Mainly a Hetalia blog, but you will also find Homestuck, Avatar, the Avengers, Sherlock, and anything else I find interesting.
There was nothing more exhilarating—and unnerving—than standing face to face with his twin.
Only a few yards, separated them—and yet, they could not have been further apart. A few yards in front of Yong Soo, a concrete barrier, only a few inches high, separated North from South. A few yards beyond that, in North Korea, stood his twin.
» Healing Old Wounds: Chapter 9
In this chapter…
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, North Korea, some political figures
Rating: This chapter, T.
Warnings: A single F-bomb.
Summary: America and North Korea have just agreed to “start over,” but after a while, America gets the sense that he’s the only one actually trying. Meanwhile, the rest of the American delegation is contemplating ways the flee the country in the event of war.
He wasn’t close enough.
Nothing could compare to the miles that had kept them separate for years. To the rise and fall of mountains and endless rice fields that spanned between them. Right now he couldn’t have been more than three feet away, but the short distance separating North from South across the table was still too much.
His eyes fell on North’s hands resting in front of him on the table, fingers interlocking. So close Yong Soo could have reach out and touched them if he wanted to.
And he really wanted to.
The finely pressed suits and carefully selected ties. The military uniforms with all the medals arranged just right. The way he brushed the hair out of his face. The way he spoke. The way he held himself. Overall, the North Korean was just a very formal sort of guy, America thought.
Almost too formal.
At least, compared to America, who leaned back in his seat during meetings and selected his clothes for the day the morning of. If he could, he would have tried to get the Korean to lighten up. Did he really do all those things by choice? What a drag that must be! Surely it was something his boss made him do. You know—to hold up the whole ‘Best Korea’ charade.
August 22, 1910
A single candle was all that illuminated the faces of the two brothers, its light casting dancing shadows on the walls around them.
Silence pervaded the room and went unbroken for a long while. There were not really any words to say. Just a deep sense of failure that each of them understood was being felt by the other as well.
For years, there had been troubles with Kiku—no, not even Kiku. Japan. That man didn’t deserve the use of the name they used to call him. If he had once been something of a brother to them, he was no longer, and it was mutually understood between the two Koreans that he was no longer going to be treated as, referred to, or thought of as one. He had committed the deepest of sins by annexing their land to his empire—taken away their very identity as a nation to instead using them as a pair of pawns in his game of conquest. He had made them a colony. An inferior. This was an unforgivable betrayal.
((THIS IS YOUR ONE AND ONLY GORE WARNING. Takes place during the Korean War.))
Every step could be his last.
Or relative last, he supposed.
Nations couldn’t really “die” per se. Not permanently. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t suffer the pain and terror of death. Any nation could die at any time—the only difference was that instead of an end to the pain with their death, they would be resurrected to live again and to experience death again at another time.
Of course, almost any quick death could be a blessing to a nation. It was when they were critically injured but not killed that things got messy.
Alfred had been sent to deliver a message to a group of South Korean’s trying to hold their line deep in the mountains. It was a sort of message they couldn’t risk getting intercepted by radio, so it had to be delivered in person. The area was crawling with armed North Koreans and South Koreans alike, their forms ducking behind trees and slipping through the forest like shadows under the cover of the early morning haze. Despite the risks, Alfred was more likely to emerge from the mission with a few bullet wounds and alive than the average soldier due to his added nation resilience. But it wasn’t enemy soldiers he was worried about.
It was the land mines.
If there was one thing Alfred was constantly conscious of, it was how fragile his relationship with North Korea was.
Not a day went by that he didn’t fear that some delicate tie might snap. There was no telling how any word, any joke, any action might be interpretted by him. When something was going to offend him, or when it might fly right over his head. Too many times Alfred had tried to jest with him, only to realize North didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Cultural difference and years of isolation had left him in the dark on many things concerning the West.
But to Alfred, there seemed to be two North Koreas. One displaying all the doctrines and rhetoric of his government and leaders—who was paranoid and distrustful of America, and hated those nations whose values differed from his. But the other was just a kid with more arrogance than was good for him—who was insufferably stubborn and too proud to admit that he had problems just like everyone else and that he needed help. Who insisted that he needed no one but was, in truth, a little lonely. And this North Korea was better known as Sang Kyu.
Some days Alfred was more easily able to discern than others whether he was talking to North Korea or Sang Kyu, but the balance remained as delicate as ever. When he was with Sang Kyu he could joke and tease just to watch the other get flustered, but he was always alert for signs that he was pushing him too far.
It was a relationship as fragile as a snowflake, but perhaps as unique as one as well.
The drops continued to patter against the windowpane.
The day had begun shrouded in mist, the clouds rolling down the mountainsides like waves on water. The air was cool and moist and carried with it the scent of fresh pine and mountain snow. By noon, rain had cleansed the land and continued to fall even now. The steady drumming of rain on the roof was calming, in a way. He would have enjoyed it, honestly.
If not for his present company.
“Hey North, don’t you have anything on your TV besides this commie crap?” the American asked, trying to figure out why the TV wouldn’t change from the state-run channel.
“No,” the Korean responded bluntly, gazing longingly out the window. He wanted to get out of the house. It was boring here and there were plenty of things he could be out doing. Things that would show off the greatness and majesty of his country to the American and perhaps even bring him out out of his comfort zone. “Come on. Let’s go out.”
If he could succeed in bringing him out of the house first.
“No way! It’s cold and gross outside,” the American complained, stretching out on the couch and looking back at North lazily.
“Don’t be a baby,” North grumbled, rolling his eyes. “It’s not even that cold.”
“Yes it is!” America insisted, looking again at the TV in dismay. “Hey, I know Yong Soo sends you DVDs and stuff. We could watch a movie! Don’t you have a DVD player somewhere?”
“We are not watching any movies,” North persisted, rising from the chair near the window and going to hover over the American impatiently. “You came here to learn about my country and I’m trying to teach you about it! Let me—”
“I think I know everything I need to know,” America yawned, looking back at the Korean with disinterest. “You have a lousy leader and even lousier TV.”
And with this, North’s urge to get out of the house grew into an absolute necessity. If the American’s whining didn’t drive him crazy, then his stupidity would. If it were possible for him to leave and take a walk in the rain on his own, he would do so. Maybe it could wash away his troubles and put his mind at ease about the touchy subjects he and the American had discussed earlier that day. All the things about politics and aid and weapons that in all honesty he was terrified to use. But he was not to let the American out of his sight, and so his hopes for a peaceful walk were washed away with the rain.
“Come on,” he repeated, snagging a part of the American’s shirt and tugging on it. “Stop being stubborn.”
“No!” America whined, staying limp and unmoving on the couch, even after the Korean’s prodding. “Man, you’re so uptight. You’re not supposed to do things when it’s raining! This is napping weather.”
Clearly nothing he said was going to get through to him. With a grunt of frustration, he released the American’s shirt and paced back to his seat by the window. Even if he did succeed in getting the American out of the house, it was apparent that he would only be doing the equivalent of dragging a whining child around in the rain.
With no better alternative, he simply settled himself back in his seat to watch it come down without him.
A loud thud rang through the room as his back was slammed into the wall.
“Don’t you dare!” North growled, his fingers curling into the fabric of South’s shirt as he pressed the other into the wall. “Don’t you dare say it’s my fault!”
“Then what do you want me to say?” South demanded, clutching at his brother’s hands and trying to pry them off. “‘Gee, I’m sorry I just minded my own business and got invaded by you! Please forgive me!’” His brows drew together and he glared at North with indignation.
But North just jerked him away from the wall, only to slam him up against it once more. The South Korean grunted as his shoulders ground in painfully.
“You know that’s not how it happened!”
“Then how did it happen? Please! Enlighten me with your almighty commie wisdom!” South sneered, dark eyes boring into his brother’s. ”Why is it my fault?”
“You know why!” North insisted, glaring at him dangerously. “You let a total stranger turn you against your own brother! You let an American aggressor poison you with his ideals and turn you into his puppet. Does kin mean nothing to you?”
Somehow, those words angered him more than anything else North had said to him thusfar. A hand snaked up to North’s collar and gripped in tightly. A twist of his body and a wrench on course fabric. The harsh thud of a body hitting something solid. Suddenly it was North’s shoulders grinding into the wall.
“That’s funny,” South sneered. “If you remembered anything about your own kin, you’d know that family was very important to me.”
“Then you have an odd way of showing it,” North muttered, already trying to push South off of him. “If you cared that much, you’d do less to oppress me and more to reconcile.”
And somehow, that was the most amusing thing of all.
“If you think my ways of showing I care are odd, then you should really see yours. They are truly remarkable.”
» 30 Days on the DMZ
This is the only time I’m gonna post this here!
My 30 Days of Writing challenge is going to revolve around North Korea, South Korea, and America. Here’s the FFN link if you’d rather follow it there.
I’ll still be posting them on tumblr though.
((Day 1 of the 30 days of writing challenge! I’m going to do a bunch of drabbles with North Korea, South Korea, and America. This is when Yong Soo and Alfred first meet at the end of WWII.))
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a white man.
Oh no, certainly not. They’d been coming here for many years with increasing frequency, usually passing through his land on the way to China. Something about the riches of the Orient, as their reason. Though Yong Soo wouldn’t hesitate to argue that his land’s culture was the richest and most beautiful to be seen, he still couldn’t help but be somewhat wary of the foreigners.
Perhaps even ‘weary’ would be a better word. For hadn’t it been foreigners who had brought him to his current state? Many years of his land being bickered over by more powerful neighbors. A brutal occupation by one of his brothers. Or at least, that is what he had called him once.
The foreigner in front of him just smiled brightly, his eyes shining. Maybe foreigners with that particular combination of blonde hair and blue eyes would not be as bad? This was all supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but Yong Soo couldn’t shake the feeling that this would end up being another occupation so soon after he’d been freed from the last. He needed to stand up on his own two feet, find his twin and consult him on their next mode of action. But another light-haired, light-eyed stranger had taken him off instead. Why wasn’t he being allowed to speak with North? Yong Soo looked up at the stranger in front of him almost accusingly.
But before he could ask, the foreigner addressed him in English. “Remind me of your name again.”
“Yong Soo,” he answered after a moment of hesitation, his accent still thick from lack of practice in English. “Im Yong Soo.”
“And you’re the one, aren’t you?”
After a moment of confusion, it dawned on him what he was talking about. Though Yong Soo had seen American businessmen—and more recently, military men—visit his country on and off, he still had not had the chance to meet the American nation-spirit himself. “Oh. Yes then, that is me. But you should know, there are two of this.”
“The other guy?”
“My twin. He is the North,” Yong Soo peered at the American quizzically. “Where is he?”
Something like remorse crept on to the American’s face. “Oh. He—he’ll be getting his counsel from someone else for the moment.”
“Can I see him?”
Something cold and heavy settled itself down in Yong Soo’s chest. As if sensing this, the American reached out to clap a friendly hand on his shoulder.”But hey! We’re gonna be great pals, I know it! I know you’ve been through a lot though, so maybe I can treat you to something to eat first. Would you like that?”
The Korean seemed to relax a little. “That would be nice.”
“Good!” America beamed. “There’s nothing better than getting to know a guy over a nice hot meal. I can already tell this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“Wait,” the Korean said suddenly, just as America was turning to lead him off. “You never told me your name.”
“Alfred,” the American replied. “Alfred F. Jones.”
Yong Soo frowned. What an odd, foreign name! “Al-peu—”
“But hey,” the American interjected, apparently sympathetic to his efforts to pronounce that stubborn F. “Just call me Al.”
Can I request something with India?
((I don’t know much about India so I hope this is okay!))
A small bird, no bigger than his palm, flitted to and fro in a small cage on the Indian’s desk.
It had been a few weeks since the small creature was found by the side of the road, dusty and injured, cowering from passersby and avoiding the steady army of feet that threatened to crush it. It was a miracle he had spotted it at all in all the chaos.
At first it had tried to flutter away, flapping uselessly with its disabled wing and peeping incessantly as he’d sheltered it with his hand, but after a few minutes it quieted—instead resting tensely in the safety of his hands.
Over the years, he’d taken in many injured and sick creatures to try and nurse them back to health. He hated the thought of an innocent creature dying cold and alone on the side of a road. Maybe some people would tell him that it was just the way of things. That it was just how nature is. But for all he knew, this bird had been injured by a human or some human contraption—and that was an injustice to him.
Now, after a few weeks of care and rest and recuperation, the tiny bird’s wing had healed. Its vitality had returned. It was actually its recently rediscovered singing voice that had woken him that morning.
“You must be feeling better!” the Indian remarked, observing the little creature as it flitted about. At the sound of his voice, it paused for a moment, cocked its head at him briefly, and then went back to its singing. India hm’d amusedly.
“I’m quite going to miss your wonderful singing!” he chuckled, gently taking the cage by the handle at the top and carrying it to the window. “But it is no longer my place to keep you. Today, you will fly again!”
The bird’s singing stopped as its cage was jostled. Seeming to sense something was up, it flitted to the bottom of the cage and waited quietly on the floor—its dark eyes watching as India opened the window to the vast sky beyond.
“Are you ready, little one?” he asked, pausing for a moment, his fingers resting at the latch on the cage door. The bird cocked its head at him once more, seemingly impatient.
“Very well, then! I wish you luck on future flights! May your endeavors be realized!” He flicked the latch open, holding the cage up to the sky.
The little bird hopped to the edge of the cage’s floor, paused for a moment at the door, and fluttered its wings as if to confirm that they had mended properly. After a moment of hesitation, it flitted away, gone almost as soon as it lifted off. Now left with an empty cage, India sighed.
It was not his place to keep wild creatures, but he still could not help but feel a bit empty when they’d gone.
» No Words, Just Love
((I posted this here last night, but here’s the FFN link if you missed it.))
Author: Me/IcySkyWind @ ff.net
Description: North Korea isn’t one to share how he’s feeling openly, but actions speak louder than words. On a cold winter night with no power in his residence in North Korea, he and America become fully aware of how they feel about each other, all without a single word passing between them. America/North Korea. Oneshot.
No Words, Just Love
GOOD IDEA FOR A DRABBLE COMMIEBURGER MAKE OUT THAT IS ALL
((Originally I thought this was going to end up very PWP but I found a way to give it plot! And I’m actually rather happy with it.))
It was usually very hard to determine what the Korean was thinking, America had noticed. Between the occasional smirk and usual frown, North seemed to go to great lengths to conceal what he was feeling. Apparently, it was considered a sign of great weakness, if your enemies could read you. America really wished North wouldn’t think of him that way.
» Glass Bubbles
((I posted this on tumblr last night, but here’s the FFN link anyway.))
Author: Me/IcySkyWind @ff.net
Description: When America arrives at China’s house sick, China decides they’ll never get any work done and decides to bring the American out of his comfort zone by giving him a little lesson in Chinese medicine fire cupping instead. Oneshot.