it. Presses the bowl of the spoon against his lips. It burns.

A couple hundred years ago, Spain thinks, he could probably have picked Italy up, set him on his shoulder. Laughed it off when Italy pulled his hair or kicked his shin, could've done something to make things a little better. Now, though, he feels too old. Italy looks old, too, nearly as tall as him, and twice as angry. Spain never could do right by him.

"You can stay here tonight," he says, because something needs to be said. Italy's staring at the edge of the table, his mouth set, and maybe he'll kick and yell like he did when he was a kid, maybe he'll throw a temper tantrum and go running out of the house. Or maybe he'll just sit there, like there's nowhere for him to go, anyway, and that's the thought that turns Spain's stomach. "There's a room--"

It's the same room Italy slept in when he used to live in Spain's house. It's a little dusty, but all the house is a little dusty now. Spain pushes the windows open, the hinges straining, and the sunlight streams in, too bright. Italy looks at the bed for a long moment, then pulls at the duvet. When it hits the floor, a cloud of dust goes up, and Spain smiles.

"It's been a while," he says, and Italy interrupts, says harshly, "it's fine."

And maybe it is. Italy's sitting on the edge of the bed when Spain leaves the room, dragging his feet a bit. There are tracks in the faint dust on the floor. The door screams like the windows, hinges rusting after how-many years. The house, though, feels a little fuller, feels like it echoes a little less. The ceilings, when Spain leans back against the door and looks up, seem a little closer. It feels a little more like a home, maybe.

Spain looks at his fingers, at the mud and flecks of blood beneath his fingernails. He stretches out his fingers, closes his hands in fists. He can hear Italy muttering to himself behind the door, and it all feels so familiar. Maybe it's easier this way, when they're both older, and all the world is older. And men dying in empty houses aren't so bad, when it means that there will be someone drinking coffee in the kitchen when Spain comes in from his garden.

He stretches his fingers again, then pops his knuckles. He can feel himself smiling, like the old men who smile at everything, even the funeral masses. Maybe, really, it won't be so bad.






ETA: Watched Princess Tutu last week. I really, really liked it. I watched most of Last Exile last night and today, but-- When Lucciola... I stopped. I don't know if I want to watch the last three episodes.