At The End Of All Things [18/?]
Mar. 7th, 2010 06:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blood_wingedTitle: At The End Of All Things
Genre: Drama/Angst/Romance/Humour(in places)
Pairing/s: (in this chapter) USxUK, FrancexSwitzerland
Characters: (in this chapter) UK, US, Poland, France, Iceland, Switzerland, Canada, Belarus.
Rating/Warnings: Overall NC-17. This chapter PG.
Summary: The year is 2438. A little over one hundred years ago, Russia finally cracked and nuclear warheads were sent flying to every corner of the world. No one had time to react. Some countries were wounded, some lost forever. The smaller nations suffered the most. Russia disappeared, never to be heard of again. Finally, the world is beginning to piece itself back together, and there is movement in the irradiated lands of Old Russia. Something is stirring, and only the rag-tag group of remaining nations can discover what it is. Ivan Braginski, or something far worse...
A/N: The Fr/Swiz is![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
venra_911 's fault. The hula reference is kasumicc 's fault. Thanks to lemiru for the French help (again!) <3
‘If you’ve been with a person for long enough, you begin to associate things with each other. For Alfred and I, there was only ever one thing – one song – that we always called ours. We claimed it because it fitted us, because it held all of our deepest, most secret weaknesses, and the strength that we found in each other. Most of all, it was hopeful, and I can only hope that we have done justice to it, since it only lives on now in our memories.
It is sometimes painful to be so in love with somebody that being separated from them is like having a limb removed. I had always told myself that I would never become so dependent on a person that I needed them to make my life worth living.
Then, I gave myself to Alfred, and I don’t regret it.’
***
“That sodding pillock!” Arthur had been pacing back and forth for the past ten minutes, practically tearing his hair out as the others watched him. He couldn’t even describe how he felt – sick, cold, fraught with worry and fear and that wasn’t even the beginning. “I should have seen this coming, I should have known he’d run off and try to fix this himself!”
“I blame Feliks,” Vash said, in a deadpan tone. The Pole scowled, then poked his tongue out. He had already been scolded for falling asleep at his post and it wouldn’t do any of them any good to continue to argue. Alfred was already gone, the only indication of his direction a line of quickly fading footprints in the dusty earth that led directly towards the towers that Feliks had pointed out the previous day.
“It’s useless to blame anyone,” Matthew said, wearing the glasses – his glasses – that Alfred had left behind. “The question now is, what are we going to do?”
“We cannot let him face Rússland alone,” the pale Icelandic stated as he reclined against the side of the truck. Beside him, perched on the hood, Feliks nodded, a strange yet familiar look of solemnity settling over his face. Vash fidgeted with the gun at his hip, and Francis let out a long, slow sigh.
“Some of us are going to have to stay here, to guard the truck,” he told them. “If this gets stolen then we have no way to return home...” He paused, and the other nations exchanged wary looks. “Va-”
“No,” Vash snapped immediately.
“Vash, you’re staying here.”
“No! No chance. I am not staying here while you all go gallivanting off to save the world. Fuck that, I’m coming with you.”
The two of them quickly fell to arguing in quick French that only Matthew seemed to be able to follow while the others slowly inched away from the fighting. They stood together, watching as Francis said something that had Vash immediately drawing his weapon, only to have it knocked to the side, his smaller body shoved violently up against the side of the truck as Francis hissed something under his breath that made the Canadian start. Vash froze for a moment, then the fighting resumed in full force.
“Lâche moi!” Vash spat, attempting to shove the taller man away and failing.
“Non.” Was the simple response. Vash was furious now, like a wild animal as he shoved and fought against Francis’ grip. No-one dared intervene for fear of becoming the focus of the irate Swiss’ wrath.
“Pourquoi tu fais ça? Pourquoi tu me hais?! Pourquoi?!”
“Je ne te hais pas,” Francis protested, taking Vash by the shoulders though the Swiss quickly squirmed out of his grip.
“Tu le dois!” He looked fearful, almost desperate, and it distracted even Arthur from his worry to see such an expression on Vash’s face.
“Je ne peux pas,” the Frenchman replied gently, taking him by the shoulders again. This time, Vash didn’t pull away, simply stood and shook and stared up at Francis with widened eyes. They stayed like that for a long moment, then something in Vash seemed to snap, and he pitched forwards against Francis’ chest, curling his fingers into the fabric of his shirt and calling him every name under the sun as tears filled his eyes and spilled over onto his cheeks. Rubbing his shoulders, Francis sighed, murmuring under his breath and wondering why everybody seemed to be crying around him lately.
In the meantime, everybody else either stared or shuffled uncomfortably. None of them could ever remember seeing Vash cry, even when they’d found Roderich’s body, or when he had discovered that his sister was dead. All that pent-up emotion was quietly sobbed into Francis’ shirt, and when he pulled away he took several deep breaths to calm himself, retrieved his gun, and cleared his throat.
“I’m going with you.”
“I reckon we should let him!” Feliks chirped, stepping up beside the Swiss and putting an arm around his shoulders. “I mean, seriously, who’s gonna steal anything ‘round here? This place is like, totally deserted.”
Francis sighed. “Fine,” he said. “But I want something first.”
“What do you want, Francis...” Vash murmured, eyeing him warily as he sidled closer.
“Un baiser, mon petit Suisse.”
“Francis! Can’t you control your libido for five seconds?” Arthur demanded, though his protest faltered as Vash blushed a rosy shade of pink and, after a heartbeat long pause, lifted himself up onto his toes and kissed Francis’ cheek. Francis chuckled, and before Vash could dodge, had pulled him into a deep kiss. It lasted barely a few seconds, but Vash couldn’t have been any redder when he finally jerked himself out of the Frenchman’s grip.
“Francis!” he practically squeaked, clearly scandalised.
“Ah, Vash... if you were going to shoot me, I am quite sure that you would have already done it.” Vash couldn’t argue with that, his cheeks heating further. “I suppose, then, that we are all going. Ah, c’est la vie. Very well.”
They gathered what they needed and set off, using Feliks as their own personal compass to guide them to the right spot in the ruins. Unlike the bustling town in Lithuania, this place would have been more suited to ghosts and demons, and Arthur seemed suitably spooked as they made their way carefully through the streets. Francis could sympathise. Though he had long denied being able to see what Arthur could, after the bombings, that particular ability had come in very useful, but now it only served to disturb him. There were shadows everywhere, tormented shades and creeping pools of blood that were there one moment and gone the next. Feliks had retreated into a subdued state, his eyes sharp and darting, flinching at every sound. Matthew had looked startled at being given a gun, and he handled it awkwardly, but Arthur knew that if need be, he would know how to use it.
The ruined towers almost appeared to lean over them as they approached, and Arthur recoiled at the sight which greeted them, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. Óskar stepped forwards, and crouched beside the desiccated husk of something which had once been human, following the line of its raised arm to the wall, and looking back at the group, a slight shake in his voice.
“He chained them to their posts. He truly is insane.”
A shiver passed through all of them like a cold wind, and Matthew rubbed his hands up his arms, shuddering. Corpses, each identical to the one in front of them, lined the walls. Some of them had clearly attempted to remove parts of their bodies to escape, only to perish in the act.
“Is this where he got in?” the Canadian murmured, watching the Icelandic man as he examined the door.
“I believe so,” came the soft response. “This lock is freshly broken.”
“I don’t know which creeps me out more,” Vash muttered. “The thought of staying out here, or the thought of going in there.”
Inside the building was not much better than outside. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, evidence of Alfred’s passing left in footprints pressed into the grime on the floor. Vash crouched, his eyes narrowed.
“He’s injured. Limping. Badly.” He stood again and frowned. They followed the trail of disturbances in the dust until they came upon clear evidence of a struggle, and the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck prickled.
“There was dark magic used here...” he breathed, able to feel the tingle of it on his skin even now. It was intoxicating, luring, and it sent a soul-deep chill through his entire body. Even after so long avoiding the use of that kind of magic, it was still tempting, and it was only Matthew’s hand on his arm that stopped him from doing something that he would inevitably regret later. The Englishman cleared his throat, and shook his head, and then, filtering through the creaking and hissing of pipes and protesting walls, they heard something. Francis pressed a finger to his lips.
“I could make it on my own... let me know that I don’t have to...”
“Alfred...” Arthur whispered, the old, familiar words tugging at that special place in his heart reserved only for his husband. Following the small blonde’s lead, they crept towards the sound as it continued.
“But we won’t run, and we won’t yield... You’ll be my fortress, and I will be your shield...”
“What is that song?” Matthew asked softly. He didn’t get an answer. Arthur’s ears were too intently focused on the sound of his husband’s voice. It was cracked and wavering, but it was there, and soon, Francis’ hand curled into the back of his shirt and pulled him back, distracting him for long enough to capture his attention.
“Quietly,” he warned, taking the lead and moving forwards. The group crouched behind a machine, the metal rusted with age, huddling as close to each other as they could. Alfred’s voice was so close now, and it was so difficult to not just run out and find it, but Francis’ hand held tight to Arthur’s arm and kept him where he was. Carefully, the two of them spied over the top of the machine, and Arthur had to stifle his gasp.
Alfred was there, and in far worse shape than he had been when they had last seen him. His shirt had been stripped from him and his body showed fresh cuts and deep purple bruises, the wound on his shoulder made angry and dripping blood down one side of his slim body as his arms were pulled up to a painful height, secured to a pipe above him with a set of heavy, almost medieval-looking shackles. His head was bowed, each breath tense and difficult, and Francis had to fight with his brother to keep him from running.
Arthur had almost broken free when a door opened on the other side of the room, and a quick, light step crossed to where Alfred was. The Englishman froze, silently signalled to Francis that he wouldn’t run, and they resumed watching. A woman had joined Alfred, her brown hair a long and matted mess and the remains of what had once been very fine clothes hanging from her thin body. They watched as she touched Alfred’s cheek with concern and carefully gave him a drink of water.
“You must not waste your breath with singing, Alfred,” she whispered. “Ivan will not be pleased.”
Alfred’s voice was strained. “Please, you have to help me.”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears and she pressed herself close to Alfred’s chest, the man responding the best he could by resting his head gently on top of hers, closing his eyes.
“I’m sorry, brother,” she told him. “I can’t... I’m so sorry...”
Arthur’s eyes widened, and he watched the girl stretch up to press her lips to the young man’s jaw, seeing the soft, accepting smile on his husbands face.
Brother... That would mean... That girl...
“Francis,” he hissed, dropping to the ground beside the Frenchman, who had picked some bits off the machine that they hid behind and begun to fiddle with them, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. “What are you doing? We’re saving somebody’s life here, not dancing the bloody hula!”
Francis blinked at him, lowering his hands for a moment to pay attention while the others waited with baited breath for any news. The blonde paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder as if Russia could be stood behind them, before he spoke.
“Belarus... Natalia... she’s alive!”
---------------
Translations:
Lâche moi! - Let me go!
Pourquoi tu fais ça? Pourquoi tu me hais?! Pourquoi?! - Why are you doing this? Why do you hate me?! Why?!
Je ne te hais pas - I do not hate you
Tu le dois! - You must!
Je ne peux pas - I cannot
Un baiser, mon petit Suisse - A kiss, my little Switzerland
C'est la vie - That's life
---------------
<| Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Nineteen |>
Genre: Drama/Angst/Romance/Humour(in places)
Pairing/s: (in this chapter) USxUK, FrancexSwitzerland
Characters: (in this chapter) UK, US, Poland, France, Iceland, Switzerland, Canada, Belarus.
Rating/Warnings: Overall NC-17. This chapter PG.
Summary: The year is 2438. A little over one hundred years ago, Russia finally cracked and nuclear warheads were sent flying to every corner of the world. No one had time to react. Some countries were wounded, some lost forever. The smaller nations suffered the most. Russia disappeared, never to be heard of again. Finally, the world is beginning to piece itself back together, and there is movement in the irradiated lands of Old Russia. Something is stirring, and only the rag-tag group of remaining nations can discover what it is. Ivan Braginski, or something far worse...
A/N: The Fr/Swiz is
venra_911 's fault. The hula reference is kasumicc 's fault. Thanks to lemiru for the French help (again!) <3~ There is nothing good in war, except its ending. ~
****
‘If you’ve been with a person for long enough, you begin to associate things with each other. For Alfred and I, there was only ever one thing – one song – that we always called ours. We claimed it because it fitted us, because it held all of our deepest, most secret weaknesses, and the strength that we found in each other. Most of all, it was hopeful, and I can only hope that we have done justice to it, since it only lives on now in our memories.
It is sometimes painful to be so in love with somebody that being separated from them is like having a limb removed. I had always told myself that I would never become so dependent on a person that I needed them to make my life worth living.
Then, I gave myself to Alfred, and I don’t regret it.’
***
“That sodding pillock!” Arthur had been pacing back and forth for the past ten minutes, practically tearing his hair out as the others watched him. He couldn’t even describe how he felt – sick, cold, fraught with worry and fear and that wasn’t even the beginning. “I should have seen this coming, I should have known he’d run off and try to fix this himself!”
“I blame Feliks,” Vash said, in a deadpan tone. The Pole scowled, then poked his tongue out. He had already been scolded for falling asleep at his post and it wouldn’t do any of them any good to continue to argue. Alfred was already gone, the only indication of his direction a line of quickly fading footprints in the dusty earth that led directly towards the towers that Feliks had pointed out the previous day.
“It’s useless to blame anyone,” Matthew said, wearing the glasses – his glasses – that Alfred had left behind. “The question now is, what are we going to do?”
“We cannot let him face Rússland alone,” the pale Icelandic stated as he reclined against the side of the truck. Beside him, perched on the hood, Feliks nodded, a strange yet familiar look of solemnity settling over his face. Vash fidgeted with the gun at his hip, and Francis let out a long, slow sigh.
“Some of us are going to have to stay here, to guard the truck,” he told them. “If this gets stolen then we have no way to return home...” He paused, and the other nations exchanged wary looks. “Va-”
“No,” Vash snapped immediately.
“Vash, you’re staying here.”
“No! No chance. I am not staying here while you all go gallivanting off to save the world. Fuck that, I’m coming with you.”
The two of them quickly fell to arguing in quick French that only Matthew seemed to be able to follow while the others slowly inched away from the fighting. They stood together, watching as Francis said something that had Vash immediately drawing his weapon, only to have it knocked to the side, his smaller body shoved violently up against the side of the truck as Francis hissed something under his breath that made the Canadian start. Vash froze for a moment, then the fighting resumed in full force.
“Lâche moi!” Vash spat, attempting to shove the taller man away and failing.
“Non.” Was the simple response. Vash was furious now, like a wild animal as he shoved and fought against Francis’ grip. No-one dared intervene for fear of becoming the focus of the irate Swiss’ wrath.
“Pourquoi tu fais ça? Pourquoi tu me hais?! Pourquoi?!”
“Je ne te hais pas,” Francis protested, taking Vash by the shoulders though the Swiss quickly squirmed out of his grip.
“Tu le dois!” He looked fearful, almost desperate, and it distracted even Arthur from his worry to see such an expression on Vash’s face.
“Je ne peux pas,” the Frenchman replied gently, taking him by the shoulders again. This time, Vash didn’t pull away, simply stood and shook and stared up at Francis with widened eyes. They stayed like that for a long moment, then something in Vash seemed to snap, and he pitched forwards against Francis’ chest, curling his fingers into the fabric of his shirt and calling him every name under the sun as tears filled his eyes and spilled over onto his cheeks. Rubbing his shoulders, Francis sighed, murmuring under his breath and wondering why everybody seemed to be crying around him lately.
In the meantime, everybody else either stared or shuffled uncomfortably. None of them could ever remember seeing Vash cry, even when they’d found Roderich’s body, or when he had discovered that his sister was dead. All that pent-up emotion was quietly sobbed into Francis’ shirt, and when he pulled away he took several deep breaths to calm himself, retrieved his gun, and cleared his throat.
“I’m going with you.”
“I reckon we should let him!” Feliks chirped, stepping up beside the Swiss and putting an arm around his shoulders. “I mean, seriously, who’s gonna steal anything ‘round here? This place is like, totally deserted.”
Francis sighed. “Fine,” he said. “But I want something first.”
“What do you want, Francis...” Vash murmured, eyeing him warily as he sidled closer.
“Un baiser, mon petit Suisse.”
“Francis! Can’t you control your libido for five seconds?” Arthur demanded, though his protest faltered as Vash blushed a rosy shade of pink and, after a heartbeat long pause, lifted himself up onto his toes and kissed Francis’ cheek. Francis chuckled, and before Vash could dodge, had pulled him into a deep kiss. It lasted barely a few seconds, but Vash couldn’t have been any redder when he finally jerked himself out of the Frenchman’s grip.
“Francis!” he practically squeaked, clearly scandalised.
“Ah, Vash... if you were going to shoot me, I am quite sure that you would have already done it.” Vash couldn’t argue with that, his cheeks heating further. “I suppose, then, that we are all going. Ah, c’est la vie. Very well.”
They gathered what they needed and set off, using Feliks as their own personal compass to guide them to the right spot in the ruins. Unlike the bustling town in Lithuania, this place would have been more suited to ghosts and demons, and Arthur seemed suitably spooked as they made their way carefully through the streets. Francis could sympathise. Though he had long denied being able to see what Arthur could, after the bombings, that particular ability had come in very useful, but now it only served to disturb him. There were shadows everywhere, tormented shades and creeping pools of blood that were there one moment and gone the next. Feliks had retreated into a subdued state, his eyes sharp and darting, flinching at every sound. Matthew had looked startled at being given a gun, and he handled it awkwardly, but Arthur knew that if need be, he would know how to use it.
The ruined towers almost appeared to lean over them as they approached, and Arthur recoiled at the sight which greeted them, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. Óskar stepped forwards, and crouched beside the desiccated husk of something which had once been human, following the line of its raised arm to the wall, and looking back at the group, a slight shake in his voice.
“He chained them to their posts. He truly is insane.”
A shiver passed through all of them like a cold wind, and Matthew rubbed his hands up his arms, shuddering. Corpses, each identical to the one in front of them, lined the walls. Some of them had clearly attempted to remove parts of their bodies to escape, only to perish in the act.
“Is this where he got in?” the Canadian murmured, watching the Icelandic man as he examined the door.
“I believe so,” came the soft response. “This lock is freshly broken.”
“I don’t know which creeps me out more,” Vash muttered. “The thought of staying out here, or the thought of going in there.”
Inside the building was not much better than outside. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, evidence of Alfred’s passing left in footprints pressed into the grime on the floor. Vash crouched, his eyes narrowed.
“He’s injured. Limping. Badly.” He stood again and frowned. They followed the trail of disturbances in the dust until they came upon clear evidence of a struggle, and the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck prickled.
“There was dark magic used here...” he breathed, able to feel the tingle of it on his skin even now. It was intoxicating, luring, and it sent a soul-deep chill through his entire body. Even after so long avoiding the use of that kind of magic, it was still tempting, and it was only Matthew’s hand on his arm that stopped him from doing something that he would inevitably regret later. The Englishman cleared his throat, and shook his head, and then, filtering through the creaking and hissing of pipes and protesting walls, they heard something. Francis pressed a finger to his lips.
“I could make it on my own... let me know that I don’t have to...”
“Alfred...” Arthur whispered, the old, familiar words tugging at that special place in his heart reserved only for his husband. Following the small blonde’s lead, they crept towards the sound as it continued.
“But we won’t run, and we won’t yield... You’ll be my fortress, and I will be your shield...”
“What is that song?” Matthew asked softly. He didn’t get an answer. Arthur’s ears were too intently focused on the sound of his husband’s voice. It was cracked and wavering, but it was there, and soon, Francis’ hand curled into the back of his shirt and pulled him back, distracting him for long enough to capture his attention.
“Quietly,” he warned, taking the lead and moving forwards. The group crouched behind a machine, the metal rusted with age, huddling as close to each other as they could. Alfred’s voice was so close now, and it was so difficult to not just run out and find it, but Francis’ hand held tight to Arthur’s arm and kept him where he was. Carefully, the two of them spied over the top of the machine, and Arthur had to stifle his gasp.
Alfred was there, and in far worse shape than he had been when they had last seen him. His shirt had been stripped from him and his body showed fresh cuts and deep purple bruises, the wound on his shoulder made angry and dripping blood down one side of his slim body as his arms were pulled up to a painful height, secured to a pipe above him with a set of heavy, almost medieval-looking shackles. His head was bowed, each breath tense and difficult, and Francis had to fight with his brother to keep him from running.
Arthur had almost broken free when a door opened on the other side of the room, and a quick, light step crossed to where Alfred was. The Englishman froze, silently signalled to Francis that he wouldn’t run, and they resumed watching. A woman had joined Alfred, her brown hair a long and matted mess and the remains of what had once been very fine clothes hanging from her thin body. They watched as she touched Alfred’s cheek with concern and carefully gave him a drink of water.
“You must not waste your breath with singing, Alfred,” she whispered. “Ivan will not be pleased.”
Alfred’s voice was strained. “Please, you have to help me.”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears and she pressed herself close to Alfred’s chest, the man responding the best he could by resting his head gently on top of hers, closing his eyes.
“I’m sorry, brother,” she told him. “I can’t... I’m so sorry...”
Arthur’s eyes widened, and he watched the girl stretch up to press her lips to the young man’s jaw, seeing the soft, accepting smile on his husbands face.
Brother... That would mean... That girl...
“Francis,” he hissed, dropping to the ground beside the Frenchman, who had picked some bits off the machine that they hid behind and begun to fiddle with them, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. “What are you doing? We’re saving somebody’s life here, not dancing the bloody hula!”
Francis blinked at him, lowering his hands for a moment to pay attention while the others waited with baited breath for any news. The blonde paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder as if Russia could be stood behind them, before he spoke.
“Belarus... Natalia... she’s alive!”
---------------
Translations:
Lâche moi! - Let me go!
Pourquoi tu fais ça? Pourquoi tu me hais?! Pourquoi?! - Why are you doing this? Why do you hate me?! Why?!
Je ne te hais pas - I do not hate you
Tu le dois! - You must!
Je ne peux pas - I cannot
Un baiser, mon petit Suisse - A kiss, my little Switzerland
C'est la vie - That's life
---------------
<| Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Nineteen |>
