02 - [Hetalia] after the war
Rating: G
Characters: Russia, Turkey
Fandom: Hetalia
Summary: We're never too young to make believe. (If you want another word you can swallow, take 'hypothetical'. It does the job just fine.)
Notes: Present timeline.
He wanders around with Russia sometimes, instead of doing work. Sometimes they don't do anything but sit on his dunes at dusk, watching the sky turn a brilliant hue. Turkey lies down on the sands with his eyes closed; Russia likes to run his hands through the fine sands and revel in their warmth, in their smell.
Russia's gloves are made out of soft leather, kid gloves, and they lie forgotten between them, for the moment, until the wind whispers the gloves move and Turkey takes them with a hand. "Don't lose them," he says, and sits up to drop them on Russia's lap.
"I won't," Russia says. "One of my children gave it to me."
Turkey frowned behind his mask. Who recognizes them in this day? "Did he even ask for your name?"
"No," he whispered. "It is no longer the time. But he gave it to me, and it was just as well; I needed a new pair."
His other gloves are stuck beneath a drawer in his office, forever lying in its coffin of wood. Russia doesn't look at it anymore because the last time he wore it, it was 1917, and the leather was soiled because of too much tears, of too much tears. "Do you like them?"
Turkey looks over, decides to say something diplomatically: "it suits the hand who wields it."
Russia nods. He also gives him a crooked smile. "It looks nice, during meetings."
Turkey shrugs. He always found meetings too stifling, what with the merciless stark walls and the people who crowd him like vultures. Meetings are horrible because you walk into them a different person all the time. "I bet."
Tonight was a meeting, actually. Or supposedly, anyway, but neither he nor Russia could stand the rooms anymore, Russia with his burdens, Turkey with his own. To think that their own children would cage them in boxes.
Turkey takes one of Russia's hands and wipes them, then slips one of the gloves over his hands. "I've always wondered," he began as he slipped finger by finger carefully, "what it's be like to be human."
"We are almost like that. And we cannot be like that."
"It's just a thought," he replies gruffly. "No need to be serious."
The glove fits well over Russia's hand, just as he'd said, and Russia smiles at his reply. He is always smiling.
"I, for one, am pretty old. Yesterday, I thought it'd be cool if I found a grey hair, just like some of our children who come and go."
"And did you find one?"
Turkey laughed. It was a pleasant sound and it was a sound that Russia liked, particularly because he knew that it was as close to the truth as it'll get. We are like stones, Russia mused. Or like dolls on a shelf, we are meant to be looked at.
"We'd have lots of them, if we had any," Russia said mournfully. "Isn't that what they said of the Roman empire?"
Turkey couldn't bring himself to get furious with the past when it's too convoluted and intertwined with what he is, and he just gives a shrug to that. "Who knows."
"I will not fit in most doors," Russia said with a tinge of sadness. "I am too tall."
"You can always stoop."
"It'll hurt, eventually."
"Ah," and Turkey sighs. "They'll call us old men, and they'll either scorn us or call us fools when we tell them what and who we are. Or they'll call us wise and give us other names."
"We can't fit two or more categories at the same time. People aren't .... meant to be traveled on," -- Russia will not add more to that, because time, because Time -- "and countries aren't meant to talk."
"They'll know us as Sadiq and Ivan, and what's wrong with that?"
"I love my children, but I don't think I love them that much to concede to those names ... "
"A hypothetical situation," Turkey replies smoothly.
".... then, then perhaps, being just Ivan would be nice."
Turkey was silent for a while, smiling, imagining their empires crawling towards their feet as they call themselves Sadiq and Ivan and just laugh as they moved along with time. Like song. Like wind.
Russia puts on his other glove, and he slips both of his hands into his pockets. "I would like to live in a warm place."
"You can have it, there."
"But not here."
"There are other methods to answer to our wants and needs."
Russia nods. "There are stories about the world. How all of us were one continent, only to move farther and farther apart, until we are where we are now."
"Old tale," Turkey says, "but you know how it is. Family's not exactly the thing for everyone."
"True." And Russia laughs, dusting his hands and his coat off. He looks at his hands again, smiling at the gloves. So finely made for him. "I will thank my child when I see him again. He did not know my name but the gloves are really nice."
Turkey gives a smile to that.
Russia looks at his watch, and his bright eyes are filled with a tinge of worry as he stood, frowning. He remembers, as with so many things, like the other pair of gloves entombed in his office: "we were supposed to talk politics."
"As far as I know, we just did." Turkey follows suit, and buttons his coat over. It was getting dark, and cold. "If they need a record of things, let them look in the sands."
Characters: Russia, Turkey
Fandom: Hetalia
Summary: We're never too young to make believe. (If you want another word you can swallow, take 'hypothetical'. It does the job just fine.)
Notes: Present timeline.
He wanders around with Russia sometimes, instead of doing work. Sometimes they don't do anything but sit on his dunes at dusk, watching the sky turn a brilliant hue. Turkey lies down on the sands with his eyes closed; Russia likes to run his hands through the fine sands and revel in their warmth, in their smell.
Russia's gloves are made out of soft leather, kid gloves, and they lie forgotten between them, for the moment, until the wind whispers the gloves move and Turkey takes them with a hand. "Don't lose them," he says, and sits up to drop them on Russia's lap.
"I won't," Russia says. "One of my children gave it to me."
Turkey frowned behind his mask. Who recognizes them in this day? "Did he even ask for your name?"
"No," he whispered. "It is no longer the time. But he gave it to me, and it was just as well; I needed a new pair."
His other gloves are stuck beneath a drawer in his office, forever lying in its coffin of wood. Russia doesn't look at it anymore because the last time he wore it, it was 1917, and the leather was soiled because of too much tears, of too much tears. "Do you like them?"
Turkey looks over, decides to say something diplomatically: "it suits the hand who wields it."
Russia nods. He also gives him a crooked smile. "It looks nice, during meetings."
Turkey shrugs. He always found meetings too stifling, what with the merciless stark walls and the people who crowd him like vultures. Meetings are horrible because you walk into them a different person all the time. "I bet."
Tonight was a meeting, actually. Or supposedly, anyway, but neither he nor Russia could stand the rooms anymore, Russia with his burdens, Turkey with his own. To think that their own children would cage them in boxes.
Turkey takes one of Russia's hands and wipes them, then slips one of the gloves over his hands. "I've always wondered," he began as he slipped finger by finger carefully, "what it's be like to be human."
"We are almost like that. And we cannot be like that."
"It's just a thought," he replies gruffly. "No need to be serious."
The glove fits well over Russia's hand, just as he'd said, and Russia smiles at his reply. He is always smiling.
"I, for one, am pretty old. Yesterday, I thought it'd be cool if I found a grey hair, just like some of our children who come and go."
"And did you find one?"
Turkey laughed. It was a pleasant sound and it was a sound that Russia liked, particularly because he knew that it was as close to the truth as it'll get. We are like stones, Russia mused. Or like dolls on a shelf, we are meant to be looked at.
"We'd have lots of them, if we had any," Russia said mournfully. "Isn't that what they said of the Roman empire?"
Turkey couldn't bring himself to get furious with the past when it's too convoluted and intertwined with what he is, and he just gives a shrug to that. "Who knows."
"I will not fit in most doors," Russia said with a tinge of sadness. "I am too tall."
"You can always stoop."
"It'll hurt, eventually."
"Ah," and Turkey sighs. "They'll call us old men, and they'll either scorn us or call us fools when we tell them what and who we are. Or they'll call us wise and give us other names."
"We can't fit two or more categories at the same time. People aren't .... meant to be traveled on," -- Russia will not add more to that, because time, because Time -- "and countries aren't meant to talk."
"They'll know us as Sadiq and Ivan, and what's wrong with that?"
"I love my children, but I don't think I love them that much to concede to those names ... "
"A hypothetical situation," Turkey replies smoothly.
".... then, then perhaps, being just Ivan would be nice."
Turkey was silent for a while, smiling, imagining their empires crawling towards their feet as they call themselves Sadiq and Ivan and just laugh as they moved along with time. Like song. Like wind.
Russia puts on his other glove, and he slips both of his hands into his pockets. "I would like to live in a warm place."
"You can have it, there."
"But not here."
"There are other methods to answer to our wants and needs."
Russia nods. "There are stories about the world. How all of us were one continent, only to move farther and farther apart, until we are where we are now."
"Old tale," Turkey says, "but you know how it is. Family's not exactly the thing for everyone."
"True." And Russia laughs, dusting his hands and his coat off. He looks at his hands again, smiling at the gloves. So finely made for him. "I will thank my child when I see him again. He did not know my name but the gloves are really nice."
Turkey gives a smile to that.
Russia looks at his watch, and his bright eyes are filled with a tinge of worry as he stood, frowning. He remembers, as with so many things, like the other pair of gloves entombed in his office: "we were supposed to talk politics."
"As far as I know, we just did." Turkey follows suit, and buttons his coat over. It was getting dark, and cold. "If they need a record of things, let them look in the sands."