[Fanfic] Alone
Feb. 17th, 2010 04:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bersekerTitle: Alone
Characters/Pairings: England, Brazil, references to America and Portugal.
Rating/Warnings: ANGST. PG angst, but still.
Summary: He’s thinking of a different beach, a different land. A different child, a blond boy with bright blue eyes that would have run to him with open arms and an eager smile on his face
(Thank you,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sakuratsukikage, for beta-ing this for me and for being awesome, ILU <3)
So, Rio de Janeiro.
The place is beautiful, England have to hand it to- well, to Brazil, now, since Portugal has nothing to do with this place anymore. And a few years before he would have enjoyed it, but now he can’t work up the excitement. It’s gorgeous in the same way all these places are, blue skies and the bright green forests and the water and yes, nothing he hasn’t seen before. He watches the people instead, the way they gather in the dock, and he frowns. The sun always seems too hot, brighter here than on his island, and this-
- this doesn’t make him think. At all. It doesn’t remind him of a different dock under the same sun and- no. It just doesn’t. He looks at the crowd. Watches the way they look and point at the ship and talk in that strange, musical language that still holds much of Portugal’s accent, and thinks that they should find something better to do, that they just make the place look untidy and hotter than it is.
He’s being unfair, he knows. Their interest is good, is what he wants. It means they’ll buy what he has to sell, that this trip will be worth his time. Still. He keeps frowning, almost scows at then. He’s just… not in the mood for this, for this heat and, and uncouthness and the loud voices, the laugher. Not now. He just got here, he could use some rest. He feels the sweat under his clothes, running down his neck, and something stirs inside him, something small and frail that almost wishes, almost hopes that maybe-
But no.
Not here. And not now. He’s thinking of a different beach, a different land. A different child, a blond boy with bright blue eyes that would have run to him with open arms and an eager smile on his face and-
Stop, England thinks, stop that right now. He raises his chin and looks a little haughtier, to make it clear that he doesn’t care, because it’s true, he doesn’t. He’s used to being alone. And England doesn’t mind being alone, doesn’t mind finding his own way through this city, he doesn’t care about golden hair and – anything.
And, anyway, it’s a different land. Different nation.
Brazil never waits for him.
He never did. England’s pretty sure Portugal mentioned it before. And even if he hadn’t, England wasn’t planning to mention it. He certainly won’t complain about it. He asked once, just as a passing thought, what the hell Brazil did with his time, and the kid said the land was too big, something like that, and yes, he remembers that too. Remembers Portugal saying Brazil liked to wander through his land and sometimes it would take him weeks – or years, but what’s a year for them anyway – to show up, because God only knew where he would be when Portugal arrived.
So England walks alone, goes by himself to the house where they usually stay- well, not they, Portugal won’t be coming here anymore, not any time soon. So. The house where he will stay. He finds his room covered with dust and it’s another thing, this, the house is never ready. First it was because Brazil couldn’t get used to it, to the roof and the floor, and he missed the forests and the trees around him, and never bothered with the house when his Empire wasn’t around.
And then, after a few years, he did it to make a point.
England remembers Portugal smiling about it, just a little exasperated, and he tries not to remember a soft bed that didn’t look all that tidy either, but he could tell his child had tried, and a small bouquet of white flowers and small hands and a big smile and-
Stop. Please, he thinks. Stop.
Brazil shows up, eventually. He doesn’t offer any apology or explanation, it’s just that one day England wakes up to the smell of coffee and he finds the young man in the kitchen, barefooted and shirtless and England sees that messy black hair and thinks-
No.
He doesn’t care. Blond threads with that lock of hair that wouldn’t stay down and he remembers how soft it felt, remembers saying my, look how much you grown, when did this happen, and where did it take him? So he won’t bother.
Brazil shots him a careless smile, as if his presence here wasn’t anything much out of ordinary, and by now England has to admit it isn’t, except for the market thing, the ship, the trinkets Brazil loves to buy, but still, he says, without thinking about it, we need to discuss your debt.
Brazil grimaces.
England doesn’t feel any better.
They go out, at night, and England drinks and he feels the alcohol numbing his brain, slurring his words, but he speaks, somehow, he asks - why didn’t you fight him? Why in the name of fuck didn’t you fight?
“Aw, come on. I did fight,” Brazil says, and he smiles, hand supporting his chin, and his dark eyes are full of that silent resentment that seems to be engraved in every trace of his face, now. And England tries not to think, but he can’t help but remember Portugal silent and grave, trying to find ways and strategies and coming up with nothing, remembers his quiet voice saying I can’t. I can’t do this. There’ll be a war, if I don’t let him go.
I’ll lose him forever, if I don’t let him go.
And he knows, and maybe Portugal knows too, that Brazil hadn’t forgiven him yet, and maybe never will. Brazil hates him for coming, and hates him even more for leaving. But that makes it even worse, because there’s still that I can’t do this between them and, God forgive him, sometimes England hates them both. For not having any scar. For all the things they couldn’t and haven’t done to each other.
“No,” he says, “No, you didn’t. Why?”
“Well then, why should I bother? He just wanted money, I gave it to him, so whatever. Can we talk about something else now?”
Too young to hide his impatience, or too angry, or too hurt, England can’t tell. This kid, this country, the warmth in the air around him, everything, starts to feels blurry, unreal.
He knows he can’t walk. That Brazil has to hold him by his waist, pull England’s arm around his shoulders, and England’s a little taller than him, and this feels… wrong, somehow. Or maybe it feels very right, because that other child shouldn’t be so tall, it was wrong, it was high treason, that. They stumble through the street, and England feels a familiar scent and he looks for the source of it, he recognizes it, the small white flowers that would only open in the evening. America. A small bouquet he did himself. England closes his eyes and tries not to think.
Brazil drags him to the bedroom, dumps him on the bed, and the kid is panting, he looks angry and frustrated and he’s not smiling now, not anymore. But he unbuttons England’s shirt and pulls off his boots and throws them in some corner and it’s not a colony tending to his empire, it’s not a friend helping another, it’s something else. Something out of place. So classy, Brazil’s eyes say, so classy, England, and then those eyes add, Portugal never did that, he was never a drunken embarrassment like that. And he opens the window and the moonlight fills the room, the salty smell of the ocean and the sweet aroma of those flowers, Lady of the Night, England thinks, America had those too, oh God, America, why-
“I didn’t fight him because I couldn’t, all right?” Brazil leans over the windowsill and speaks to the air outside, and he sounds blunt and sulky and angry, “I couldn’t fight him, there, are you happy now?”
England’s breathe catches, but only for half a second, because he has to keep breathing, because he doesn’t care, he doesn’t. We’ll talk about your debt, he thinks, and he’s not sure he actually says it. But he stares at Brazil’s back and he thinks, we’ll talk about your debts, because you owe me too much. You owe me a scar.
~*~
AN:
According to wiki, The United Kingdom and Portugal eventually recognized Brazilian independence by signing a treaty on August 29, 1825. Until then, the Brazilians feared that Portugal would resume its attack. Portuguese retribution, however, came in a financial form. Secret codicils of the treaty with Portugal required that Brazil assume payment of 1.4 million pounds sterling owed to Britain and indemnify Dom João VI and other Portuguese for losses totaling 600,000 pounds sterling.
So that’s the debt England mentions. There’s more about Brazil’s independence here. It was mostly a political move and it was, well, less than awesome. But at least I can write fic about it, so there. And I’m too lazy to write better notes, so… anything you want to know, just ask me :D
Characters/Pairings: England, Brazil, references to America and Portugal.
Rating/Warnings: ANGST. PG angst, but still.
Summary: He’s thinking of a different beach, a different land. A different child, a blond boy with bright blue eyes that would have run to him with open arms and an eager smile on his face
(Thank you,
sakuratsukikage, for beta-ing this for me and for being awesome, ILU <3)So, Rio de Janeiro.
The place is beautiful, England have to hand it to- well, to Brazil, now, since Portugal has nothing to do with this place anymore. And a few years before he would have enjoyed it, but now he can’t work up the excitement. It’s gorgeous in the same way all these places are, blue skies and the bright green forests and the water and yes, nothing he hasn’t seen before. He watches the people instead, the way they gather in the dock, and he frowns. The sun always seems too hot, brighter here than on his island, and this-
- this doesn’t make him think. At all. It doesn’t remind him of a different dock under the same sun and- no. It just doesn’t. He looks at the crowd. Watches the way they look and point at the ship and talk in that strange, musical language that still holds much of Portugal’s accent, and thinks that they should find something better to do, that they just make the place look untidy and hotter than it is.
He’s being unfair, he knows. Their interest is good, is what he wants. It means they’ll buy what he has to sell, that this trip will be worth his time. Still. He keeps frowning, almost scows at then. He’s just… not in the mood for this, for this heat and, and uncouthness and the loud voices, the laugher. Not now. He just got here, he could use some rest. He feels the sweat under his clothes, running down his neck, and something stirs inside him, something small and frail that almost wishes, almost hopes that maybe-
But no.
Not here. And not now. He’s thinking of a different beach, a different land. A different child, a blond boy with bright blue eyes that would have run to him with open arms and an eager smile on his face and-
Stop, England thinks, stop that right now. He raises his chin and looks a little haughtier, to make it clear that he doesn’t care, because it’s true, he doesn’t. He’s used to being alone. And England doesn’t mind being alone, doesn’t mind finding his own way through this city, he doesn’t care about golden hair and – anything.
And, anyway, it’s a different land. Different nation.
Brazil never waits for him.
He never did. England’s pretty sure Portugal mentioned it before. And even if he hadn’t, England wasn’t planning to mention it. He certainly won’t complain about it. He asked once, just as a passing thought, what the hell Brazil did with his time, and the kid said the land was too big, something like that, and yes, he remembers that too. Remembers Portugal saying Brazil liked to wander through his land and sometimes it would take him weeks – or years, but what’s a year for them anyway – to show up, because God only knew where he would be when Portugal arrived.
So England walks alone, goes by himself to the house where they usually stay- well, not they, Portugal won’t be coming here anymore, not any time soon. So. The house where he will stay. He finds his room covered with dust and it’s another thing, this, the house is never ready. First it was because Brazil couldn’t get used to it, to the roof and the floor, and he missed the forests and the trees around him, and never bothered with the house when his Empire wasn’t around.
And then, after a few years, he did it to make a point.
England remembers Portugal smiling about it, just a little exasperated, and he tries not to remember a soft bed that didn’t look all that tidy either, but he could tell his child had tried, and a small bouquet of white flowers and small hands and a big smile and-
Stop. Please, he thinks. Stop.
Brazil shows up, eventually. He doesn’t offer any apology or explanation, it’s just that one day England wakes up to the smell of coffee and he finds the young man in the kitchen, barefooted and shirtless and England sees that messy black hair and thinks-
No.
He doesn’t care. Blond threads with that lock of hair that wouldn’t stay down and he remembers how soft it felt, remembers saying my, look how much you grown, when did this happen, and where did it take him? So he won’t bother.
Brazil shots him a careless smile, as if his presence here wasn’t anything much out of ordinary, and by now England has to admit it isn’t, except for the market thing, the ship, the trinkets Brazil loves to buy, but still, he says, without thinking about it, we need to discuss your debt.
Brazil grimaces.
England doesn’t feel any better.
They go out, at night, and England drinks and he feels the alcohol numbing his brain, slurring his words, but he speaks, somehow, he asks - why didn’t you fight him? Why in the name of fuck didn’t you fight?
“Aw, come on. I did fight,” Brazil says, and he smiles, hand supporting his chin, and his dark eyes are full of that silent resentment that seems to be engraved in every trace of his face, now. And England tries not to think, but he can’t help but remember Portugal silent and grave, trying to find ways and strategies and coming up with nothing, remembers his quiet voice saying I can’t. I can’t do this. There’ll be a war, if I don’t let him go.
I’ll lose him forever, if I don’t let him go.
And he knows, and maybe Portugal knows too, that Brazil hadn’t forgiven him yet, and maybe never will. Brazil hates him for coming, and hates him even more for leaving. But that makes it even worse, because there’s still that I can’t do this between them and, God forgive him, sometimes England hates them both. For not having any scar. For all the things they couldn’t and haven’t done to each other.
“No,” he says, “No, you didn’t. Why?”
“Well then, why should I bother? He just wanted money, I gave it to him, so whatever. Can we talk about something else now?”
Too young to hide his impatience, or too angry, or too hurt, England can’t tell. This kid, this country, the warmth in the air around him, everything, starts to feels blurry, unreal.
He knows he can’t walk. That Brazil has to hold him by his waist, pull England’s arm around his shoulders, and England’s a little taller than him, and this feels… wrong, somehow. Or maybe it feels very right, because that other child shouldn’t be so tall, it was wrong, it was high treason, that. They stumble through the street, and England feels a familiar scent and he looks for the source of it, he recognizes it, the small white flowers that would only open in the evening. America. A small bouquet he did himself. England closes his eyes and tries not to think.
Brazil drags him to the bedroom, dumps him on the bed, and the kid is panting, he looks angry and frustrated and he’s not smiling now, not anymore. But he unbuttons England’s shirt and pulls off his boots and throws them in some corner and it’s not a colony tending to his empire, it’s not a friend helping another, it’s something else. Something out of place. So classy, Brazil’s eyes say, so classy, England, and then those eyes add, Portugal never did that, he was never a drunken embarrassment like that. And he opens the window and the moonlight fills the room, the salty smell of the ocean and the sweet aroma of those flowers, Lady of the Night, England thinks, America had those too, oh God, America, why-
“I didn’t fight him because I couldn’t, all right?” Brazil leans over the windowsill and speaks to the air outside, and he sounds blunt and sulky and angry, “I couldn’t fight him, there, are you happy now?”
England’s breathe catches, but only for half a second, because he has to keep breathing, because he doesn’t care, he doesn’t. We’ll talk about your debt, he thinks, and he’s not sure he actually says it. But he stares at Brazil’s back and he thinks, we’ll talk about your debts, because you owe me too much. You owe me a scar.
AN:
According to wiki, The United Kingdom and Portugal eventually recognized Brazilian independence by signing a treaty on August 29, 1825. Until then, the Brazilians feared that Portugal would resume its attack. Portuguese retribution, however, came in a financial form. Secret codicils of the treaty with Portugal required that Brazil assume payment of 1.4 million pounds sterling owed to Britain and indemnify Dom João VI and other Portuguese for losses totaling 600,000 pounds sterling.
So that’s the debt England mentions. There’s more about Brazil’s independence here. It was mostly a political move and it was, well, less than awesome. But at least I can write fic about it, so there. And I’m too lazy to write better notes, so… anything you want to know, just ask me :D
