#aphrarepairsweek2018

[ggoddammitt]

first meeting: france introduced them to each other 

and just like many others, belgium is asking for a date

[hetagaeru]

#aphrarepairsweek2018 day 7: formal / nyo rusliet  nyo russia is having a great time at the ball but it seems nyo liet has spotted a competitor in the distance - nyo france, also after anya’s heart  ⚔

[hetalia-seborga]

Molossia, conflicted. How can one love a half-man, half-fish? 

APH Rarepairs Week 2018 - Day 4: AU 

@aphrarepairsweek

[absolvtely-barbaric]

APHRarePairsWeek - Day 2 - Cooking

They have uh… different culinary tastes

[realmwrites]

To Wire, to Dust

[ read on ao3 ] 

Day 4: AU -- @aphrarepairsweek 

“Get down!” Ludwig presses down on Alfred’s shoulders.

They duck behind a rusting storage crate and drop to their knees. An explosion rings out in the distance, vibrating up his chest as the ever present ash burns like poison kisses onto his skin. The fallen shrapnel cuts through his pants to his knees, and Alfred’s breath is hot against his neck. It raises goosebumps on his skin and sparks circuits in his wires. He’s too close, and while Ludwig knows this is necessary for their survival, he finds himself wishing he hadn’t been programmed with an ability to feel. It serves him little purpose to feel like someone’s lit the coolant in his veins each time Alfred smiles. It does no good to for his synapses to fail at every brush of Alfred’s hand.

“Ludwig.” Alfred hisses, yanking him from his thoughts. “We need to get out of here. They’re getting close.”

Alfred takes his hand in his, standing with one quick push and pulling Ludwig up with him. The blood rushes towards his head, heat flaming in his cheeks, but before he can protest, Alfred is tugging him past the next container.

He crouches out of instinct, too aware of the myriad of dangers around them. He’s running numbers faster than he can see them, simulations and scenarios bouncing past his scrolling eyes. He knows already that they won’t both make it out alive, and he suspects that Alfred knows as well. His hand has not been released. Alfred is still close, puffing warm air against his cheek. Never does he stay this close. Never does he squeeze Ludwig’s hand gently by their thighs. Ludwig hates goodbyes, but he almost hopes that this is Alfred’s. He almost hopes that this is his way of saying he cares, he cared, he will care when Ludwig is inevitably blown to wire and dust.

Because that is what will occur. It’s obvious which of them must die- if you could call it that for a thing like him- for the other’s sake. Ludwig frowns into the dusk.

“This way.” He murmurs, guiding Alfred up, their hands still linked between them.

They hurry between the stacked boxes. Another explosion flares, red heat and black smoke. It’s closer. They’re closer.

Alfred wrenches his hand from Ludwig’s and claps his hands over his ears, wincing, and Ludwig prods him on. He’s scanning for the easiest exit. They’ll be watching, but if he stalls them, if he lets them shoot him down, maybe Alfred will have the chance to escape.

Behind him Alfred coughs, beaten red dust thrown up around them and into Alfred’s lungs. The dry heat is pushing his cooling system into overdrive, and his processor is overloading with rapid fire calculations of their abysmal situation. Alfred swipes his hand across his face, streaked with sweat and grime, and leaves a stripe of dirt where his palm hits his forehead. He’s bruised, a panging reminder of his mortality, and grimacing, the steady fire of drive burning hot behind his eyes. He still looks like the sun, like he always does. Too much, too bright, too generous to a cold, heartless galaxy and too kind to an inhuman hunk of wires and code; to Ludwig.

It hurts too much to look. Ludwig presses on.

“Lud. Lud, we can’t go this way. We’ll be cornered. We’ll die.” Alfred’s voice is taut, drawn downwards like his brows.

Ludwig doesn’t stop. He swallows down the lump in his throat. He walks, one foot in front of the other, and takes Alfred forward by the hand. A barrage of shots cut through the chaos. Someone screams, and Ludwig keeps his eyes trained ahead. Dust, rust, sweeping red wasteland- He pretends the next cry doesn’t cut through whatever thing in him is calling up this empathy when he shouldn’t, by any law of nature, be capable of any.

Alfred pulls back on his hand, gripping tight. “Lud. Ludwig. Stop. We can’t go that way. We have to try something else. That’s just- that’s fucking suicide.”

“We have to.” Ludwig’s voice breaks, and he curses himself internally. Defective. Defective rings through his head. He cannot be afraid. That isn’t his right.

“No, we have to.” He asserts and pulls Alfred on. “This is the only way to a ship.”

“They’ll be on us in seconds.” Alfred’s voice hops up.

Stress, Ludwig’s processor supplies. He’s experiencing stress. Ludwig’s chest contracts at the reading, and he shakes his head. No help; it’s no help. Ludwig knows this already, knows what the pressed lips mean, knows what the wracking coughs imply, knows every goddamn effect this hellish planet has on Alfred’s painfully human physiology.

“Ludwig, listen to me! There won’t be enough time to escape, and the escape pod in there only fits one fucking guy! One small guy!” Alfred yanks back on his hand.

And it hurts. Not the hand, but his voice. It sounds like thinly veiled panic, like a try for strong when your chances burn to wire and dust before your eyes. And it hurts. His words. Of course, Alfred expects them both to live. Of course, he expects them to fly victorious to their ship and leave this system’s hell for at least a day. (But he’d return. It’s what Alfred does: fights the impossible with reckless hope.) It’d be too easy for Alfred to expect Ludwig to simply do his job. It’d be too simple, too kind of fate.

“I have a plan. It will work, I promise.” Ludwig frowns, stopped and staring Alfred straight in the eyes. They’re blue, warm blue, beautiful and gripping, and he wants this to be the last thing he sees before he joins oblivion because he doubts there’s any salvation for androids. Ludwig curses. Not now.

Alfred hesitates. He stands stock-still in the shadow of a crate, the desert sun casting him and the dust in shades of blue. Another cry goes up, and the sound of shouting rises above the din. Ludwig freezes. They’re running short on time.

“Fine. It better not be some risky shit for you.” Alfred nods, quirking briefly in a smile. His expression falls determined, and he hurries out towards the home of their pod. Ludwig stumbles after him, a new lump in his throat.

The barn stands beaten by the wind. It’s rickety wood, nailed here and there, and the door swings in and out on rusted hinges. It should be simple to reach. It can’t be more than a hundred meters. Only there aren’t any boxes or scrubby bushes or crates to hide behind, and the shouts are growing nearer.

“We have to run.” Ludwig manages. His voice sounds as dry as he feels. “We have to run as fast as we can.”

“I trust you.” Alfred murmurs.

Before Ludwig can process, they’ve taken off towards the barn. A cacophony of voices erupts behind them, and if Ludwig tilts his head just right, he can hear the sounds of reloading guns. He wants to look back, wants to see how close they are, but every second is precious. He doesn't look back. He keeps right behind Alfred even though he knows he could go faster and prays to whatever higher powers there may be that they’ll shoot him, not Alfred.

The first shot grazes his cheek, whizzes by his skin and cuts cold, silver coolant welling up from the cut. The wetness comes seconds before the pain, but it’s not much, just stinging, and Ludwig knows it’s the program simulating adrenaline working magic through his wires. He can hear the bullets, see them slice the dust-laden air if he slows his processing down long enough to watch, but no others hit him, and they scramble into the building.

Alfred stops, turns. He stares at him, wild-eyed, until he spots the cut on his cheek. He reaches out to touch it, but Ludwig is faster than Alfred at reading situations, at reading him, and as much as he wants Alfred to cup his cheek and ask him if it hurts, Ludwig knows they have no time.

He pushes his hand down. He can still hear the guns going off in the distance. “I’m fine. Hurry, Alfred.”

“Shit. Yeah.”

Alfred sprints towards the pod. He’s in within seconds, mashing buttons and murmuring sequences beneath his breath. Ludwig can’t see him behind the wood stacked thick in front of the pod, but he doesn’t need to see to know. He can hear, and he can guess. He looks out the door, squinting into the sunlight. He can make out the men rushing forward, guns loaded and cocked. He reaches forward, slamming closed the door and pushing in the lock. If he was human, his heart would be racing.

“Ludwig, get over here! I just-” Alfred stops. Something begins whirring in the engine.

Ludwig hurries over. They have a little time yet.

“Slide in. I think-” Alfred presses up against the side, gesturing to a space clearly too small for the both of them. “-I think we can fit.”

“We can’t.” Ludwig states. He sounds robotic, calm and detached, and it’s funny. He was programmed to be not, to be human, and it worked, but almost too well.

Alfred groans, standing with his legs still in the pod, and tugs Ludwig forward by his shoulders. “Don’t be a dick. Come on, Lud. Once this warms up, we’re good to go.”

He still sounds strained, and Ludwig hates it.

Ludwig can hear their voices. Gunshots have begun to pepper the walls. It’s sharp and loud, and he’s wondering if it’s hurting Alfred’s ears. He scans the boards piled up in front of the pod, brows pulling down as he evaluates the structural integrity. The sunlight filters in through the holes in the ceiling, cracked wood and heavy beams, and the boards are alright. It’s alright. It’ll hold long enough. They’re shielded for now.

Alfred’s hands stay planted on Ludwig’s shoulders as he frowns in the dimmed light. The sunlight cuts in shafts across his light brown skin, and though his brow is crinkled and dirt is smudged across his face, he’s still handsome. Ludwig only wishes he would smile, and though it’s selfish, Ludwig doesn’t wish to die with the memory of Alfred’s frown.

The gunshots have bored holes in the barn. Bullets hit the panels to their front, hiding them from the door, and the screaming becomes coherent. Curses, insults, unfounded accusations- they’re the voices of mad men, but Ludwig is so, so far away. He’s left the dirt floor, the sunlight, the carnage and terror and blood, blocked off the deafening uproar because there is them.

And there is Alfred.

And Ludwig is irrevocably in love.

He swallows, still held beneath Alfred’s grip. Near death is commonplace enough for them that this situation is more numbing than freezing fear, but Alfred is verging into panic, and Ludwig can feel it. This time is different. Worse.

Alfred starts with a noise of frustration, hands gripping at his shirt and his light eyes narrowed in the sunlight. “Lud, what are you thinking? God, I fucking swear if you-”

He never finishes.

Because Ludwig kisses him.

Alfred’s lips are chapped. He tastes like dust and salt. His arm is burning where Ludwig’s hand has reached for him and found him. It’s overloading Ludwig’s sensors, a mix of desperate, hopeful and sad, but above all, Alfred’s warm, and it’s odd. He’s grounding and bright and so very him in his scent and his skin and his wide-blown eyes, but he’s warm and so human, and it’s odd, and Ludwig has forgotten which way he’d meant to think. One thing clicks. Alfred does not react, so Ludwig pulls away, his hand falling with him.

Alfred is wide-eyed, jaw hanging and fingers fidgeting where they’ve dropped to his sides. It hurts. Some. But it’s what he expected and still more than what he deserves. It’s death in his face making him crazy. Or maybe it’s just Alfred.

He wants to take him up in his arms, hold him tight to his chest and say sorry a thousand times for ruining the last moments they have together. But he can’t. The men are close, and his projections never lie.

Alfred swallows, touching his lips. He looks like he wants to speak, but Ludwig knows he won’t be able to bear it. He shakes his head.

“Please. Leave now,” he says.

And then he runs, the image of Alfred standing slack-jawed and tense burned forever in his mind.

The door flings wide open. Men stand armed, shots fired in the direction of the pod and towards him but miraculously they don’t hit. Someone yells. Gunshots ricochet. There is fire, and there is sunlight, and just as he’d guessed, there’s a little black ball rolling straight towards the pod and Alfred.

It rips from his lips in a desperate last plea. “GO NOW!”

Bomb is the only thing he thinks as he lands atop it, and the world bursts red.

Alfred forces up the wheel. He bursts through the roof, home free, but the sunset is lost to his tear-filled eyes. His ears are ringing, filled still with the gunshots and the screams and the last frantic cry. He takes one look back to the dark, little barn and accelerates hard.

“Fuck.” He whispers. “I loved you, too.”

[sailorgreywolf-legacy]

The Royal Wedding

This is for the last day of rarepairs week. The theme is Formal.

It was early in the morning as England drove through the quiet Windsor streets. It felt distinctly like the calm before the storm. It was early enough that the traffic was somewhat quiet, but he could see the tents that people had set up in hopes of getting a glimpse of the new royal couple. It was the same thing as the last royal wedding, but that didn’t make it any less of a nightmare to organize. He knew that it would packed with people hours before guests even began to arrive.

But, England was feeling calmer now that it was the day of the wedding. He no longer had to be part of the planning, and the political manipulations about the guest list, and who would sit where. All the planning was done, with the exception of any last minute changes. He could just enjoy it now. 

He turned into the driveway of the hotel and passed his keys off to the valet, then turning to take a garment bad out of the backseat as he did. He could have gotten dressed at his own house, but then he would have to be careful to not ruin anything on the way over. So, it was better to keep his suit in the best condition possible.

He already knew where he was going, since he had booked this room so that his partner would have a place to stay during the wedding. He had done it as soon as he knew the date, because he knew hotels would have been near impossible to book later, even for him. He had been through enough royal weddings to know that he had to do it before the date was released to the public.

He already had the room key in his pocket already, so he didn’t need to wait at the door. But, it was only polite to knock and to give Portugal the opportunity to make himself decent, just in case. 

A voice came from the other side of the door, “Just a moment.” There was the sound of shuffling on the other side of the door, and then the door opened to reveal Portugal, who looked completely awake, though not yet composed. His shirt was only halfway buttoned, and his hair was still loose. 

Portugal said, “You’re just in time.” England stepped into the door and greeted his partner with a smile, “You look handsome already.” 

Then he leaned in a pressed his lips against his partner’s. These light kisses had become so routine between them that it would have felt wrong to see each other and not at least exchange a peck on the cheek. 

After they separated, Portugal closed the door behind him and said, “Don’t flatter me, Arthur. I am still a mess.” His tone could not have been more playful, and England knew that Portugal knew perfectly well that he was handsome. He was even handsome when he had done a hard day’s work and his hair was tangled with salt water, and his skin was even more tanned from the sun. Even unrefined, he was beautiful. That was a feat that England had never been able to achieve himself. He looked best when he had the time to groom himself as a gentleman should.

 ngland walked the rest of the way into the room, and was hardly surprised that all of Portugal’s things were in meticulous order. He had always been the kind of person to keep things in the tidiest state possible.

England placed his own garment bag on the bed and opened it to reveal his own suit. He said, looking back at his partner, “You look better than I do.”

He got a warm smile in response, and a brief shake of the head. Portugal was running a brush through his hair, leaving the brown waves soft and beautiful. It looked so silky that England had the urge to run his fingers through it. 

As he worked his way through his hair, Portugal said, “I appreciate you inviting me as your plus one.” England started to unbutton his pants so that he could change into his slacks. He laughed, “Lilibet didn’t quite put it in those terms.” One of Portugal’s eyebrows arched, “Oh?” 

After that, Portugal swept his hair into a ponytail at the nape of his neck and secured it. England liked seeing Portugal’s hair down, but he wasn’t going to dictate what his partner did with his own hair. And it didn’t matter; Portugal was handsome either way. With his hair swept back, it did not distract from the handsome lines of his face. And it did look more formal for him to tie it back.

England had managed to strip off his pants before he said, “She asked if my husband was coming.”

Portugal laughed so loudly that the sound echoed off the walls until he put a hand over his own mouth in an attempt to silence himself. England couldn’t help but smile back and let out a little laugh of his own. He knew that it would not be quite so amusing if it didn’t ring so true. 

Portugal took several deep breaths before he was finally able to say, “She clearly knows us too well.”

He was beaming proudly, and it made England’s own smile widen. England pulled on his slacks. He tucked his shirt in and buttoned the pants before finally saying, “She has been queen for a very long time, and we have never been subtle.” 

England knew perfectly well that he had never hesitated to kiss his partner where the Queen probably saw it. Nor had he ever attempted to hide the fact that they held hands when they walked side by side. 

Portugal replied, “And we’ve been together at more than one royal wedding.” He was right, and England remembered all of them well. He had always insisted on taking Portugal to every possible royal event that he could. It always gave him a chance to have someone to talk to through an event that might become boring otherwise, and it gave him an opportunity to get dressed up and spend a day with a partner.

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise to him that the Queen had figured out his relationship with Portugal. But the jest, which had barely sounded like a jest, made him realize how much she had seen and how it had appeared to her. It was an honest appraisal of their public image, and England felt no shame at it. England had needed to stifle his own laughter when she had said it, and had replied with a wide smile and glowing pride.

 He took his tie out of the bag and began to form the knot. He said, “I told her that I was planning on inviting you.” 

Portugal glanced at him and smiled and stepped towards him. He then said, “Your tie isn’t straight, Arthur.” England stood conspicuously still as his partner stepped towards him. He didn’t need to even glance down to trust that his tie wasn’t straight. Portugal took it firmly in hand and straightened it. He was so close that England could smell the subtle scent of the sea that seemed to cling to Portugal’s hair no matter what he did. 

Portugal glanced back up at England and said, “I wouldn’t mind being your husband.” England felt himself blushing, though it wasn’t the first time they had discussed the subject. They had done it many times when they spoke of the luxuries humans had that they could not. 

He said, “If we were mortal men, we could have been.” Portugal finished straightening England’s tie and turned to find his own tie. He said, his voice muffled as he leaned into the closet to find his tie, “We can’t change that. But, I will gladly take the title of your husband if Elizabeth wants to give it to me.” 

He eventually pulled it out of the closet and began to work on tying a knot. England let himself dwell on the thought for a moment. Even if countries could marry, he and Portugal could never have made it work on a political level. But, he had no doubt now, after hundreds of years of friendship, and centuries of being lovers, that there was no one else he would want to spend his life with. 

He eventually remembered that he should be continuing to get dressed, not contemplating impossible notions of matrimony. The queen had allowed him the luxury of not being at the palace for the last minute preparations. But he would feel her wrath if he was not in the right place at the right time. 

These events were always very carefully choreographed, and being the personification of the country did not excuse him from knowing the schedule. It had become even more meticulous since royal events had started to be televised. It made the monarchy more familiar to the populace, and England recognized the importance of that. But, television cameras were highlight any mistake, if it was made. 

England reached for his vest and pulled it over his shirt, and began to button it. For this occasion, he had chosen a three piece suit in deep emerald green. In past years, he might have chosen a military uniform. But, it was a different time and now England preferred to be a civilian instead of decorating himself in pomp and all the medals of the empire. The empire was gone, and it felt better to just be a civilian.

He looked over to see that Portugal had finished with his own tie and was now pulling on his own vest. The dark blue that he had chosen made him look so handsome.

There was silence growing in the room, and England preferred not to leave it like that. He said, “Are you looking forward to this?” He suspected that even if Portugal found the pomp boring, he would have agreed to come anyway.

Portugal pulled on his jacket, effectively finishing getting dressed. The jacket fit snugly around his shoulders and reminded England of how muscular Portugal really was. Portugal replied, “I am looking forward to the reception more. The ceremony will be long and somber.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “I do love seeing true love though.” 

England understood completely. Part of Portugal’s love of the ocean was the desire to be unfettered, and sitting through ceremony had never been easy for him. There would be little to do during the ceremony except watch, whereas the reception would have food and dancing. That was the kind of frivolity that Portugal had preferred the whole time that England had known him.

 Portugal slipped a small black box from the pocket of his jacket and added, “Dear, would you help me with these?” England pulled on his own jacket and walked over. 

He nodded and extended his hand for the jewelry case. He opened it to see a set of cufflinks in the shape of an armillary sphere, like the one on his flag. They were one of the few things that Portugal consistently wore to formal occasions, and they were meant as a tribute to the era of exploration.

England said, as he affixed the cufflinks, “The ceremony won’t be that long.” It was a white lie, qualified only in comparison to royal weddings of the past. 

Portugal said, “You don’t have to lie to me. I remember how intricate it all is. That is one thing I do not miss about the monarchy.” 

England finished with his the other’s cufflinks and looked up into Portugal’s green eyes. He smiled and tried to be look coy, “I promise the reception will be good.” The other smiled and said, “I’m sure it will be. I hope you will save me a dance.”

 England laughed. He brought one of the other’s hands to his lips and kissed it like a gentleman should. Then he said, “I will save you every dance.” Portugal laughed, and his cheeks even turned a little red. England counted that as a success. 

If only he could dawdle here and make his partner blush again, he would be perfectly content. But, the schedule was sacred, so he said, “If you’re ready, we should go.” 

Portugal nodded, “Let’s go watch a wedding.” He planted one more kiss on England’s forehead before joining their hands and turning to walk out of the door and into the excitement of the day.  

[flyingsassysaddles]

APH Rare Pair Week Day 5- Rainy! Here we have Greece and Lithuania on a third date,,, their respective reactions accordingly

[peteradnan]

@aphrarepairsweek day 1: first meeting

hey! it’s a polaroid from... somewhen in 1997, the rest of the date’s smudged away. i think it’s a family gathering?

anyway... this is where our anime protagonists lad and kug meet. at a family gathering. because they’re cousins. hetalia is a cursed norfolk anime

[aphcanada-inactive]

Morning Coffee

Ship: Canada/Denmark/Netherlands (Hetalia)

AU: Human

For @aphrarepairsweek, days 3 (Domestic) and 4 (AU).

Read on AO3

Matthew woke up to the feeling of warm sunlight on his face. He slowly opened his eyes and turned to look over his shoulder, seeing that Jan and Mikkel were still in a deep slumber, Mikkel tightly hugging Jan from behind. Matthew smiled at them a little sleepily before carefully crawling out from under the blanket. He could get started on making breakfast until they woke up.

He put on his slippers and walked down to the kitchen. First, he put on a pot of coffee to cook, then he took out a big bowl from the cupboard and started getting the ingredients for pancakes together. About fifteen minutes later, he already had the batter ready and was frying the first pancake at the stove in a pan.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He didn’t look up, just smiled to himself and a few seconds later, he felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist.

“Good morning.” Mikkel hummed in Matthew’s ear as he leaned over his shoulder. Matthew leaned back against him a little.

“Good morning.” Matthew said and turned around, giving Mikkel a quick kiss on the lips. “How come you’re awake sooner than Jan? Is he okay?”

“I think he’s still jet-lagged.” Mikkel muttered as he nuzzled into Matthew’s messy hair. Jan travelled a lot because of his job and he just got back from Indonesia the day before. Usually he was the early bird among the three of them but he was always exhausted after his travels. “He was sleeping so peacefully that I didn’t want to wake him.”

“Yeah…” Matthew nodded in agreement as he flipped the pancake. “Hey, we should have breakfast in bed. You know, to celebrate that he’s home.”

“That sounds great!” Mikkel exclaimed excitedly and squeezed Matthew tightly. “Can I help with anything?”

“Yes, you can prepared the coffee.” Matthew chuckled as he was hugged. “It’s already brewed, you just gotta pour it in mugs. I’ll finish up the pancakes.”

“You got it.” Mikkel said and let Matthew go for the time being and picked off three mugs from the kitchen shelf. He poured coffee in each of them, then added milk and sugar according to how each of them liked it.

Once Matthew was finished, they put everything they needed on a tray and headed back upstairs to their bedroom. Jan was still asleep, just as they expected. Mikkel placed the tray on the nightstand while Matthew crawled onto the bed and attempted to wake up Jan with a kiss on the cheek. Jan awoke with soft yawn and looked up at Matthew leaning over him.

“Hey Matt…” He muttered as he rubbed his eyes. “You’re both up already? Damn, how late is it…?”

“Around 10 o’clock.” Matthew answered and moved away a little to let Jan sit up. “Don’t worry about it, you were tired.”

Jan stretched his arms upwards then dropped them. The scent of fresh coffee and pancakes drew his attention to the tray on the nightstand.

“What’s that?” “Breakfast in bed, what else?” Mikkel laughed and sat down next to Jan, snuggling up to him. Matthew picked up the tray and put in on Jan’s lap before snuggling up to his other site.  Jan sighed with content and turned to look at each of his boyfriends.

“Thank you.” He said and cupped Matthew’s chin with one hand and kissed him on the lips. After a few seconds, he turned to Mikkel and did the same. Matthew hugged Jan’s arm and rested his head on his shoulder.

“It’s nothing. We’re just happy you’re home again.” He said softly.

“Exactly. You know we miss you every time you’re away.” Mikkel added with a smirk, putting his arm around Jan’s waist.

“I miss both of you every time too. It’s good to be back.” Jan said, giving them a tired but grateful smile. He really couldn’t think of any better way to be right now - in the comfort of his bed, with delicious food and embraced by the people he loved the most.

[ggoddammitt]

you know what would make my day for the last day of rare pair week, anyone with Germany I just love him so much.

i have a soft spot for gerfra because of this incredibly adorable askblog that i scrolled from start to finish!! x)

[orbitinghetalia]

[d-joana-a-shippadora]

One more round

APH Rare Pairs Week 2018

Day 1: First Meeting

Characters/Pairing: Russia x Australia // Australia x Russia

Notes: This year I’m using some ships that I was going to write last year, but didn’t have the time, rip. Also, two per day, maybe more if I’m inspired. I’m trying to finish the other fic for today. ;3

Ivan was nervous; he grabbed his scarf in an attempt to calm down, and took a deep breath, once, twice, three times.

He felt like an idiot for being there in that bar, waiting for someone whose face he had never seen.

It was Alfred's fault – and, if he thought about it, his own luck. He shouldn't have done that fucking bet with Alfred's bastard. "Damn" was the perfect word for that situation. What a pity for himself, his self that day, having already had a few more vodka glasses, he had decided to place a bet on something he didn't remember well – damn it!

And now he had to meet a friend of his.

He knew almost nothing about him: his name was Jett, he was an Australian and they were the same age. Alfred had said that he had a dressing on his nose – he hadn't said the source of the wound. He should have asked more about the young man, but there with the glasses (and that secret desire to have a partner, be it in friendship or love) didn't remember. Too bad now he didn't know whether or not he was in that room. Until he looked for someone who fit the given description, that is, with a dressing on his nose, but nothing. No one.

He reached for his scarf again; Oh, if Alfred fooled me..., he thought bitterly. He looked at his glass – with vodka, obviously – and wondered how many more glasses he would need to forget that night.

"Ah! Sorry for being late!"

He heard behind him and, hopefully, turned to the person who had just spoken.

"You're Ivan, right?"

"Yes…"

He looked at him, at that big, self-contained smile. It imparted an air of confidence.

And he was beautiful.

Very pretty.

Ivan blushed, not knowing what to say. Jett reached out for the Russian to squeeze as he sat down. He was corresponded, half-way.

"I'm Alfred's friend. My name is Jett, as you should know. "

"I know…"

Jett asked for a beer and started talking about himself, everything Ivan secretly wanted to know. He spoke of his work as a wildlife reporter, of how a giant crocodile had scarred the Australian's face – that surprised Ivan.

"Aren't you afraid that will happen again?"

"No!" He took a sip of beer. "We don’t know what can happen in the future, but that doesn't stop us from continuing. The way to fight is fate – to make our own destiny. "

Ivan was stunned; the convictions of the other were very different from his – the Russian was a pessimist of the worst kind: one who doesn't show discontent, hidden by a false smile. It was the destruction of himself.

He would like to be influenced by it.

It wasn't just Jett who had opened up. Ivan had also talked about himself, about his concerns and certainties about life – that could be overthrown at any moment.

Another round of drinks was paid – and it certainly wouldn't be the last, there will be more others, not that day, but in their lives, from that moment, together.

[absolvtely-barbaric]

APHRarePairWeek - Day 1 - First Meeting

Rome first met the Huns in early 411. Emperor Honorius had given them important Roman hostages in 409 and in exchange, asked that they come to Italy to help fight off Alaric and his Visigoths. They arrived too late to stop the sack of Rome in 410. Although we don’t know for certain, it’s likely that the general Constantius ended up using the Huns in Gaul in order to suppress the usurpation that was going on there. It all went well and the Huns went on their merry way back east, though it was only the first time they’d be in the west helping the Romans out...

[Huns belongs to @strawberriejelly]

[nerd2614]

Aph Rarepair 2018 - Day 1

First Meeting

Australia x Canada

(Minor) New Zealand x America

"You know, I don't think I can do it Scottie." Australia fiddled nervously with his suffocating tie that England forced him to wear. He and Scotland were standing just around the corner from the large room where the world summit was being held. Australia was feeling a bit anxious, as this was the first meeting he would be speaking at... the first world meeting he was coming to in fact.

"Ye'll be fine, lad." The red-head dismissed his friend's concerns.

"But I haven't gone to one of these before." Australia shuffled his notes. The Scotsman sighed. He wasn't sure where his confident-enough-to-wrestle-a-crocodile-with-no-backup friend had gone, but he didn't enjoy the replacement.

"Look, laddie. Every single nation in there had to have their first meeting at one point." Scotland reasoned. "I bet all of them were all scared stiff too. Little ol' England was quaking in his boots first time he presented!" Scotland guffawed, obviously the memory was quite amusing to him.

"What are you laughing at, brother? Why are you two not in the meeting yet?" asked the little island nation of England.

"Are your ears burnin' mate? We were just talking 'bout you..." Australia trailed off, chuckling nervously.

"All good things." Scotland reassured suspiciously. The blond man raised an eyebrow in doubt.

"I'm sure." England replied dryly. He turned to Australia with a kind look, "Are you ready to go in, Australia?"

"If only I could wear me bordies instead of this monkey suit I'd be fine." Australia quipped, some of his usual confidence returning.

"Come on, bro. If I can't wear my jandals, you can't wear bordies." New Zealand said as he came up behind them. Australia rolled his eyes playfully and England sighed in disappointment. He muttered something along the lines of 'regretting colonies' and 'butchering his precious language' before dragging Scotland into the meeting.

"Hey guys!" America unknowingly interrupted Canada. "Australia and New Zealand! How are you both?"

"We're good. Though Oz is nervous about the meeting. It's his first one." New Zealand informed America.

"Oh, dude." America nodded empathetically. "I know just how you feel. "

"Really?" Australia asked curiously. "Do tell."

"I sense passive-aggression."

"Hallo everyone. Will you come to the meeting now?" Germany asked (though all knew he wasn't asking).

Australia laughed heartily to mask his slight nervous twitch. "Sure mate, we'll follow you."

America walked ahead to make a 'hero entrance' with Germany following behind, then came Australia and New Zealand (whom Australia was sticking to like a glove). New Zealand had tagged along with various nations over the years, so he was used to how things worked around here now, but Australia had never taken the opportunity. He always said that he didn't want to wear a suit. In fact, Australia had never met most of the nations, preferring animals to people. His boss took care of all of the diplomacy.

"You'll be alright, bro." New Zealand gently punched Australia in the arm.

Australia took a deep breath in, "Cheers, Kiwi. As much as I give ya shit... you're the best brother a nation could have."

New Zealand dramatically rolled his eyes, "Gee, Oz. You're reading a speech, not going to war!" They smiled at each other before walking into the room.

"It's a lot smaller than I expected." Australia told his neighbour in a stage whisper. The room was only the size of about two classrooms. It looked very much like a classroom too. There were uncomfortable plastic seats, a projector that Estonia was fiddling with, and a long circular desk (that looked like it had taken out many kneecaps over the years).

Germany was at the projector end of the room talking to Estonia and North Italy. The meeting wasn't scheduled to start for another 15 minutes or so, so nations were still trickling in. Australia followed New Zealand like a lost puppy. As New Zealand knew most (if not all) of the people in the room, he easily found people to talk to. Eventually, Australia was left awkwardly leaning against a wall while New Zealand mingled.

He could probably just go up and talk to a random country, but they all seemed to be in their little cliques. Also, the brunette didn't want to go through the embarrassment of accidentally mixing up nations' names. Of course, he also was slightly concerned of what they thought of him.

Thankfully, Australia was saved by Scotland, who had just broken up another fight between England and France.

"Ah, Australie! Mon pays préfère! Ça va?" France asked the land down under.

"Ça va bien, merci." Australia replied slowly. "Sorry France, my French isn't up to scratch."

"Then you just need to come over and practice a bit more, non?" France laughed.

"No." England said firmly. "I will not having you taint anyone else with your language."

"But it is the language of amour! Mon petit Canada loves my language, n'est-ce pas?" France directed the last sentence to a young man who looked similar to America.

"Uh..." the blond looked up, eyes wide under his glasses.

"Australia, have you met young Canada before?" Scotland asked, clasping Canada's shoulder in a large hand.

"G'day there." Australia gave a tight smile to the blond. He was taken aback by the man who looked to be the same age and height as him. Though, looks could be deceiving.

"Hello, Australia. This is your first meeting, isn't it?" Canada questioned.

"Yep. First one."

"I ship it!" Australia turned around to see Hungary and Japan having a hushed discussion. He was slightly confused and Canada looked so as well. France and Scotland were grinning while England looked torn between laughing and face-palming.

New Zealand and America came up to see what was going on. "I see you've met Canada." The first said ominously. Australia looked at NZ in a confused way.

"Ignore them." Canada smiled at Australia, "They're just weird."

Australia chuckled, "Trust me, I know. You wanna go somewhere else in this crowded room?" France whispered something to England and Scotland which had England turn red.

"You bloody frog!" France laughed as he ran away with England chasing him.

Scotland sighed. "I better stop 'em before Germany blows his top. Be safe, lads." He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively as he walked off.

America grinned devilishly, "Wanna be not safe, Zed?" New Zealand rolled his eyes. He was not in the mood for antics just before the meeting. He also wanted to spy on Oz and Canada. They would make a good match. New Zealand sighed, grabbed America's arm and started to pull him away. America could be helpful in his spying plan?

"See ya later, Oz. Come find me after the summit, ok?" New Zealand said.

"Alrighty, Kiwi. Don't have too much fun!" Australia laughed as Canada rolled his eyes.

New Zealand had been friends with the North American brothers for a while, and had told Canada all about Australia. Apparently, they would get along really well. Or it could just be that NZ didn't want Canada to be the third wheel anymore.

"Do you wanna sit down somewhere?" Canada asked Australia.

"Sure." The 'brave' Australian replied meekly. He shuffled along behind the Canadian, besotted with the stranger from the north.

They sat down next to each other at the large table. "So..." Australia tried to break the silence, "come here often?" He cringed at the terrible line.

"Yes, I do. Are you going to be?" Canada smirked, eyes twinkling with mischief. Australia was taken aback once more. This was his first time meeting Canada, but he was already infatuated with him. He tried to stutter a reply, but was interrupted by Germany declaring the beginning of the world summit.

Throughout the meeting, the two nations behaved well. At least, they behaved better than their respective 'brothers'. Whenever Australia was confused, Canada calmly explained whatever it was to him. The meeting seemed to pass quite quickly. Before long, it was Australia's turn to speak. Thankfully, he didn't skip anything, and everyone understood what he was saying. Canada whispered a 'good job' and a few more nations had their eight minutes, then it was time for a small break.

America and New Zealand had disappeared, so Canada and Australia hung out by themselves. They had no idea that their brothers were spying on them. Australia became more and more intrigued with Canada the more that they talked. Canada found Australia's way of talking strange and funny (and maybe a little cute). They both discovered and clarified misconceptions about each other.

Finally, America had had enough. He jumped out of the bushes to get a closer look at the two chatting nations. However, in his haste, he bumped into Italy, who in turn fell on Romano, which knocked Spain over, creating a domino effect that caused Canada to spill his hot drink.

"Aïe! Putain de merde de..." he grumbled, glaring at the line of bodies that started at America. His glare hardened as his fell upon his brother.

"Are you right, mate?" Australia asked in concern, immediately snapping Canada out of his glare.

"Ouais." Canada huffed, dabbing at his sleeve with his handkerchief.

"You, uh... you speak French?" Australia asked, passing Canada some serviettes to help with the mess.

"Yes, it's one of my official languages. Though, its different from France's." Canada explained. He sighed angrily at the slight dark patch on his blazer. Coffee stains are a pain to get out.

"Streuth?"

The rest of the small break went well. Canada ended up just taking his blazer off to reveal his plain white button-up shirt. Just as everyone was sitting down, New Zealand walked behind Australia, leaned down and whispered, "Whipped." in his ear. Australia had suspiciously pink cheeks for the rest of the meeting.

The meeting ended at about 14:30, and so Australia invited Canada to have some afternoon tea together. Again, their brothers were suspiciously absent...

That was, until Canada noticed America's reflection in the window. He subtly nudged Australia so that he noticed as well. Australia rolled his eyes.

"Let's just continue eating. Maybe they'll get bored?" Australia suggested nonchalantly.

"Maybe." Canada agreed.

So the pair of nations continued without a care. Laughing and eating until they were asked to leave by an apologetic waitress. "I'm really sorry, but if you're not buying anything else..."

"Nah, it's fine. We were just about finished anyway." Australia smiled as they stood up. America (and probably New Zealand) had left a while ago. But they were most likely still lurking somewhere.

"So, what would you like to do?" Canada asked quietly.

Before he could stop himself, Australia blurted, "You."

A glass shattered and a nearby tree let out a whoop.

"Get some, bro!"

[sailorgreywolf-legacy]

Chivalry

This is for the first prompt of rare pair week, which is First Meeting

England was excited that he was leaving his own island on an adventure. And it wasn’t just an adventure; it was a crusade to free Christians from the grips of a Muslim occupation, or so his king had said. 

His king had explained that it was a sacred calling and it would do England great honor to go with them, even though he would not go all the way to the Holy Land. There was a fight against the Muslims closer, so his king had said, and they would aid with that first. 

That was why England was on a ship crossing the channel, though some of the knight had objected. He knew why they did not want him in battle, even though the understanding irritated him. He was still very young, only beginning to grow out of the body of a child. But, old enough, he thought, to be trusted to handle himself well enough. He had learned how to use a sword and ride and shoot a bow long ago; his brothers had been good teachers.

But, he had never traveled before, not far away at least. The only other countries he had met were his brothers, and France. His brothers were men with their own affairs to deal with, which meant they disregarded him.

France was a strange mocking peacock, and England was at a loss of what to think of such a man. But, the Frenchman’s words came back to him in quiet moments, the jibes at his poor French, his lack of fashion, and his messy hair. 

England was glad to be sailing away in this moment to somewhere new; especially after the vicious years of civil war he had endured. Everything was calming now, but he still longed to see somewhere different, somewhere where the sun shone brightly through the year, somewhere unlike his foggy island.

He pulled his cloak around himself as the cold wind from the channel blew around him. His mind was far away from this cold wet shore, full of the words of poets and troubadours. He was going to help another country to free themselves from an occupying force. He would arrive in a suit of new armor like a knight from a poet’s story. 

He thought, perhaps he would meet the person he was destined to love like the knights in the poems. Those were the stories he loved best, the knight who loved so truly that he would do anything his lady asked. It was so romantic to think that love like that could exist. 

He smiled to himself, even though the wind was cold and he hardly knew what would come. Nothing could dampen his spirits now.

The march from the landing to the city was beautiful, and England found it hard not to stare at the beautiful landscape. It seemed that so much was green here, and trees heavy with fruit. It was so different and captivating. It was how he would imagine paradise to look.

When they approached the city that was under siege, which he was told was called Lisbon, he noticed the beautiful cliffs above the bluest ocean he had ever seen. England couldn’t help but compare them to his own white cliffs at Dover.

 It was so wonderful to be here that he smiled as he leaned back in his saddle. That earned him a glare from the knight riding next to him. How could someone focus only on fighting when there was beauty all around? But, he was mortified by the idea that he was being a wide-eyed child during an important campaign.

It would give his king a reason to make him stay in London next time there was the opportunity. So, to show that he was old enough and strong enough to be here, England straightened up in his saddle and put on what he thought was a stern face. But, beneath it, he was still basking in the beauty of his new place. 

They eventually came upon the army they were supposed to help. It was arrayed in a sprawl of tents with colorful flags flying. It was more familiar to England to see war so close, after the years he had spent seeing the civil war in his own home. 

They were met by a contingent of knights, dressed in gleaming armor. England’s commander halted their party and said, “We are here to assist in the siege.”

The knight across from them nodded curtly  and said, in French, “We are happy to accept King Stephen’s help.” 

England understood French, though he knew he spoke it with a heavy accent. All of his kings and their courts spoke it, so he had no choice but to learn. 

His attention wandered from the knight who was speaking to the young man next to him. He appeared to be the same age as England, or close enough.He had smiling eyes, and a strong olive undertone to his skin. His hair fell in brown waves to the nape of his neck; the glint of the sun off of it was enchanting. 

England supposed that this must be Portugal. The other country caught him staring and smiled. And he felt his cheeks warming, and he hoped that it was just the effect of the bright sun on his face.

 He was just a little bumpkin; France always said so. There was no reason for a boy with beautiful eyes should be smiling at him like that. Perhaps it was only because he had come as aid in an important moment. He decided that the reason could not be more complicated than gratitude

Once his knights had set up camp, England took off his armor. A siege did not require him to be on guard at every moment. So, he could take off his armor and strip down to his linen shirt. He had a woolen tunic, but it seemed foolish for him to have in a land this warm.

Instead, he pulled on another tunic of embroidered linen. It was not fine, but it was a forest green that he thought matched his eyes. He was still thinking of the way that his new ally had smiled at him, and it made him want to appear fashionable for once.

When he stepped out of his tent, he noticed that there was a messenger standing just outside. Not certain what to expect, England turned to the man. Before he could question anything, the man spoke, “Portugal would like to invite you to dinner.” 

England felt himself smiling before he remembered that it was neither polite nor fashionable to do so. He answered quickly, “I will gladly accept.” 

He could feel excitement rising at the idea that he could have a friend. The messenger beckoned him to follow, and he did. They wove through the encampment, until they reached a particularly large tent. 

The man stepped aside and England took it as a sign to proceed. He stepped inside of the tent. Portugal was standing there, waiting for him. It took England a moment to take in the fact that Portugal had changed his clothing as well. He was now wearing a red silk tunic that reached to his knees. He had a belt of green silk slung around his waist.

It was strange to England, because he had never seen anything like it. But, he thought, he was often behind on fashion.  And the other did look dashing, like a prince from some foreign storybook. 

Portugal strode towards him and said, “You accepted! I am glad.” 

England found himself suddenly struck dumb. He had not thought of what he would say when he got here, only that he wanted the company. Without anything in mind, he resorted to speaking what he thought. He said, “I was hoping that we could be friends. My name is Arthur.” 

He thought that he should not be so forward, but he could not help it. He did not want to call each other by their titles all night; it would be so tiring. He would prefer that Portugal would call him by his human name.

Portugal smiled as he took one step closer and said, “That is my hope too. My name is Filipe, though I think that you say Phillip in your language. ”

With that, he turned and walked to a table that England had failed to notice. It was odd to him as well, because it was far lower than he was used to and there were no chairs. Instead, there was a rug covered in plush stuffed pillows.

Portugal sat on the floor amongst them like it was the most natural thing to do. England tried to hide his confusion. Why would someone sit on the floor to eat? 

He dare not question it, because it might just be a European custom, and asking would expose him as a ignorant boy. Instead, he sat in the nest of pillows on the other side, still tentative about this whole setting. 

Portugal apparently caught sight of his confusion, because he asked, “You are not used to dining like this, are you?”

England felt an unseemly blush mounting his cheeks, though there was no judgment or scorn in the other’s tone. He looked down as he tried to answer, “I have never done it before. Is this how people dine in Europe?”

He thought that asking was the best option, since he could not pretend he understood. Portugal replied, “I do not know. I have not met many of them. I have only lived with my brother and Al-Andalus for so long.” 

England leaned forward, excited to grasp this thread of similarity between them. He said, the words spilling clumsily over each other in his haste, “Then you’re like me! I have had no one but my brothers.” 

He thought that he saw his own happy excitement mirrored in Portugal’s tanned face. The young man took a small fish from one of the many bowls in front of him and took a bite from it, pensively chewed and then said, “Then I suppose we both have a lot to learn.”

He chewed for another moment, while England eyed the food on the table carefully. He didn’t recognize most of it; it was so different from what grew in his home. But, it would be rude not to take anything. He took a piece of flat bread, and took an experimental bite. It was good, though very different than the white bread he was sometimes treated to.

Portugal continued, apparently unperturbed that his guest was eyeing the food with uncertainty, “I wish you could have met Antonio. He is my brother, and I think you would like him. He is very serious and ambitious, but he has a good heart. But, he is busy liberating his own lands.”

England swallowed his bread quickly and said, “I would like to meet him some day.” He already liked Portugal from the little time they had spent together, so he could only imagine that his brother would be a possible friend too. He said, “I’m not sure you would like mine. They are all headstrong and stubborn, and very independent. I still have no idea how our mother managed all of us.”

He laughed to himself at the idea of it. He thought of his oldest brother with his blazing red hair, who resembled their mother so much, and how he must have demanded so much attention. 

Portugal finished the fish and placed the remaining head and spine on a plate to his side. Then, he took a handful of olives and began to eat them one at a time. He said, “I imagine she was a strong woman. I know she gave my father a lot of trouble.” 

England froze. He had no idea that their families had ever met before, or that they had had a relationship. He searched his memories to attempt to figure out who Portugal’s father could be. 

He failed to come up with anything, so he asked, “Who was he?”

 He could have sworn he saw the other’s expression darken. But, Portugal continued to speak, his tone betrayed only a little of the emotion below the surface, “I thought you would have already guessed. I do have the misfortune of looking like him. He was Rome.” 

England took a moment to process this information. He knew little about Rome except what his mother had occasionally said about him. But from all the things she had said one came back to him clearly, and he foolishly let it slip, “My mother said that he was a cruel, lying man.”

England was able to stop himself before he added that his mother had told him to never trust Rome or any of his heirs. His mother had fought Rome tooth and nail; that much he knew. But it would be wrong to share it.

To his surprise, Portugal smiled and said, “Then she saw him for who he was. If I could have chosen any other father, I would have. I am illegitimate, you see, so I have none of his wealth or his power, but all of his shame. I only saw him a few times before he left for Byzantium with his legitimate heir.  People say he disappeared, but that is a lie. He chose to leave everything behind instead of facing the consequences of what he had done.”

Though his smile seemed to want to convey that this was a light subject, England could hear real pain beneath all of it. He scrambled to find another subject, one that was truly light. 

In panic, he said, “What do you like?” Internally, he kicked himself for such a clumsy question. But, Portugal let out a low breath, like he was relieved to leave the subject of his father.

He replied, “I like books, especially ones about heroes and adventures. Al-Andalus has a beautiful library of Roman texts.”

England felt a real smile lift up the corners of his mouth. He had spent so many days alone with books while two cousins fought for his throne. But, even before that, he had loved the stories the poets told of knights and their great adventures. 

In this answer, he saw a kindred spirt who might share his love of epic tales. He said, excited again, “I love stories!” 

In his excitement, he thought of all the ones he knew by heart. He sometimes had the traveling poets repeat them to him more than once so he could remember all of the details. He had never liked the idea that he could not hold onto the story once the poet had moved on. So, he had made a habit of remembering all that he could so that he could write it down later. He had a collection now, but he could certainly bring one to mind easily. 

Portugal smiled at him indulgently and said, as England had hoped, “Tell me one. I have read the Roman mythologies so many times, and I want to hear what your heroes are like.” 

Without any further prompting, England started to tell one of his favorites. It was about a knight who loved his lady from a distance. But, when she was kidnapped by a dishonorable knight, the good knight traveled for days to find her. Along the way, he was met with trials of his honors and his commitment. In a castle where he stopped during his quest, another lady offered him her hand, but he refused. 

When he reached that point in the story, Portugal interrupted him and said, “Did he refuse the offer because his heart belonged to another?” 

He had reclined on the pillows and listened patiently as England spoke, with a look of intrigue on his clever face. England hadn’t looked closely at him while he was telling the story, but the question made him glance over. The sight sent a pleasant warmth across his cheeks against. 

He was more than happy to explain what he found to be the most beautiful theme of the stories. He said, “Yes. That is what really shows love. Love that is constant and loyal is the truest.”

Portugal responded, “And do you think that is true for friendships too?” 

England didn’t need to think for even a moment. He knew that if something truly important, then it would be easy to be loyal to it. But, he was curious. He said, “Yes, why do you ask?” 

Portugal leaned forward across the table and extended his hand. England understood, implicitly, that he was supposed to clasp the other’s hand. He did so, though he did not entirely understand the purpose.

 Portugal answered the question, “Will you be my friend and be constant and loyal?” England met his new ally’s eyes, and it all suddenly felt very important and somber. He nodded slowly as he said, “I will be.”

It felt, in the moment, like a vow he could never break. And it meant more than just the next morning or the rest of the war against the Moors. Even if centuries passed, he should keep this one on his honor. And he intended to do exactly that.

Like Lancelot, he would be true.

[hetaliaindie]

Prompt 5: Rainy